By Shane Alexander Greenhough
Copyright 2012 Shane Alexander Greenhough
The flicker of firelight bounced off of bare skin as Obalda drew the large man, his corruption almost complete, down between her thighs.
He was exhausted, but resistant still – his spent passion glistened in dapples on her pale legs as she drew his face closer. Around them, the usual sounds of the woods stilled in anticipation. She purred, a subtle sound that weakened his failing resolve.
“Just a taste, my sweet,” she softly insisted, “a taste of yourself on the softness of my skin. So little payment, wouldn’t you say, for the pleasure I’ve brought you?”
“But,” he murmured, enraptured by the silken smoothness of her sin, “my wife, what if she tastes my infidelity upon my lips tonight?”
“Am I not worth the risk?” she asked, the glimmer of flame reflecting in her eyes.
His resistance a sham, he allowed her to guide his lips closer to his own betrayal, wetly adorning her leg. Obalda allowed herself a satisfied smile.
First, your payment of passion, she thought, and then, your payment in blood.