by watty » Fri May 02, 2008 11:06 pm
Fresh Moods #1: The Dressmaker's Hands
Summary: "You have the best hands."
Setting: An undefined historical period
Rating: NC-17
Part 4/4
War was a great leveler. Bullets and arrows made no distinction between rich and poor; old and young; friend and foe.
It took another two years for the war to end. I parted ways with Buffy eventually; toward the end of the war she met a tall, brooding ex-soldier and they decided to set up home together.
I found myself drifting from town to town, and it was only when I was a day's ride away that I realized I was heading home.
Home.
I rolled the word around my tongue and came to the conclusion that I had no attachment to it. Still, something tugged at me, pulling and pushing me in its direction. I shrugged. What was there to lose? If I were to settle somewhere it might as well be the place I grew up.
I ignored the other reasons calling out to me.
Both my parents had gone, two out of countless victims of the war. I placed a handful of wild flowers on their simple graves and walked away.
I bought a small cottage off the village square. During the war grateful families would hand us some coins for saving their loved ones. We always tried to refuse, but sometimes it seemed rude not to take the money. I had a small sum tucked away in a heavy pouch, it was enough to pay the former owner, a war widow who was only too anxious to sell up and go live with her daughter in the next village.
My business was good. Doctors were always needed in any populace. I took on the severest of cases, the ones that other doctors had given up on. Cases requiring surgery were generally referred to me; one of the other physicians commented that I had the steadiest hands in town and was less inclined to accidentally cut off the wrong organs.
As the village started prospering, word passed around that I was once Master Ira Rosenberg's apprentice, and courtesans started trickling through my door asking for dresses to be made.
I politely declined each and every request.
~~~~~
Today was no different from any day. I was up before dawn, finishing household chores before the first patients knocked on my door. It was a busy day, I didn't have time to take a breather until well into the afternoon. Weary to the bones, I hung out the hand-painted "Closed" sign by my window and added wood to the fire to boil up some water for tea. I was hunting in my cupboard for a cup, and just having found it when I heard the front door creak open behind me.
"I'm sorry. I'm closed for the day, please come back tomorrow," I called over my shoulder.
"It's an emergency."
I dropped my cup.
I turned around in slow jerks, the loud humming noise in my head making me dizzy.
We stood ten feet apart, stunned. Not knowing what to do or say next.
She had lost a lot of weight, her body had the boniness of one that had struggled for nourishment. Her skin was pale, her eyes had the bleakness that infected those who survived the worst, there was a faint scar at the corner of her lip. I wondered what she saw in me. Probably much the same.
But she stood firm and dignified, here was not a woman defeated or broken.
"What can I do for you?" It was woefully inadequate, but my power of articulation had completely dissolved.
"I'd like a dress made," her voice was soft. She was asking, commanding, testing. "Please."
"I'm a doctor now," I answered out of habit.
"I heard."
This was not going well. For almost three years I thought of no one else. I'd forced myself to believe that she was alive, that she'd walk in through my door one day, we'd fall into each other's arms and all would be right again. I knew it was a delusion; I made discreet inquiries when I returned and heard only bad news -- the baron narrowly escaped being burnt alive in the mansion, but was captured by the enemy and was never seen again. Of his family there was no information. I hadn't made any inquiry after that.
And here she was, having just walked in through my door, and we were at opposite sides of my living space, making small talk. I knew I had to get my muscles to move, but the signal wasn't getting through from the pounding in my head. Wryly I recalled the day we met and how I was afflicted with the same condition waiting for her audience.
I tore my gaze from her and uselessly waved in the general direction of the kettle. "Would you like some tea?"
She relaxed a little and nodded. The tension in the room ebbed somewhat.
I poured two cups out, and with this distraction I was able to make my way to her side. I didn't trust myself to touch her, so I placed her cup on the table next to her and moved to the other side. I watched as she picked it up, watched as her long fingers closed around the handle, watched as the steam caressed her face as she brought it up for a sip.
"My father's title passed to my cousin Beth's husband. He will make sure I'm taken care of and promised a small dowry. But I don't want to depend on the generosity of my relatives," she started explaining.
We were still standing, separated just by the small round ornamental table. The distance was small enough for me to reach out and take her hand, if I could only make my hand move.
She continued, "I have a position at the school. I think I'll need new dresses, it won't do for the new teacher to be dressed shabbily. This," she waved vaguely at her much patched dress, "is what remains of my wardrobe. I can't pay much now but I-- you--" she stopped, clearly having run out of words. There were tears in her eyes, and a choking sob escaped.
I moved then. I took her cup from her hands and placed it safely away. Then I took both her hands in mine and held them tight against my heart.
"I know," I whispered. The tips of my fingers tingled with the feel of her skin, but I dared not touch more of her. I was on the edge of losing my composure so I kept our touch light.
For minutes we connected, silently in the dim light of the late afternoon. Protective barriers peeled away imperceptibly. The harsh horrors of uncertainty retreated as we clicked faintly back together. Slowly she raised her head and we held eye contact.
"They hurt me. I felt so dirty. I kept myself alive thinking of you," she said.
"I miss you so much," I answered.
"Will you? Make me a dress?" she asked tentatively. "They say you flatly refuse anyone who asks, but I thought--"
"Only you," I interrupted. "No one but you."
"You made me feel so beautiful when you dressed me. Can you make me feel beautiful again?" she pleaded. She shuddered at a memory that tore her heart out. Seeing her like this, I felt the pain too.
"You will always be beautiful," I said. "I won't let anyone hurt you any more."
She pulled me close and rested her head on my shoulder. She smelled of spices and logs and earth. Different to what I remembered of her, but we were beginning afresh, I felt a tiny jolt of excitement at the new scents.
