The harpist’s lover

Winter always came around fast and loud. Wild thunderstorms and heavy snowfalls raged almost without warning. The sky would turn a deep shade of grey, and even daylight would fear the lashing winds up in the hilltops. The evenings grew darker, and seemed to last an undue eternity. Winter life was bleak.

And yet, there was an ember of bright light among the pervading darkness. Though nature did its best to drown out all semblances of beauty, the voice of reason would always prevail.

Her dwelling lay high up in the hills, nested in between two streams of crystalline waters. During the summer months, she would step out in early morning and bathe in them as the sun beamed down on her slender body. But winter would keep her inside, and there was no sun to speak of. Only a perennial gloom that would feed her insecurities.

For she waited, high up in the hills. Waited for her lover to return.

There she was, sitting by the fire, her harp by her side. And she would play, every evening she would play a different melody. Her ringed fingers would expertly strum the harp’s strings, and enchanting music would drift all over her cottage.

The harpist played, always naked, always ready, every winter evening. The blazing fire would keep her body warm, and the light cast by the rising flames would make all her trinkets shine with an eldritch and queer luminosity.
The cottage’s very soul would feed on melodies long since woven by her mind. The notes would rise and fall in a charming beat, and for a while at least, the blade of winter became blunt.

She remembered how it used to be. How her feelings and desires would be fulfilled by her lost lover. Her mind and body reminisced about long days and nights full with passion and lust. It was a time of undying pleasure, of a deep connection that she had neither felt before, nor would she ever feel again. When the two of them became one,
Lucifer’s Fire would envelop their bodies, and the beads of sweat running down their backs would hiss and evaporate. They would fuck as if to please both angels and demons, and the gates of the Underworld would open fo them.

The harpist remembered kneeling on the thick rug by the fire, and how he would move close to her, and knead her full breasts from behind. She would turn her head and kiss him, take his tongue into her mouth and lick it, while his hands ran up and down her body with undisguised eagerness. He would then grab her long red hair and pull it back and just take her right there, from behind, and he would fuck her body and make her scream his name by the firelight. Night after amazing night of pleasure, they would ride on the edge of winterlight together, and they
would watch the sunrise from their bed, and then keep fucking all through the day.

Other times, she would play her harp for him. Se would play the most beautiful melody, and he would listen, enthralled by her and her tune of love. She would play and smile, watching his body rise and harden for her again, and that would please her to no end. Then he would smile himself, and she would walk over and straddle his hardened cock, and she would rise and fall on his flesh until they were both delirious with ecstasy.

But that had a been a long time ago, in another year, or in another life. It didn’t matter anymore. Yet, the harpist played on, played a melody of melancholy and longing, and in the depth of winter, music would replace the pleasure she craved and longed for.

Still, the memories of him, of her lover, would haunt her every note. And every time she thought of him, her pussy would throb and ooze a little. Sometimes she would dip a finger and taste it, and the bittersweet aroma of unfulfilled lust would greet her with an unwelcome sting. She would run her finger across her lips then, longing to taste him again just like so many times before, wishing to take all his fluid into her mouth and feel it slide down her throat. His seed had been her addiction. She would take it and play with it, and share it with him. Their bodies had become each other’s playground, and their freedom and salvation from the world.

On this winter’s evening, the harpist played again, and took no notice of the snowfall outside. In the cosy warmth beside the hearth, she would weave a melody that would catch God’s attention, and the hollow nooks around the cottage would turn the sound into a haunting chant. Her eyes would then betray her true nature, and through tears of deep obsidian, she would cry for her lover to return.

And she played on, the gods of sex and lust would listen, and would grant her escape from a deep longing. On this winter’s evening, as the harpist’s resonant melody reached a crescendo and the fire blazed high, there was a knock in the cottage’s door.