The Holyground Highlander Forum Midweek Challenge
Archivist’s Note: The stories and vignettes offered here from various Holyground Forumlanders have not been edited or changed other than having a spell-check performed and being reformatted for this website.
The Challenge by Leah CWPack
Reader Discretion is Advised by Ghost Cat
The Long and the Short of It by John Mosby
The Boy Scout by vixen69
The Game by Wain
First Knight of Love by Ysanne
Misbegotten Foreplay by SBO, Mr. SBO and Sundowner
MID-WEEK CHALLENGE: METAPHORN
In the spirit of the discussion below, your challenge, should you choose to participate:
Write a (mercifully) short love scene for a romance novel, using the most absurd, unusual or out-in-left-field metaphors you can possibly conjure, particularly for the euphemisms relating to the act of love (if you dare to take it that far). Let your imagination fly...
Stand back, everybody. I have a premonition that this is gonna be messy.
DISCLAIMER: Remember to put "MWC: in your entry subject line if you wish to have your entry archived.
MWC: "Reader Discretion is Advised"
Posted By: Ghost Cat (with the assistance of Mr. Smiley Girl)
Date: Thursday, 19 July 2001, at 3:48 a.m.
Deb didn't remember when he had undressed; it seemed like everything between their flesh just...disappeared. Maybe to the same place where a sword goes when it isn't needed? Her own robe was still in place, and he made a slow, purposeful act out of slipping it off her shoulders. She felt the soft fabric sliding down her arms, flowing smoothly down her back. She arched her body, helping the process along.
Lovemaking on a couch, especially an unfamiliar couch, was often an awkward affair at best, but Immortals swiftly learned an almost instinctive awareness of body position. Love, like combat, is a kind of dance, where both partners move in synergy. Bodies slid past each other gracefully, flesh on flesh. Somehow, she ended up on top of the peak again; what better way to explore The Highlands? Her hands slid down between his thunder thighs, kneading his dough ball, her nails lightly scratching the sensitive skin beneath. One hand continued to fondle his yarn balls like a cat's favorite toy, while the other slid up to check the size and condition of his weapon...
Such a long, strong thrusting weapon, a true Scots claymore. She flashed her teeth in a wild feral grin; "Is this for me, my Dark One?" she half-purred. His flesh twitched once in invitation, a move she thought of as the tail wagging the dog. She waited for the words-- "I am yours, my Lady... ". She slid onto him like skating on ice, in one smooth move, as graceful as slipping into a well-worn saddle. Her eyes widened and a shivering moan escaped from her lips as he filled her to the very core.
She closed her eyes, arching further and further back until she gripped his ankles with both hands. She held this strange, impossible position for as long as possible, holding him in the deepest part of her. Duncan lifted his hips, and with a gasping moan she discovered new depths to her being.
She pulled herself out of her yoga position, settling back into the saddle again. She thoroughly enjoyed this style, being in complete control of speed and depth and rhythm. She rode her steed with confidence, putting him through all his paces, from trot to canter to full rolling gallop. His hands were not idle, stroking thighs and hips and stomach; stimulating her hard little pearl. Their moans harmonized like eerie, primal music.
Sometime during this intense ride, Deb had reached back, roughly tearing at her own hair, freeing it from its restraining tie. She shook her head until she felt her wild mane streaming down her back. Something burst from her throat, an animal howl that rose from the deepest part of her soul. As if waiting for that moment, the Highlander burst as well, a warm flood of his essence within her.
MWC: The long and the short of it.
Posted By: John Mosby
Date: Wednesday, 18 July 2001, at 3:33 p.m.
He saw. He conquered. He came. He went. He got possession of the videos.
(Not even a metathree, but what the heck).
(it can't be helped) MWC: The Boy Scout
Posted By: vixen69 <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Date: Wednesday, 18 July 2001, at 10:29 p.m.
Blue-green waters scarcely stirred in the still pools of pristine freshness that were her eyes, sweet, not brackish, immanently drinkable. He thirsted as he gazed upon her, hesitating, but then her lips parted, revealing the soft pink cavern of her mouth, the stactite (or was it stalagmite?) of her uvula, and the slippery tongue floor...she yawned, bored by his gentlemanly reticence. He continued speaking, but with distraction, and presently, she yawned again--and this time he could not help noticing the tempting curves of her lips, and pondered what might be found should he explore that unknown territory--what kisses might yield themselves up to the stalwart spelunker? Mentally, he made up his mind to earn himself a badge, and thanked providence that he was always prepared.