We stood in our embrace for a long time, there was no hurry. I turned into her and rubbed my cheek against her forehead. Our bodies came together close, but we didn't hurry.
"You feel so good," her breath was at the dip of my throat, I felt a surge of tenderness at the soft contact.
"What sort of dress would you like?" It had been so long since I thought of silks and patterns and stitching, I felt a faint buzz of enthusiasm returning.
She smiled. "I always love it when you go away thinking of dresses. I leave it to your discretion. I know you'll make me something wonderful."
"Come with me." I took her hand and led her the few paces to the front of the fireplace, where the light was best. "Stand still," I directed. "Let me look at you properly."
She stood very still, smiling warmly at my intent assessment of her figure. I circled around her, moving with slow deliberation. Years of training that I thought was forgotten came rushing back. Except that even as a lowly apprentice I looked at her and saw more than just a customer. I was remembering now. Remembering how she looked underneath her clothes. Soft pale skin glowing, dancing under my fingertips. Involuntarily I gasped at the arousing memory and I stared at her with renewed intensity.
"I'll probably need simpler styles than...before. No more ball gowns," she remarked without bitterness.
"I know what you need," I said calmly. I was feeling anything but calm inside. Every nerve in me screamed at the need to simply pull her close and touch her everywhere, and it took every ounce of self-control to pace myself.
"I'm thinner too, the old measurements won't fit," she added.
"I know your measurements."
"Like I said, I've changed."
"I can measure with my hands."
"Can you now." She wasn't as detached as she appeared. The catch in her voice, the stiffness in her shoulders betrayed a nervousness that she, too, was battling. She returned my gaze, matching my hunger with a ferocity of her own.
I completed my circuit and stepped behind her. Casually I placed my hands around her shoulders, savoring the soft intake of her breath at my initial touch. I recognized the material of her dress, flashbacks of my master crafting it filled me with sadness at a time forever lost.
My palms traced a path from her shoulders down her arm. I was tantalizingly slow, each inch of movement refueling my sense memory of the way she felt. When eventually I reached her hands, my fingers automatically slipped between hers and it felt so good to be entwined together. Many moments later, I reluctantly let her hands go, the feeling of loss so apparent even after such a fleeting touch.
I found a new path, starting from her long, smooth neck and down her back. She was thin, I could feel the sharpness of her shoulder blade as my hands passed through. I spread my palms flat on her back, feeling my way to her waist. I could gauge her waist size from feel; I wasn't sure I could do it, but it was surprisingly easy because it was her.
I hesitated for a moment before making my way further down. "Is this alright?" I asked softly. I had to find her hip measurement, and I wanted her to be comfortable at my hands on her buttocks. Though she was relaxed and was leaning slightly into my touch, I didn't want to overstep our newfound intimacy, not knowing what she had to endure during our years apart.
"Mmm. Yes," she breathed.
On my way back up her back, I stopped again just above her waist. I was becoming intoxicated with the prolonged contact, and she was swaying into me, wordlessly asking me for more. I brought my hands around her front until I could very delicately brush the side of her breasts. She stiffened instantly, and the small "oh!" of pleasure was matched only by mine. With no further encouragement needed, I cupped the underside of her breasts before closing in more firmly.
We had moved closer until we were pressed together back to front. Even through the thick material of her dress I felt her nipples hardening, I was sure I responded in the same way. She tilted her head, offering her neck and I had no choice but to kiss her there. I pulled on the thin skin with my teeth, sucking greedily, sure that I would leave a mark but I was past caring.
When she turned toward me our lips found each other finally, and we allowed our carefully buried longing and desire to burst forth and surface.
At last, I was able to say her name without devastation. "Tara, Tara," I moaned into her mouth, my voice was thick with need, relief.
The kiss grew heated, as it should. She reached back and pulled me even closer so there was no air between us. Our rough clothing were bulky and difficult to remove, but we fumbled and pulled and ripped, alternatively giggling and kissing, until we got most of it off. My stockings were stuck and she still had one arm trapped in a sleeve. Our haste was too overwhelming, as soon as enough flesh was exposed one of our mouths would find it and claim it. The heady exhilaration was wild.
I was lucky that my cottage was small, making the stumbling journey to my bed thankfully short. We flopped ungracefully onto the bedclothes in a heap, not caring where body parts landed. I was mostly on top, and was feverishly attacking her skin when I felt myself rolling over.
"Strong," I mumbled hazily as her weight settled on me. Though the fog in my brain I registered that she was straddling me, her ripe breasts swaying as if by their own accord. I reached up roughly to grasp them, but before I could do so she moved sharply down my belly and settled between my thighs. With firm hands she coaxed me open and tugged teasingly at my hard, sensitive point. She circled and played with me until I was squirming with hot desire.
"Love," she spoke in wonder. She was giving me a name. Describing how she felt. Asking for my surrender.
She eased her long fingers inside me and I buckled at the intensity immediately. A few heartbeats later I could hold on no longer, I bore down hard and flushed freely as she made me come, and come again.
I had never experienced anything so deep, so sacred, so loving. We'd come a long way from the stuttering apprentice and the proud aristocrat's daughter who discovered each other on innocent day. Much was lost, but much was still to come. I couldn't help but say the immortal words she always spoke to me.
"You have the best hands."
*****
The End
[br]
believe me, not intended initially but somehow we had to take everything "higher up" about Tara before we could get them as equals, you're right. Thanks again.
exactly. There's so much more not spoken than spoken, but I hope there's enough for you to develop the story in your imagination. Then I'll be very pleased. Thanks!
and 
and 
and I think I'd better stop.
