Vision of Love Read online

  A Total-E-Bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  Vision of Love

  ISBN # 978-1-78184-183-9

  ©Copyright Xssa Annella 2012

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright December 2012

  Edited by Amy Parker

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2012 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-burning and a sexometer of 1.

  This story contains 33 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 9 pages.

  VISION OF LOVE

  Xssa Annella

  Their love is more than she’d imagined, a way to talk to the gods, but will the price be too high?

  Sacrificing her shyness and worn dress may be a way to talk to the gods, but it also opens up the way to what’s under young Redbush’s loincloth. In his warrior arms she feels safe, loved, wild. Freeing her own shamanic power to talk to the Allfather, she will come to understand a terror that might come to pass, and the high price of loving someone.

  Though he creates heady sensations she has never known before, she will learn that everything has a price. Love opens many channels and closes many doors.

  Though his touch can make her see heaven, she will learn that you can’t create without sacrifice. In the wilderness there are many dangers, the least of which might be losing her heart to her handsome young buck.

  Full of bravery, passion, and fear, she will aid her people—or destroy them. In the untamed wilds before America as we know it, history isn’t just written—it is lived through blood and tears and love.

  Chapter One

  “What are you doing?”

  The voice. It’s Redbush. I didn’t hear him approach. Today his skin glistens with a sheen of sweat, the sun striking him from behind, as though it too loves the shape of his body, the graceful curves of his legs under his loincloth.

  I stare at him, a shy maiden.

  “Don’t give me that. You are as talkative as bluejay.” His tone is humorous.

  “At least you didn’t compare me to a crow,” I say with a sigh. His eyes see through to my inner heat, making me squirm while I gaze at him. I love to admire him.

  “Why the sigh?” he asks. He sets his bow down and squats beside me. His muscles ripple like the sides of a deer. His chin looks as hard as the rock I am sitting on, which is far enough away not to be found by any of my tribe—or so I had thought.

  And yet he is here. Great.

  “I was thinking. I wish for the makings of a new dress. I would sacrifice this one to the gods, but then, what would I wear while waiting for the answer?” My dress is hideous. The wooden beads are broken and worn, the hem frayed. I feel the material for wear, especially across the chest where the decorations are falling off. The buckskin fringe is worn and cracked from too many washings, dancing unevenly under my fingers.

  “Would they listen to you?” He laughs.

  I don’t hit him because secretly, I have always had a feeling for Redbush—as in, I have a feeling declaring my love for him would make him laugh. I’m too shy to talk to him much, ever since he turned more desirable to the young girls of the tribe than any other male in the tribe. His red-fletched arrows stick up above his right shoulder. He carries no meat, I notice.

  “How was the hunt?” I ask, avoiding his question. Do the gods listen to women? I finger a rip at a seam of my dress, the one that connects the shoulder to the sleeve. Grandpa used to say if I made a sacrifice they might talk to me, a woman. He knew because he was a great shaman, and his wife had told him to tell the gods she would give anything for a son, but he hadn’t. When she’d become pregnant, he’d known they’d heard her. When his wife had died during childbirth, he’d known they had taken something. My mother had told me not to listen to Grandpa, to only pretend to listen. But I’d listened.

  “Did you catch anything?” I ask.

  “It was a good hunt. I stopped to watch clouds, to see their beauty. I missed the rabbit.” His voice is casual, that of a man confident in himself.

  I laugh. “Beauty?” I love clouds, but only the dark grey ones, the stormbringers with their many shades of grey, the troubled ones.

  I pull a thread, a long piece of sinew, and the dress unravels slowly, the arm coming loose. Fine. But then the chest starts to fall away and I freeze, holding the thread taut.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Redbush watching intently.

  The air is cold on my breast—cold and delicious like a quick dip in a still lake during summer. My breasts are half covered by shadow, the tops peeking out like sloping mountains, the nipples just hidden by the folded, stiff hide.

  “Maybe you should sacrifice something after all,” he says in a husky voice. He pulls on the sinew, his fingers so firm on mine. When did he grab the tie? I wonder dizzily, even as I watch the thread slide. I hear the gentle puffs of material ripping. I can smell Redbush, so close, a scent of pines and male. He pulls until the thread is free in his hand, dangling.

  My dress falls away on one side, my left breast exposed. The nipple contracts from the cold. I let the sleeve slide off my arm and drop to the grassy ground.

  “What will you do now?” he asks me, dipping his head closer.

  I want to run. Whoop. Jump in a lake. Huddle by a fire. What is this strange sensation inside me, filling me? It’s not hot, but it’s not cold. It’s yearning, but also trepidation, and a deep sense of something potent and old. In my dreams that I tell to no one, this was what I wanted, for him to look intensely at me. To touch me. What maiden doesn’t long to be touched, especially by one such as he?

