Hello! 😊
I would like to make a request about this collection of works.
While I appreciate that everybody has different tastes when it comes to reading fanfic, and everyone is absolutely entitled to leave comments that express any frustrations or dissatisfactions with a story, I would just like to make it clear that these stories have a sexual nature. The reason I mention this is because, in the past, I've read negative comments, on both my work and that of other writers, criticising the genre of smut-related fan-fiction. It's good to remember that while some people do not like this style of story, others do, and it's important to respect everyone's preferences. If, therefore, you do not like smutty stories, I strongly suggest that you do not read these, or those written by others, if your intention is simply to leave a negative comment to voice your general distaste of the genre. I'm sure there are other stories that will better suit your own reading wants.
Thank you. 😊
This story contains mild-medium smut.
A STUDY OF SKIN
A study of skin. That is the best way to describe it.
4 months.
19 weeks.
133 days.
3,192 hours.
191,520 minutes.
11,491,200 seconds.
That is how long they had been married.
That is how long they had been man and wife.
That is how long they had been Mr and Mrs John Thornton.
That is how long they had been lovers, united in the flesh.
That is how long they had been allowed to touch each other, without restraint, without reservation, only with reverence.
As a gale howled outside, the wind battered the barricades, and the rain snaked down the window, John and Margaret lay in bed, oblivious to the world around them, simply lost in their own clandestine utopia.
Draped in a cocoon of blankets, their naked bodies were interlocked like an intricate puzzle, for it was not clear where one person ended, and another began. With a leg here and an arm there, a foot to the left, a knee to the right, a calf up, and an elbow down, their limbs were interlaced, intertwined, interwoven in an ardent tangle, a topsy-turvy of two Thorntons.
Since their wedding day, they had never worn their nightclothes - not once. The garments stayed neglected in their drawers, destined to remain unused. They had both spent every night entirely nude, each exposed before the other. That is, it was not that they made love every night – Wait! – No! – That is not the right way to put it. They did make love every night, but not always in that way. No, they made love each and every night without fail, because to John and Margaret, each breath, each word, each sound, each taste, each smell, and each touch that was imparted was a declaration of their fondness, friendship, faithfulness, and fervour.
Illuminated by no more than a sparse spattering of blinking candles, all of which quivered in the chilly air, casting mystic silhouettes on the walls, the couple merely gazed at each other, smiling in the secret understanding of one another. It was funny to think that John and Margaret had both known many people in their lives, people who had shared familiar moments with them and intimate bonds that predated their own. Parents, siblings, friends. Yet despite all this, there was nobody in the whole wide world who knew John Thornton better than Margaret Hale, and there was nobody who knew Margaret Hale better than John Thornton. In fact, neither of them comprehended themselves half as well as their spouse understood them. It was a tie of mutual respect and admiration. It was not just that they appreciated each other's personalities, habits, merits, flaws, dreams, talents, or anxieties. No, it was that they knew each other in a far more trusted way…by their skin.
As they lay on their sides, they each proffered a hand to the other, which was then resolutely clasped, their linked fingers playfully stroking at the long digits and ridged knuckles. They looked in wonder as John's larger hand encased Margaret's smaller one, like a protective shell, keeping them both safe. At the same time, their free hands did not remain idle, but drifted, ghosting every curve, every contour, every slope, and every dip of each other's bodies, making a study of anatomy. As their hands roamed, it was like an explorer charting an exotic terrain, learning each rise and fall of every portion of land, mapping it out, discovering more of this distinct place, this babe that had been birthed by Mother Nature.
Tracing the summary of their corium, with every patch of velvet smoothness or rough coarseness, they both now recognised each other's skin better than their own. He could find the scar behind her left knee from when she had fallen off a pony aged six. She could distinguish the healed lesion on his right palm, that he had acquired aged twenty-three, when he had been cut by a faulty machine, for his hands were marked and rugged after many years of toil. He could feel that little nib at the back of her neck where when he rubbed it, she writhed under a cluster of tingling nerves. And she could detect that place among his toes, that when she tickled the hairs hidden there, he laughed more heartily than she ever imagined he could.
