Evening in the Writing Room

Alanna led a life of letters. She spent her days at her writing pedestal, emerald eyes following the movement of her quill from beneath thick brows and full lashes as she scratched out reams of transcription. Self-possessed and studious, she kept her dark hair bound up in a bun and her body bound up behind billowing robes. Her movements were measured, her round face impassive, and the corners of her full lips were turned ever upward in a subtle smile--the only outward sign of just how much pleasure it gave her to write without interruption.

As a mage's clerk, she relished every moment spent at her work, labouring from dawn to dusk, copying everything from thigh-thick tomes of old lore to summoning spells scribbled on scraps of cloth. Anything her wizened employer borrowed, be it from the labyrinthine library that sprawled beneath the city, or from one of his sundry colleagues, he brought to her to duplicate. She spent her days immersed in strange languages, copying all manner of glyphs and scripts. There was no calligraphy too elaborate, no grammar too complex, no case system too convoluted for her to master. She had little time or interest for anything besides the written word, and it was no exaggeration to say that Alanna lived for her work.

But a life like hers couldn't persist without at least a little room for the impulsive--for the wanton and instinctual. She had needs beyond the intellectual, as much as it irked her, and every now and then she had to set aside her transcription and attend to her body, so that her mind could continue its work unencumbered.

One such occasion came on a sweltering day at the height of midsummer, when Alanna was immersed in a treatise on the debauched rituals of the goddess Sachelle. The prose was overwritten and tended to drag, but the descriptions of the goddess's ancient rites were shockingly vivid, and Alanna was utterly absorbed in the mental pictures they painted. It wasn't until the red glow of twilight fell across the page from the room's lone window that she finally set aside her quill, realizing as she did that she was breathing more heavily than usual. Even as she screwed the cap onto her ink well and blew on the page to dry the fresh lettering, the images of Sachelle's devotees lingered at the back of her mind. She should have been at peace--all written out and ready for her night's repose--but she felt more awake than ever.

Her little writing room was stiflingly hot, and covered as she was by her woollen robes, it was only now that she recognized the warmth below her navel for what it was. As she pushed her chair back and smoothed the heavy fabric over her thighs, she realized that that warmth would have been there in midwinter as surely as midsummer. It urged her away from her work, invited her, and she answered its call with relish.

As her right hand continued its adjustments, her left slid up her trunk to her bust. She moved slowly, letting her fingertips press into the softness of her stomach, and drew a sharp breath as they arrived at her breasts. There was so much about her life that was hard--the pedestal, her wooden chair, the cold stone beneath her feet--that it was always a delight to rediscover the softness of her own body. It was ever near to hand, yet she so seldom took the opportunity to explore it that, when she did, it was always as new.

Her smile broadened as she spread her hand over the ample mound, lifting and squeezing, savouring a sensation as enticing to her open palm as to the breast it cradled. She ran her thumb inward over the coarse fabric of her robe, found her nipple, and lingered there as it stiffened. Her movements were careful, calculated, and she moved from one breast to the other as delicately as she might transfer a freshly charged quill to a blank page. Her belly and bosom pressed against the front of her robes as the beginnings of an arch bent her lower back. A tingling and trembling spread across her chest and crept downward to join the heat about her hips, forming a thunderhead of sensation that broadened and rippled.

She sighed and took a fistful of fabric in her right hand, tugging at her robes where they draped over her knees and drawing them towards her, the hem rising to reveal her calves. She was alone, and knew that her employer wouldn't bother her until tomorrow morning, when one of his familiars would bring her something new to copy. But as she drew the robe up past her knees, she couldn't help the way her eyes darted nervously to the door of her little writing room. Between the boarding house where she'd spent most of her youth, and the crowded home of the scrivener who'd apprenticed her, she'd learned to be overcautious in seeing to her body's needs.

The door was shut and latched, of course, but even so she thrilled as she pulled her robe up further to reveal plump thighs that gleamed in the sunset rays beaming in through the window. Warm air caressed her bare legs and swirled about her hips and stomach. Hot days like this made underclothes uncomfortable, so she often went without them, and even with her robe still covering most of her she felt naked as the air moved over her body. She blushed and thought back to all the times she'd had to bite her lip as she pleasured herself, bundled beneath the covers at midnight when no-one else was awake to notice. But here she was truly alone. Here she needn't worry about prying eyes or straining ears, and she began to relax as she leaned back and slid her hips forward, parting her knees as she pulled her robe up to her waist.

