Stag's Command

The air in my mother’s room hung thick with the scent of lavender and unspoken desire. Sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains, casting dancing patterns on the plush, floral bedspread. My husband, David, was absorbed in a hefty volume of poetry in the living room, a comfortable silence filling the house while our children were occupied elsewhere with their grandmother. It was a moment ripe with opportunity, a carefully constructed scenario designed to ignite the passions we both held so dear.

I’d spent the better part of the afternoon meticulously planning this encounter, pulling inspiration from the verses of the Song of Solomon, specifically those passages that celebrated the active participation of the woman in the act of lovemaking. The memory of my first submission to MH, “A Hind’s Tale: The Chase,” still pulsed within me, a reminder of the power I possessed when given the freedom to express my desires. This time, I intended to take things a step further, embracing the spirit of ownership and dominance that had so captivated me.

With a deep breath, I began my descent down the hallway, my heart pounding a primal rhythm against my ribs. The anticipation was intoxicating, a delicious blend of nervousness and excitement. Reaching my mother’s door, I pushed it open and stepped inside, my senses immediately overwhelmed by the familiar scent of her room – a comforting blend of old books, floral potpourri, and the lingering fragrance of her perfume.

There she was, my beloved, my muse, the woman who understood and cherished my every whim. David was sitting in the living room, lost in his literary world, oblivious to the storm brewing within me. It was time to awaken him, to draw him into this carefully orchestrated dance of desire.

As I approached, I paused, savoring the sight of him, his rugged features softened by the afternoon light. His eyes, the color of melted chocolate, widened slightly as he registered my presence, a flicker of surprise quickly replaced by a knowing smile. Without a word, I took his hand, my fingers interlacing with his, and led him towards my mother’s room. The gentle pressure of his hand in mine sent a shiver down my spine, a silent acknowledgment of the pleasure we were about to share.

The hallway felt longer than usual as I moved towards my mother’s room, each step fueled by the growing heat that was building within me. I reached the doorway and, turning to face him, I gestured towards the Bible lying open on the bedside table. The verse, “I found the one I love. I held him and would not let go until I had brought him to my mother’s house, to the chamber of the one who conceived me,” felt like a sacred mantra, a declaration of intent that resonated deep within my soul.

With a small, suggestive movement, I wriggled my hips, drawing his attention to the exposed expanse of my body. It was an invitation, a silent command to take what I desired. As he read the verse, his gaze lingered on my form, his eyes tracing the curve of my breasts, the swell of my hips, the delicate rise and fall of my breath.

Taking a deep, deliberate inhale, I filled my lungs with the intoxicating scent of lavender that permeated the room, savoring the connection to my mother and the history that resided within these walls. Then, laying myself flat on my back, I spread my legs wide, inviting him to take his place beside me. My body arched slightly, a silent plea for his touch, a promise of pleasure to come.

David didn't hesitate. With a swift, decisive movement, he stripped off his shirt, revealing the powerful muscles beneath. The speed of his actions only heightened the anticipation, feeding the flames of desire that burned within me. As he approached, I felt a surge of heat course through my veins, a primal response to his nearness.

He knelt before me, his gaze locked on mine, his eyes filled with a potent mix of lust and reverence. The scent of his skin, a blend of sweat and masculinity, filled my senses, further igniting the fire within me. Without another word, he reached out and took me in his arms, pulling me close until our bodies were intimately intertwined.

The first touch was electric, sending shivers down my spine. I responded with a moan, a primal sound of pleasure that echoed through the room. He began to move, his hands exploring every inch of my body, seeking the perfect point of contact. The rhythm of his movements grew more intense, more insistent, as he plunged deeper and deeper into my flesh.

The bed frame groaned under the strain as he began to exert more force, pushing against the mattress with increasing intensity. The bounce of the springs provided an added layer of sensation, heightening the pleasure that coursed through my veins. The heat radiating from his body intensified, making my skin tingle and burn.

As the intensity of his ministrations increased, I let out a series of gasping sighs, lost in the intoxicating sensation of being dominated and desired. The world around me dissolved, leaving only the two of us, locked in a passionate embrace, lost in the depths of our mutual pleasure.

Suddenly, the bed frame, weakened by the pressure, gave way with a loud crack. The headboard detached from the frame and crashed to the floor, sending a shower of splinters and dust into the air. David didn’t slow down, continuing his assault with renewed vigor. The new angle only served to amplify the pleasure, the impact of his thrusts sending waves of sensation rippling through my body.

I screamed, a primal roar of ecstasy, as he drove deeper and deeper, pushing me to the very brink of oblivion. The pain was exquisite, a searing pleasure that left me breathless and trembling. The heat intensified, consuming me entirely, until finally, the wave of my orgasm crashed down upon me, a tidal wave of pleasure that left me weak and spent.

My mother returned to find David reattaching the bed frame, a look of amused exasperation on her face. She knew exactly what had transpired, having witnessed the aftermath of our passionate encounter earlier that morning. The scent of lavender hung heavy in the air, a silent testament to our shared experience.

As she stepped into the room, she cast a knowing glance at me, a secret smile playing on her lips. She had seen the open Bible, and with a gentle, motherly hand, she closed it, tucking it back onto the bedside table. The shared intimacy, the unspoken understanding between us, created an atmosphere of warmth and comfort that transcended the physical act itself.

Later, as we enjoyed our breakfast, my mother casually mentioned the loose bed frame, suggesting her handyman would be along shortly to fix it. But even as she spoke, I couldn't help but smile, remembering the exhilarating chaos of our passionate encounter. It had been a moment of pure, unadulterated pleasure, a testament to the power of desire and the joy of surrendering to its call. And in that moment, surrounded by the scent of lavender and the warmth of my mother's love, I knew that this was just the beginning of our shared journey into the depths of our mutual passion. The memory of the sensation, the feeling of being utterly consumed by pleasure, would linger long after the bed frame had been restored, a reminder of the power we held, the desires we shared, and the exquisite pleasure we found in each other's arms.

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