Both John and Margaret had felt sorely frustrated during their engagement. That is, they were both jubilant to be betrothed at last, to finally have their love mirrored so wholeheartedly by the one they cherished more than life itself. Nonetheless, at the same time, they were equally overwhelmed by a longing, no, a need to be as close to each other as possible. It was not just a lascivious want, for their attachment was not as crude or limited as that, but it was the offspring of something more celestial, a necessity to become as one in every conceivable way.
Physically. Emotionally. Sexually. Divinely.
More than once, John had daydreamed about whisking Margaret away to Gretna Green and getting married before sunset, then smugly returning to Milton as newlyweds. Moreover, on two occasions, he had come very close indeed to suggesting the idea to her, even readying some of his things in the morning, just in case she agreed. However, his courage had failed, and he had appreciated that in the long term, getting married "properly" was probably for the best. Neither he nor Margaret could claim to be the most conventional of characters, but their families would be disappointed not to share in their happiness, and it was not fair to expect them to bear the brunt of any speculative scandal that might arise. Besides, their engagement was an extremely succinct one, still, in his grouchier moments, John grumbled that it was not short enough. It just did not help that where his mind was rational, his manhood was ravenous. If only he had discerned that she too was struggling with the same temptation, that she would gladly have snuck away with him and boarded a train bound for elopement, he would have carted her off in an instant – to hell with being a gentleman!
Then, finally, it happened. They married. And all impediments were removed in the eyes of both man and God.
On their wedding night, John had been staggered by the intensity of his nerves. He had postponed for so long, that he assumed that when the time ultimately came, he would be raring to go. He had waited not only to sleep with the woman he loved but to lie with any woman, rendering him more than willing to get on with it. Heck, he had spent most of the day glancing at the clock, impatiently questioning when his irritating guests would leave so that he could be alone with his bride. As a man who was accustomed to being in control, of being endowed with strength and supremacy, John had always assumed that when he eventually took Margaret to his bed - their bed - that he would be prepared, that he would be assured, that he would be competent even. However, he could not have been more wrong.
For all his bravado of might, dignity and authority, John had found that on his wedding night, he was utterly terrified. He could not quite define what it was that he was anxious about. Afraid that she would not be ready? Afraid that he might seem too eager? Afraid that she would find his physique repulsive? Afraid that she would faint with fright at the sight of foreign parts of his person? Afraid that his language would be too lewd? Afraid that he did not know what to do? Afraid that he would not be able to answer her questions? Afraid that he may appear inept? Afraid that he would not meet her expectations? Afraid that he might discharge himself prematurely? Afraid that he could not please her? Afraid that he might hurt her? Afraid…just afraid that she would think less of him.
Once they had retired to their bed chamber and all barriers, all boundaries of society and space had been rendered redundant, granting them the freedom they coveted to consummate not only their marriage, but their love, instead of rushing forth, John had frozen. He had stood on the spot as still as a statue, just staring at her like a halfwit. She had been so beautiful in the sparkling gown that she had worn the night he had come to tea, almost appearing like the Queen of the fairies. He had thought her like a bride that night, but little had he known that she truly would be a bride in that dress, his bride. In the dim candlelight of the midnight hour, she had shimmered, glittering like a gift composed just for him. He wanted so much to unwrap his present ─ God knows how much he wanted to ─ but he was paralysed by panic. She was so lovely, and he, well he was so unworthy.
But much to his amazement, it had been Margaret who had taken charge of the situation and come to him. She had sensed his insecurity and like the angel she was, she had gracefully glided to his side, pausing before him and smiling up with such adorable tenderness that he thought he might give way to tears.
Taking his hand in hers, she had quietly led him over to the bed, where standing tall, she lightly placed his trembling hands on her waist and nodded, indicating that she was granting her permission for him to commence the next chapter of their relationship. She was bestowing her husband with her consent, her blessing to undress his wife.
With fumbling fingers, John had slowly removed each layer of her apparel, gradually revealing more and more of her enticing form. First her hairpins, then her jewellery, then the sash he had made her, then her wedding dress, then her corset, then her stockings, then her drawers, and finally, her chemise. She had stayed motionless, indulgently allowing him to proceed, her laboured breathing the only sign that she appreciated the significance of the event. At long last, she was disrobed, and she stood before him, as naked as Eve in the Garden of Eden.
