Title: Fresh Moods
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] gmail [dot] com)
Distribution: please email me first
Rating: PG to NC-17, see individual entries for rating
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others. The stories contained here are of a personal nature, non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.
Summary: My contemporary short stories are housed under the
Coffee Moods umbrella. Fresh Moods are short stories that don't come under the CM category. In other words, stories of the non-caffeinated variety.
*****
Fresh Moods #1: The Dressmaker's Hands
Summary: "You have the best hands."
Setting: An undefined historical period
Rating: NC-17
Part 1/4
"She will see you now."
I was too tense to respond. I knew I had to get my muscles to move, but the signal wasn't getting through from my brain.
"Are you coming or not?" The voice grew impatient. "She doesn't have all day. Bloody commoner." The last two words were muttered under her breath, but loud enough for my ears.
I swallowed and stiffly pushed myself up from my perch on the low stool. I was careful to keep my eyes on the ground, my master's words echoing in my head.
Keep your head bowed. It's not your place to look at those of a higher station. You'll dirty them with your look.
I shuffled behind the portly woman, watching the hems of her thick dress brush along the floor as she stomped off. Out of habit, I appraised the material -- uncompromising coarse cotton, roughly weaved and oft mended. A working garment, as was the maker's intention.
We stopped outside a decorated door, a thin net curtain interestingly draped outside it. Peals of laughter could be heard faintly from beyond. The housekeeper rapped respectfully, waited three seconds, then opened the door.
I stepped in behind her and it was as if I stepped in through a portal to another universe. I was instantly dazzled by the blazing sunlight that illuminated the whole space. It was more than a room...it was a living palace that was more than double the entire size of my master's workshop. Glittering chairs, lush carpets and a four poster bed dominated the area.
But more so than the furniture were the shapes and sounds that were floating with carefree glee around the room. I stole a glance at the company of young girls skipping and clapping in a circle, their voices rising and falling in an unknown song. I'd barely registered that they were 'dressed' in only the starkest meaning of the term -- sleeveless tunics and knee-length breeches that left vast areas of skin exposed -- when they parted and I saw with my own eyes the embodiment of the goddess herself.
Honey hair and skin that glowed brighter than the noonday sun. I stifled a gasp at the sight and was pierced by a strange sensation that sunk deep into my belly.
She threw her head back in abandoned laughter and the strange sensation turned into liquid. I shifted uncomfortably, desperately wanting to cross my legs while standing but not knowing why.
Silence when her gaze found me.
"Well. What have we here?" Her voice was a melodious lilt, a hint of challenge touching up bemused recognition.
"From the dressmaker's," the housekeeper said.
An offhand wave and the nymphlets faded away. I stood transfixed as I was unabashedly appraised from top to bottom, just like how my master appraised a new garment. I had no sense of mind to think about whether I bathed that day, or whether my shirt was buttoned up correctly. The strange liquid sensation at the top of my legs persisted.
"What happened to Master Ira?" she asked. It was a tone that expected immediate answer, but was not unkind.
"He is indisposed. He sent word that Wil--" the housekeeper started to explain.
"--that will be all," her mistress cut her off and with a look, the servant was dismissed.
We were alone.
I dared to raise my head to make eye contact. It took her a small second to recover from the indolence and a tiny upturn of her lips gave me courage to hold her stare. She was no older than I, though her beauty was far richer than my modest history.
"Well?"
It took me a long minute to remember that I was the only other person in the room, and hence she would be addressing me, and me only. My brain was functioning to a certain extent, but that didn't extend to speech. I knew I was staring, and I knew it was forbidden; but I could no more help it than I could breathe air.
Years later, she told me that it was a wonder that she didn't lose her temper with my impertinence. And it was the moment when it clicked for her.
"You have something for me?" she asked more specifically. "Or is that not a package in your hands?"
I snapped to attention quickly. "Um yes. Sorry, miss. Master Ira was taken ill, he sent me so there is no delay in getting the dress to you. Miss," I remembered his instruction to liberally dot my conversation with honorifics. I fumbled with the paper package that I'd gripped to death; almost ripping it, my hands were shaking so much. Luckily, as soon as the material emerged and touched my hands, I was instantly calmed. I removed the dress from its confines carefully and with a delicate flourish, shook it out in all its glory.
