Feast of Love

Hand and hand, Dionysius and Priscilla crossed the threshold of their wedding night suite, into the small but sufficient for them bedroom. The bed was strewn with fresh rose petals, the air filled with the almost over-ripe smell of the blossoms. Beside the bed, one night stand contained a ewer of freshly whipped cream resting on a block of ice, and beside it a small flame burned on the Bunsen burner that warmed the fondue pot of chocolate. The other night stand had a large filigreed bowl of mixed fruit; grapes on the bunch, peaches with the tawny fuzz still velvety smooth, strawberries and one large pomegranate. A haunch of ham with a sharp silver carving knife shared a wooden platter with a selection of cheeses both soft and hard.

Priscilla's rosebud lips parted with a gasp. "Oh, it smells delicious!" she announced with delight. "Oh darling!" She turned to Dion, kissing him passionately. She pulled back after a moment, her eyes alight and her cheeks aflame. "I tremble with anticipation."

Smiling softly, his mustache twitching in anticipation, Dion returned the kiss with rising passion. Lips pressed together, his tongue softly slid across her lower lip, brushing aside her resistance to flick across her lower teeth. Reluctantly, the hobbit pulled back from the kiss and took his bride by the shoulders. "It is necessary now that for the love to be made the dress must be carefully removed."

Prissy sighed softly as his hands found her shoulders. "Tell me how I may help, my sweet. And then I will unwrap you." She licked her lips, the scents of the food and flowers and the scent of her husband whetting her appetite in every way.

Dion leaned in close, the smell of the orange blossoms in her hair mixing delightfully with the faint earthy smell of her skin. Delicately he kissed from the base of her neck in a line to the lobe of her left ear, and carefully pinched the skin between his teeth. His warm breath resounding in her ear each time he exhaled, he throatily whispered to her, "I will take seat upon the bed. As if you were the newest concubine of my harem. I shall watch as you disrobe yourself and reveal to your sultan the joys you promise to distract him from the concerns of conquest and power." With a long brush of tongue, he licked from the hollow of her throat between the collar bones up to her chin, and forced his tongue into her mouth, wrapping his tongue around hers, urging her to extend her tongue into his mouth to share with each other the taste of things to come. Slowly he stepped back, and seated himself on the feather bed, loosening his cravat. "Now, Roxanne, convince your Sultan why I should not invade your father's kingdom and make slaves of all his peoples."

Her mouth opened silently as she blushed becomingly. "You are naughty," she chided him, her voice throaty, but began to remove her clothing with slow care. "I will give unto you my body if you will not invade," she implored softly as her jacket and skirt fell to the floor. "I will give you nights upon nights of pleasure," she invoked as the corset cover and petticoats joined their fellows on the floor. "I will give you pleasures born of a thousand wicked dreams, sir," and she removed her corset and slipped out of the last of her things. "If you will not invade my father's kingdom." With that, she stepped gracefully forward to where he sat waiting, her body revealed fully to him, and brought his hands to her breasts. Leaning forward, she took his face into her small hands and kissed him, sucking his tongue as it gently slid into her mouth.

Grasping the swell of her breasts in his hands, Dion's thumbs caught against the out-swelled nubbins of her nipples, gently circling the pink sin, growing rougher as her tongue coiled so arousingly around his. Leaning back on the bed, he took her hands in his, guiding her fingers to remove the cravat and undo the paper collar. "What, Christian girl, can you give that the Sultan cannot take?" As Priscilla unfastened the stiff shirt front, Dion's hands molded the curves of her body, taking in the narrowness of her waist, the spread of her hips, the gentle slope of her out thighs. Smiling wickedly, his fingers trailed teasingly up the soft skin of her inner thighs, until the contrast of her soft skin and the gentle rasp of her private hair filled his mind with longing. "Is this treasure not mine for the taking? Precious above rubies, truly it is. How shall you, mere slip of a girl, keep the Master of all Islam from rushing the gates and taking what he desires?"

"There is pleasure, my master, in patience." Her fingers were certain, her lips even more so as they found the soft nape of his neck. Licking her way up to his ear, she nibbled his earlobe gently as her fingers unbuttoned his shirt and pushed apart the folds to reveal his chest. Looking Dion in the eyes but for a moment, she smiled as her head ducked to kiss and lick his bared chest, sucking and nibbling his nipples with a soft moan of pleasure. Sighing, her needs satiated for a moment, she pulled his shirt down his arms and stood back to admire the hobbit's physique. "Is there more to see, my master? I have not yet seen what I should fear to assault the gates."