John gulped, unable to quite believe what he was witnessing. It would not do to describe what he beheld in too much detail, for there are no words that can vividly express his wonder at her charm, nor his love or lust for this darling woman. Needless to say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and for John Thornton, Margaret was the definition of beauty, her figure and her nature uncorrupted by anything so mortal as a flaw. Her body was tantalisingly formed, with her hips, breasts, and bottom rising and falling like waves. With her chestnut hair cascading down in luscious locks, the lazy ends curled over one of her plump nipples, almost as if it knew that he would surely go blind if he were sanctioned an unhindered sight of her exquisiteness. His eyes had flitted to the dusting of hair between her thighs and his heart had pounded in his chest, for he urgently aspired to sink to his knees and bury his head there, but not now, that would have to wait. He had stared, he knew he had, it had been hard not to, which, in itself, had made him hard. But he tried to be considerate and forced his eyes to return to her face, her lovely, lovely face.
He too had begun to strip off his groom's garb with the help of his astonishingly calm wife. He had undressed more times than he could count, but tonight, he felt oddly unmasked, as if he were harsher and more hideous than he had ever realised. His limbs were infuriatingly gangly, and he felt too towering, too broad, too angular in every way. It did not help that a part of him felt constricted, poking out and begging to be freed. It knew she was there, it could sense her presence and proximity, and it was pleading to be introduced to the pretty lady it had fantasised about for so long.
First Margaret removed his shoes, then his socks, then his cravat, then his jacket, then his watch, then his waistcoat, then his shirt, then his trousers, until he too was as naked as Adam in the Garden of Eden. John felt marginally envious that she had been fashioned with more tiers and trinkets than he, meaning that she had been given more time to grow accustomed to the prospect of her impending starkness and vulnerability. Still, if she had been shy, then she did not show it, for with her bare body brushing against John's own stiffening one, Margaret constantly peered into his eyes with unswerving conviction as she uncovered him.
He had been tormented by dread, worried that she would be displeased with him, for how in the name of God could he compete with her? She was so damned irresistible. With all her allure, with all her appeal, he was unsightly in comparison. It was like expecting an angel to desire a gargoyle. Nevertheless, as her travelling gaze took him in, all of him, she just smiled serenely, but she did not blush, much to his disbelief. With starry eyes, she reached up and kissed him adoringly, just once, and in that second, all his fears vanished, for he knew that he had not only secured her approval, but her unconditional affection. He could tell she had an abundance of questions on the tip of her tongue, but for whatever reason, she held back, and if John was honest, he was grateful, for he worried that he had lost the ability to form words. Without him needing to ask, Margaret walked away, and with elegant grace, lay on the bed, waiting for him to join her. Gawking at her erotic, yet seamlessly innocent figure, he knew that she was inviting him to have her, all of her.
Their first time together was not one of penny-dreadful assignations, sullied by vulgar impulses and farmyard urges. No, it was altogether much more self-conscious. They had spent a great deal of time cautiously learning each other's bodies, their hands hesitantly skimming here and there. It was as if they were trespassing, but they had to remind themselves that they were not, they were invited. They were still not quite assured enough to touch where they yearned to, where their fingers, mouths, lips, and tongues craved to ramble. After many tender kisses and caresses, John had climbed on top of her, gently nudging her knees apart and settling between her thighs. With their eyes locked on each other in silent reassurance, he had done it, he had entered her. Slowly but surely, he urged his inches further in, steadily filling her, progressively but patiently breaching her virginal channel. His whole being had throbbed at the novel feeling, the sensational bliss of her tightness and wetness sheathing him. He had stilled and become rigid, his body threatening to split under the potency of the gratification that surged through him from head to toe. God! - she was indescribable, and she was his, all his, just as surely as he was hers.
But John's heart had broken at the sight of Margaret's scrunched eyes, the impression of her body tensing beneath his, and the sharp sound of her gasping for air. She was in pain. He had halted instantly and nuzzled his nose against her hair. Whispering words of comfort, he had asked if she wished him to withdraw, insisting that they could cease for the night and try again another day. However, she had shaken her head and resolutely encouraged him on. John had acquiesced, for her wish was his command, but he had been acutely wary of being too rough or forceful with her. Even though every fibre of his body screamed out for him to thrust into her with the power that he knew he entertained in every muscle, the loving husband in him knew he should not, could not, would not. He unwaveringly refused to let the animal in him abuse her.
