Writing in Stereo: SIlk

I've never written with a co-author before. A few months ago, I proposed a project to a friend and we have been batting the work back and forth since then. We just finished what is apparently the first chapter, having thought at the outset that we would only write one story. But, ah, indeed, the work has challenged us in a good way, and the result, it appears, is good enough to keep us engaged and writing. The characters are getting under my skin. That is so sweet, when the characters begin to drive. They wake me up at night wanting expression, wanting air time, wanting the story to MOVE.


Silk
The beginning of a luscious adventure.

Co-written with Velvet_Hammer

For months there was freezer paper over the storefront windows on the small shop space a few doors away from my favorite brew pub. Speculation abounded among the regulars as to the nature of the next business. Popularly voiced desires for the space reflected the diversity of pub clientele and included a cigar store, a baseball card store (I rolled my eyes at that), and an esoteric bookstore. The new owner was clearly taking his – or her -- time with the inside as another month passed. One Thursday evening, I noticed a classily done stencil just at the edge of the wainscoting where the glass met stone on the façade of the storefront. In an elegant yet readable font, the words, Illusions de Soire, and underneath, Proprietress Mlle. Amandine de la Tour.

"Illusions in Silk," I muttered as I stopped to peek on the way to the pub. Fabric store? If so, it's pretty high-end, as it's not big enough to sell a lot of fabric. Huh. I walked in to the pub and saw Joe, the bartender with the cliché name, who got a Guinness going for me.

"Did ya see the sign on the shop?" I asked.

"Yup, pretty shwa-shwa, ain't it?"

"I'd say pretty tasteful. You may have to get used to a higher class of customer. Might have to clean up your act a bit!" I razzed. "Looks as though the "dude" you were all convinced is opening that place is a dudette! Mlle. Amandine de la Tour."

"Keeerrist! A French woman? Don't that beat all. Oooh, ain't they the chicks walk around in those tight skirts and nylons with them seams up the back?" Joe asked.

"Well, if I had to make a guess, jackwad, I'd say that is precisely what this one might do. I think the store is either a fabric store or some kind of high-end clothing or lingerie shop. The store name means illusions in silk. I can't think what else would create an illusion if it wasn't a stocking."

Joe slid my Guinness across the bar and I inhaled its rich aroma before taking a long draught. Pavlovian to the core, I relaxed the moment I swallowed.

Another stressful work day over and the nightly ritual at Joe's Joint – two Guinnesses and a Dungeon Burger – would get me through dinner and on my way to the gym. Grateful Dead played permanently in the background, and I just loved the familiarity of the bar. Joe was right. Having a fancy stocking joint just down the block could change things. "Well, buddy, here's to the Mademoiselle, may she be lovely, and entertaining, or may her business go right down the crapper!" I said.

A few doors down, Mlle. de la Tour was indeed working hard behind the brown paper on the storefront. As proprietress of the shop, with her name on the sign, she was keenly aware that everything relating to the store reflected on her. She pushed a dark chocolate colored curl away from her face, refolded her crème colored shirtsleeve, and straightened her navy blue skirt. She had been assembling racks it seemed, for the past half of her life. She consulted the schematic again, trying to assure herself that the mess in the shop would actually transform at some alchemical moment to the vision of grace and beauty she held in her head.

She concentrated on the diagram, wondering how anyone ever deciphered such pictures and directions...they seemed to not be written in any language she knew. "Merde!" she uttered, as she picked up a mysterious piece of shelving and tried to compare it to the schematic.

Crouched there, she could feel the stretch of the garters across the smooth flesh of her thighs. Alone in the boutique, no one would enjoy the exquisite view of her stocking tops and straps visible through the slit of her skirt. Dropping the schematic, she ran an exquisitely manicured hand down her thigh as she absently stroked the smooth fabric of her stocking, relishing the feel of the fabric beneath her hand. She felt a familiar tightening of her nipples and the welcome warmth in her woman.

Sighing, she let drop the piece from the kit and rose to her feet. Smoothing her skirt, she tucked another errant lock behind her ear. The contractors would be here tomorrow to finish building and installing the fixtures, electronics and the office furniture. It had been a long day and tomorrow would be torturous as well, directing all the traffic and ensuring that everything was placed correctly. The opening would either make her or break her; of this she was firmly convinced. Even though the area was a bit rundown, it was starting to become gentrified.

