Sunny - Mona Lisa Eclipsing

“Shh, it’s all right,” he husked as he spread the honeyed wetness over my surprisingly sensitive rear hole.

I whimpered with distress at the unfamiliar touch.

“No condom. Let me love you this way,” Dante said hoarsely, and I understood then that even now he was trying to protect me.

My tenseness and uneasiness melted away. “Yes,” I breathed. “I need you inside me, any way.”

There was the touch of lips to my back, then the press of his shaft pushing into me. Pressure . . . so much pressure. As the tip of him breached me anally with a forceful push, I felt his fingers push into my welcoming wetness in front, a twin forging into me combining stretching pain with sobbing pleasure.

Glimmering light and sweat dewed our skin, glowing brighter and brighter as he pushed his way steadily into me with both cock and fingers, and my body accepted him, if not easily, then hungrily, with wet, thirsting desire.

So good, so good . . . So unbelievably, wonderingly good to feel him inside me, so deep and full. Then the slow drag of him back out with both fingers and shaft, almost to the end but not quite, fingers sliding out completely to search out my hidden pearl.

“Oh!”

A light touch over the swollen nub to send exquisite bursts of spreading sensation within me. Licking, teasing fire that grew hotter and hotter with each burning stroke in, each heavy pull back out with that thick, stretching shaft while those clever, wet fingers played over me, stroking my pleasure higher and higher, winding me desperately tighter as he moved in and out, smoothly, fluidly, in increasing force and rhythm.

His fingers shifted—thumb pressing my swollen pearl, two fingers thrusting back into my tight sheath—his shaft drilling me, filling me behind, and I exploded in screaming climax. He drove into me one last time, his own body convulsing in release.

The light around us, from us, was so blinding that for a moment the moon’s light outshone the day’s sun, then slowly, slowly, it began to fade until our skin no longer glowed, no longer shimmered and shone.

He pulled out with a heavy groan and drew me into his arms, both of us lying on the ground, breathless.

“Better than before?” he murmured.

“So much so that I almost fainted.”

“Good,” Dante murmured. “Wanted to keep my promise.”

“You absolutely did.”

IWAS WALKING, I told Dante. Better my feet than the torture of riding him again.

“You might enjoy riding me later, when we have a condom,” he said with gleaming eyes, pulling me to my feet.

An intriguing prospect. “Another promise?” I asked. Pulling off my borrowed shirt, I waded into the stream to scrub it clean.

“At least as good,” he said, lips curving in a hint of a smile. “Maybe even better.”

“Promises, promises.” I splashed him with water and he retaliated. I squealed and he laughed, and we frolicked in the water for a bit. And that was almost as much a marvel to me as sex with Dante had been.

My lover , I thought, running my eyes over him in wonder as we resumed our journey, walking at an easy pace, holding hands. He was unabashedly comfortable with his nudity, with good reason. There was nothing to be embarrassed about with a body like that.

“Eyes forward, you shameless wench,” Dante said, amused at my frequent sideways peeks at him, “or you’ll get me too stirred up to walk comfortably.”

“Would serve you right after teasing me with that comment about riding you.”

“I’ve created a sex fiend,” he said in mock dismay.

“That you have,” I said, surprised at the truth of it. It was a bit mind-blowing, going from thinking myself frigid to eagerly looking forward to the next time we could make love.

“How are you doing with the sun?” I asked.

“As long as we stick mostly to the shade, I’ll be fine,” he said, reassuring me.

We eventually came to a thriving town nestled against the blue waters of the sea, a wonderful breath of comfortable, bustling civilization. It was a modestly affluent community with paved streets, groomed lawns, and waving palm trees.

“Wait here.” Dashing into an empty backyard, I snatched some clothes drying on a line, sending a silent apology to the owners.

We dressed: Dante in a T-shirt and baggy shorts, and a pair of loose trousers and a fresh shirt for me. I rolled up the sleeves and knotted the loose ends of my borrowed shirt at my waist. There. American tourists. Although the bare feet did look a bit odd.

Dante bespelled the first fellow tourist we came across, his blue eyes lightening into true silver as he captured the man’s will with a glimmer of power. “What town is this?”

“Corozal,” the man replied.

“In Mexico?”

“No. In Belize, Central America.”

“How far to the Mexican border?”

“About nine or ten miles north.”

A murmured request from Dante, and the man pulled out his cell phone, dialed the number Dante gave him, and handed him the phone.

“Hello?” answered a voice.

“Dad, it’s Dante.”

After eliciting twenty dollars—they accepted U.S. currency here—Dante thanked the man and sent him on his way with instructions to forget meeting us.

“Aquila will be here in an hour,” Dante said. “The rest will be along as soon as they can.”

“Is Aquila the bird man?” I asked.

“Bird man? Ah, you mean the eagle shifter.” He eyed me pensively. “You still have no remembrance?”

“Only a few things. I’m not sure if they’re true memory or something I dreamed up. I wanted to ask you about them, but not here,” I said, looking around the crowded street. “So what will it be? Shoes or something to eat and drink?”

Our stomachs won out over our tender feet. We chowed on fish, rice, and beans at the nearest restaurant and quenched our thirst with a pitcher of water, so hungry we didn’t speak at all until we were finished eating.

“Eleven dollars left,” Dante said, sitting back, replete. “I think we have enough to buy you some shoes. Shall we?”

We were able to pick up some cheap sandals for both of us, and made our way more comfortably to the waterfront where we sat on a stone bench overlooking the bay, watching the sun set in a majestic splash of color beneath the shade of a rustling palm.

“It’s hard to believe that hours ago we were running for our lives,” I murmured, head resting on his shoulder. “Humans seem to be much more civilized than the Monère.”

“We can be a primitive bunch,” Dante agreed, arm draped around me, fingertips stroking the bare skin of my arm. “But I beg you not to judge all Monère by what you saw of Mona Sierra and her people. That was, indeed, truly primitive. We have more ruled order in America, and our conditions are not as meager as what you saw here.”

It was the perfect segue into what I had wanted to ask him. “Is it? In one of my . . . I don’t know what to call it . . . flashbacks, maybe, I saw a young teenage boy starved even more than those hunters were, and appearing even more wild. He was shackled to a wall and wore only torn trousers. His body was unwashed. His hair was so matted with filth I couldn’t tell its true color, and he smelled of urine, like he’d been chained there for days. Was that something that really happened?”

“I cannot say for sure, but there is a young Mixed Blood boy I saw you with, whom you said had been abandoned in the bayous and grew up feral. When I saw him, however, he was clothed, his hair washed and combed.”

I chewed over his words. Nothing conclusive, but disturbingly possible. I moved onto my next vision. “Then there was you. Pretty much like how I described the boy—half-naked, wild, shackled to the wall.”