Their coupling had been all too brief, which he supposed was natural, albeit embarrassing, given the fact that his body was overwhelmed by the euphoria of not only the sensation of having sex for the first time, but of having had sex with Margaret. He was vain in the knowledge that he would be the one and only man ever sanctioned to saturate and satisfy her with his seed. Out of all the lucky fellows in the world, she had chosen him. Likewise, she was the only woman he would ever lie with, the only woman whom he would sink into the depths of, the only woman he would ever make love to. It was wonderful to trust that they now knew each other in a way that was privileged to them, in a way that nobody else ever would. The outside world may be public, with everyone scrutinising their every turn, but this, here, in their bedroom, this was a personal paradise, their own little corner of Heaven.
Panting, John had placed his perspiring forehead against Margaret's and with a strangled voice, had merely whispered: 'Oh! – To touch you!'
When he had left her, John had been startled to sense a dampness soaking the sheets between them. Glancing down, he found a strange combination of her maidenly blood and his semen, a testimony that they were lawfully and religiously bound in flesh. She was officially his, and he was officially hers. Still, as pleasant a thought as that was, they both knew that they had never needed a marriage certificate, a wedding band, or a shared end to their virginity to validate their relationship. For let it be known that John and Margaret had, unknown to them, belonged to each other from the first moment they met, the second that their spheres collided. In that instant, their souls had connected, their spirits correlated, and their hearts coupled, discovering their one true companion.
Resting her head on his chest, they had embraced, allowing their heaving bodies to calm. Lightly stroking each other's arms, they had drifted off into a harmonious sleep, content in the realisation that they need never be parted again.
For Margaret, the prospect of their first night together had not frightened her, and that in itself had shocked her. She wondered why she had not been scared. She pondered whether it was due to denial, a refusal to face the reality of the approaching agony she must endure to fulfil her wifely duty. But it was not that. It was that she was secure in the understanding that despite his stern exterior, John was the gentlest of men, and he would not intentionally hurt her, not for anything.
It was true that she had previously been plagued by trepidation in the days before her wedding, but it was not about the thought of pain, well, not entirely. She could not quite define what it was that she was anxious about. Afraid that she would not behave appropriately? Afraid that she would seem too keen? Afraid that he would think her ugly? Afraid that she would seem stupid? Afraid that she would ask too many questions? Afraid that she could not please him? Afraid that she would be boring? Afraid that he would regret her? Afraid…just afraid that he would think less of her.
However, any distress she may have harboured had been dispelled by the subject they had discussed only the other day. John had come to her with endearing awkwardness, plainly uncomfortable, utterly unsure of how to start. He had cleared his throat, rocked on the balls of his feet, examined the carpet, and had inelegantly broached the matter of their wedding night. Margaret had flushed, of course she had, for such conversations were not permitted. Sensing her discomfiture, John had lurched forwards, brought her into his arms, and continued with his lumbering speech, his stammering words desperately trying to appease her.
With faltering oration, John had explained that he wished to assure her that she should not worry about their first night together, that it must not blemish their happy wedding day like some sort of looming dread, for he would wait, he would wait as long as she needed him to. With a serious and unsteady voice, he had admitted that he wanted her, that he wanted to take her to his bed. But he had solemnly vowed that this was all he would ask of her, that she would purely accompany him to their marriage bed to sleep, just to sleep, but that all else could be delayed until she felt ready. It was then, in that instant, that all fear had faded away into nothing. If there was discomfort, then it would be fleeting, and it would be inconsequential in comparison to the exultation they would share. Margaret had peeked up at John with fluttering eyelashes and rosy cheeks, before coyly confessing that she did not wish to wait, but that she too dearly wanted him to take her to his bed. Slipping from the room in mortification, she had not stayed long enough to see the grin that had overhauled the master's typically grumpy face.
When the time finally came and all the guests had departed, John had wordlessly offered his hand to her, and in companionable silence, they had gone upstairs. Margaret had been amazed to find that it was John who was apprehensive, his stress distorting his agitated features. When they arrived at the bedroom, it was he who stood back and stiffened, as if fixed to the spot. As she spun, taking in this inner sanctum of her new home, he had watched her, his eyes following her with undisguised devotion and desire. In spite of this, the stories she had heard of hasty husbands tearing at their wives' clothes must have been an invention, for it was she who had to go to John's side and encourage him to begin the task of confiscating her gown and garments. As he took his time, blundering with buttons, fastenings, and stays, it was Margaret who held in a breath of exasperation, rashly willing him to hurry up, for she wanted him to sample her, and she wanted to sample him in return.
