Altared States

"I don't make love to you because I want a baby," he says. "I want a baby because I love you."

I have no response to that - would any woman? My eyes flutter closed again as he leans back in to renew our kiss, my hands resting on his doublet. Our tongues tangle - slipping, chasing, petting. I feel his hands return to my corset strings, renewing his effort to unlace them. My hands move up his chest to accommodate his arms. He makes quick work of the offending garment - keeping him from my naked flesh - pulling away from me for a moment to remove it.

His lips reach for my neck and I put my hands in his soft curls. He moves to my chest - never missing an opportunity to give my sensitive breasts attention - before continuing down, kissing my stomach before stooping on the floor at my feet. He buries his face where my legs join - breathing me in, sprinkling kisses. I feel my eyes flutter shut and my mouth drop open from the sensation of him adoring me. My head falls forward as his hand moves under my heavy skirts and encircles my ankle with his finger, my nails softly scratching his scalp.

The sensation is overwhelming. Every nerve-point in my body seems to be centered on my right ankle or the junction of my legs. I feel my wetness gathering in anticipation of him, my legs are already beginning to feel weak.

His hands move up my leg from my ankle to my calf, the tingles following his lazy path. He stops for a moment, his head pulling back from me. My eyes pop open at the loss of contact, focusing straight on his blue ones.

"Your skirts are too heavy for me to do this with you wearing them," he drolls, a smirk on his face. "I'll suffocate from the enjoyment."

"Enjoyment?" I breathe out.

"You think you're the only one that enjoys me doing this?" he chuckles, his voice low and seductive. Just his voice turns my insides to jiggling jam. He has moved his hand back up under my skirt, ghosting his fingers from my ankle to my calf. "No, I love watching you enjoy yourself, knowing I'm the one who gave you that feeling, senndind you to a place only I take you. But to do that this skirt first needs to come off. Then I think we should tie up your hair with your corset string," he continues reaching for my corset. "And why don't you take off your shoes and move over to the ledge."

"Francis!" I gasp, feeling my body flush. Looking over at the prayer altar in our chambers.

"What?" he cocks his brow. "We are very properly wed in the eyes of God and his Blessed Virgin. What we do in our marital bed - or out of it - is also blessed by God," he finishes with a smirk and a nod.

I take a few moments, contemplating his words. He's right - we are quite properly wed - and therefore what we do in the matters of procreation is wholly sanctified by God. This act, however, is not for the matter of procreation - only ecstasy and pleasure.

I hold out my hand for the corset string, unable to deny him anything - unable to deny myself the coming transportation. He grins in triumph, handing over the string and moving to undo my skirts and petticoat. "Make sure you tie it up well; we don't want your hair to catch fire."

I look over to the lit altar and pull my hair back, tucking it up and under a couple of times to make it shorter and wrapping the corset string around to hold it up. He makes quick work of my skirts, then reaches for my heeled shoes, to pull them off. I stretch my toes, to work out the soreness from being on my feet much of the day.

"Move and sit against the altar ledge," he directs again. I move - adding a swing to my hips as I walk - knowing he loves the way my uncovered body moves. I pull my blouse over my head, making sure not to jostle my tied-back hair. He deserves to see his favorite part of my body unencumbered while he makes me soar.

His love of my breasts is at times a bit confounding - the way he sneaks glances down my bodice while we're in public never ceases to amuse me. As if he hasn't now seen them uncovered every day since we wed - as if he didn't see them uncovered for a time quite often before we wed, even. If we weren't surrounded by so many people or lived here all alone, I think he might ask me to walk around topless just for his own enjoyment - if he thought I wouldn't mind. And perhaps during the summer heat I might not. I have a weakness for giving him whatever he desires.

He seems to like the tantalization and tease of my covered body as well, though, as he's the only one who truly knows what treasures lie beneath my clothes. It's not a coincidence that I began to wear more alluringly cut gowns when we became intimate, nor that I've returned to wearing ones since we wed.

I've wondered since I found out about him being with Lola, and even when he was with Olivia, if he loved their figures - breasts, uncovered legs and backsides, the swing of their uncovered hips - as much as he does mine.