Dion stood and took Prissy firmly in his arms. He pulled the naked hobbit girl to his bared torso, thrilled by the touch of so much skin against skin. Pressed tightly to her that she could feel the firmness of him against her naked belly, he nearly lifted her from the ground in the strength of his embrace. Stepping back, he pried his shoes off with disregard, and winked before turning his back to her, watching her over his lifted shoulder as he lowered his trousers and stepped out, his bright red silk shorts extended dramatically in the front as he turned to face her. "Now, my slave girl, you shall see the instrument of your destruction!" Laughing at himself and his florid verbosity, he took her hands and guided her small fingers to the band of his drawers. "Kneel that you may witness the glory that Allah has seen fit to bestow upon you this night!"

"Ho, fair master!" Prissy cried cheerfully, her head snapping high. "I am not a woman to be commanded! Show me your glory and I will decide whether or not I shall fall and worship it." But her fingers were firm and seeking, and she bit her lip to keep from giggling as she explored his manhood through the bright silk of its covering. She was no governess tonight, oh not at all.

Giggling despite himself, Dion stepped back, pulling his silken drawers down to stand with his love as naked as nature and the Host who watch over Doubling and Hobbit alike intended and then leaned in for a kiss. Eyes closed, taking in the mixture of her orange blossom and musk scent with the brassy smell of his own Bey Rum aftershave, Dion surrendered to the sensations that have for generations made halflings prone to joys of the flesh rather then pursuit of success. Idly, he thought of his employers and recent compatriots on adventure. Pity moved him momentarily that mere humans and Elflings could not know this complete surrender to each other. He let the thought pass to more immediate concerns.

Taking Prissy's hand in his, he spun her around, his eyes missing no feature of her compact but rounded body. Gently but insistently he guided her to the bed, reclining her on the satin comforter, unwilling to take the time or express the shame implicit in pulling down the sheets. "This night you will beg for mercy, for the release of death. But the only death I shall grant you in my cruelty shall be le petite morte, mon cher. You will die in my arms, only to live again that you might partake of the emotions and the feelings this night has engendered."

"Slay me, master!" Priscilla said with joy, her brown eyes sparkling with anticipation. "I shall represent the glories of my kingdom and make you my slave in love. Sully my purity with your manhood, sweetheart, and feed me what you will of the forbidden fruits."

Dion laughed out loud, and climbed aboard the bed with his love. Reclining along her, his hardness pressed against the thigh and swell of buttock, he reached across her supine form. Lips parted to show sharp little teeth as he nipped almost to the point of biting on her pink, perked out nipple. His left hand extended to the fruit bowl, to pluck a single pearlescent grape from the bunch. The hobbit lifted his head, and squeezed the moist morsel between his teeth, leaning in to share a kiss with the tiny female. As their lips met, his teeth closed over the orb, drenching their conjoined lips in the juices surrendered to their desire. Swallowing the tender skins of the seedless grape, Dion reached once more for the bowl, and pulled out a tawny, fuzzy peach.

The sweetness of the juice and the kiss almost made her swoon. Prissy sighed contentedly, savoring the velvet feel of Neecy's body against hers, the velvet firmness that pressed against her thigh. She was hungry, for food, for him, for knowledge beyond the penny dreadfuls that she had read. Her fingers stroked the hardness of the muscles that coiled under his skin, her nipples aching as they swelled under his ministrations and teeth. Her belly burned with hungers as strong as madness, her insides pulsing with electricity. The scents of Dion and of the chocolate and fruits were aphrodisiacs greater than she had ever experienced and she giggled delicately at the joy that she found herself in, his laughter like bells of happiness inside her head. "And what would you do with that golden orb, Master?" she asked coquettishly.

Smiling down at the little governess, Dion punched his thumb into the squishy flesh of the peach, tearing the skin and flesh away from the pit. With a mash of pulped peach in his left hand, he brushed the sticky fruit along the inside of one raised delicate arm, and licked from her soft skin the sweetness of the peach and the saltiness of her skin as it glistened in the warmth of the room and the heat of their passion. Groping, grasping, he extracted some peach from the mess of torn skin lying wounded on the satin comforter, and pressed his fingers to her pursed bow tie lips, sighing as she sucked the flesh and juices from his fingers.

When she was done, he wiped his hands against each other to clear them of peach debris and sat up, his interest obvious in his lap. After sharing another lingering, deep kiss, he reached into the bowl for a strawberry, winking to her as he dipped the heart shaped fruit into the warm, dark chocolate. Half turning, able to take in the length of her body, he slowly circled her indented belly button with the fruit. Hot sticky chocolate smeared on her alabaster skin as he slowly trailed up her torso, circling each nipple in turn. Gazing into her eyes, locking her eyes to his, he pushed the bulbous tip into her mouth for her to nibble as his tongue extended to lick softly at the cooling chocolate on her flushed skin. The mix of hot, quickly cooling chocolate and raspy, body warm moist tongue moved across her body, until he had taken each nipple into his mouth for suckling in turn.

