Thea Devine - Fascinated

"Did you like it when I put my tongue inside your mouth?"

Her breath caught in her chest, remembering the dual penetration of his tongue inside her mouth and his manhood inside her vulva. "Yes."

"I, too, found it enjoyable." Bright color circled his cheeks. He dropped his hands. "The gig will be ready."

Megan grabbed her cloak off one of the rusted hooks that acted as a wardrobe, and the Windsor hat off the bed. Rushing back, she retrieved her gloves and the French letter she had put inside the pocket of the discarded dress.

Ragged pieces of cloth hung from thorns, mothers' last-year votive offerings torn from swaddling cloths to appease the old gods.

He stared at the clear spring water, and wondered why he had brought Megan to Madron Well.

The truth chuckled and bubbled out from underneath the rock.

Hilla-ridden-to have the stag-was a West Cornish term for a man whose life was riddled with nightmares. Legend claimed that a man could be cured if he washed in Madron Well.

He wanted to be cured.

He wanted to wash in Madron Well and bathe the past away.

"It is said that in 1650 there was a cripple named John Trelilie," Megan said. The brim of her hat and the fold of black veiling hid her face from his view. "He dreamed three times that he should wash himself in Madron Well. But he was crippled, and no one would bring him, so he crawled here to wash himself in the waters. It cured him, they say. They say he walked away from the well upright."

"Do you believe the story is true?" he asked neutrally.

"It is certainly less farfetched than some other Cornish legends." Megan looked up; sunlight sharply illuminated her white skin and the network of fine lines that defined it. "Are there similar legends in your country?"

Arabia was filled with legends. Of genies. Of magical oases.

He opened his mouth to tell her of Arabia. "Eunuchs have been known to marry," he said instead.

It was not what he had intended to say.

Her moss green eyes remained calm. "What did you mean, earlier, when you said that eunuchs such as yourself grow erect? Are there eunuchs who do not… grow erect?"

A bird warbled; the spring gurgled.

It all seemed so far away, the years he had been whole and the day he had been altered.

"There are three types of castration," he said, feeling as removed as the bird's warble. "There is the sandali, or castrati, in which a boy's-or man's-penis and testicles are cleanly cut off by a razor; there are those who have their penis only cut off; and there are those like me, who have their testicles either crushed or removed."

He spoke dispassionately, as if it had happened to someone else other than himself; as if the crimes perpetrated were not monstrous, but were perfectly acceptable.

In Arabia, they were.

The horror he had earlier expected to see in her eyes was clearly visible. "These men who do not have their manhood- how do they relieve themselves?"

"They urinate through a straw. Or else they squat."

Like a woman.

But they did not deserve that analogy-not from a fellow eunuch.

"And so these men-these men who do not have their manhood-they must suffer, without any consolation at all."

"A eunuch's level of desire corresponds to the age he was castrated," he said stoically, unable to lie and tell her that a eunuch never felt desire, because they did feel desire.

Even those who were castrated before the onset of puberty.

Even those who were sandali.

"At what age were you?…" She paused, unable to say the word.

"I was castrated when I was thirteen," he said flatly.

He had matured early. At thirteen he had sported the shadow of a beard and his testicles had dropped.

"But those men who lose their manhood…"

She did not have to finish her observation. Or perhaps it was a question.

How did a man who had no manhood yet who still possessed desire find satisfaction?

"Some eunuchs take consolation in giving women pleasure."

"I cannot imagine always seeing to the pleasure of others without being able to physically share it."

Yet she had loved a man who had not seen to her pleasure.

"Eunuchs who have neither a penis nor testicles marry," he said reluctantly.

She remained silent, her gaze suddenly alert.

Instantly, he regretted his confidence.

He did not want to talk about his past. He did not want to think about his future.

He simply wanted to enjoy the day, and his first-and last-woman.

Even should he have the ability to find release in a prostitute, he would never be content with passionless union.

Reaching up, he slid out her hatpin and plucked off her black hat. Sunlight turned her chestnut brown hair to a blaze of red and bronze, autumn colors streaked with the silver gleam of winter. "You have beautiful hair. Why do you wear it pulled back so tightly?"

Reaching up, up, up, she said, "You have beautiful hair, too. Why do you hide it in a turban?" and pulled free the end of the white cotton that was tucked inside to hold the turban in place.

He held still, staring down at her upturned face and the faint lines that contradicted her youthful impulsiveness. "A Muslim man may not show his hair in public."

She unwound the cloth, breasts thrusting against her black cloak, against his chest, focusing upon his turban rather than his gaze. "An Englishwoman may not wear her hair loose in public," she said, breath caressing his chin.

It smelled of tooth powder.

"We are not in public," he said, more aware of her touch and the unwinding turban than he was of his own heartbeat.

Cool air cocooned his head. She stepped back, triumphantly brandishing his turban. "No, we are not."

"I am hungry, Megan," he said deliberately.

"What did you bring us to eat?" she asked, moss green eyes sparkling.

His breath caught in his chest.

No woman had ever jested with him. Teased him. Engaged him in sexual banter.

"What would you like?" he asked, voice too gruff.

It did not deter her-his voice-his body.

"Meat pie," she riposted.

"Then you are fortunate," he returned. "There is a meat pie in the bucket."

Megan laughed.

It rang out through the thicket of branches and leafing bushes, ricocheted off the stone walls that isolated Madron Well from the intrusion of modernity. Wings fluttered up to the sky-she had startled the warbling bird.