I shove my doubt aside; they have no place between us. I've never doubted his fidelity or love at any time when we were fully committed to one another. Before or after we wed. What he did while we were apart is my own fault. I wouldn't listen to him when he begged me to marry him despite my fears, to live in the moment with him and savor every second we were granted - no matter how long or short.

Perhaps my unquickened womb is the punishment for my lack of belief in him and what we already had - for throwing away a love freely offered and given. He hadn't wanted to love me - yet he had - and I walked away, guided by fear. Perhaps his giving a child to Lola is also my punishment - the acceptance of it my penance. I fear keeping this secret might add to my soul's debts. Perhaps till I am fully honest with him, God won't grant me the gift of our child.

"Hey," he says, his voice cutting through my thoughts. He gathers me in his arms, burying his face in my hair. Without my court heels, he's so much taller than me - the way his arms and body wrap around mine are so much more consuming. It makes me feel so tiny and, even with his slenderness of youth so manly and strong. I could live every moment of my life in his arms quite easily and happily.

"No sadness here," he whispers in my ear, pulling at the lobe with his teeth. I hear my earring tinkle. "We will get beyond this; we will have a child - children - whom we can love and cherish. A family of our own. I'm not concerned and you shouldn't be either. It will happen for us in time. In God's time, even - which is the perfect time."

"I know," I try to smile. "I just..."

"I know you do," he nods, leaning in to kiss me. "But worrying yourself about it isn't going to make it happen any faster. We'll continue to love one another and make love and be grateful when it truly happens - I know it shall.

"Now," he pulls back and smirks. "Are you going to let me love and worship my wife or not?"

I sigh and chuckle; he's hard to say no to. Actually, he's impossible to say no to. I live to give him what he wants and, fortunately for me he lives for the same thing. If I ever forget, he's here to remind me - like filling our chambers with candles to signify he still wishes to court me or telling me to relax about producing an heir - that it's really about us and the love we share.

"Yes," I grin. I can't help myself when he calls me his wife; something inside me just melts. Perhaps because there was so long I thought I wasn't going to be the woman he called 'wife.' Similar to what he said to me earlier today when confessing about his encounter with Lola - that I t seemed like a distant dream for so long that it's now even more special. "I'm going to let you love and adore your wife and do what you will."

I check my hair to make sure it's secure and perch on the edge of the altar as he requested, my hands anchoring me since my toes barely touch the ground. He stands there for a moment, drinking me in - a smile slowly taking over his face. My stomach tightens up at his look - a slow perusal from head to toe then back up again. The crests of my breasts pebble, anticipating his touch and attention. I can feel the wetness begin to leak onto the tops of my thighs and rub them together to find a bit of relief.

"Beginning to have a problem there?" he asks, his smile turning to a grin. He finally moves toward me. "I think I know how to take care of that." His lips settle on mine. One hand slips under my hair and behind my neck, the other settling on a breast. He cups it first, feeling its weight, then covers it with his hand - kneading it gently before rolling the tip between two fingers and pinching down. I gasp at the sensation. His lips move to my jaw, sprinkling kisses as his fingers continue to mold, roll and pinch at my breast.

"Francis," I moan, my head falling back.

"Mmmmm, my love," he mumbles, licking down my neck, stopping to suck at where my neck and shoulder meet. "I think it would be better if your head fell forward," he says, pausing a moment, pulling on my neck with his free hand and keeping my hair out of danger before returning to his lips meandering trip downward to where I'm beginning to truly need his touch.

This isn't the first time he's done this to me - for me - but he seems to like taking longer each time he does it; torturing me with his slow, meandering manner of enjoying my body. I know he's speaking the truth when he says he enjoys this; I've felt his hardness when he's done so before. Somehow, giving me enjoyment and pleasure does the same for him.

His mouth moves across the blade of my shoulder, nipping and sucking as he goes. His hand falls from my neck as his hand moves to my other breast, giving them both the same attention; his mouth moving across the top of my chest and down, his teeth latching onto the tip of my breast and biting down before sucking the entire crest into his mouth, soothing the pain with his tongue.