"Du vin," she muttered. A bit of wine, yes. That would help her relax. She wondered if that café (bar, she reminded herself, they call them "bars" here) stocked wine. And if it did, was it any good?

With a final glance at the "work in progress" that was her shop, she turned and locked the door. Instead of the organized chaos that it was now, her mind's eye roamed over orderly shelves and racks and a bevy of customers...

She wrapped a scarf around her head and tucked it into the collar of her coat, locking the door behind her. The evening was chill, but Amandine could feel the overlay of spring making its presence known. Breathing deeply, she steeled herself to the walk ahead. Although it was only four doors down, she felt intimidated. As she neared the bar, she slowed, trying to peer inside inconspicuously, and then with a roll of her eyes at her own silliness, she opened the door, which the wind caught, pulling her in unceremoniously and nearly dumping her on the floor.

Amandine stumbled, felt herself redden, and stepped inside, quickly sitting at a booth on the eastern wall of the bar. She faced the bar, and tried to make sense of the 20x15 chalk board above a panoply of bottles. Beers, ales, on "nitro," and nary a wine advertised. The bartender caught her eye and said, "I'll be there in just a sec, ma'am." From my vantage on a stool at the bar, I watched the leggy brunette's travail through the large mirror over the bar, trying to keep from groaning at her discomfort. She slipped off her coat, but she kept her shoulders covered, I imagine because as it was chilly in the bar. Joe was not a big fan of paying the utilities. The brunette sat and crossed her legs, subtly adjusting her skirt for a proper lay. Her seat fully exposed her to the bar, as empty as it was. I imagined she was fully aware of her exposure and that if her coat slid down it would likely expose the top of her stocking, bare flesh and possibly a garter.

Laughing, I said to myself, "One hopes." In this part of town, any leg wear would most likely come from those cheap plastic eggs and be of nylon. I figured this had to be our new store owner. Not too many women around these parts had the taste and the wherewithal to select attire that could set my blood boiling...

One of my favorite features of Joe's Place is the mirror through which I watched the brunette. I can sit here and watch all the action behind me. By sitting facing the bar and on the outside edge of the booth, Mademoiselle simply made it that much more gratifying for me, and easy. I could see the lace of her brassiere between the open collar of the creme silk shirt she wore. Full breasts clad in lace. The four inch pumps just a skosh too high for regular business attire, and the line of her navy blue skirt added value to the package, no doubt. That subtle adjustment, checking to make sure she didn't show TOO much leg, now that sent a charge down my spine. I could imagine my hand gliding slowly up the curve of her thigh, pushing the hem of her skirt higher and higher... Err best not to go down that path right now, I reprimanded myself.

Joe made his way to the table, pen behind his ear, lanky form looking straight down, a grin on his face as he noted the view of her full breasts, and asked,

"What can I get you to start, Miss?"

Amandine regarded Joe and reached out her hand, still chill, "Good evening. I am Amandine de le Tour, the owner of the new show down the way -- your neighbor, I suppose." As she spoke, her shoe slid on the floor, causing the hem of her skirt to ride slightly up. In the mirror, I could catch the faintest hit of a stocking top.

Joe rubbed his hand on his apron and shook hers, stammering, "Uh, hi, Miss Almondeen. I'm Joe. The bartender. This is my place. Welcome to the neighborhood. What is that -- store you're opening, anyway, and what can I get ya?" Joe's normally effusive greeting caused her to slip on the seats slick fabric, added effect was that her skirt rode higher on her stocking tops. I pursed my lips in admiration. Definitely stockings. Definitely garters as I could see the clasps. I fought the urge to count bumps.

Wondering if she had broken bones in her hand, I put my head in my hands in defeat and despair and resolved to give Joe a few quick lessons in etiquette. The generally affable Joe was not at the top of his game with the ridiculously lovely and refined Mlle. de la Tour. I had never wished for Joe's job until this very moment.

Amandine patiently replied, "It's 'Amandine', like your 'Amanda,' not like 'almond,' the nut.

"My Amanda"? I don't have..."

"JOE!" I yelled at him before he could dig himself deeper. "Her name is French, the English version is AMANDA."

"Oh! I'm sorry, miss," Joe managed. "What can I serve you?"

"I have a desire for red wine -- Bordeaux perhaps, but I don't see wine on your bill of fare."