His groin tightened.

He untied his cloak and spread it on the ground. She unbuttoned her cloak and spread it on top of his.

Her nipples stabbed her bodice.

"You will get cold," he warned.

"No colder than you," she rejoined.

He was not cold.

Turning, he walked to the stone fence where he had left the bucket. His loose cotton thobs fluttered against his bare ankles, rubbed against his turgid verge. Catching up the thin metal handle, he turned.

Megan sat on their cloaks, black gown primly tucked around her legs, tugging off black silk gloves.

He stalked her.

She glanced up… and stared at his groin. His robe was tented.

"Your meat pie, madam," he said. And set the bucket down on top of their spread cloaks.

Setting her gloves aside, Megan raised her head. Her moss green gaze snared his black one. "I do not see it."

The heat surging through him owed nothing to sunshine. "Look harder, madam."

"There is a cloth covering it," she returned, "Perhaps you should remove it."

There was no mistaking her inference.

He remembered the press of her lips and the lick of her tongue when she had kissed his verge.

His heart thudded against his chest. "We will both catch our chill," he warned.

Megan reached for the top button on her bodice. "But we will always have fond memories of meat pie, will we not?"

She unfastened one button, two, three… and shrugged out of her bodice.

Her breasts, warmed by sunlight, gleamed like alabaster. Full. Heavy.

Perfect.

"Take down your hair," he said in a strangled voice.

He watched the lift of her arms, her breasts, noted the glint of red-brown hair underneath her arms, catalogued each quiver of her soft breasts.

A long, thick braid fell over her shoulder. Laying aside the hairpins, she slowly unraveled it and raked her fingers through it to straighten out the kinks.

The red, bronze and silver that had only glinted in her hair when it had been secured on top of her head, now was a blazing waterfall that cascaded over her right breast and down to her waist.

The thud of his heart shook his entire body-his chest; his knees.

Megan was willing to satisfy a eunuch's fancy; he could do no less.

He jerked the thobs over his head, letting it fall where it would, and kneeled down in front of her.

In the dim light of morning with the curtains closed, his condition had been blatant but not the scars. There was no hiding them in the full light of day.

She did not cringe from their sight.

Solemnly, she uncovered the bucket of food. Equally solemn, he accepted in his bare hand the slice of meat pie she offered him.

Sitting down, he crossed his legs, acutely aware that she could see everything… his scars, his desire, everything he had spent the last forty years trying to hide.

Pulling out a small jug of cider, Megan filled two glasses, left breast quivering with her motion, nipple stabbing the chill spring air.

He reached out and flicked back her hair, so that he could see both of her breasts.

The meat pie was tasteless, the cider sour. He would never forget them.

When they had drained the last drop of cider, finished the meat pie and licked their fingers clean, she returned the jug, glasses and empty pie plate to the bucket.

Megan stood up and unfastened her skirt, her bustle, her petticoats. Her hair shielded her face. "I would ride you, sir."

Twenty-four hours ago, he would have thought her ridiculous.

Twenty-four hours ago, he had not opened his door to admit a widow who masqueraded as a whore.

Straightening his legs, he kicked her underclothes off their cloaks and lay down.

The sun was hot. Blinding. The weight of her body was more welcome than his next breath.

Kneeling over him, she grasped his verge.

He stopped breathing.

Wet heat kissed him.

His heart stopped beating.

Unrelenting pressure. Scalding moisture.

He concentrated on Megan's face as she determinedly tried to put him inside her. She bit her bottom lip, like a child studying for an exam.

"Take me home, Megan," he said hoarsely.

And wondered where his home was.

He knew where others thought it was, but he himself did not know.

Without warning, her portal opened and she swallowed him.

She moaned.

He groaned.

Her pubic hair prickled his pelvis. The tip of his verge abutted her cervix.

He could feel the pulse of her body frantically beating against him.

Megan stared down at him. "I think I'm too old for this."

He grabbed her hips. "I think not, madam. Ride me," he gritted. "Ride me like you saw the young girl ride the boy."

Show me what it is like, he silently begged, to be young and whole and carefree.

Tentatively she lifted up; cool air surrounded his verge while his crown was gripped by molten fire. Her gaze did not waver from his, green eyes moist with sexual need and something more, the need to please him.

It was not her consideration he wanted; he wanted her selfish enjoyment.

He bucked up; at the same time he pulled her down, forcing her to take the hardness that was all he could give her.

Megan threw her head back; a low cry vibrated along the length of his verge.

He did not know who it came from-her, or him.

She had a long neck, white, graceful.

Slowly, she learned the rhythm: up, thighs and vagina squeezing him; down, thighs and vagina opening. Blindly reaching, she clasped her hands over his.

They were the hands of a woman used to cleaning and toiling.

The sun haloed her head in a crown of red, bronze and silver. He alternately watched her breasts jiggle and the chords in her throat strain. A chorus of ragged breathing blended with the wet impact of flesh slapping flesh. Megan rode him until he could feel the sun on his back and the ground beneath his feet and the wind in his face, together galloping back through the past to a time when they had both been young and innocent.

And then it stopped-the pounding motion, the driving force, the race for freedom. Megan stared down at him, face streaked with sweat and sunshine, hair clinging to her cheeks and her breasts. Her vagina rippled around him in the aftermath of her orgasm, fisting, relaxing, fisting, relaxing… about his heart, his verge. Too much, not enough.