Oren's Right Solstice Vignette by Blaine D. Arden
It was quiet when I entered Oren's dwelling—our dwelling. The only thing that betrayed Oren's presence was the slight hint of cinnamon coming from the kitchen. Oren started taking some buns home for breakfast the moment I moved in with him. He'd have them warmed up and shining with butter every single morning, kneeling next to the bed as he waited for me to wake up. Unless I slept in. Then they'd be sitting on a tray that was spelled to keep the buns warm.
I hung my cloak on a peg in the hall and toed off my muddy boots before walking into the kitchen, but Oren wasn't there. My heart sped up, and I crossed the kitchen in no time, stopping in the archway to the living room. Oren kneeling next to my chair—one of the few of my possessions that I'd brought with me when I moved in—warmed my heart and made me smile. How could it not? The way he sat as he waited for me to arrive—heels pressing into his firm buttocks, the artwork on his back on display, his visibly relaxed bearing—was exquisite. It never ceased to amaze me how gorgeously at ease Oren looked when he was waiting for orders... from me.
He must have heard me, but he didn't turn his head or acknowledge my presence, not until I sat down. Of course, I couldn't pass up an opportunity to ruffle his messy curls, knowing it would make him smile. That, and I loved the feel of them between my fingers, silky and ticklish. Oren was holding a mug—spelled warm, judging from the steam rising from it—and lifted it up as I settled into my chair.
"Thank you," I said, wincing as my voice broke the gentle quiet. But Oren just smiled, his sky blue eyes brimming with joy, and sat back on his heels. Taking in the smell of the strong, dark, rogge tea, I blew across the mug to cool it a bit and enjoyed the view.
As usual, I was drawn to the design just above Oren's heart—my design—right next to Haram's. I'd kept it small so as not to diminish the significance of Haram's brand—his name in the ancient script of the first tree-elves. Mine showed two leaves, like the ones on my thigh, portraying the letter V with a heart set in between them and a small O at the bottom of the V. The leaves symbolized the Chantus tree, the oldest and biggest tree in the village I was born in. Tending a tree as old as our Chantus was an honor amongst Foresters.
That design had been the first I'd offered Oren the day after his mourning period ended. Merely thinking of Oren's reactions, Oren's craving and obvious enjoyment as I cut it into him, still made me smile. Even though I'd added two more since then, I'd never forget that first one. Taking Oren afterwards had been the sweetest moment of my life.
The recollection of how he'd looked, bound to the kitchen table, made me lower my gaze to Oren's cock flaccidly nestled on top of his heavy balls and hanging freely in the position he was in. It was always soft when Oren was serving me, soft and relaxed. Though seeing Oren like this never failed to arouse me, for Oren there was nothing sexual about serving me. His subservience was part of who he was and brought him a different kind of satisfaction. I reminded myself every day what a privilege it was to see him like this.
I finished my tea and lowered the mug. Oren immediately grabbed it before rising elegantly and taking it into the kitchen. He didn't return immediately, and I leaned my head back to rest my eyes for a moment. My last tree today had been a particularly stubborn one. Soon, wonderful smells wafted into the room—basil, parulm bark, tomatoes. My stomach grumbled.
A hand on my knees made me open my eyes.
«Dinner's ready in an hour,» Oren signed before kneeling beside my chair once again.
He grabbed my favorite book from the low table next to him and presented it to me. I smiled as I took and opened it where I'd left off, but didn't start reading right away. I wanted to enjoy the view in front of me a bit longer. Not too long, because an hour until dinner meant an hour of growing unbearably hard unless I distracted myself by reading. To Oren, it meant an hour of tranquility; an hour of sitting beside me, my hand in his hair, obeying my every command.
In the beginning, I made the mistake of leaving him kneeling next to me without giving him something to do. He already took care of all the household chores. That would be enough, wouldn't it?
It wasn't. I'd woken up one night without Oren plastered against me, and he rarely woke up once he slept. I'd found him in the kitchen, mindlessly kneading dough that he'd left to rise when we'd gone to bed. He'd turned around when I asked him to come back to bed, shoulders slumped and looking at his hands rather than at me. I'd barely opened my mouth to ask what was wrong when he'd raised his hands and fixed his gaze on me. His hands had fluttered too fast for me to understand what exactly he was saying. It didn't really matter. His slumped shoulders, the way his hands moved, even without the words, I'd understood him perfectly. In the six moons since, I'd learned to save up all sorts of tasks for him, tasks I'd never before thought to leave for someone else to do.
So, while I read, Oren cleaned my boots, brought me water, mended a tunic or two, and answered a letter from my sisters—Oren's handwriting was so much neater than mine, not to mention that my sisters liked the little anecdotes he added to the letters—and all while he was kneeling next to my chair with my hand tangled in his curls.
By the time Oren finished the letter, the hour was almost up, and he rose, elegantly as ever, and trod off to the kitchen to put on a tunic and set the table. I looked up from my book to admire his gorgeous body as he walked away, suppressing the urge to adjust my cock in my trousers. Oren knew how he affected me, of course he did, but no matter what, I'd have to wait until after our meal. A meal on the night of the winter Solstice to celebrate our vows and honor those who attended the Circle tonight, like Oren's sister, Ajuna.
With a sigh, I focused my attention back to my book and finished the chapter I'd been attempting to read. As I closed the book and waited for Oren to come fetch me, my mind drifted to things to come.
Carved in Flesh
Blaine is a purple haired, forty-something, writer of gay romance with a love of men, music, mystery, magic, fairies, platform shoes, and the colours black, purple, and red, who sings her way through life. Blaine can be found on blainedarden.com, twitter, facebook, and goodreads. Blaine's books are available at Storm Moon Press, Amazon, and Are
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