  His lips brush my face, just grazing the apple of my cheek, and I shiver, gasp softly. I want more. So much more. I want to drown in this feeling. I want his lips all over me. Like a heartbeat, I want, I want, I want—

  Even in the bright light of day I see his pupils are full, as though he is standing in a dark teepee, but I don’t think his eyes have lost their focus on my breasts once. Then he raises his gaze to mine. I can’t read his expression. It’s as hidden as the inner depths of a cave—dark, alive.

  This, I will offer. My innocence, my sweet cheeks, untouched by men. He stands up and greatly daring, I lean forward and touch my face to his. The touch is searing. Enlightening. The tightening of my body—I feel it in my stomach, my thighs, my breasts. The inrush of breath—I feel it filling me, spreading warmth and life. Our lips touching—I feel as though I am caressing the sun.

  I sit back. A vision flashes before my eyes, too quick to see.

  This is strong medicine.

  He laughs and runs off. The air is so empty in front of me.

  My breasts ache and down below, by my stomach, is a wanting. I can�
�t describe it.

  I must have more.

  No other male could have pulled that piece of sinew and made it feel as if it was so close to my heart. Redbush has always been my favourite among the young males, ever since I have been old enough to start noticing men. Only he could have gifted me with that maelstrom of emotion.

  I hold my dress together and walk back home. Mother sighs at the destruction and I claim a tree attacked, the branches catching and ripping the shoulder as I had pulled away. Now I only have one dress.

  Later I catch him in the woods with friends, and we walk back to the village together. I can’t get enough of his voice, of his strange sayings. He touches me in odd ways, makes me wonder. I make him laugh once, and am triumphant to have given him something. I want to spend more time with him—just him and me.

  * * * *

  It’s a few days later before I see him slip off on his hunt. I have sacrificed something—an innocence, perhaps—certainly my dress, which is now tied at the shoulder, barely staying on. Dancing Dawn has been teasing me all morning about it, that bitch. She is friends with Redbush and has the nicest dresses. Her mother and the chief’s wife grew up together, old friends, and Dancing Dawn is friends with Redbush. For his sake, I try to be nice, even though what I really want to do is claw my nails into her face for having the right to touch him. Who knew that getting a man’s attention was as easy as losing part of a dress?

  I wish he had ripped it off me completely. It’s a thought that keeps me awake at night. Only now can I admit how much I have wanted him.

  I dream of his touch, a fiery ache in my sleep. I wake and want to touch myself. I am different, and often I catch myself with my fingers on my lips, unaware they’re there until I feel the tingle, remember his heat on mine. The gods seem to favour the offer of my maidenhood. Did I not feel something, see a possible glimpse?

  And really, I want to feel them again—those dizzying sweet sensations, those drops in time that feel as though they last forever, yet pass too quickly. I want to see things, to know. I want more than a vision, too quick to glimpse.

  I want him. To hear him laugh. To listen as he talks. For us to just be together.

  After watching Redbush go, I quickly grab my things and follow. The trail winds away through the prairie and to the woods. He has taken the fork that doesn’t go past the river. This one goes to the base of the mountains, and probably up into them. I see his moccasin prints for a while before the trail fades away, lost in grass and rocks.

  Only hunters leave the grasslands. The woods can harbour bears and mountain cats, and most women never leave the small area around our teepees. Only with a hunter’s strong arms around me would I feel safe.

  I can’t see him. He is gone. Too fast for me. I stand on the trail, disappointed, with the sweet scent of pine everywhere, the wind in my hair. I am exposed, my dress slipping off my shoulder to hang across my nipples, scratchy and rough. There is a touch of winter in the air, the barest hint of frost. The days are no longer scorching.

  I could go hunting myself, but I have no weapons. The only things I can gather are berries—if I weave a basket—but I don’t want to. Or I could gather some more roots for tonight’s stew.

  It has taken me hours to follow him that far, and now half a morning has been wasted. With a sigh, I decide to walk back down the trail and to the lake. I see a deer bounce by and think, If only I had—

  Redbush.

  He jumps out of the ferns and lands on the trail, looking at me and laughing.

  “Why didn't you get the deer?” I ask.

  “Because it was such a gorgeous day, I wanted to just live it.”

  I have no idea what he means. I don’t care.

  His face is turned up to the sky, alight with joy. He’s in a good mood. Now’s my chance to ask.

  “Oh, Redbush,” I say, in what I hope is a coy manner. I untie my dress top. But now I have nothing to say, too shy and shocked by myself. Both breasts are free. I have taken care to wash them every morning, hoping he would see them.

  And now he has. He is frozen, a statue, staring. He licks his lips and I feel powerful.

  The smile on my face is wide enough I can feel it in my cheekbones. I tone it down a bit and let the dress slip a bit lower.

  So daring! My breath races. I feel as though I have sprinted all morning, shaky and trembling and excited and breathless.