She could only squeek as his mouth and tongue cleaned her of the stickiness, squeel as the hot chocolate line drew his attentions up her body. Arching her back, she pushed her chest upwards for his lips as she pushed her head back against the pillows. Dion was consuming her and she was almost on fire with need. "Do I get the same pleasure?" she gasped. "What do I get to gild with chocolate and lick for delight?"

Smiling down at Prissy as he body poised with sensation, Dion took a kneeling stance between her spread legs. The hobbit grabbed a pillow, and insistently slid it under her apple shaped derriere. His right index finger reached into the potted whipped cream and left a dollop on the end of his nose. "Tonight, the conquest is mine. Another time, perhaps I can be drawn into the web of the wicked widow spider; consumed by love only to be consumed by my love. Now, you must surrender to my what I have taken, petite bon." Dion leaned forward for her tiny pink tongue to flick the fluff from his nose tip, as he lined his rigid maleness up with the pinkness of her mons, ready to storm the gates of heaven.

Grasping her hips he pulled her forward and onto him, his eyes closed as he winced in sympathy at her virginal pain. "Only at first, my sweet. It shall pass." Slowly but forcefully the hobbit pushed his hips forward as his arms pulled her to himself, his skin sliding down his shaft as the bulb pressed between her wet folds. Feeling the resistance increase then give way, he slowly sank full depth into her, and even more slowly pulled his hips back. In a painfully slow dance, Dion entered achingly slowly, and retreated with reluctance, his speed increasing incrementally with each renewed thrust. From cupping her rounded cheeks in his palms, he moved his hands up her body, stroking her skin. His left hand took the rounded swell of her bosom in his palm, so reminiscent of the recent peach, his right hand extended to brush her flushed cheek, eager to wipe away any tears the pain might have caused.

The sensation of his manhood caused reactions that she had never felt, the touch causing her insides to contract and then pulse with pleasure. As he gently and masterfully pushed inside her, she cried out a little at the pain and then sighed as her insides seemed to fold around him. Nothing she had read had prepared her for the fullness and the pleasure of having him inside her, nothing had prepared her for the pulsing that her nether regions would radiate throughout her body. Every nerve seemed to fire, centering in on the rhythmic slide of his manhood inside her, his hands upon her breast and skin, the heat of the fire that burned inside her. Her moans became guttural as she gave into the waves of pleasure, her eyes closing against the fading pain as her mind screamed out for more. "Faster," she whispered, grasping the satin of the coverlet. "Break me upon your sword!"

The dance continued, less measured and controlled as the speed and urgency increased. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow as he lost coordination and contrivance to give himself completely to the desire to feel each part of her against each part of him. Between gasps and guttural moans, he babbled what he knew to be senseless love talk. "Mon couer, mon cheri, my little chicken!" Surrendering at last to the inevitable, his face a rictus of pleasure that could not be distinguished from pain, he reached release, his love over flowing and manifest in the offering he left at her temple. "Sacre bleu!"

The cries that she emitted gave voice to her pleasure. Governess no more, Prissy gave into her body and let her lips bubble forth moans and sighs as Dion worked inside and against her. Each thrust took her to a higher level of ecstasy until he spent himself inside her and she cried out the name of the Host as she collapsed in release, her insides spasming again and again as if it clenched and pulsed to produce a pleasure she could not have ever dreamed possible. She wrapped her legs around him to keep him inside her as he spent his last, panting and whimpering in happiness. The sweat that fell upon her lips, she licked, savoring the saltiness, and she whispered his name, reaching to stroke his face. "Ma couer, J'tadore," she gasped. "Tu est Le Roi! Merci, merci!

Sighing, and wiping his brow, Dion rolled over to lie panting beside his recently, consummately official bride. "Now, my love, let us share the ham and cheeses. We will need to gather strength. After such spirited defense, I think we must attack again if the populous is to be subdued!"

Priscilla laughed tiredly, her eyes twinkling. "Oh yes," she stated with an improper grin. "Practice makes perfect and we shall have to practice much to aspire to perfection." Sliding over him, savoring the way that their sweaty skin slid together, she retrieved a strawberry to feed to him and one for herself that she took from his mouth. "But now is the time to eat to gather strength for the next assault," she announced, straddling his hips lightly. "Shall I make my sultan a sandwich?"

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