Lilium Inter Spinas [m/f, paranormal, modern, fae]

There are both an intro and an afterward I won’t include here. There are also a couple pictures–the model who inspired the story (who’s gorgeous) and a little bit of gorgeous man candy. If you’re interested in any of that, I’ll include a link to the blog in the comments:

I met Lily in Austin, Texas.

There’s a particular bridge in Austen, the I-35. The homeless gather there every so often, until the police kick them out. Then one or two return at a time, sticking around to take shelter under the high bridge and beside its big concrete pillars. Numbers increase and the place becomes a village, until the police roust them and it starts all over again.

At the height of the bridge’s village-season, local church groups show up with handouts and literature. Sometimes they even bring grills and music and things turn into a full-on festival. I’d already decided to move on from Texas altogether, but decided to stay a couple extra nights to see if one of these festivals would yield a picture or two.

I stood on the outer edges, almost on the outside. As a photographer, I’m always a little on the outside. It’s how you gain perspective. I have my first glance of her preserved in film. It wasn’t a lucky shot or anything, I saw her and then whipped my camera up like a gunslinger and snapped three in a row before she disappeared behind a square pillar of grey cement.

I had color film in, but the exposures don’t do her utter vibrancy justice. Her hair was red-gold; not a blonde not a red-head, but the best parts of each. Shiny and reflective like a precious metal, but with a depth that seemed to smolder. Shampoo models don’t have hair with that kind of luster. Most if it fell down her back in a smooth, wavy mass, kind of like a wave before it goes all white and foamy; two thin braid fell over either shoulder down the front of her impossibly white gown.

I guess the fact that she was wearing a down to the Austen Hobo Jamboree should have been my first tip that something was off about her, but I never gave it a though. The only thing running through my head was an urgent voice telling me I needed to take more pictures of this woman, that she was that perfect moment I was looking for.

I ran to the pillar, keeping my eyes locked on in in case she moved away. She never moved, at least, she never came out from behind the pillar. Even so, once I pushed my way through the crowed of unwashed bodies, and rounded it myself, she was gone.

I looked for her. Of course, I saw nothing. I felt an insane urge to leave right then and find a darkroom, find a way to look at the negatives right there, right then. I wanted–needed–to make sure she was real.

I forced my mind back toward calm by reminding myself that the reason I’d come here was to get away from photographing beautiful women–to find something more real than the superficial, blah, blah, blah.

I staked out the pillar anyway, camera ready, looking around with a kind of unfocused stare that I use to take in a whole scene. I snapped off a few pictures. They were good, but not breath taking. My heart wasn’t in it. I was looking for her.

Where I was, clean silky hair and brilliant whites just didn’t happen, so I decided to take a stroll along the church people who were mostly cooking and playing Christian Rock for small groups of us.

I stalked their perimeter like a leopard and never saw her once. On the brink of giving up, a decided to go back to where I’d first seen her, and nearly as soon as I turned around, there she was.

Again, I raised my camera and snapped a few photos, this time through the smoke and heat of a fired-up grill. She had her arms raised, fiddling with a wooden wind chime some of my fellow Road People had hung up outside their tent–not a tent, a lean-to, built against the bridge support beside the one I’d seen her disappear behind.

I clicked again, felt the satisfying tense and release of the shutter, herd its mechanical whisper. In this image, her hair falls back away from her ear, and you can see the tiniest of triangular points at the tip. The light draws one to look at her eyes, to take in how large they are, their slight almond shape, the brown that isn’t like normal, human brown; brown like the bark of some magically alive tree.

The way her arms are raised, her pure white garment falls all the way to her elbows.

Again, I make my way to her. This time she moves away, but does not disappear. She simply continues her journey through the village, stopping at this to examine, stopping at that to touch with the very tips of her fingers. She slow-dances past a shopping cart full of aluminum cans and runs a delicate finger over its outer edge, letting her gaze linger on it the way one might a particularly beautiful piece of art.

I finally catch up to her beside a van that someone has parked here under the bridge and is doubtlessly living out of. It is plastered with concert posters like wallpaper. Her fingers trail over a black and white one for an Irish Punk band out of Boston called the Dropkick Murphys. She traces the shape of the three-leave clover that acts as a backdrop behind a photo of the band themselves. The look of childlike wonder on her face makes me think she must be the band’s biggest fan.