  Casually, slowly, he leans over with his hand raised and pulls the dress down farther, daring me, seeing how far I’ll go. I don’t know either.

  I let it fall off completely. I don’t know what to do now.

  I wove a flower into my pubic hair this morning, laughing to myself, not really believing he would see it. But he has.

  The rose tickles, the thorns a pleasant graze on my skin.

  He plucks it free with a hand. Brings it to his nose.

  It has been against the sweat of my belly but he half closes his eyes as though it’s lovely. Fragrant.

  I step closer. I can see his breath is also fast, hard, like mine. I can see the pulse in his throat and know I have one pounding just as hard.

  His hands on my shoulders are steadying, yet at the same time make me feel as if I’m floating.

  Again he touches his lips to mine, so softly. I inhale and smell man, a faint hint of smoke from last night’s fire, dirt and so many things.

  I realise, suddenly, that my mouth has travelled to the side of his. He keeps going and nuzzles my ear.

  Oh, sweet sensations. Can it get any better than this? Oh, yes. It can.

  He trails his fingers down my stomach and I groan. He touches my pubic hair and I actually flinch. There is warmth and wetness.

  “Have you ever touched yourself down there?” he asks me, his voice husky.

  “Yes. But not like this.” I raise my arms up wide and wrap them around his neck in a hug.

  He crushes me to him, of course, my breasts flattening between us, but his hand—oh, that magnificent hand—is still between us. I move my hips back a bit, trying to give him room. He twists to the side and there is space for his hand, for him to caress in an oh, so good, heady sensation, to move deeper between my sweet thighs.

  His fingers part my lower folds and tentatively touch me, my most inner parts.

  I bite my lip and tremble. I want to savour every moment, but I also want him to move faster to the next glorious touch.

  He lowers me to the path, right there, where we nestle on the soft, mossy ground, and he removes a few rocks from under me as I lie there, enjoying his touch. The ground is blanketed by softness, old pine needles and moss and bits of ferns and stray grass.

  Then, he looks down, lying beside me, and touches me again down between my legs, fingers tickling briefly among the pubic hair.

  His fingers hold me open. The touch of the cold wind is so strange, but so wonderful.

  Then he touches me again, a finger seeking deeper warmth, and it’s even better.

  The heat is shocking, unexpected, like a fire growing in my belly. My hips rise of their own accord and I groan softly, feeling nothing but his finger filling me. He seems to delight in my reaction, softly, slowly touching my belly with his other hand, sliding it up to my breast, sending alarming, sweet flickers of delight through me as he moves. The whole time, his finger plunges steadily, touching the entrance of my tingling tunnel, my innermost womanhood eager for his caress.

  I close my eyes.

  His lips are on my belly, then up to my breasts, and I am aware of every touch, every brush, lick and nibble.

  When he slides his tongue across my breast for the first time, my eyes flash open.

  It is like lightning, this touch, his mouth. His tongue dances on my sensitive flesh, a gift during this arousing lovemaking, a move only given by the gods, and oh…

  His teeth graze either side of my nipple as he bites down so gently.

  His fingers are buried deep within me—how did that happen?

  Because you let it, a voice whi
spers. But I shut it off, not wanting to stop what we are doing. Vaguely I remember I was doing this for, uh, something… It’s so hard to think when he rubs his fingers like that. He wiggles his fingers deep inside, stroking.

  Spread me open—oh, yeah, make me feel it.

  I lean back on my elbows and just breathe, letting him do what he wants with me.

  He moves his mouth up to mine, and I notice his loincloth has something very hard under it.

  Deciding I should touch him because he is touching me, I feel that leather, rub the hard mound, then slide my hand under the loincloth. His penis is so engorged with blood. It slips free of the loincloth. The head is soft, so soft, with a small cleft, a drop of wetness at the tip. The skin on the long shaft is so smooth, flaring just under the head. He gasps uncontrollably when I run my fingers down it.

  He sighs. Quivers.

  Quickly, he pushes me down and positions his cock between us.

  “Oh, please…” I realise he is whispering, begging.

  I don’t want to, but at the same time, I do. This mystery, this part of life I haven’t had yet—I want it, to know everything. A hunger consumes me to know what will happen.

  I keep my legs spread.

  Will he or won’t he?

  He does.

  Redbush pushes himself against me with a grunt, but he is too big to fit within my tight flesh at first. His length gets wet, glistens between us with my juices. I slide a hand down his hard body and feel. I’m so wet and his shaft is so thick, the head just barely in between my folds. He pushes again and my intimate lips part as he slides past my fingertips.

  His breath is in my ear, his voice telling me to relax, because he has done this before. I lie back down, both hands on his shoulders. He eases in and out, using just that large tip, slowly, stopping sometimes to lick my breasts. Soon I am trembling and tense, begging for more—more sensation, more something. I want it so badly, even if I don’t know what it is.