MWC: The Game
Posted By: Wain, hoping you meant it, Leah, when you said absurd
Date: Thursday, 19 July 2001, at 8:00 a.m.
Five minutes after closing, Duncan MacLeod heard a rattling sound at the front door of the antiques shop. He opened his pocket watch to confirm the time, frowned, and closed it with a click. The rattling repeated, accompanied this time by a knock.
He opened the door and was stopped before he could begin to explain that it was past closing time. Tessa stood on the doorstep, a knowing smile on her face, carrying an oversized canvas bag. Duncan smiled back, recognizing the bag as a signal to start their favorite game, one that was more exhilarating and less dangerous than the other Game he usually played, but one for which he was equally well armed.
"May I help you?" he asked solicitously, waving her past him and into the shop.
She skimmed past him in the doorframe, nearly brushing against him, and then walked to the middle of the display floor, the exaggerated and rhythmic sway of her hips hypnotizing him quite nearly into forgetting to close and lock the door.
"I’ve found a family heirloom and was wondering if you could appraise it for me," She tilted her head down and gave him a sidelong glance of her sparkling eyes.
He advanced on her, saying, "I’d be happy to, Miss . . . "
She slipped her delicate fingers under the straining décolletage of her white blouse, and extracted an ivory business card imprinted with a dainty filigreed script.
"Velvette Charmeuse," he read.
She rewarded him with a dazzling look and moved to a glass display case. He rushed forward to help her with her bag, the lithe muscles of his forearm rippling under his dark skin. She cast an appreciative glance his way before pushing the canvas bag down to expose her family heirloom: a two foot tall, tear-shaped piece of glass girdled top and bottom with enameled metal fittings; a hose emerged from the glass and was capped at the other end with a similar metal fitting.
"A hookah," he stated.
Her luscious lower lip pushed forward to form a pout. "Not at all, monsieur," she protested. "Look at my card again. I am a professional dancer."
She took his strong hand in hers, lifted one fuzzy-knuckled finger to the business card, and traced it along the line of print beneath her name. Danseuse.
Duncan waited a full minute until she let go of his hand. He cleared his throat. "Something of this nature would be best discussed in my office." He picked up the hookah and showed her to his office, closing the door firmly behind them.
Tessa rested against his desk, half sitting, half leaning, and tilted her head before asking, "So what is it used for?
"A narghile or hookah, khuqqahin Arabic, is from the Middle East, a water pipe used for smoking tobacco," he explained. "Water goes here," he said, taking her hands and placing them around the bulbous base, "and tobacco here," he indicated with a nod of his head, never taking his large hands from her small ones. "This end of the tube goes in your mouth." And with this, he presented the metal fitting to her. She licked her lips, gazed long and deeply into his eyes, and wrapped her mouth around the hookah’s mouthpiece.
Tessa took the mouthpiece out briefly to ask, "Which way does smoke go?" She wrapped his hand around the hose and put hers on top. "This way?" She stroked their hands along the hose. "Or that?" She reversed the movement. "This way or that?" she repeated.
Duncan met her gaze with a burning ferocity, held it until she broke away, and then stroked the mouthpiece gently along her jaw, down her throat, and traced a vertical line to the top button of her blouse.
Dismayed at the impediment the button made, Tessa slid it gently out of its buttonhole, as she did for the next button and the next and the next. She made short work of Duncan’s silk shirt, too, unbuttoning it and pushing it over the granite boulders that were his pecs and shoulders and dropping it to a violet puddle on the floor behind them. Duncan’s eyebrow went up, and it wasn’t alone.
"We can discuss valuation in my other office," he said in a husky and suggestive voice.
A kiss was his answer, a deep kiss filled with longing, a kiss that burned hotter than all of the deserts, and he crushed her to him, flesh pressed on flesh so tightly that the merest grain of sand would have been felt. He led her to the bedroom and excused himself for a moment.
He returned from the kitchen a few moments later. Having shed his clothes, his only two ornaments were a small cut-glass plate laden with stuffed dates, Jordan almonds, and rahat lakhoum, Turkish paste. Tessa gasped in delight and anticipation at the sight of the other ornament, his God-given one.
