Irisa lay in her small bed, blanket pulled over her body, her soft skin, sensitive under her calloused fingers. His hands are as coarse as her own. She remembers the feel of them gliding over the small of her back during the ceremony, soothing the angle of her shoulders. She speculates how they would feel on her belly, rubbing gently, or stroking roughly. She debates which she would prefer as her own small hand mimics the moves she imagines he might make.
She wonders how his big hands would look against her small legs, her knees, her feet. She can almost feel his fingers ghosting over her skin, light feather touches over her thighs, gentle swipes of his thumb under her knee. Would he rub her feet? Tickle them softly, press his thumb into her instep, smile when she groaned. Press his large fingers between the tight spaces of her toes, tugging on them gently, then with more force. Cradle her tiny ankle in his massive hands, stroking her Achilles tendon while her eyes flutter shut, mouth open in a silent gasp.
She imagines his chest, the strength of it, the power, the coppery dark nipples, gleaming with sweat, hazy with smoke. She remembers the gentle warmth of being held in his arms, the scent of his affection as he pressed her close.
Nolan has held Irisa in a fatherly embrace, comforted her with steadfast paternal warmth. Sukar's arms did not hold her with familial grace. They held her with the force of a man holding a woman. They held her with intent that was far more intimate than comforting. Irisa knows the difference in the way it feels, the way it smells when her skin touches his.
She glides her fingers under her nightshirt, over her belly. She draw circles of arousal around her swollen breasts, pauses to pinch her nipples lightly at first and then harder, and then harder still. Would Sukar use his fingertips or his mouth on her nipples? His beard and mustache might tickle or they might scrape. Would he stay there, with her, licking, biting, pinching, pulling at her breasts until she panted her desire to his waiting ears?
She remembers the shape of his mouth, hidden under the brown fur of facial hair. She would like to run her fingers over his lips, tug on his beard, scratch her nails through the thick hair, over his chin. Offer her own mouth up to his, kiss him harsh and strong, and then let him gentle her down to soft and caressing.
She wants to dance her tongue over the scar bisecting his face. Longs to trace her tongue through the delineation between smooth perfect skin and the jagged evidence of an Irathient warrior's pride. She wants to know the taste of his scar on her tongue so she can compare it to the taste of her own scars, the ones she wears under her skin. He wears his boldly, without shame. She wants to follow his example and wear her own with equal daring. Battle scars proclaiming her survival, her warrior's spirit.
His fuzzy green jacket captures her senses. She longs to rub her face in it, feel the feathery softness against her cheek, her eyelids, immerse her nose in the sharp, musky scent of Sukar and the wilderness through which he travels.
Nolan smirks over the green jacket, calling it muppet skin and laughing out loud at his own joke. Irisa has never seen a muppet, but if she did, should would hunt it down and skin it just to see Nolan so happy. But this isn't about Nolan, this is about Sukar; about his hands, his body, about what he could make her own body feel. About what he already makes her feel.
She pictures Sukar in her mind's eye. Standing proudly in his muppet fur and warrior's armor. Her eyes are closed, hands drifting lower, digging into the heated moisture between her legs, both hands working fiercely to pull herself into her fantasy. She would undress Sukar if she could. Remove his top hat, his leather helmet. Rub her hands over the head she imagines might be free of hair completely. She would unlace his neck guard, unbuckle his armor, remove his wrist braces. Run her hands over the strength of his arms. Lick the curves and divots of the muscles on his back. Observe the glisten of sweat on his skin as he stands over her—spiritual leader and soldier bound in a twisted harmony of strength.
Her imagination turns towards his legs, covered with dark red leggings. She wonders if it's the same color as his arousal when it's erect, leaking precum, bulging with determination. She might even taste it on her tongue, add it the catalog of senses so she can immerse herself in everything he is, he might be.
She focuses her attention on his legs, skin stretched out over taut muscle, envisions his feet with long powerful toes. Would he let her fingers press themselves into the gaps? Would he let her lick them, suckle them into her mouth, swirl her tongue into the spaces in between, fill them with her longing, her appreciation for the steady strength they lend his presence, allowing him to stand firmly, supporting his warrior's stance.
Irisa drags one of her hands to her mouth, laps at her own wetness there, imagines they were his fingers instead of her own. She would swallow them down, caress them with her tongue.
Her mind wanders up Sukar's legs, to the pleats of his kilt, black and red oilskin, brashly detailing his masculine pride. She yearns to explore the folds of his kilt, discover exactly what he's hidden under the ragged leather of his sporran. She would run her hands over the curve of his buttocks, testing the muscles as they flex for her pleasure. She would press them closer, urge him inside her.
She imagines him in the bath, sky-clad, water-clad, all bright skin and slippery soap. She could bathe him, pry her tiny fingers into all of his cracks and crevices, rooting out the dirt and debris from the road. Then she would rinse him, lay him out and lick him dry, paying special attention to all the spots that made him writhe or shiver.
Her own hands make her shiver even now. One ghosting from nipple to nipple, pinching hard enough to make her grit her teeth. The other hand strokes and tugs between her legs, causing her legs to shake, her breath to pant. She presses, rubs, pinches harder, faster. Sunshine glows low in her belly, sparkles up her spine and bursts from head in a pressing wave of pleasure and bright relief.
Irisa lays back in her small bed, legs spread, eyes open, mouth gulping air.
"Irisa!" Nolan's voice is deep, concerned. "You okay in there?"
Quickly Irisa pulls down her nightshirt and up her blanket.
"Fine Nolan." she calls.
He's around the corner, closer to her bed. "I was worried you were having nightmares. You called out in your sleep."
"No." She answers simply. "No nightmares."
Nolan reaches down to ruffle her hair. "All right kid. Try to get some more sleep."
She snuggles down into her bed and wonders when she will next see Sukar. When the Spirit Riders will again visit Defiance. When she can see him, feel him, scent him again. She falls asleep absorbed in the tactile memories of his effect upon her senses.
Authors Note:
I don't know much about Irathient culture, but I decided to make feet an errogenous zone for them. This is my reasoning: In the military the higher-ups spend a lot of time teaching recruits how to take care of their feet because feet are pretty important to a soldier and it's easy to ignore them in the heat of battle. If you don't take care of your feet though, you can literally cripple yourself and your unit and all the people relying on you for support. So feet are a small piece of the body, but they are really super important for warriors. I mean just think of the myth of Achilles' heel. Also, on the spiritual side of things, IN some religions participants go barefoot before their God(s) because one is humble before one's god, as evidenced by vulnerable feet. As an example I'm thinking of Moses taking off his shoes before approaching the burning bush in the Christian old testament. Also, if the Earth is our mother and we should tread gently upon her, then it makes sense to me that we would meet our spiritual mother with naked feet. So, extrapolating from these two ideas and knowing that the Irathients are both deeply spiritual and fiercely aggressive fighters, as well as tribal in nature, it seems to me that their feet would take on more cultural significance than they would, say in conventional American culture. Also, Sukar seems like such a steady character to me, it was easy to see his feet as the foundation of his strength.
Lastly, a kilted warior with naked feet—Is there anything tastier?