Swordplay

sword

Not mine. Found on Tumblr

(Continued from “A little anisette, please…” Part ll)

From the house, the land rolled in fits and starts down to the lake. He wasn’t a lawn guy-the expanse of native grasses, shrubs and trees were gloriously if meticulously, untended creating small thickets and copses around seemingly randomly placed boulders. About half way down was a natural flat spot that he had manicured carefully. The surface, firmly tamped with tightly mowed grass looked like nothing so much as a putting green minus the hole and flag.

It was here that she practiced her form. She had left her wooden sword on the rack at the top of the clearing, and instead used her tournament weapon-the polished steel glinting in the sun. She wore loose fitting black pants cinched tight at the waist and a black tank top that showcased her strong shoulders and sinewy arms glistening under a thin sheen of sweat. Her long hair-tightly bound in a thick braid-flowed over her shoulders and around her neck.

She was getting better, he could see that. Her form, though by no means artful, was practiced enough to have risen to a level of proficiency that would move her easily through the next one or two belt levels. Whenever she chose another teacher, that is. Given their situation he could not continue in that capacity.

She parried, she spun, she thrusted and slashed as he ticked off under his breath the Chinese names of each move. The good ones, the truly good ones, could feel in a 100 or 200 movement form what was coming next, then next and could see all of the movements as a single tapestry winding uninterrupted from beginning to end. Her form was a series of index cards, each standing alone with no seeming through line to the next. To the unschooled she was a goddess and possibly deadly. To him, she was competent enough with proficiency hard won through rote and dogged repetition. There was no shame in that, but the dawning realization that she didn’t have the intuitive gift that she thought she did was driving her a tad batty.

Which was probably why she always wanted to fight.

He strode out of the shadows of the sycamores and past the leather heavy bag to where she could see him. She stopped her form and bowed. Not to him, but to the school. He had learned that-when entering or leaving a school to bow in respect. But in his practice, all of outdoors was his school, so out here people were bowing all the time.

“I saw you”, she said.

“I hope so.”

“What did you think?”

“Not bad”, he gave his usual. “You could get lower in ‘snatching the serpent at the water’s edge’”, he said in English as she didn’t-and seemingly would never-know the Chinese.

“I felt that…happens when I rush.”

“And why were you rushing….?”

Instead of answering she walked over to the rack and sheathed her sword after slowing wiping it down. He followed.

“We can work that sequence if you like…” he offered.

She picked her wooden sword from its spot.

“Maybe later”, she said twirling her sword and meeting his eyes before pacing away.

He didn’t smile, afraid it would be condescending-she wasn’t smiling. “Maybe”, he said. “Same stakes?”

“As always”, she said bowing to him.

She came at him tentatively-slashing toward his sword arm before spinning and thrusting directly. He knew that was coming-but rather than countering-was content to block it with a “CLACK” of wood on wood and spin past delivering a light but effective elbow to her head on the way.

“There are more weapons in a fight than swords”, he said.

She shook it off and lunged carelessly but with surprising speed. He blocked, then parried, then slid away from her sword side. The trick was to not let her know he was toying with her; to allow her attacks, to seem surprised, then to recover at the last moment.

When he pressed, she responded well, parrying in flight but was sloppy in transition. When she stepped aside and meant to spin her toes caught in the grass and she was exposed from behind. Rather than delivering a killing blow he pulled back his weapon and delivered a hard swat with the flat of his sword to her backside.

“OWW!” she cried hopping out of harm’s way and grabbing her bottom with her free hand. “Owww, Dammit”, she grumbled kneading her paddled cheek.

“A glancing blow”, he said. “Not a killing one. You can continue.”

“It should have been a winning blow. You opted to swat my ass instead.”

“What’s a little swat between friends?” He lifted his sword. “Ready?”

“No.” She dropped the point of her sword. “I’m beaten.”

“As you will”, he said, lowering his own sword. He took hers and carried them both over to the rack while she lifted the heavy bag from the hook where it hung. She managed the 80 pound bag easily, flopping it onto the grass.

“You were better today”, he offered.

“Not good enough, though…” she answered untying the waist strap of her pants.

“Not to beat me…but better than last time…”

He allowed himself to watch her strip-to slip her pants down then step out of them, right leg, left leg admiring the muscles of her quads rippling as she balanced. Her tank-top followed allowing her small firm breasts to enjoy the light of day.

She turned away from him to face the lake and the bag on the ground before slipping her thumbs into the waistband of her black silk panties and rolling them down, then off. A bright scarlet smudge on her right cheek colored the otherwise milky white globes of her bottom.

Without looking back she knelt in the grass then paused before laying over the bag positioning her bottom uppermost. Her nerve endings hummed-vividly imprinting everything in her unconscious. Every blade of cool grass on her cheek as the heady aroma filled her nostrils and tickled her lips. She felt him spread her behind and heard him spit. Then felt his wet fingers lubricating her tight bottom. She took a breath then exhaled slowly, eyes wide open as she felt the burn of him entering her. His thrust was slow and steady, relentless and ever burning as she stretched open for him.

Closing around his cock like a warm satin glove she watched a man and a woman in a small sailboat obliviously tacking into the breeze toward them.

Advertisements

At Dawn

httpn0thinggoodeverstayswithme.tumblr.com

nothinggoodeverstayswithme.tumblr.com’

It was a dream, within a dream
Wrapped in a memory.

