Held Captive

She sits with her head bowed.

Not in shame.

In thought.

In form.

In majestic supplication.

She is alone.

Naked.

Upon a pillow in the center of the space in the room between the sofa and the fireplace. The pillow resting upon the shiny hardwood floor. Her left leg folded flat upon the pillow so the sole of her foot pressed upon the opposite cheek where it met the pillow. Her right leg folded upward against her body, foot flat on the pillow her heel almost touching the top of her left foot, her thigh pressed against her stomach and breast. Her forehead resting lightly upon her knee. Her arms wrapped around her leg hugging it to her body. Wishing it was his body she hugged.

Heat suffuses her body from the fire crackling and sizzling in the fireplace. No fake logs here. She was real. The fire was real. The logs were real. Her arousal was real. Was he real?

Her eyes are closed, listening. Listening to the sharp crackling and dangerous sizzling of the fire. Listening to the scratching of the branches against the window pane. She would need to trim those branches before any high winds caused them to damage the windows.

Listening for the creak of a floorboard.

For the silent footfall.

For the quiet breath of the man who held her captive.

Listening for the touch she craved upon her skin.

Listening for the moan,
for the movement,
for flesh upon flesh,
for fingertip against fingertip,
for tongue upon dry lips,
for breath upon the wind,
for the movement of body through space,
for the shifting of eyes across her skin.

For the ghost of the man who held her captive.

Beyond the sofa the room was in shadows, flickering in the firelight.

Is he standing in the shadows?

Is he watching her even now?

Does he smell her arousal?

Will he choose to venture from the shadows this night or will he remain hidden like he has every other night she has waited for him just as she does tonight?

If he ventures from the shadows, will he touch her?

Will she feel his strong fingers burn across her skin, branding her as his?

Will he command her?

Will he take her?

Will he make her his?

Does he hear her heart beating, thudding in her chest in anticipation?

She listens…

She waits…

She is frozen in time… waiting… for the chimera of the man who holds her captive.

read part 2 here

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About Kate Spyder

I'm a creative individual finding her way in her writing. I enjoy expressing my deep thoughts through poetry and stories. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoy writing them.
This entry was posted in Erotic Fiction, Mature and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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