I take one last picture, and finally I’m close enough to notice that her gown is so sheer, I can see everything through it. Everything. I’m facing her side. I can see the contours of her breast, perfectly round, and just barely pointing up at her nipple, which I can tell is soft pink. I can see the curve of her thigh traveling up to a secret spot between her legs. I can see enough to tell she shaves her pubic hair completely. I can see the round bubble of her but, almost independent of the rest of her.

After I’ve seen all this, after I’ve cataloged every perfect feature, after my mind takes mental snapshots of this ethereally beautiful woman, our eyes meet and I can tell she’s been taking stock me me too: the pervert with the camera halfway to his eye that’s staring at her the way a pit bull stares at meat.

I expected her to scowl or maybe even flip me off, but she smiled. Then, wonder of wonders, she waved me over.

In a trance, I walked closer. I would have dropped my camera, had it not been strapped around my neck.

As soon as I was within arms reach, she slid her arms up around my shoulders and pulled me in for a kiss. Her breath tasted like spring. Her lips were warm, pouty, wet.

“What’s your name?” I remember asking. For that, I got her index finger pressed against my lips and got to watch her brown eyes glitter with silent laughter and her mouth ease into a playful smile.

One hand still on my tricep, she reached behind herself with the other. I heard a pop and a squeak, and suddenly the van’s rear door was open: a dark cave scented with weed and patchouli.

She almost fell back, pulling me in on top of her.

You know how Alice falls through the rabbit hole?

We seemed to fall forever, tumbling through darkness without ever hitting solid ground, and when we landed–I landed on top of her, it wasn’t smelly ancient carpet or hard metal. It wasn’t anything. It was just soft.

We kissed again, her mouth opening to let my tongue explore as she fiddled with my zipper and belt. When I came up for air, I asked: “Is this your van?” Again, all I got was silent laughter.

I felt the muscles along my back tense as she gripped the weight inside my jeans. “I don’t–,” but I had to stop talking because she squeezed, short-circuiting my brain with pleasure.

Her gown, made of lacy, spider-webby stuff, seemed to glide up those perfect, milky thighs, up to her hips. My brain protested: stranger, condom, diseases, pregnancy.

But when a woman, a beautiful woman, the platonic form of women is pulling you inside her with something like urgency, it’s hard to say no.

Our first touch was perfect. Her soft lips gave way to me, her wet inner folds taking me in, already slick with her desire.

Inside her was hot, the way sunshine is when your skin is cold. She was purely pleasant, purely nice. Sex always feels good, but it doesn’t always feel right. Being inside her felt like being home.

I fell into a rhythm, slow and deep, trying for sensuality, wanting this to be “lovemaking” instead of fucking.

I don’t think she had the same thing in mind.

She bucked her hips like a jiujitsu fighter and we both went over to one side. Inside the van, without much space, I should have crashed into the side, or smashed against the floor. Instead, we just tumbled into switched places.

Suddenly, I was on my back and she was up above me, whipping her hair back and running her two braids through her thumbs and index fingers. A shift in her shoulders brought the gown low in front and she forced my hands to her breasts.

I squeezed her perfect globes and her hands around mine squeezed harder, showing me how she wanted her nipples played with. As she kept riding me, I got a little too eager, pinched a little to hard and she slapped the back of my hand with a tiny whip-crack of her hand. My eyes went wide. Hers did too, and her smile eased back into place. I laughed. I couldn’t do anything else.

Her hips were magic. They moved on their own and shifting speeds and always seemed to make me hit her mark. If I raised my hips, she’d press down hard, sending me deep. Each of these times her eyes would roll in pleasure for as long as we could take it.

I felt her cum–I’d never felt this before, not like this. Her muscles clenched me again, somehow squeezing more pleasure into me than I ever thought I was capable of. I was able to hold on through one round of that and she stayed still for a moment after, but only long enough for us both to catch our breath.

Then she stared rolling her hips again in the very next breath. Only now, she had lifted a little coaxing my cock along the soft wall of skin just behind the entrance.

So much sensation at the head and at the sensitive part just under.

I left one hand on her breast, and the other I buried in her hair, dragging her lips to hit my own. When we kissed, I came, shooting everything I had inside her, keeping her still as I pumped. The pulsing sensation of my cock must have been enough for her as well, because she made this ridiculously satisfied purr as her pussy squeezed around me one more time.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/58umjh/lilium_inter_spinas_mf_paranormal_modern_fae