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While I use my diary to keep an official account of my day-to-day, there are some events that I feel must be kept private from the gaze of academics, or faerie kings, and sometimes both.
This account is written in my most personal journal, to be used as a tool for reflection. For, while I am tentatively excited by future prospects, I am cautious by nature, and feel it is best to keep a record to help assess my thoughts and feelings on certain… situations.
The following account occurs on the ship which departed from the headland, which we had just reached in time thanks to the clear skies and skilled sailing of Thora’s grandson. It had taken us a day to reach the port.
Wendell informed me that despite the clear skies, the choppy ice water had made him feel ill and unable to rest. I, on the other hand, had managed to rest quite soundly after spending the evening going through my additional notes and adding some post-script thoughts.
It was the mid-morning on the second day of our journey to London when Wendell knocked on my cabin door. Shadow lifted his head, and as if sensing something, politely left so we could speak in private. I had been sitting on the tiny cabin bed, finishing off a note about Poe.
Wendell, who was still in the process of reshaping his face looked terrible. Not because of his appearance, but he seemed to sag with pained exhaustion, his eyes had lost their greenish hint and were now dark as everglade forests.
“Wendell? What is the matter?” I asked, putting down the pencil.
“Em.” He muttered. His voice was surprisingly husky. I will admit, for these pages only, that it awoke something inside of me. A tight longing in my core I hadn’t felt since I was fourteen years old and half-mad with puppy love for a classmate. I felt a heat rise in my cheeks.
“Em.” He said again. “I’m starving. I want you.”
I blinked, running though my knowledge of Faerie royalty. They weren’t known to eat people. I was just about to tell Bambleby this when I caught his eye.
“Wendell, I have not agreed to marriage, and I’m not one of your little conquests you can have whenever you like.” I said hotly. I ignored the little voice in my head which uttered but it would be nice.
Wendell smiled at this, almost bashful, which seemed to be as close as he could get to actually being bashful.
“Nothing improper.” He said. “Just a little something to keep the seasickness and boredom away. You don’t even have to stop writing your notes. I assure you we’ll both enjoy ourselves.”
“Nothing improper? What do you have in mind?”
Wendell closed the door and crossed the room in a single stride.
“Here, you lie on the bed. You can keep writing, there you go.” He said and moved me onto the bed in one smooth movement. My heart began to race. “Now just… write your notes and relax. If you feel it’s improper, tell me to stop.”
I eyed him cautiously. Already there was a familiar green glint in his eye. Years of discipline under my strict school mistress told me I should say no. But after the events in Hrafnsvik, a part of me felt I deserved some indulgent distractions, as did Bambleby.
“Very well.” I said finally. I felt a smile creep on my face and I became flushed with embarrassment. Wendell beamed and I felt my heart flutter. To distract myself, I focused on my notes. Bambleby knelt at the end of the tiny bed. I was surprised he could fit.
Wendell’s hands started by gently rolling my skirt up to my waist, exposing my stockings and drawers. I wasn’t sure if it was his skill with clothes or his skill with women, but he did it with a light, expert touch which made it feel like the most natural thing in the world.
I focused hard on my notes about the changeling, and about the returned child.
Next, I felt him roll my stockings down. I glanced at him, but he was focused on the task. he did it with an almost ritualistic vigour, leaving me to wonder once again which fascination had earnt him such skill.
Despite the winter air, Bambleby’s body was satisfyingly warm against the chill. He spent a moment gently massaging my calves and running his hands up my thighs. After months in the snow and ice, the sensation was blissful. I unintentionally let out a small moan, much to his delight.
“Shall I continue?” He asked. His eyes were now their familiar bright forest green. I could feel myself flushing again, heart racing. I couldn’t manage much more than a confirming nod.
When he removed my drawers, I expected to feel the freezing cabin air on my most intimate parts. Instead, I felt Wendell’s touch, and the heat of his breath as he lowered himself on the bed. He propped my right leg up, so that I could still lean upon it and write, and then embraced my lower half.
“Still improper?” came his voice from below. It sounded husky and hungry again.
“Perhaps. But I’ll allow it for now.” I was surprised my voice didn’t shake. Admittedly, I had read about this in one of the romance novellas I keep hidden deep within my study. But I’d only read . Never experienced. Leopold had never done anything like this.
Wendell Bambleby put his mouth to my sex like tantalus finally reaching water. He let out a satisfied moan and began moving his tongue in a way I never dreamed was possible. Sparks prickled the edge of my vision as I felt an excitable sensation deep in my core. My heart raced and my breath shortened. Quickly I reached a noticeable paroxysm, but he was far from finished with me.
I tried to ignore the quietly satisfied moans coming from Wendell, to focus so I wouldn’t slip into an unladylike vigour, but it was a damned near impossible task. Eventually, in an effort to soothe his enthusiasm (and thank him as well, I suppose) I reached out with my left hand to scratch his head, the same kind of motion I would use to scratch Shadow’s head after a long day of following me out in the field, gently at the back of his head and behind his ears.
This elicited an even more excitable sound from Bambleby. He seemed to be deep in rapturous bliss, unwilling or unable to stop. I continued scratching, and he continued devouring.
Another surprise paroxysm nearly made me fling my pencil across the room. This one deeper and more stimulating than anything I’d felt before. My vision prickled and my core pulsed. Bambleby gripped my thighs and rode the afterglow of my delight, face buried deep within me the entire time.
His movement slowed to lazy satisfaction, and he angled his head to rest between my legs, still continuing, but on the verge of sleep, my lower parts embraced as a pillow. I continued to scratch his head gently as his breathing slowed. Finally, he seemed at rest. Part of me wanted to remind Wendell that it was improper to sleep in my bed like this, but after the events of the recent past, it was admittedly very rewarding to see him at rest, and so I let him stay. I continued to write notes, listening to his deep, calm breathing.
Wendell stayed like that, undisturbed until dusk. A few times each hour he would stir, and resume pleasuring me, until I lulled him back to sleep with head scratches.
By evening, It was too dark to write without needing to get up and fetch a candle. I had only written half a dozen sentences. My skin was flushed and there was sweat on my brow. I had no idea how long I had been gently scratching Wendell’s head. Quietly, I moved my legs in an effort to nudge him awake. He groaned in a surly manner and grasped me tighter.
“Wendell.” I whispered. “You can’t sleep here. It wouldn’t be proper.”
Eventually, I watched his head rise. His hair had been flattened on one side and his lips were full as if he’d spent all day kissing his paramore *. He smiled like a cat who’d caught the cream.
“ Are you…satisfied?” I asked, hoping the darkness of dusk hid my rising blush.
“Oh Em, I’m completely satiated.” Wendell grinned and stretched, now well-rested. His eyes and teeth flashed inhumanly in the diminishing light. “For now, anyway. I suppose I should let you rest. Although it was up to me, I’d keep you in that position all the way to London.”
I opened my mouth, but before I had a chance to reply, Shadow scratched on the door, demanding to be let back in. Bambleby sauntered over and opened the door for him. He then turned and bowed, like I was a Lady who had done him a great favour.
“Try and get some sleep.” I called.
“Well now I know the best place to do just that.”
“Wendell!”
With a final wink, he slipped into the night. And, as improper as it might be, I find myself looking forward to our next encounter.
It Is a long ride to London, after all.
*In a way, I suppose this is true.