Summer Storm Sonata

Summer Storm Sonata


Summers in Numara were hot and wet. Mist rolled in from the shore with dawn, but burned away before the sun was far above the horizon. The countryside and gardens flourished a verdant green with the near daily afternoon thundershowers. Despite the stickiness of the southern island's heat, city folk enjoyed the excuse to close up shop early in the hottest parts of the afternoon and make ample use of the coastline. It was a season of quiet revelry - though most Numarans would revel at the drop of a hat - and sleepy afternoons and lazing about once dinner was done.

Ming almost envied her subjects. When the sun was highest in the sky, beating down upon the marble and alabaster walls of the palace, she had been in a meeting with delegates from Khent and Gohtza, using her magic so as not to sweat in front of them. Negotiations had taken hours, but at least it had been worth it. Trade alliances weren't entirely finalized, but they would be by the end of the week. And then of course she'd had to practically run through the palace to get to the Philosopher's Chamber in time to hear afternoon grievances. Luckily, there were precious few of those. A man accusing another of damaging his boat, a woman seeking a royal injunction to ensure her lover claimed the child they shared - small things, on a queen's scale.

But all of it took time and sharp mental faculties and self possession. Which were all terribly precious in the oppressive heat.

Finally, as the black thunderheads slipped in from the sea, Ming had a few moments of peace. She wasted no time in returning to the royal chambers to trade her leathers for a short silk gown. She'd been practically broiling in her clothing since early that morning, but the queen could hardly conduct official business in her undergarments! It was a relief to exchange the heavy, thick trappings of her official attire for the slip of a gown that tied around her neck and fell to mid-thigh. Light and airy, the pale violet gown left her shoulders, back and most of her legs bare. It opened at the bust in a teardrop, allowing the rapidly cooling afternoon air to chill her flushed chest and breasts.

That was much better. Barefoot and without adornment save for her diamond breastplate, Ming made her way to her harp room.

The storm was nearly upon Numara now. Inside the tower that housed her palace harp, the light had taken on a muted and strangely tinged quality. It was an open room, with glass windows that circled the tower and left little wall between them. The blue patterns in the white stone floor gleamed queerly in the haze of the oncoming storm. Ming opened all of the windows, allowing the fresh air from the sea to wash into the room. The breeze stirred her gown and hair and played over her skin like a caress. Beyond her stretched Numara and the sea, shadowed and silent as both awaited the rains.

Perfect.

Leaving the view with some reluctance, Ming took a seat at her harp. It was twin to the instrument she kept on the White Boa, carved of the same ancient wood by the same long-dead master. But here there were no hanging tapestries of gossamer, no artificial streams or gardens. Here there was only her harp and her stool, and beyond the windows the world.

The queen cleared her mind and laid her fingers on the harp strings. Rather than sift through her expansive musical memory, Ming simply allowed her fingers to choose a tune. They began to pluck something sprightly and quick, cascading notes that were reminiscent of raindrops. An old folksong from Tosca that sang of bountiful harvests and forests thick with game. A song of life and vibrancy and the rhythms of nature.

She lost herself in the song, eyes closed. When she heard the first drops of rain against the castle walls, she shifted the song's tempo a touch, incorporating the natural sounds into the melody. She felt the rain though it never touched her skin. She felt it in the reverberations of the strings, in the echo of each note, in the play of wind across her bare arms. The long meetings and stifling heat of earlier were gone now, chased away by the joyous song of harp and raindrop.

So lost in her song was the thousand year queen that she didn't hear the door of her personal sanctuary slide open. Nor did she hear soft footfalls behind her. She leaned into her harp, her fingers dancing lightly as they called forth note after note to mingle with the gradually increasing rain.

And then there were hands on her shoulders, sudden and startling. Her hands fell from her harp and she whipped her head around, prepared to give her interrupter a thin-lipped reprimand.

But it was only Jansen, standing above her and smiling.

"Hey, don't stop on my account," he urged, rubbing her shoulders lightly. "That's real pretty."

Ming smiled back at him before returning to her harp. She had honestly expected her husband would have found his way down to the old ghost town with a bottle of wine by now. She knew he liked to watch the storms over the ocean - from the dry safety of the ruins, of course. It was a pleasant surprise to find him here, with her instead.

The rain was falling harder now. Ming's fingers increased their speed, filling the tower room with harpsong once more. Jansen's hands stayed on her shoulders. He touched her lightly, fingers and palms barely brushing against her as not to impede her movements any.

With the first rumble of thunder, Ming changed her song. The bright Tosca folksong finished with a trill and slid smoothly into a darker, more powerful piece from Gohtza. Jansen's hands slid from her shoulders down over her chest, whispering against silk and skin. Ming's breath hitched. She heard Jansen chuckle behind her. What on earth was he up to? Her fingers picked over the stirring chords with a hint of distraction now, very aware of Jansen's warm hands resting just above her breasts.

Lightening flashed somewhere over the sea and Jansen stepped close, pressing his body against Ming's back. Her fingers faltered on the harp as his hands sought her breasts, cupping them.