When he too was free of his wardrobe, she was pleasantly astounded by the results. John was so incredibly beautiful. He was strong, supple, and beguilingly splendid. It was not that in itself that surprised her, for she already knew he was unreasonably handsome, it was that she could not have predicted how pleasing she would find his whole being. His body was crafted and moulded faultlessly, with every area carved with such magnificent artistry. She had not known what she expected the male form to look like in person, for she had only ever seen it in representation, but she had not appreciated just how attractive and fascinating it would be. She had so many questions, so many things she wanted to know, but for now, she would wait, for it did not feel like the right moment, besides, darling John seemed to have been rendered speechless. She had to restrain herself, for her hands voluntarily crept forward, edging nearer to his body, for she was dying to touch him, to investigate this mesmerising sculpture that seduced each and every one of her senses. Margaret could only hope and pray that John found her equally bewitching and absorbing. Still, gazing at the glory of his physique and profile, she sincerely doubted it.
Without waiting for his request, Margaret had boldly gone to the bed, fighting back the compulsion to hide beneath the covers. Reclining, she had melted into the silken sheets that cooled her heated skin, pacifying the fire that raged through her. She felt strange, like she was being indecent, but she did not mind, for she was ready, she was summoning him, luring him even.
Their first time had been incomprehensible. It had hurt. But she did not care. He was kind and in return, she was brave. It had surprised her how large he was, down there. She could not understand where such a thing could come from, for she wondered where it could be concealed beneath clothes when he was out and about. Even more, it had astonished her how he had managed to fit inside her. It had not been effortless. He had been obliged to push. She could feel him cramming her. It was like trying to pack something substantial into a very small and taut chasm. She could feel her body responding of its own accord as if it instinctively knew what to do. Her legs had spread, her hips had tilted, her back had arched, her muscles had contracted, and her passage had expanded. It was like it was waking up for the first time. It felt like her opening knew him, like it was expecting him, like it was welcoming him home. Margaret had imagined that it would feel indecent to separate her legs and allow a man to nestle there, it went against everything she had been taught as a maiden, yet somehow, it felt strikingly natural, as if it were where John belonged. Again, it was novel to have someone bearing down on top of her, most notably a man. His body was colossal and sturdy, and it was remarkable to think that he could crush her at any moment if he wished to, that he had that dominance, that strength, yet at the same time, she was not afraid, for he was her gentle giant, her John.
It seemed as if they had hardly begun, then suddenly, John stopped, unexpectantly turning rigid. He let out a rasping roar, his growl almost like that of a beast. If Margaret concentrated, she felt certain she could feel something warm spurting inside her inlet. Then, with that, it was over, they had done it, they had lain together as husband and wife for the first time, ceremoniously sealing the covenant of their marriage.
After it was finished, they had lain together, simply holding each other, their bodies melded by their dripping sweat. They had both been shaking slightly, but John had drawn her to him and held her tight, soothing her body into a sense of security. They did not need to say anything, for the act they had just performed, the sacred deed they had just shared had spoken for them. John had positioned her head against his chest, and she had listened to the rhythmical thrum of his heart. With her fingertips, she tapped out the steady beat on his torso, warmed by the certainty of its tempo. It was constant. It was loyal. And it beat for her alone.
It was several hours later that Margaret had awakened, alerted by the hiss of the perishing fire. In the darkness, she had startled somewhat, unsure as to where she was, why she was nude, and what it was that weighed down on her abdomen like a tree branch. She had poked it, flinching as she felt a warm and hairy arm, which held her firmly in its grip. She had turned her head and there he was. John, her husband, was wide awake, just watching her sleep. Even in the blackness that surrounded them, she could see him, she could feel his adoring eyes on her. She had asked what he was doing and with a humble and husky tone, he had conceded that he was not tired, so he had been regarding her for some time, simply lost in the veneration of her perfection, in awe of the fact that she was here with him in their bed, slumbering, naked, and his wife.
