Ed note: Title is a triple play. In a literal sense, this is the first time Mairi kisses Trev. From a story point of view, this is the first chapter literally written in the comment section of the preceding chapter. And, this is the first time I have used an image previously used in the story, albeit with a slightly different hue adjustment. Enjoy.

Trev’s breathing stabilized, a good sign thought Mairi. Spreading her fingers like a web on the underside of his head, she lifted with the care of a mother lifting her baby while with a gentle skill that belied her training, secured a blindfold with her right hand. As egg to crate, she lowered his head on the soft pillow, a sight, she thought, more delicious and tempting than it ought to be.

Chatelaine training taught that smell, of all the senses, caroused with memory and the moments to come, she knew, would be moments of healing that would need to be cultivated far beyond the moment of capitulation. Placing small warming tablets on either side of the bed, the sensual aroma of willowbrush gently rose as if awakened from sacred slumber. Breathing deep, she closed her eyes, and a thousand images flashed before her mind like cards shuffled. With each out breath, the images slowed until the one she needed, the one she wanted, appeared in clear focus, floating in subservience.

Slipping back into bed, her legs, smooth and neither too long nor too short, ran the length of his, her toes taking the measure of his sigh inducing muscle of youth; her hands traced lightly his wounds of days past, her eyes marveled at his chiseled jaw and angular cheek, looking more like marble than flesh. Her lips found his, the warmth, the softness, the slippery wetness, the firmness, the intensity, the passionate energy as her eyes closed and the soft warm light reflected off her eye lids reminiscent of a dual moonrise on the beaches of Valla. Her hair fell into his face, her thumbs to his temples; and her lips moved beyond skill, sucking, biting, gliding, teasing, suckling, wrapping, brushing, pushing, molding, of breath shared as moans escaped.

With lips locked in a living dance as angels or devils might in a moment of reprise, Mairi breathed her mind into his, a mind tender in abuse, aching for embrace, fearful of hurt. As a warm blanket covers a cold and frightened child, she gently began to massage his centers of pain and memory, milking them of power, kneading stress from neurons inflamed. As her tongue traced the row between his lips so did her mind dance and dart to soothe concern and hold fear at bay long enough to wrap her intent around his desire as tongue around a lollipop.

Trev’s mind begin to response and Mairi went deeper. Later Trev would write this in his journal:

Then I think about her slipping into my mind and what a good mind-frail would be like and I imagine the most delicious and intense wet dream, the utter stickiness, the musky-sweet aroma of release, taken with a caress of neurons in ways the hands can only admire. I imagine her chest heaving with life, rising with curves divine, creating their own eclipse; and in the shadow of my surrender, a tenseness rendered with the crack of a whip, the slap of a glute, the exhilaration of being rode, hard.

The kiss has an energy that sends a shock from lip to eye and stirs emotion in the gut as only first love can. Lights swirl as flesh paints with passion upon flesh and hands talk in touches like feathers on silk. Her tongue narrows and darts with a playful precision and I follows her lead to places shared by few and desired by many. The bed seems to sink, to envelope us as if the sheets rose as waterfalls port and aft. Golden hide graces porcelain digits as spoon to warm honey and endearments announce as gates open and trumpets play for an audience of two.

I lean my head back and press hard into my pillow, as if to brace myself that all before me could be but a dream. She lifts her chin and looks down from the bottom of her eyes, her regal nose triumphant, her lips slightly parted, glistening with lust raw and pure; and with a feline arching of back, tosses her short auburn locks and closes her eyes as curtains between acts. Her tongue glides over her pert upper lip as her hips settle into position, moving and rotating as if greased, as if control was quartered not granted.