"Don't stop," Jansen repeated, low and sensual in her ear. The melody wavered and wandered before sinking back into the proper rhythm. Slow now, almost haunting. Yet she was still painfully aware of Jansen's hands on her breasts and the broad planes of his chest and abdomen pressed against her back. They were both dressed for the heat - even the king had discarded his usual layers in search of relief. Jansen clasped her breasts gently, tracing their contours with his thumbs.

To Ming's surprise, she realized he was moving his hands in time with the music. She shivered and stopped trying to concentrate on the music. She let her fingers go where they would, closing her eyes once more. Jansen's hands slipped inside of her gown, teasing her nipples as he kissed the side of her neck. Thunder split the sky and the true storm began, rain coming down in torrents and wind whipping through the tower room. The sounds from Ming's harp were wild and without control, furious notes that seemed not so much to match the storm as to challenge it.

Jansen's hands went to her neck and the ties of her gown were deftly undone. Silk fell about her waist and left her torso bared. White light flashed across her eyelids and Jansen's warm hands made a startling contrast to her storm-cooled skin. His hands were on her shoulders, her upper arms, her breasts, her abdomen. And then lower. Jansen's lips on her neck, hair against her cheek, one hand questing down to plunge between her legs. She cried out then, as his fingers curled against the junction of her thighs. His knuckles pressed firmly between her legs, only the thin scrap of her undergarment separating flesh from flesh. And only barely. She arched her back, her thighs parting as best they could. That thin scrap of silk was torn aside - she felt it rip! - and Jansen's fingers were on her, insistent and almost frantic. And still with an echo of the music that tumbled from her harp in bursts and wails.

It was awkward but oh-so-good. Jansen's mouth was on her neck, below her ear, and she could feel his teeth sharply against her skin. With each nip she struck a sharp chord, trembling and strained of breath, losing herself in storm, music and heated madness.

There was no sense to her song any longer. It could barely be heard over the cacophony of the storm. But still her fingers danced, hectically, tearing reckless notes from the strings. Jansens hand slipped round under her thigh, urging her up. He tugged at her skirt, lifting it over her hips as her buttocks lifted from the stool. His hands grasped her hips, lifting her further. The harp made a twanging noise as her fingers fell from the strings. She tried, desperately, to maintain some sort of contact with the strings, but it was impossible now. She could only grip the frame and urge Jansen to hurry! His hands moved over her thighs and her buttocks with a hurriedness that belied his own desires.

"No more music?" He leaned over her and his body fitted against hers. Chest against her back, hard arousal against her thigh.

"Not from the harp," Ming responded, pressing herself back against him. He chuckled and shifted, holding her thighs as he positioned himself between them. Out the window, Ming saw the ocean, whipped into a frenzy of whitecaps and black water, an eerie mirror image of the tormented sky. She held that image as she threw back her head and cried out, Jansen's length entering her in a single motion. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the harp frame and her hips ached beautifully where Jansen gripped them.

It was frenzied and quick, over before the storm. Jansen thrust into her again and again and the thunder covered her screams of passion as she climaxed, holding herself up on her harp as her legs turned to something unable to support her. Jansen's arm was around her, holding her at the middle, gripping her as he found his pleasure inside of her.

They fell together to the floor afterwards, clothes askew and panting for breath. Ming sat on her knees and retied her gown before looking about for her breastplate where it fell on the floor. Jansen seemed perfectly content to sprawl across the floor on his back, pants around his calves. Ming could only shake her head and laugh - both at his uncouth recline and the wide, silly smile that still curved his lips. Ming rose and went back to her harp, to set it right and rub it down properly.

The storm was still raging when Jansen finally yawned and picked himself up off the floor.

"That…didn't hurt your harp or anything, did it?" was the first thing he asked, approaching her as she carefully oiled the wooden frame.

"Not at all," she assured him. "A bit of retuning is all that it needs. Which it would be in need of regardless."

"Oh, good. I was kinda worried there for a minute. I mean…that it might've gotten messed up. Or something. You know, you're really good on that thing."

"I've had centuries of practice."

"Hopefully not centuries of practicing playing while someone's got their hand down your pants."

"I can assure you that was the first time I've ever done anything like that." Ming set aside her cloth and took Jansen's hands in her own. She was glad that they had, though. It had been wonderful. "I had no idea music….moved you so."

"Everything you do moves me."

Ming could only smile and tip her head up for a kiss in reply. Her legs twitched and quivered, and she imagined she could feel traces of the rhythms they'd made together at her harp.

Evening bells rang, and Ming pulled away from the kiss quickly.

"Get changed," she urged Jansen as she moved to close the windows once more. "It's later than I thought it was, and we have dinner with the ambassador from Khent in half an hour."

"Duty calls, huh?" Jansen chuckled. "Alright, alright. I'll go put on my king clothes. But uh…mind if I drop by when you're playing more often?"

"Not at all." Ming's own smile turned impish. "I believe I'd enjoy it if you took a deeper interest in my music."

Jansen just winked at her before turning to go change for dinner.