Master Ira wasn't the most sought-after dressmaker in the province for nothing. The handiwork was meticulous, the material perfectly manipulated to produce a picture-perfect gown. I knew this dress was intended for the Spring Festival on Saturday. Master Ira only took one customer order for this event, and it was for the Baron's daughter who was standing in front of me. She took one look at the dress, another look at me, and stripped her undertunic off.
If it weren't a lifetime's training for the care of finery, I would have dropped the dress straight onto the floor. As it were, I staggered one step backward at the sight of the most exquisite naked body I had ever laid eyes on. Well alright, I'd never actually
seen any naked body apart from the blacksmith wife's new born baby, but I'd had fantasies and heard enough of Xander's boasts about what he and Anya got up to in the dark alley behind the inn.
"Don't stand there like the village idiot. Dress me," the Baron's daughter commanded.
Decorum demanded that I averted my eyes and focus on the task of helping her into the dress. But her skin was so enticing, her scent so soft that I quivered in her proximity. I deliberately held the dress at arms length, closing my eyes when she slipped into the material that was custom-made for her body. Belatedly I realized that the bodice fastened at the front, with a double row of tiny hand-sewn pearl buttons. I had to step in front of her, and her naked skin was right in my line of sight.
"How long have you been Ira's apprentice? You
are his apprentice, aren't you?" she asked, as I tried to concentrate on the buttons and nothing but the buttons.
"Um yes, miss. My stepfather too," I answered.
"Your stepfather is Ira's apprentice too?" Oh lord. She was a tease.
"Um no, miss. Master Ira, he's my stepfather," I said.
"What happened to your real father? Ran off, died or what?" Lest we forget, she was an upper class lady addressing a lowly villager. Tact was not required.
"Um, miss. You see, well, Maman never said. She told me it's better I didn't know," I stuttered. This was not helping. Being interrogated while working with fiddly buttons while trying to ignore the pounding in my heart that was the direct result of being inches from the most forbidden of forbidden-ness was torture.
"Do you start every sentence with 'um'?" She was laughing. At me? With me? I had no idea. All I knew was she was talking with me, and she was the most important person who'd ever spoken to me.
I shook off my blush and took a deep breath before answering. "No, miss. Only when I'm nervous." Oh boy, that was an inappropriate answer.
She stiffened, exhaled and let a cold silence wash over us. "Am I making you nervous?" she whispered, softly, as if asking herself.
I didn't trust my voice. I nodded.
I'd worked my way up from the bottom of the bodice, and I was tantalizingly close to the top hem. I was thankful that she had decided not to speak any further, as I would not have been able to make any coherent sound.
The last of the buttons in place, I stepped away and indicated vaguely in the direction of her chest. "You'll need to make a little adjustment, at the top there, to, um, align..." To correctly accentuate her cleavage, her breasts needed to be lifted and centered. I'd seen Master Ira skillfully lift and push a hundred times, yet his touch was always clinical and precise. I had neither the skill nor the control to be
just clinical.
"Aren't you supposed to be helping me?" she questioned.
I didn't know what to say. She was right of course, and she had every right to throw me out in humiliation. Even report to my master. "I, I don't know--"
"Don't know, or don't trust?" she said gently.
I wanted to tell her how much I wasn't myself and hadn't been since I took my first step into her room. I wanted to whisper to her that I was overcome with emotions and a drowning ache like I never experienced before. That if I touched her I would do something that would almost certainly lead me to the gallows.
Years later I told her that
this was my moment.
I didn't tell her any of this. Instead I stood there like a dumb hat stand, waiting for my fate. My eyes darted around the room, at the door, the window, the metallic speck at the top corner of the bronze mirror, anywhere but at the beautiful creature in the amazing dress beyond my reach.
Just as the strained silence was about to crack, she closed the gap between us and grasped my hand. I had no time to reflect on the softness or the heat coming from her touch, all sensation exploded when she placed my palm firmly on her breast. My immediate reaction was to pull back but she held me firm. I saw stars, I heard chiming, I heard the thunder of a thousand heartbeats and I was surrounded by a musky scent wafting around us.
