FL-01 My Purple Winter
My Purple Winter
French Line
FL-01
Carl Corley
$0.95
My Purple Winter
French Line
FL-01
Carl Corley
$0.95
Excerpt
“You got a cute little ass,” he said, then, rubbing my buttock lovingly. His voice, pitched low in his throat, trembled. “You shoulda been a girl. You’re small, like a girl—smooth, like a girl…”
“Papa says I’m a runt,” I managed to get out, my whole being responding to his caress, my own voice as shaky as the leaves which trembled in the breeze over our head. “But Grandpa was small,” I forced myself onward. “Papa said he could outwork most men—men twice as big as him. He worked in the Attican vineyards, toting big, heavy baskets of grapes. I’m small, but I’m not weak, Dany Buck.”
“That you’re not,” he murmured agreement, easing closer to me. I shuddered in delight as his chest came against my back now, a slight, warm touch all the way down as his massive, heated loins lightly lay against my buttocks, the great thighs just touching the backs of mine. “Little but loud,” he continued, the words blanketed in a hoarse chuckle. His arms slid under mine and then about my waist, sliding upward until his fingers reached my chest-plates to press and try them, roughly. His huge fingers upon my chest, the roughened skin of them brushing, lightly pinching the muscles and the hardening nipples, suddenly drained every bit of my strength and I wanted nothing more than to flow backwards and melt into his being. “You got strong muscles,” he went on, his voice now cracked with tremors and my heart leapt again, triumphantly, at the sound of the tremble because I knew his feeling was as mine. “You’ll take a wife someday, Bru, and give her what she needs—what she wants, I swear…”
At the sound of his words, pairing me off with someone else, I suddenly felt apart and alone and Dany’s warmth seemed somehow to become remote, aloof. I turned slightly to increase the pressure of our touch, not daring to alter my stance.
“Won’t you marry too, Dany?” I asked—though instinctively jealous of the thought of anyone else having him, anyone else knowing him, loving him.
We were so secure here—here amidst these quiet acres, surrounded by the soft warmth of the countryside—so secure in our friendship for each other. And I asked again: “You will marry, won’t you, eh, Dany?”
“Na. Never, Bru,” he said, his words a soft lament, the strong arms flexing softly around me to draw me slowly closer to him. “I was born to be a servant, to put my rump to the dirt, to make things grow from the soil and rise from the stone … born to sweat. Aye, little Bru, I was born to sweat.”
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