She was naked from her hips down now, though a few folds of her robe still hung between her legs. She moved her left hand away from her bust, where the impressions of her nipples now showed through the fabric, and ran both hands up and down the insides of her thighs. Her light touch left tingling trails on the sensitive skin, and though her hands remained outside her robes for the moment, she felt her quickening pulse between her legs as much as in her chest.

She closed her eyes as she teased herself, hips rocking gently so that the fabric of her robe brushed against her still-concealed sex. She moaned softly and, as if at her call, those lurid images lingering in her memory became a sordid parade before her mind's eye. Cultists of the goddess Sachelle danced through her imagination, skyclad save for their hooded capes. There were men and woman of all shapes and sizes, and androgynous revelers that laughed in the face of expectation, all capering and coupling with abandon. Splayed fingers sank into yielding flesh, lips locked, breasts and bellies bounced and rocked, and cocks bobbed and stiffened before disappearing between interlocking bodies. Alanna's ordered mind melted into a daydream debauch, and with that her quivering hands finally crept beneath her robes and found the tingling places that had been crying out for their touch.

Her left hand ran up her stomach, over her bare skin this time, and followed the curve of one of her breasts to the nipple. The movement lifted those last folds from between her legs, and she sighed at the feeling of the open air on her cleft. Her right hand swept up her inner thigh and settled on the newly bared mound of dark curls, turning her sigh to a gasp as the delicate hairs tickled her palm. Through her pubic hair she felt the wetness of lips engorged with arousal, and she rocked her hips as her touch set off a wave of warmth.

She sank into the roiling reverie unfolding behind her eyelids. The warmth between her legs bloomed to a blaze and leaped up to meet the subtler sparks that flew at each touch and tweak of her nipples. The world outside her body and mind melted away, and she found herself there among those imagined revellers, feeling their bodies against hers in all their warmth and movement and grasping. Gone was the cold stone of her writing room, gone the hard seat of her chair, gone the walls and ceiling that penned her in. When her fingers finally slipped out of sight after countless deft circles about her clitoris, the fresh shudders of pleasure seemed to arise all on their own, and she barely noticed the effort as first her hand and then her whole arm moved faster and faster.

She answered the rhythmic plunging of her fingers with thrusts of her hips, her chair jumping and scraping as her movement grew more urgent. Her thighs were spread wide, heels planted, toes curled. It was as if she'd braced herself for what came next. But as she felt that final wave begin to well up inside her, a sudden impulse brought her to her feet, struggling with her robe as she stood upright.

Her arms vanished as she withdrew them from the sleeves, then her rosy cheeks as she lifted the flowing garment over her head. She gasped and groaned with impatience as she disentangled herself, but it took only a moment for her to tear the robe away and fling it to the ground. She wasted no time in following it, lowering herself to the floor and stretching out on her back, protected from the chill of the stones by the discarded garment.

Completely naked now, her exposure sent a shiver from her toes to her tresses, which had come free of her bun and formed a wild wreath about her head. She slid both hands down her stomach to her sex, upper arms framing her bare breasts as she stretched towards her glistening labia. One set of fingers slipped between her lips, the other set to stroking their crest, and in moments the climax that had waned as she disrobed came rushing back. It began between her legs and swept through the rest of her just as quickly as it had begun. She arched her back, buttocks lifted aloft on quivering legs, and her breath caught before escaping in a cry of delight.

Books, quills, and blank parchment forgotten, the meticulous woman of just moments before dissolved into a cloud of pure feeling, her moans mounting until her voice broke. Whole body alive, she shook and writhed as both hands worked at a frantic pace. Her straining arms pushed her breasts together, nipples dancing with her movement. Her thighs shook, her bottom jiggled, and her soft stomach seemed to stretch as she bent her back one last time before falling flat. Hands at her sides now, she lay on her robe panting. It had been quick, but had crept up on her like a silent drake on the hunt, and she breathed as much with surprise at its intensity as with exhaustion.

Her former composure was forgotten. Her hair was wild, her cheeks flushed, and over emerald eyes wide with delight her brow shone with sweat. She smiled and let her eyelids droop, her breath slowing with time, sweat cooling on her bare skin as evening deepened. Outside, the sky had turned violet, and would be black soon enough. Night was falling, and with one need satisfied, Alanna's mind turned to others--to food and sleep. They were far more mundane, of course, but she thought of them fondly as she gathered her robes, got to her feet, and set her writing room back in order.

Alanna knew that supper would be especially satisfying tonight, and that sleep would come easily. But most importantly, she knew that after a shuddering climax, a filling meal, and a good rest, she could look forward to a fine day of writing tomorrow.