Mature Story – pt 1.

(( So it’s been over a year since I started writing this blog, and I thought that it was about time to try my hand at a…..!! MATURE!! story! I didn’t even know if I was a good enough writer yet to pull it off without sounding either laughable or desperately corny. I also thought that the lack of sex-related material in the Treehaus was a tad odd, seeing as how Leafsong and Aphel have four children, and we are also probably some of the most notorious ERPers on Moon Guard xD. So I decided to see whether my extensive  “experience” could translate into a half-decent sounding story. Or at least, one that didn’t sound like a cheap, sub-standard Mills & Boon. Since I want to avoid people accidentally reading it at work, and also any random kiddies who might stumble across it (I know that one Google search is more than enough to ruin your innocence on the internet, but I want to protect my own little corner of it!); I’m going to stick a password on the second part of the story (the bit with the ‘mature’ tag, or the part that most will probably skip to =P). To get the password, just message Aphel or myself in game, or send me a letter. I am on UK time, so I’m on at weird hours. Part one is below, part two is in the post above!))


Leafsong, wedged beneath her husband’s arm as they leant back against the headboard, obediently reached out to turn the page of the heavy tome propped upon her stomach. Aphel bowed his head and resumed his furious annotation, oblivious to the spots of ink splattering over the blanket. She rested her head against his shoulder, twisting a strand of hair around her finger and watching the tip turn red, then purple. Releasing the curl, she shifted sideways and spread her fingers over the bare chest of her husband, thoughtfully. He shot her a fleeting glance, then returned to the text. Leaning up on her elbow, she ran her finger over a pale, curving scar tracing from his collarbone to above his heart.

“What’s this from?”

He paused, underlining a sentence and adding a derisive comment in the margin, before following her finger.

“A gash from a Silithid talon, sustained during the second assault of the southern hive complex. It was a commander, third officer of General Vejax.”

His reply was abrupt; clearly he did not wish to recall the incident in more detail. Returning his eyes to the print, he nevertheless reached his hand up to cup the back of his wife’s head, pressing his thumb against the fragility of her skull. She retracted her fingers for a moment, then pushed them gently into the faint dent below his cheekbone; the remnant of an old injury healed through magic , rather than by physical means. He lowered the book, predicting her question.

“The same war. I was impaled through the side of my face; penetrating to the mouth cavity.”

She grimaced in sympathy, settling back down against his shoulder.

“Ergh. Like, right through t-to the teeth?”

He turned to her, smiling fully for the first time that evening.

“Right through. It was unpleasant.”

She pulled a face at him, as the hand cradling the back of her skull crept down to caress her neck, the stroking of his fingers light but persistent. The book lay on the blanket between them, half-resting against her hip, and he lifted it with a grunted protest at the weight.

“Seven hundred pages of mundane banality. What a waste of parchment, not to say my time.”

Before the arrival of the children he would have hurled the book to the floor, gleaning more satisfaction from the thud than he had from the text itself. Newly considerate of the four sleeping infants in the next room, he merely dangled it between his fingers contemptuously before lowering it to the threadbare rug. Turning his back on it, he felt an unwelcome twinge from his left knee as his body shifted. As usual, the pain was swiftly accompanied by the usual gloomy portents; the fact that his knee was unlikely to ever be the same, that he should expect more aches and pains as the years went by, and that he would now be classed even by his peers as a man past his prime. An old man, even.

These thoughts were familiar territory to him, and he exorcised them in the usual manner: by taking his young mate into his arms and embracing her, as if youth could be transferred through proximity. One of his arms encircled her back, quickly moving past the knobs of her spine and resting instead on the soft, fleshy mound of her hip. Although she complained bitterly that each pregnancy had added an extra inch to her waist; he enjoyed the new plumpness of her hips and rear, finding it a pleasant contrast to the gauntness of her arms and legs, remnants of a childhood dogged by malnutrition.

In addition, he felt an absurd sense of pride as his fingers slipped deftly beneath her (his, actually) cotton shirt, feeling the yielding curve of her back. It was a plumpness that had resulted from her carrying his children, not once, but three separate times in a space of two and a half years. It was the same selfish pride he felt when she had been swollen and irritable with pregnancy; and he had seen every stretchmark on her youthful flesh as a badge of his own virility. See, Ashamal Shalah’aman is not fading in his twilight years. He has fathered four healthy children in quick succession.

Shaking his head to banish these distracting thoughts, he smiled down at his mate with the tenderness he displayed only within the privacy of the home. Stroking a strand of stray hair away from her solemn face, the pale oval standing out against the navy blue pillows, he pressed his lips against her cheek. It had taken a long time for them to get to the point where they could embrace each other with affection, he noted wryly, and even longer for the residual suspicion to fade from her eyes. It was the Gladefall inheritance, this persistent mistrust; which served them well in business, but was not so conducive to developing a successful relationship.

Trying to force the thoughts from his head (difficult, for one who spent many of his free hours in contemplation); he lowered his face into the cloudy mass of green hair which lay in tangles against the pillow, and inhaled her distinctive scent of pungent chemical, herb, and cheap fragrance. It was the same nasty stuff as the Goldshire whores sprayed themselves liberally with, but for some reason she was perversely attracted to it; rejecting any other perfume. He felt her fingers combing through his hair, and momentarily thanked Elune that he had not begun to shed it, as many older men did. Raising his head, he kissed her softly on the mouth once more, and began to unbutton her shirt.


1 Response so far »

  1. 1

    Aphel said,

    Can’t wait to see the second part 😉 Sweetheart

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