I'm sharing a tiny bit of a work in progress, a sub-chapter if you will. The plan is for this short vignette to evolve into an erotic short story. That story then is expected to become the opening chapter of a BDSM themed novel.
It's my writing, but the storytelling is a collaboration with my darling slave/wife Serafina, as we've long discussed collaborating on an erotic novel. I'll share more of our creation as time and inspiration allow.
Michael Samadhi
2/11/2012
It was a chilly evening, late November. A glorious autumn day had started sunny, then quickly become overcast but calm. But, with the the last hour before sunset came cold, driving wind coming down from the North in sharp gusts. When I'd been out just moments before, securing my shutters for the impending storm, I'd felt driving sleet against my face like little needles.
Then she appeared on my doorstep, a slightly disheveled blonde waif, a little desperate and ever so slightly needy. I had no idea how she got there, as I live miles from my nearest neighbor, surrounded by tall and sturdy spruce that I love to hear whistling in the wind.
Large over-sized flakes of snow began pelting the side of her face, which she did her best to ignore. With the sun going down over the horizon, I was more than a little surprised at anyone's appearance on my doorstep. Local newscasts had been full of the impending weather.
Storm Watch had proceeded Storm Warning and now the first full blown arctic storm of the season was bearing down on the little valley where I lived. In elevations above mine, they were already closing passes. I was likely facing a few days of enforced isolation, and I was looking forward to it.
I knew this little waif didn't seek mere shelter, that would have been available to her in innumerable places much more easily accessed. She didn't need my support either, much later when I checked, I found her pocketbook was full. It was something else she wanted.
Now, it seemed, there was little choice but to invite her into my home. Almost as soon as I let her in, she began to shiver. So, I wrapped her in a blanket.
From her dress I knew she came from the Amish community. Her face was familiar, but, it seemed like a blonde archetype to me, more than anything else. I know the simple black garb of her people gave them all a a certain sameness to my eyes.
In a quiet, almost halting voice, she asked for a drink of water.
I brought her a bottle of Dasani, and then I made my own request.
"Might I ask your name?" I inquired as politely as my curiosity would allow.
"It's Grettja," she said with a slight increase in confidence, before gulping a drink.
Then her voice quieted, trailing off. "You don't remember me, do you . . . " she said, almost accusingly.
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