The streets were wet and empty-
Deserted in the middle of another rainy night.

Running fast to no end, but as the distance rolled out
Found it easier to drop to all fours and gallop.

Hands clattered along the shiny brick
As a dog’s claws on ceramic.
Slipping left-sliding right;
Gaining precious purchase then sliding back,
Making no progress.

I was telling this to my Aunt Peggy-
Not in her doughy middle age-
But as she had been.
Slim and boyish; twenty-five to my
Lusty Sixteen.

She leaned close,
All overbite and collar bones
And told me that I should.
That she would.

I whiffed flowers
Hyacinth-
At the base of her neck.

You should, she whispered,
Eyes wide open.

Her mouth tasted of spearmint.
Her soft tongue,
Alive and welcoming.

You should, she whispered.

 

“A little anisette, please…” Part ll

(Continued from “A little anisette, please…”)

The glowing wafer of moon slipped thinly into the chalice of the hills.

“I am not worthy to receive you…” the long forgotten words clattered across his memory like a broken strand of pearls. “…but only say the words….” He was startled to hear himself speaking aloud and bit his lips too late. The sweeping sound of her breathing was gone-leaving a silent void. He inhaled deeply as if to smell whether he had awakened her.

She was on her side so when he looked down he saw only her right eye glowing back at him. Her lips, always full, seemed swollen. He bent to them and kissed her. Gently. Dryly. She returned his kiss over her shoulder then, like a cat, pushed her haunches still wrapped in sheets back into him.

“You are definitely not worthy”, she said huskily-her voice full of sleep.

“Of anything.”

“Release my legs”, she told him.

“I don’t want to hurt you now…” he said quietly. Last night was last night. This was a new day.

“Release my legs”.

The knots melted in his fingers. A lifetime on the lake, sailing, boating and fishing made ropes and knots his superpower. Before she could imagine how she was bound, she was free. Still on her side she pulled her right knee up then, when he uncovered her, lifted her top leg toward the ceiling, opening and still pushing backward. From another woman this would have been an invitation. From her, it was a summons.

Hard since he’d walked into the room he held back and grasped her ankle, then slid his hand down the muscles of her leg-pausing to outline the panther on her thigh. It rippled across her quad and roared up the inside of her thigh directing with white teeth and a blood-red tongue where he should go next.

“Do you want your hands?” he asked.

“No”. She kept them, still bound, clutched at her throat like a child curling her loose hair around her long slim fingers.

He settled on his side poking like a blind dog against her still bruised bottom cheeks. She rolled slightly and pushed backward further. Even in the dim, dawn light she glistened as he slid inside-never surprised by how wet she was. She gasped, taking him all at once as he grunted-forcing himself all the way inside with a loud slap of flesh.

She answered his grunt and caught the wave of his thrusts, digging backward as he pushed forward. They quickened the pace and he held her leg high gripping the firm muscles and feeling the quiver coming from up top. She probably would have preferred to hold her leg up herself just with the core strength she never tired of yakking about but he just wanted a fucking handle. He grabbed her ass and kneaded.

Whatever didn’t work between them, this surely did. This always did. He listened for the breathing again; this time the quick gasping that signaled….here it came. As the bed creaked and rolled, he pushed-pushed-pushed thrust-thrust-quickening his pace-slapslapslap skin on skin until her gasping became a moan then a bark then a cry as she slammed her leg down like a guillotine holding him in place as he, with a last firm jam spewed his shuddering heat deep into her.

As they deflated, dissipated, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close as if wanting to contact as much of her skin as possible. He slid out of her and rested until he heard the telltale whispering of her wheezing. He allowed himself to be lulled to the edge of darkness before he roused and pulled gently away.

Without touching her he leaned over and untied the ropes on her wrists but she reacted not at all, lying as if in prayer. He retrieved the knife and put it on the bed stand then, reluctant to leave, kissed her shoulder, her back and ran is tongue along the salt of her hip. When he felt himself begin to swell, he rose and pulled the sheet up to her neck leaving her exactly as he’d found her. He left the door ajar.

Later with the morning sun high over the ridge she, still damp from the shower and clear-eyed as a child, joined him at the kitchen table. The silk robe parted as she gingerly sat affording him an easy view of her small, firm breasts. “Good Morning Glory”, he said mocking. She gifted him a half smile.

“I trust you welcomed the sun”, she said seeing that the sweat from his sunrise workout was already dried on his shirt.

“Someone had to do it” he said pushing away from the table. “Coffee?”

“Christ, yes.”

“Cream?”

“A little anisette, please.” He took the clear liquor from the sideboard and poured thickly closing his eyes to the sweet licorice scent filling the room. He placed the cup before her and kissed her on the top of her head and slid his hand inside her robe. “Always nice to have the girls for coffee”.

“Will you join me for sword later?” she asked ignoring his hand.

“Technical or Kumite?”

“I want to fight.”

He stepped back and regarded her carefully. She was talking into her coffee giving him nothing.

“Wood”, he said firmly. Their steel tournament swords weren’t razor sharp but carried enough of an edge to do damage. He would only fight her using the wooden swords. They had a way to make that interesting.

“Fine”, she said looking up. Her eyes had a sparkle rather than a gleam. Which was good. “Eleven?”

“Eleven it is”, he said. “Now drink your coffee.”

She blew on it and sipped.

(Continued…)