He kneels, making space for himself between my legs. Francis de Valois - the future King of France - is on his knees before me. Before I can really think about that, his hand drops from my breast and goes straight between my legs. He circles my entrance with his fingers, flicking my sensitive nub - once, twice, three times - making me pull air in strongly through my nostrils. He dips first one, then two fingers inside of me. He pumps a couple of times and then withdraws, renewing his circling of my entrance and flicking my nub.

He continues his ministrations at my entrance as his head to moves away from my breast, traveling down my body with a trail of kisses and light nips. I feel his tongue circle my navel. "Put one leg on my shoulder to anchor yourself, and one hand on the other shoulder for balance," he suggests, looking up for a moment. His eyes look appearing glazed.

I do as he asks and it offers much more stability, opening me up to him. I put my other foot on the wall of the altar's inset - opening myself fully. I feel consumed, the trail of kisses he has left on my body, the puckering of the peaks of my breasts, the heat from all the candles at my back. I need to touch; I need to feel. I reach up with my free hand and cup my breast. Francis's nostrils flair, his eyes becoming hooded; he licks his lips.

I feel his fingers circling my entrance again, I fondle my breast peak, pinching its tip like he does. My hands don't feel the same I close my eyes and give myself over to touch and sensation of imaging my hand is his.

I feel his nose rub against my nub, back and forth - then his tongue flicks it, causing my body to jump. His entire tongue licks along my entrance, swiping my nub as he finishes. He does it again before burying his face against me, his tongue plunging inside. He sucks on my intimate lip as he pulls away again. He does this over and over again, pulling trembles and shakes from my body.

I feel myself rising toward that little moment of blackness and death that I yearn for. My hand moves to his head, gripping his hair. My breath comes in pants, the hand at my breast pinching down hard on its peak, my leg falling from the wall.

He plunges two fingers into me, his long fingers moving in and out. His lips and tongue return to my nub, sucking and flicking in turn. Just as I feel overwhelmed and over-sensitized, as if I can't take any more, his fingers pull along the front of me and find a spot only he knows - sending me over a precipice, my walls clamping down on his fingers; my legs squeezing his head; my hand yanking hard on his hair.

My body collapses as I feel my intimate lips continue to flutter around his fingers. My grip on his hair loosens and I soothe his head with light scratches from my nails. My legs relax around his head, my breathing slowly returning to a more normal rate with my heart.

My eyes flutter open, meeting the most beautiful blue eyes in the world. They radiate love for me, but there's also a self-satisfied glow that matches the smirk on his lips. His lips glisten with my wetness; he licks them clean with his tongue. His fingers withdraw from me, giving my nub one last flick. He smiles widely before his tongue reaches out to tidy his glistening fingers.

"You know why I enjoy doing that?" he asks when he's done. I shake my head - to tell him no, but also to clear it from the fuzziness brought about by my consuming fall. "Because, nothing in this world smells or tastes anything like your passion. It is delectable. It is a heady feeling to know it's all for me," he answers.

"Come here," I breathe huskily, pulling him up to me - I wrap my arms and legs around him. "Mmmm," I hum, devouring his mouth. I love tasting myself and him combined. My hands go to his doublet. He pulls back to undo the buckles and I reach for his breeches, freeing him into my hands - savoring his weight. He moans my name at the touch; he pulls off his shirt, pulling me into his bare chest.

I widen my legs to accommodate him, holding him close with my legs around his hips. I keep his hardness steady, guiding him into my wet warmth. We both emit quiet gasps and sighs at the feeling. Home. The one place where we each truly belong only to one another.

I look up and smile impishly. "Perhaps this is the moment we've been waiting for. We are wed, after all, and the Virgin looks upon us with her grace and love." I reach up to kiss him. "Perhaps tonight will lead to the quickening of my womb."

FIN

Endnotes:

1) as always thank you to Justcallmesmitty for offering her wonderful beta skills. Always, forever!
2) orgasm was known as "the little death" in earlier times. That's what Mary is referring to.
3) yes, I went there. Sue me. The show went there first!
4) thank you to Tessa for my icon for this story.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even a bit. I just like to play.

Comments and reviews are always welcome.