In which Rhiannon has a rude awakening.

My Empress, My Queen, the servant purred as he poured a honey-glowing stream of scented oil across her back. Oil beads glistened on her skin as he smoothed the oil across her shoulders, massaging his way down to the dip in her back, all the way down to her round, firm buttocks. Tiny beads of oil slid inside the crack of her bottom, then slipped down her bare skin, moistening her sex. His hands were large, his fingers expressive, as he massaged the warm oil into her welcoming skin. She moaned softly.

Somewhere in the distance, the natives were beating the drums.  Tom-tom-tom-tom, the drums sounded, resounding in her ears.

She loved the sensation of his knowing fingers caressing her slender body, nurturing her fragrant skin. He cupped her buttocks in his hands, pressing her flesh fully.  Firm, round, full, he murmured.

She groaned, burying her face in the silk pillow.

Shall we roll you over, Your Grace? he asked.

Yes, she gasped.  That would be lovely.

He placed a thick, heated towel over her and helped her to roll over onto her back, adjusting the towel so that it covered her breasts. With one eye half-opened, she flashed him with a lazy smile, and noticed that his loincloth was slipping dangerously low. His taut belly was sinewy and sculpted; peeking out from the top of his loincloth were a few curly black hairs. She shivered with a frisson of desire.

He gazed down at her, his large brown eyes warm and full. His olive-toned skin glowed as if he were lit from within. She demurely pulled the towel up, wondering at her sudden modesty. She felt vulnerable in this position, yet at the same time, curiously open, ready.

My mistress, the servant purred, his eyes dark with hunger. She turned her head to one side and saw that his loincloth was on the verge of slipping from his body. All she had to do was raise her hand and tug on the slim leather cord that bound the loincloth to his body, and he would be standing before her, naked, raw.

Shall I begin? he asked with a sultry purr.

Yes, she whispered, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. He again poured the molten honey onto her belly, massaging the warm oil into her skin. With the towel still draping her breasts, he worked his fingers up the length of her smooth skin and under the towel, until his palms were cupping her soft breasts. He massaged the soothing oil into her breasts, squeezing, kneading, sculpting her under his fingers as if he were a Michelangelo and she his muse.

She moaned softly, writhing, her back arching.

My lady, he murmured, easing his way back down her belly, still massaging oil into her skin, working his way down to her thighs. With his strong, moist hands, he gently yet firmly parted her legs, massaging the oil deep into the cleft of her body, to the place where she stored her womanly secrets.

She groaned again, writhing on the heated, padded table. The towel slipped from her breasts; she made no effort to catch it as it slid off her body, falling to the marble floor. The servant smiled and returned to her breasts, massaging them fully until they gleamed; her areolas glistened like ripe black olives, burnished to a glowing ember.

Reaching forward, she caught the edge of the leather  cord holding his loincloth and pulled. The loincloth slid off his hips in a seamless, fluid movement; his massive cock sprang up, proud, erect. Those lovely black curls, peeking out from his loincloth, curled around his manhood as if presenting a delicious bouquet.

Is my lady ready? the servant asked, tweaking her nipples, sending shivers of desire flooding through her. She arched her back, writhing in anticipation.

Oh yes, she groaned.  Oh yes.  The servant slid onto the table beside her, gently parted her legs, and placed himself at the point of entry. His fingers kneading her flesh at her womanhood, he slipped his fingers into her cunt, in and out, in and out, causing her to moan.

Tom-tom-tom-tom, the drumbeats rolled.

Aye me, she cried, arching her back with yearning desire. She watched as the servant rose then, his manhood fully erect, nearly bursting, his hands stretching her legs apart, and then he plunged in. He grabbed her hips, lifting them up off the table as he drove himself inside, throbbing, pulsing.

Tom-tom-tom-tom.

He was big and sturdy, her stallion servant. She cried out in misery and joy as he drove himself deep, deep inside her, his moist fingers digging into her flesh, pulling him closer to him. He was deep inside her, his cock fully penetrating to her core, his balls rubbing up against her bottom. Then he was throbbing inside her, the shaft of his cock rubbing up and down her vagina walls, rubbing, pulsing, sending her into an agony, an exquisite agony of desire and longing.

Ring-ring-ring-ring.

My mistress, he groaned into her ear. Their bodies were joined as one, moist, their skin rubbing. He brought his massive chest down onto her breasts, crushing her under his weight in a delicious heat of comfort and warmth, safety and emotion. Her breasts, oily with the scented essence, were flushed with the heat of him.

Oh, my God, he moaned. You are so delicious.

He bit her ear.

And then she felt it, that tingling sensation, that feeling of her orgasm. It was like a freight train; she could see it in the distance, she could feel it; it was coming. She contracted, then released her muscles. He groaned with pleasure. She sensed that he could feel what she was doing. She contracted, then released, contracted, then released.

The sensation of the tickling was coming, drawing near.

Ring-ring-ring-ring.

She contracted, then released, then at the final moment, she held her breath.

Then, curiously, nothing.

My Grace, the servant said, but he was speaking to her as if from the other side of the cavernous cave.

What was happening?

The tickling sensation congealed, then fell silent, still, as if suffering a sudden death.

Ring-ring-ring-ring.

My Grace, the servant murmured, his voice floating away.   Ring-ring-ring-ring.

What? she said, her eyelids fluttering open.

And in that moment, the servant disappeared, the heat of his body was gone and she felt suddenly cold. She looked about the cave--no, it was a room, not a cave, and then it all came back to her.

She'd been having a dream.

Dammit. she cried.

The alarm clock was ringing off the table. She lunged for it, pushed the off button and threw herself back against her allergy-proof, hermetically sealed pillow. She sighed with frustrated resignation.

No servants. No tom-toms. Just her--plain old Rhiannon, lying in her queen-sized bed, alone.

Dammit, she repeated, more softly this time. Tears of frustration filled her eyes. Another failed orgasm.

She rolled over onto her side, wrapping herself up in her sheet, feeling very much alone, very much abandoned. It was more than the frustration of the dream that was making her feel this way. She felt so alone, so lonely. Tears welled up in her eyes. She hated the idea of having to get out of her bed; she couldn't bear the idea of walking around her empty, cold apartment. But there was nowhere else for her to go; home was gone. This was her home now.

Cold comfort, that.

She sighed, untangled herself from the sheets and padded barefoot into her shower.

Maybe something will happen today. Something interesting.  Hah. Now she was dreaming.