He stood silently, held in the tight grasp of delight, his eyes glazed and his flanks twitching, for in his absence, she had stripped the bed and herself, and was stretched out on the vast, empty plain of white linen sheet like a new and surprising geographic feature in a barren desert. Her eyes and lips were touched with the pink and azure of the desert sky before dawn. To the north of this lovely map that decorated his bed, Duncan noted two lovely dunes that rolled down into an oasis of a bellybutton, an oasis that mirrored another, even more paradisiacal oasis further to the south. He longed to caravan along those silken trails for many a long night.
Broken from his trance, he approached the bed and sat next to her. He lifted a piece of rahat lakhoum over Tessa’s belly and tapped gently at the candy until he released a shower of powdery white sugar. The sugar fell in drifts against the soft sands that were her skin, and he carefully kissed each bit away.
Tessa groaned in ecstasy. Duncan reached for a stuffed date and used it to draw a shivering line around the blushing tops of the two dunes. He placed one pointed end of the brown fruit in between is teeth and bent to offer the other end to her.
She licked her lips, considered, and demurred, "Never on a first date," she purred, pushing the fruit between his full lips and into his mouth. He gratefully accepted the gift, ate it, and then kissed her hard, his tongue still flavored with the decadent confection.
He left a sweet and sticky trail along her body as he headed for her oasis to slake his thirst. Deeply he drank and long, but they both found that their thirst and longing only increased. No longer able to stand the yearning that seared her flesh like a burning desert wind, Tessa shifted him aside and rolled him to his back.
She explored Duncan’s own geographic features. She began with the dark eyes that resembled nothing so much as the mysterious long-lost headwaters of the River Nile. She followed that imaginary river as it meandered down and along his body, losing herself in the valley at the base of his neck, running her hands along nipples that sprang to rock-hard prominence like twin pyramids, following his abdominal muscles, sculpted like so many wind-blown ruffles on the desert floor.
She gasped then and exclaimed, "I can’t believe that they lied to me so!"
Duncan lifted his head and made an inarticulate questioning sound between moans.
"They always said that Napoléon had brought the Obelisk of Luxor to the Place de la Concorde in Paris, but now I can see that it was really right here all along." She examined the work of art with all of the care of an archaeologist, reading its surface with her fingertips as carefully as one reading Braille. Breathlessly, she scaled the massive monument and eased herself onto the majestic, chiseled point.
They began then that long, loping, uneven ride that so resembles a camel at full gallop. Faster and faster they went, riding up the face of one dune and down another, up one, and down another, up and down, up, down, up, down, up, down, until breathless, they cried as if wanting respite, although neither one did.
Further and further they rode, their passion driving them like angry, stinging scorpions, their flesh on fire, until they ceased to become two and dissolved into tiny grains of sand that, like in a desert whirlwind, mixed and mingled parts of both of them and drove them further and further on until they exploded against the night, glorious and convulsive waves of passion streaking against the dark sky. They collapsed into each other’s tired but exhilarated arms and slept until dawn, dreaming of the next caravan they would go on together.
MWC -- First Knight of Love
She sat sipping tea from a delicate cup, holding the thin saucer in one small hand, her straight back not quite touching the chair. Butterflies of warm sunshine flittered through her hair, settling there to enhance its golden aura. Her thoughts were far away, and the bright blue skies of her round, not-quite-innocent eyes were cloudless.
As she daydreamed, a pale pink flush slowly crept through the deep valley between her breasts and rose to engulf her soft throat, flood her rounded cheeks, and wash the tips of her ears.
All of her thoughts on this soft spring morning were of Duncan MacLeod, that unsurpassed knight of passion who had breached her barricade with lance held high and proud, and who had battered tenderly upon her heart's fortress until it, too, had surrendered with a sigh.
Oh yes, her moat had been crossed, her drawbridge well and truly opened, her dark, secret corridor lit with flame by this welcome invader. In fact, her storehouse of passion had been so thoroughly plundered that she had wondered if there was even one small morsel remaining. The flood of color submerging her deepened at the memory, for Duncan had soon demonstrated that this particular feast was as self-renewing as the fabled loaves and fishes.