"Your being a dressmaker's apprentice, you're serious about it? Is it what you want?" she asked.
"Yes," I hesitated. She was asking about my
job,
now?
"I can smell you. Do you know what that is?"
"No," I squeaked.
"Your desire."
I blinked. "Please," I begged. I wanted to have control of my hand back. I wanted to dig my fingers deep into her flesh. I wanted her vibrancy to course through me.
She tightened her grip, twisting my hand so my fingers grazed a hard nipple, visible beneath the fabric. "How old are you?" she asked.
"Sixteen."
"Have you ever touched a woman in intimacy?"
"I-- no."
"Have you thought about it?"
I squirmed. This was becoming much too personal. But I couldn't escape her. "Sometimes," I confessed.
"You're aroused by me. I could sense it as soon as I set eyes on you. I like that, it's flattering," she smiled. Then her voice hardened. "But you'll touch thousands of women in your career. How can you be a good dressmaker if you get this way every time you touch a woman?"
"I--"
"Are you going to abuse your position of trust? Innocent women, all willing putty under your fingertips. Does that make your heart pound, thinking about the impossibly delightful flesh?" [sup]1[/sup] she spat out the last few words, in provocation, in admonishment. I didn't know what.
A far away voice of warning fought against the lustful haze, my master cautioning me on the taboo of familiarity. But I was awash with courage, and the offensive voice flickered out of existence. "I can't imagine any flesh other than yours that will tempt me," I said simply.
She let go of my hand then, and fumbled with the buttons of her bodice. "Take these off. I want your hands on me," she called urgently. She almost ripped the delicate pearls off violently, so burning was
her desire.
I stilled her frantic hands and slowly drew the nubs through the eyehooks. As the fabric peeled away with each unfastening, my stillness grew. There was detached fascination when I coaxed the confining material away to reveal full, ready breasts. I cupped my hands on each with the same reverence as we treated the most fragile silk. They were heavy in my hands, but I kept my touch feathery.
"My master says dressmakers' most important tools are our hands," I said slowly, feeling a boldness in my heart that was not there before.
With a strangled cry, she pushed me against the wall and crashed our lips together. It was a bruising kiss, one that I gradually returned with equal fervor. She grabbed my hand, and my protestations at the loss of contact was stifled when she pushed it inside the V of her bodice, past her underbreeches and then I had the smoothest, softest heat surging on my fingers. She twisted us around so I had her trapped against the solid wall, and I found myself with instincts I'd never known before. I shoved one knee between her thighs and plunged my hand into her hotness. Our hips were grinding, and we were moaning inside our kiss. One, two push and suddenly she flexed, bore down and broke into a primal, rapturous wail.
She was still pulsating around my fingers when my knees buckled and I fell unceremoniously on my back. I looked up and my breath stopped. There she was, an angel with wild golden hair haloed above her head, her hands spayed behind her gripping the wall, her dress delinquently disheveled. She was panting laboriously, and was probably too overwhelmed to notice that she was nearly naked from the waist up.
Slowly I got to my feet. Without breaking our eye contact, I brought my fingers up and inhaled her scent. With slow deliberation I licked off the coating, a brash grin appearing as I savored the sweet sour taste, committing it to memory.
I had no doubts that I was going to hell for this, but if I had to forfeit my life at that moment I would have gone willingly.
"These hands, they will touch so many. And with each one, I shall grow more jealous. Give me your hand," she implored.
I held back just for a bit. "Why?"
"Shut up and put your fingers in my mouth."
What could I do? I was but a poor dressmaker's apprentice, and I had to obey the Baron's daughter's every whim.
I tenderly traced around her lips before gently giving her the taste she asked for. Her lips were too swollen, too inviting -- I had to have my taste too. The next kiss was less frenzied than the last, but held a glimmer of promise.
"What's your name?" she murmured against my lips.
"Willow."
She kissed my cheeks, my throat, my hands.
"You have the best hands, Willow. You may call me Tara."
*****
[sup]1[/sup]from the title of a story by
Sadbhyl
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tbc
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