I couldn't take it anymore. I had to bail him out - knowing exactly what was on his mind. A box of his finest red. A box, not a bottle. I stood and walked to the table. Holding my hand out and saying, "Nick Browning, Ms. de la Tour, ravi de faire votre connaissance." I continued, "Joe's Place services beer, soda, and hard alcohol at this point. They have only three local wines stashed away, and Joe doesn't typically remember to list them on the board. The Pinot Noir, while not nearly as complex as a Bordeaux, is more than serviceable. It has good legs and the vintners have produced several prize winners in the last couple of years. They also make a nice Riesling, but I suspect that would be too sweet and uncomplicated for the pallet that prefers a Bordeaux."

I realized that I'd held her hand throughout my rambling, suddenly aware of the softness of her skin and the delicate bones of her fingers and wrist. I said, "Ah, my apologies," as I let go. "Wine is one of several things about which I could go on...I will let you get back to your drink. Pleasure meeting you."

"Monsieur Nick Browning, I thank you for your kindness. I will take your recommendation. I would be happy for some company if you are so inclined." A slight flush of her cheeks at her last comment, a little tremble in her voice, exposing the risk of the request.

"Vous êtes vraiment belle, Mademoiselle," I said and slid into the booth, not sure what to expect, but curious indeed.

"Please, Sir, call me Amandine, and that is most kind. 'Lovely,' I do not feel. Tired and in need of an extra week, very worried and épuisée is how I feel."

"It is the mark, Amandine," I unconsciously caressed her name with my voice; my rich baritone or so I've been told, stroking it lovingly. "Of a true lady that when she feels épuisée, she still looks poised and lovely." I held her gaze until she looked away.

Joe arrived with the wine and Amandine looked worriedly, "You will not join me?" Seeing the discomfort on her face, I ordered a glass. She waited for Joe to return with my wine. We sat quietly, each looking at the other, then into our glasses, and then both at one time, said, "A votre santé."

I lifted my glass and said, "Please, you."

She nodded and said simply, "To kind strangers."

I smiled. Amandine knitted her brow. “What, Mademoiselle?”

She flushed and cast down her eyes. I felt a charge from her sudden shyness. After a few moments, she looked at me, not fully lifting her head. I determined to be silent until she wished to speak. I watched her savoring and assessing, the wine, the bar, me.

"So, what say you?" I inquired.

“Your smile. It changes your face. I think…that you don’t do it enough.” She delivered her observation hesitantly but did keep eye contact, albeit somewhat nervously.

“You are as perceptive, my dear, as you are beautiful. Now, tell me your perceptions of the wine.”

"It is ... interesting, as you say. Ah, there is much to adjust to. It is different. A new taste. For a new life. I like it."

"And, I would posit," I continued, "you also yearn for something familiar, oui?"

"Oui, Monsieur Browning, for perhaps a touch of home."

She was quiet again and I openly stare at the shape of her lips, full heart shaped mouth, large dark brown eyes, and finely arched brow. Dark hair with a few strands of grey. Her face was -- what? Open, incandescent. That bit of shyness, I wondered what that portended. I was ... intrigued. Again our eyes met. I held her gaze for the longest time yet; in the end, it was she who looked away. I could feel the urge come upon me at that point.

"You are very intense, aren't you, Monsieur Nick? You take stock. You watch. Tell me what you think are the chances for a fine ladies' lingerie store to succeed just a few doors down from this place?"

"Illusions de soire," I said.

"You really do speak French!" she said delightedly.

I dismissed my French as the byproduct of a misspent youth and then changed the subject.

"Some dinner, Amandine?"

"No, thank you, Monsieur Nick. I am very tired and tomorrow comes very early. Will I see you here again?"

Smiling, I said, "Only if you come any evening between 5:30-7:30. Let me walk you to your car."

I waved away her money for the wine, had Joe put it on my tab, stood and offered her my hand up, which she grasped as though familiar with the gesture. Most women in the US would look askance at such a gesture. I felt heat with the touch of her hand, helped her up and into her coat, noting, again, the fine fabric of her skirt and blouse, and the slit that allowed her to walk and allowed me a lovely view of stocking clad thigh.

I held open the door and we stepped into the evening. I opened my arm for her and she slipped her arm through. “You are very kind, Monsieur Nick,” she said softly. I had to lean toward her to hear her. We walked casually toward the storefront with the paper on the windows. “I wonder,” she began and then immediately was quiet.