She set her tea down with trembling hands, careless of the fragile bone china. Feeling strangely warm and breathless on such a pleasant morning, she wished she had not been laced so tightly into the sprigged muslin she wore. Another memory suddenly lashed her meandering thoughts into a gallop, that of large, strong, brown hands plucking each lace from its fastening, tender lips adoring each inch of soft flesh as it was unbound, silky strands of dark hair brushing a pathway down the quivering, unmapped territory of her body. She pressed a hand to her belly to assuage the sudden deep stab of fire there, and closed her eyes.
"My lady," intoned her butler, startling a little cry from her lips.
She clutched at what ragged pieces of composure that were left to her before she turned to answer.
He held a card out to her upon a small silver tray and she felt an arrow of anticipation pierce her breast as she glanced at it.
"That....Scottish person....has come to call. What would your ladyship have me do?"
"Oh, Throckley!" she cried, startling her grave servant into stepping back a pace, "Do let him in!"
She sailed in the butler's wake, all flags flying, eager to be boarded by the smiling frigate who approached.
Ysanne, apologizing to all
MWC: Misbegotten Foreplay
Posted By: SBO, Mr. SBO and Sundowner, unleashing *him* once
Date: Wednesday, 25 July 2001, at 10:02 p.m.
He hit the dimmer switch on the lights and the scene was set, mirror ball twirling in a corner, reflecting the low, mood enhancing light. The purple lava lamp burbled soundlessly on the bedside table. From the hi-fi came the soft sound of the Bee Gees, his all-time favorite group, and he sang along as he always did:
Listen to the ground:
there is movement all around.
There is something goin' down
and I can feel it.
On the waves of the air,
there is dancin' out there.
If it's somethin' we can share,
we can steal it.
And that sweet city woman,
she moves through the light,
controlling my mind and my soul.
When you reach out for me
yeah, and the feelin' is bright,
then I get night fever, night fever.
We know how to do it.
Gimme that night fever, night fever.
We know how to show it.
Here I am,
prayin' for this moment to last,
livin' on the music so fine,
borne on the wind,
makin' it mine.
Night fever, night fever.
We know how to do it.
Gimme that night fever, night fever.
We know how to show it.
In the heat of our love,
don't need no help for us to make it.
Gimme just enough to take us to the mornin'.
I got fire in my mind.
I got higher in my walkin'.
And I'm glowin' in the dark;
I give you warnin'…..
He had gotten dibs on the use of his tiny bathroom. First he’d had a nice long, hot shower, then a close smooth shave. From within its cardboard box, he drew out a large bottle of his favorite aftershave. Morty had rejoiced when he found a bottle of this size! This meant he could really smell wonderful for his gal. Aqua Velva landed in spots that normally don’t require aftershave. In anticipation of the delights to come, he'd put on his satin pajamas just for this special evening.
Morty then lay back on the bed and stared at the mirror on the ceiling above him--now *she* was taking forever in the bathroom. By the time she finally emerged, he was going to be sawing logs. Morty groaned. Rolling over on his side he watched as her big fluffy black and white cat paced into the room with something clutched in his mouth. His eyes widened as the cat wiggled underneath the circular bed.
Flopping onto his stomach, Morty, satin p.j.s gliding effortlessly across satin sheets, scooted across the bed on his belly to hang his head over the edge and lift the dark purple coverlet. Jeweled cat eyes peered back at him from the dim area. "Trixie?" he called.
"Yah, honeybunch?" his girlfriend called back in a pinched and nasal sounding voice.
"Your cat is collecting your Always." Morty couldn't believe it.
It was the most bizarre thing. He reached under the bed to pull a pile out, but
the cat scratched him for his troubles. "Yeah, yeah, whatever," he
muttered. "You can keep 'em. I sure don't want 'em."
"Aw Morty, honey, don't you want to think about better things?" she attempted to croon, but resulted in an obnoxious whine.
Trixie sauntered out from the bathroom, her bleach-blonde hair falling wildly around her face. Her gait was unsteady because of the new furry, high-heeled mules she wore. The pink polka dotted silk nightdress clung to her scrawny figure. After watching the silk move with Trixie's body for several minutes, Morty's head started spinning. He was sure he was in heaven. The psychedelic design also prompted a few more hallucinations before Trixie finally crossed the distance to the bed.