After the pair had exchanged a few demure smiles and sniggers, he had rolled on top of her once more, his muscular frame covering her own slender one. With their tongues licking each other with increasingly frantic longing, his lips had begun to sketch a trail from her mouth down to her breasts, his moist kisses igniting blissful sensations that poured through her veins. Her legs had intuitively spread and then, there he was again, penetrating her. With care, he delicately but determinedly stuffed himself inside and she found herself stretching to accommodate his girth.
But this time it was different. This time it was not clumsy, but much more confident, as he slipped in and out of her with smooth adeptness. There was no ache, only joy. In the obscurity of shadows, they could hear each other. He seemed to grunt while she gasped. As it continued and his pace escalated, he groaned while she moaned, his vigour mounting as she grew ever more self-assured and voluble with her appreciative noises. Then, the oddest thing happened. They both, at the same time, without knowing why, began to breathe each other's name, repeating them over and over again, steadily getting louder. It was as if they were asking each other a question, as if they sought to understand this building pressure inside them, this ballooning of pleasure. It was so new, so confusing, yet so wonderful. But it was more than a question. Saying each other's name was an act of worship. When he plunged into her for the final time that night, they both let out a peculiar sound as she screamed while he shouted, their guttural cries signalling their climax. Rubbing noses, they both giggled, grasping and celebrating the fact that they would never be the same again.
Breathless, Margaret had placed her sweltering temple against John's and with a throaty voice, had merely whispered: 'Oh! – To touch you!'
Four months.
That is how long they had been lovers.
Over the past one hundred and thirty-three days, they had explored each other in all manner of tentative places, testing their boundaries, and more importantly, ascertaining the horizons, the frontiers of their passion. They had not just mated in their bed. No, they had swived against the wall. On the floor. On a chair. In his study. In the bath. On their dining table. In the drawing room. In his office. But the where, when, how, or what was of no consequence. All that mattered was who and why, and that was between them.
As they curled up together on this night, hauling the blankets more snugly around them, they both thought about how fortunate they were that their hands were permitted to wander across the canvas of God's most glorious creation. Their fingertips slid along the glossy sleekness of arms, spines, legs, breasts, necks, stomachs, backs, feet, hair, knees, thighs, and faces. It was like decoding, deciphering the dermis of their beloved partner in life.
Margaret reddened as she ran her finger along the line of a deep scratch that outlined John's shoulder. His body was covered in grazes and bruises, all of her making, all caused by her nails as she dug into him for support when he drove into her, or by her hands and feet as she slapped or kicked him, each mark a desperate bid to mask the cries of pleasure that she tried to suppress, lest she disturb the whole household. For John, he wore them with honour, a reminder that he could gratify his fine southern wife and propel her to the edge of madness with his ardour.
John smirked as his finger traced a path over her hip bone, his digit dropping into a groove where the pressure of his hold from their coupling earlier had left a small, temporary indent. Tenderly grabbing her side, he pulled her nearer, dragging her closer to him, for he could never get close enough to her, no matter how hard he tried. His finger followed along her buttocks, her breasts, her cheeks, always craving more of her. He chuckled at the sight of a minuscule welt in the hollow of her neck, a mark that he had accidentally made when his zeal had overtaken him and he had sucked and nipped at her more enthusiastically than was perhaps proper. However, he did not recall her protesting, for indeed, she had seemed more than pleased judging by the scrape of her nails that now scathed his flank. A primal part of John felt a superior arrogance in knowing that this darling woman had decided that he, out of all the men in the world, would be the only one allowed to make love to her and fill her with the physical proof of his passion for her.
At long last, when they could not keep their eyes open for a second longer, John moved onto his back and Margaret took up her customary position cradled against his chest. With their arms wrapped around each other, they floated off into a contented rest, their entangled hands reposing on her belly.
'Good night, baby,' they sighed sleepily.
As they descended into dreamland, they unconsciously caressed her skin, gifting the precious life within with the steadfast love of its faithful parents. The tiny Thornton was the treasured evidence of their passion, the expression of their bond, the embodiment of their love, which would take root and thrive like a miraculous blossom in her womb, growing until the day it was ready to join them, to meet them, to become part of their little corner of Heaven.
Yes, it was a study of skin. That is how best to describe it.
The End