“What is it you wonder, Amandine?” I asked, slowing us down a bit more. “What is in your head?”

“It is nothing, silly. It is late already.”

“Were you going, perhaps, to invite me to see your shop? In which case I accept your kind offer,” I said with a little bit of a tease in my voice.

She giggled, a melodious sound, leaving her appearing very young. It was a delightful sound and I wanted to hold her at that moment. I refrained, and awaited her response. Night had come, bringing with it more chill. I could not help but imagine how the cold teased her nipples, even through her coat, pressing against the sheer fabric of her bra. She shivered as we reached her shop’s door. Pulling a key ring from her pocketbook, she opened the door and immediately began apologizing for the “désastre” herein.

“I see no disaster, Mademoiselle de la Tour, rather, a work in progress. How many days until you open?” I walked in and did a 360 visual tour. The lovely lady has a fine eye, I thought to myself.

"One week, Monsieur Nick. Just one week," she whispered with trepidation in her voice.

Clearly designated spaces for display racks, already-installed shelving on walls, mirrors in lovely frames with the intent, I thought, to make the observer see herself in a picture frame. Painted in warm, soft tones, a quirky mix of contemporary and Renaissance art that impressed me for its sophistication and accessibility.

“Do you have inventory yet, or is it still on its way?”

“Oh yes, Monsieur Nick, all the inventory is in the back, come, let me show you.” She began to walk off but I caught her hand and pulled her to me. I looked into her eyes, and again, she held my gaze but I could feel her wanting to look down. I brought my lips slowly down to her and paused just before we touched.

She closed her eyes and parted her lips, holding me at my waist. I brought her to me and gently kissed her ruby lips, full, soft. "I wonder," I said quietly. I took both her hands from my waist and moved them behind her back, crossing them one over the other holding them both firmly in my right hand. Her only response was a soft moan, and to move in and press herself more fully against me. I kissed her again, smiling into the kiss. I moved my hands down, taking off her coat, outlining her slender body lightly, caressing her waist, then down her hips, feeling the garters and stockings.

I sighed into her and ended the moment with a kiss on the tip of her nose. “Show me now, Amandine.”

“Oui, Monsieur Nick, as you wish,” she said softly and led me to the dressing room. I watched her walking away from me, and I said, "Cervin Champs Elysees, for every day wear? I grow more impressed by the minute, Amandine."

She stopped cold, and turned around slowly, her already large brown eyes wide with amazement. "Monsieur Nick! How could you possibly know..." The utter mystification on her face made me chuckle.

"Mademoiselle, do you think that you are the only person in the world with an eye for such things?" Realizing that I could have sounded harsh, I came to her and held her again. "Imagine my delight at this moment to actually not just see, but actually be holding a woman who not only wears them, but whose beauty and elegance is worthy of them!"

She blushed again and didn't speak. I could feel her heart pounding. I felt her hunger then, calling out to my own. Not yet...

"Show me the rest, my dear," I said and loosened my arms for her to continue the tour.

Where the outer area was clearly in the early stages of coming together, the stock room and dressing rooms were already immaculate and perfectly organized. There were four spacious dressing rooms with raw silk curtains of a taupe color. A good sized triptych mirror with a platform reminded me of a wedding shop dressing room. Amandine clearly intended for her clients to feel as though they were quite special as they chose and modeled their lingerie.

There were two love seats and three chairs in the outer area. She obviously intended for people to lounge and look. There was only one thing out of place that I could see in the entire "salon" as I would come to know she called this part of the shop. One pair of the very same brand of silk stockings, hanging on a rack where I assumed clients would hang articles that they wished to try or perhaps that they had tried and rejected. Two stockings draped over the rack. I picked them up and ran them through my hands, the feeling of the silk doing nothing to stem my fast growing desire.
“What all will you sell, Mademoiselle?” I inquired, truly curious.

“Oh, Monsieur Nick, I’m afraid that I am very ambitious. Real silk stockings, fancy stockings, work stockings, some hold ups. Garter belts, corsets of several varieties, gloves, camisoles, lovely night wear, silk panties, silk robes, silk…”

“What,” I said feigning innocence, “no pantyhose?”

“Monsieur Nick! Panty…pantyhose? You don’t …”

I couldn’t contain myself and laughed uproariously. “No, Mademoiselle de la Tour, I do NOT seriously mean that. I was teasing you. I share your apparent disdain for that remarkably egregious blot on womankind.”