She crawled onto the bed, attempting to be sexy, but the nightgown got caught beneath her knee. Instead she tumbled forward into Morty.
"Oomf," he grunted. "It's ok, Trixie, you don't have to rush. We've got all night."
She pursed her lips, trying for a sexy pout. "Why don't you come over here and give me a widdle kissy wissy," she whined.
Morty crawled over to meet her and planted a wet kiss right on her lips. It removed most of the bright pink lipstick she wore. Once it had transferred onto his mouth, it changed colors to a more peach tone. Morty, however, was oblivious to the fact that he was wearing more of Trixie's mood lipstick than she was.
"Would you like a massage, baby?" he asked gutturally. She nodded enthusiastically. "Why don't you go get that cocoa butter you like so much, then. I'll rub you all over."
Trixie rushed out of the bedroom, teetering the entire way. Morty could hear her rummaging around in the bathroom. It was taking forever. It could very well have been a bad suggestion. He was really worried about sawing logs at the inappropriate time, but she had said she wanted more foreplay, so he was trying very hard to give it to her. Suddenly he realized he wasn't hearing her in the bathroom anymore. What was she doing in the kitchen?
"Honey? Are you okay in there?" He began to worry—-foreplay from the kitchen? “Hmmpf,” he said to himself, “could be interesting.”
She careened back into the bedroom excitedly and collapsed on the bed, her gown hitching up. She handed over the tub of margarine she'd brought back with her.
Morty looked at it stupidly. "This isn't the cocoa butter, it’s more like regular butter, says right here on the package."
"I know," she droned in her nasally tone. "But I couldn't find any, baby. You said you'd give me a massage. I want a sexy massage. Please?"
Morty looked at the tub of margarine for another second and then bobbed his head up and down as if agreeing to something he was thinking about. "Well, it's the spreadable kind. Edible massage lotion--groovy. C'mere baby. Lemme spread it on ya."
As lazily as her cat would do, Trixie stretched across the bed on her stomach. She eased the spaghetti-thin straps of her negligee down, giving Morty access to her bony shoulders. He gulped two lungs full of air before he began. The margarine, while cold and a little odd at first, warmed very quickly when he grabbed a blob and began to rub it onto Trixie’s upper back.
But the initial shock caused her to squeal at pitch that world scientists would call deafening, “MORTY!!!!”
“Oh, come on, baby, it’s not that cold. Messy, yes, and you smell like popcorn at the movies, but not that cold.”
He began to rub firm but lazy circles over her back, each pass dipping lower and lower, moving the pink polka dotted silk ever closer to his goal. Trixie’s Fredericks of Hollywood had nothing on Victoria’s Secret. It was about making him crazy with desire, and the moans resonating from deep within her sinuses did nothing to quell the mounting tension building in his body.
After the last bosom had heaved and the last loins had pumped, Morty’s bedroom looked like the interior of a refrigerator that had exploded. Their misbegotten foreplay had resulted in chocolate stains on the satin sheets and their nightclothes, and who knows how that single French fry rocketed high enough to stick to the ceiling. Smears of strawberry jam streaked the walls.
Morty lay in bed staring absently mindedly at the mirror once more. Trixie lay sprawled across his massive chest toying with the heavy tangle of gold and silver chains nestled in the manly mat of chest hair. He stroked his large hand up and down her flabby arm.
He was almost asleep when he murmured, “Amanda, darling, that was fabulous!”
The punch in his rather large, exposed stomach sat him up like the fiercest quickening he’d ever experienced.
He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw fangs, and that couldn’t be a good thing.
Facing Trixie, who was covered in globules of chocolate and margarine, Morty’s normally beady little eyes now looked like those of one who’d swallowed a live toad.
“Who is Amanda?” she demanded as she blew a sticky lock of her bleach blonde hair away from her face.
“Uhhh, no one, Trixie, dear! Really!!! Someone I knew a long time ago—back when the Bee Gees were really cool…” Oh God, he thought suddenly, that wasn’t a good thing to say. No one is supposed to know about Immortals.
“You’re crazy—you couldn’t have known anyone 30 years ago, *you’re* not even 30…” she got even more nasally when angry, he thought. The last thing he remembered thinking was, “Please someone come take my head now…”