We fuck like this for what feels like hours, slowly, not changing positions, using the motion of the bed and the slow movement of each other’s hips to ride to a slow but profound pleasure that leaves me throbbing all over, a dull, pleasurable ache rippling through my body.
No words are exchanged. I tug on his hands and start to roll on my stomach. He follows and pushes me over the rest of the way, lying on top of me with his legs splayed, and picks up the pace until he grunts and buries himself deep in hard, uncontrolled thrusts as my gentle climax pulses my body, pleasure surging through me at last as I quiver under him.
When he rolls on his back I flop, still sleepy, on his chest and lie there, rubbing his stomach with my hand, feeling the tight muscles of his belly with my fingernails.
I yawn and curl up in the layers and layers of blankets and furs while he showers. Finally I get sick of waiting, pad barefoot over to the bathroom, open the shower door, and step inside with him. It’s even bigger than the one in my old room, and I’m immediately doused in scalding hot water. I yelp and cling to him, as if he can make the heat go away.
He spins me around and douses my head with shampoo. I pinch my eyes shut and make soft, pleased little sounds as he kneads my scalp with his rough fingers and runs my hair between them, squeezing out the soap. He washes my back too, and I do the same. There’s a bamboo bench; he sits down and I wash his hair, my breasts resting on his head as I scrape his scalp with my nails. I scrub his back and shoulders, lift the water wand off the wall, and rinse him down.
I like the way his wet skin feels against mine. I like how big his shoulders are, how the muscles feel under my hands. I like the way he sits up straighter when I lean over him, push my boobs into the back of his head, and run my hands down his chest.
After we dry each other off with big fluffy towels, he helps me dress, gently and carefully lacing up the sides of my dress. I didn’t pick the one I will wear today, he did; it seems simpler and less ornate than the ones I’ve been wearing, more traditional with big poofy sleeves, heavy skirts, and a high collar. The blouse I wear is creamy white and the skirts and bodice of the dress a hunter green that he says brings out my eyes.
Once I’m dressed, I help him. I tug his trousers up and give his cock a little squeeze before I button them up. He forgoes the black jacket he always wears for a creamy shirt, halfway unbuttoned. God, he’s gorgeous. He looks absolutely magnificent, almost mouthwatering. The only attention he gives his hair is to run his fingers through it, and it’s all it needs. I could do that all day.
I stop myself, lest we end up playing with each other’s hair all afternoon.
I start to put mine up, and he stops me, gingerly grasping my wrists. “Leave it down.”
I brush it out and let it hang loose. It starts to curl as it dries, as it does.
My present has not yet been revealed to me, and I don’t dare ask, even as he lifts me into the car for a ride down the mountainside.
When I see what he’s arranged for me, I gasp.
Color. The city is a riot of color, color everywhere. There are people on the streets, and not a shade of gray in sight. The car stops abruptly and we step out. As soon as I hit the warm air I’m assaulted by a cascade of flowery fragrances so intense I let out a little chirping sneeze and have to wipe my nose with the prince’s handkerchief.
Wooden arbors stand over the streets, adorned with flowers. Children run up and down roads. I didn’t even know this many people lived here. I can hear music in the distance; it sounds almost like polka but not quite.
“What is this?”
“A festival. I declared this week a holiday.”
“For what?”
“For you, to honor you and the light that you bring to this place.”
He offers me his hand, and we walk together.
There is still a nervous edge in the presence of the prince.
“This is beautiful,” I tell him, “but I want more. These children you’ve taken away from their families…”
“Come,” he says.
We walk through town, the prince and his lady. The looks they give me make me feel self-conscious, and I can’t stop blushing.
“Do you remember that first morning? When we talked about Hades and Persephone?”
“Yes.”
It feels like a million years ago. Like last year.
“You never finished the story.”
“That’s how it ends,” I shrug. “It’s a folktale to explain the seasons.”
“It’s more than that. Persephone changed her husband. She brought some of her mother’s light and life to his court. Such was her beauty that Sisyphus was relieved of eternally rolling the great boulder up the hill, and the thirst of Tantalus was slaked. Not every hour was bitter, and not every day was cruel.”
We walk to an open square, all decorated for the festival. There are a bunch of people sitting in chairs, all couples, many holding hands. They look sullen and sad, and many very scared, unable to bring themselves to even pretend to be happy for their terrifying leader’s benefit.
“When my father showed me what lies under our mountain he told me, ‘If you dance with the devil, the devil doesn’t change. The devil changes you.’”