I sat on one of the couches, leaned back and rested my arms on the back of the love seat and offered, “I don’t suppose that if I were to purchase an outfit for you, you might be willing to model for me, would you? I would be most grateful to see a woman with your loveliness wearing Cubans, an eight strap garter, and a certain kind of corset…the sort that displays your lovely breasts in such a way that they are fully presented…”

She was standing near the platform mirror and looked at me, apparently thoroughly scandalized. For just a moment I thought she would bolt from the room. Instead, she leaned against the counter directly opposite the couch where shelves were built into the wall to the ceiling, folded her arms and stammered, despite her air of indifference, “Monsieur Nick, I…I...”

"Amandine, come here," I said quietly. Without hesitation, she came to me. "Take off your blouse." Again, very quietly.

She looked me straight in the eye, no hesitation, no doubt, no fear. The bra was a trifle, lace on most of the cup with just a bit of support from the under wire. Creme colored. Her breasts were lovely C cups. Her nipples were pert little things clearly visible beneath the lace of her bra.

"Good, lovely. Now, the skirt, please." The flush began at her breasts and moved upward. I could see her heart pulsing in her neck. She reached behind to unfasten her skirt, the act helping to display her front assets in a lovely way. I heard the zipper slowly slide down. She stepped out of her skirt and neatly folded it.

She wore taupe stockings with a garter that matched her bra, lace and crème, six straps. Her panties matched the set, with wide lace to ensure no lines. She wore her panties beneath her garters. She stood before me, all silk and lace and loveliness. I stood and approached her on silent feet.

"All evening, you have been fighting to keep eye contact. You deferred to me readily. When I held your hands behind your back, you nearly swooned. You complied just now to my requests without question. Unless I am sorely off the mark, my dear Amandine, you are a strong woman who also has a very yielding side....a side that perhaps longs...to be controlled?"

With the last, I reached inside her bra and brought forth both breasts, caressing the nipples in each until they were hard and large between my fingers. I reached around and unhooked her bra leaving her in stockings, garters, panties and shoes only. I smelled the freshness of her mingling with her perfume, soap, and shampoo.

I continued talking to her as my hands traveled to her stockings, caressing the garter, her thighs, barely touching her woman. "I believe that I am waiting for an answer, my dear. Do you wish to be controlled?"

Still she said nothing, rather, stayed quiet, waiting.

I made a loop in each of the silk stockings I had taken from the rack, having realized they had imperfections in each. I pushed one of the love seats to the middle of the room so that it faced the mirror. I tied the non-loop end of each stocking around the back leg on either side of the love seat, leaving the loops on the cushions.

I walked back to her, slipped off my suit jacked and loosened my tie.

"Please take your hair down, Amandine."

A gentle smile crossed her face. She took out a couple of hair pins and soon, her dark wavy full hair was down. She shook her head a bit and her hair cascaded down her back, midway.

Again I sat on the couch next to the wall. I leaned back and unzipped my fly. "Come to me, Amandine, right here," I said, showing her that I meant for her to kneel. She knelt before me, unspeakably lovely.

"You must answer my question, Mademoiselle de la Tour, for without your answer, we will go no further. Do you wish to be controlled?"

Fire in her eyes now, heated passion, her voice shaking, soft, "Oui, Monsieur Nick, I hesitate only because it is so vite, what I feel. But that within me that hungers for a strengthening hand cries out to you, Monsieur. Oui, oui, Nick, s'il vous plait!"

I nodded and said, "Merci, ma jolie femme. My hunger has built all evening, Amandine, as I presume has your own. Now, that hunger must be ...." I reached in my trousers and pulled forth my staff, "...satisfied."

She moaned at the site of the stiffening rod, and immediately bent to me and took me in her mouth. The shock of her mouth nearly sent me off he couch, but after several deep breaths, I managed to keep myself seated. I used my hands on her head to control her pace. As I touched her, twining my fingers in her hair, she loudly moaned onto my rod, and took me deeper.

The visual in front of me was a page out of my dreams. Amandine's lush brown hair all around her, breasts bobbing, and silk clad legs and thighs with garters stretching over her round firm ass. I pulled her hair and kept her impaled all the way to my belly. I heard her gag and let her up. I pulled her face up and pulled her to me to kiss. I devoured her neck, her breasts, and commanded her to stand.

