Story for the Day: Contrition

Here is the next part from "Tales from Frewyn: the Opera" Alasdair knows how to say he's sorry.

He said his good evenings to the commander and hastened away to the servants’ quarter, passing the Cuineills’ apartments and entering the tailor, where he found his wife sitting at her sewing table, appearing as beautiful as ever: the warmth of her skin summoned by the amber light from beyond the window, her golden curls illuminated by the tender glow from the lit candle beside her, her upright and slender form in perfect posture finely shaped by the outline of her simple dress. His breath was nearly lost at such a prospect: a stunning creature hidden away for his personal reflection and delight. He closed the door behind him as she turned to greet her husband and king, and he reckoned that though he might never truly win in a duel against the Den Asaan, his prize came to him in the doting wife who was quickly approaching him, kissing his cheek, and regarding him with the most devoted looks he had ever been accorded. The governance she had over his heart was unmistakable; a kiss from her granted another from him, one more eager and more passionate than she was prepared to receive. He cradled her in his arms and consumed her, enjoying the tenderness of her lips, the warmth of her touch, and the mellifluous fragrance of her sinuous skin.  
                Alasdair released her and said in a low voice, “I apologize, my darling, but I’ve brought something for you to fix.”
                Carrigh looked down and half-smiled. “Do you mean the torn seam in your breeches or what you have beneath them, sire?”
                Alasdair looked to the side, moderately and happily ashamed. “It can be both, if you aren’t too upset with me for ruining your hard work.”
                “I think I can forgive you, sire,” she whispered, pressing herself against him and untying the front of his breeches.
                Alasdair tossed the poster onto the sewing table and asked whether his wife would forgive him standing or leaning over. She preferred that exoneration be granted in various places about the tailor, and before Alasdair was able to remove his breeches entirely, he was already receiving his forgiveness by way of a kneeling seamstress, by way of her dexterous hands and an eager mouth. Alasdair froze in place, rapt by the pleasance her fervor afforded him. Soon, however, he could no longer bear her means of forgiveness and must give way to his desires of providing her with his due apologies. He lifted her from the ground and brought her to the sewing table where he might beg to be forgiven and she might cry out her breathless pardon with each penetration her husband should supply.
                A lifting of her skirts, a maneuvering her garments, and he was prepared to ask while she was more than prepared to receive his contrition. A few moments were spent glorying in his wife’s long and lean legs, her lithe flesh, and her small round backside, and when he could wait no longer, he leaned over his wife, lifted her leg against the sewing table, and enjoyed his ardent repentance. His thrusts were measured while her crevice was yet unaccustomed to his size, but the more she accepted him, the faster his penetrations became. He osculated her arched back between his aggressive drives, and the more she made her muffled cries of forgiveness, the more he reveled in hearing them. He gripped her hips and forced his extent within her. Her cries grew strident and her words of pardon soon became entreaties for of his penitence. Alasdair indulged her, driving unreservedly into her until he felt her contract around him. She writhed beneath him, her fingers gripping the edge of the table, moaning through her arrival, compelling him to meet her completion. He did presently, and enjoyed her gentle ripples matching the rhythm of his own.
                He leaned down once he had done, kissed his wife’s cheek, and said, “Do you forgive me?” in a playful tone.
                Carrigh giggled to herself. She could never have supposed herself angry with him for something that was so easily fixed and was inclined to say no if only to incur another bout of his contrition. “I forgive you, sire,” she said smilingly.
                They exchanged a most devoted kiss. Carrigh returned to her seat at the table and bade Alasdair to remove his breeches from around his feet that she might mend them whilst making intermittent glances at the king beside her. He smiled down at her and began showing her the advertisement he had brought but she could not much attend, for the King of Frewyn was standing in her tailor, half-dressed and his complexion in a glow of affection for the pleasurable pardon he had just be awarded.

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