I stood beside her, my mouth close to her ear. “Amandine,” I whispered, my hand slipping into her smooth hair. “You neglected one toute petite chose this morning when you dressed.” I grasped her hair hard in my hands. “From this moment forward, you will wear your panties over your garters.” I pulled her hair, forcing her head back and exposing her throat to me. “Am I clear?” I trailed my tongue up the side of her neck and kissed her jaw line.

“Yes,” she whispered softly. Her eyes were closed tightly. With one hand still grasping her hair, I reached up and circled her nearest nipple with a thumb and forefinger. She trembled visibly in my grasp. I pinched her, softly at first but with increasing force. She bit her bottom lip to control her whimper.

“Remove them now.” I said simply, letting her loose. I returned to my seat.

Half-flushed, Amandine retreated to the love seat. Placing one elegant foot on the seat, she leaned down and unhooked the garter of her left stocking. As she straightened, the unsecured fabric slid partially down her leg. I fought the urge to pull them back up and reattach the garters, the whole time stroking her leg. Changing legs, she repeated the process. As she stood there before me, she hooked her fingers in the straps of her panties and slid them down gracefully. I imagined the woman did nothing without style and grace. Stepping free of her panties, she simply stood there, arms at her sides.

“Hook them for me, my dear.”

She read my mind then. Straightening the fabric of her stockings as she attached the garters. With a final caress, she stood before me. Eyes challenging me.

I stood and unbuckled my belt, and stepped out of my trousers, laying them over the arm of the loveseat. I approached her. With a soft hand, I caressed her breasts and shoulders. I ran a hand lovingly up the back of her neck and leaned in and kissed her. A soft touch on the lips. Guiding her by the back of her neck, I had her kneel on the couch. I pushed her legs apart and tied them against the edges of the loveseat. The silk bonds tied 'round her finely turned ankles and the width of her stance, combined with the garter-and-stocking- clad nakedness, called forth my basest instincts.

I reached below to feel her readiness and was gratified to feel that her woman was absolutely dripping. I touched the tender labia, and lightly brushed the pearl, distended in need. I mounted her, as she lay over the low-slung couch-back, holding her hips for purchase, sliding myself into her heated glove of tight wetness.

"AHHH!" she cried as I took her all at once. I stayed buried there, feeling myself pulsing inside of her.

Slowly, feeling her gripping my staff in an extraordinary way, I began to move, wanting more control and more ... more. I reached for her hair, drew her toward me, turning her head to kiss. I kissed her neck, her ears, teased her ear lobe with my tongue, and then played inside her ear, blowing softly.

Amandine was wild, the beautiful composed woman of the evening gone and in her place, a creature of response, sensation, yielding energy. She reached a hand back and I grabbed her wrist, thrusting harder. I let go her hair and began rubbing the alabaster skin of her derriere. Rubbing first, then kneading, watching the red skin. She writhed under my hand and I knew without a doubt that she was a masochist.

I reached for my belt out of my trousers, doubled it over and administered the first SMACK! Whereupon my beautiful toy began clenching against my rod in such a way that I knew I could not ride through. I hit her again, watching her in the mirror. She used both arms now to support herself. She tossed her hair around, her breasts dangling (my god, how they will look bound and clamped!). Her luscious ass featured now handprints and imprints of her garters from my strikes on both cheeks. Her spasms went on and on. I stopped spanking her as she stilled some and quieted. I continued a steady rhythm, nearing my own pinnacle.

"Do you wish this gift, Amandine?" I gasped.

"Oui, Monsieur Nick, please, yes!"

As I began to cum, I pulled out and held my cock, shooting all over her rump, her stockings, her garters, and her back. I walked around to her face and she opened her mouth with another "Oh, yes, thank you!" Her mouth, so soft, sucked me empty.

I kissed her softly and untied her legs. I sat on the couch and held her, stunned. Utterly stunned. She cried, I think, softly. I rocked her and kissed her hair until she quieted.

"I assume you have a very early day, Amandine, as do I. For tonight, however, I cannot bear to part from you. You will come home with me. I will deliver you afresh on the morrow."

She looked at me for the first time since she came into my arms. Her eyes, I swear they have lived a thousand lifetimes. They shone with feelings neither of us was ready or willing at that moment to even contemplate. She said simply, "Yes. Thank you. That is right."

And, it was.