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 “What
a pity. You are so delicate. Your lover should have been gentle,
and quiet. I could imagine it,” he whispered. “He’d kiss you
as though your mouth were an opening rose, maybe using his tongue
just a little. And you’d close your eyes and feel like you
were kissing an angel. And then he would trace tiny kisses
to your neck, and your earlobe, so you would shiver just a little.
He would touch your hair as though it were precious Thesonian silk,
and breathe in its perfume while he stroked your cheeks.”
He reached up to touch
her chin, more tenderly than his rugged, scarred hands would suggest,
and, she became certain of what it was that he wanted. Part
of her saw an opportunity for freedom. But most of her was
quivering at the thought. She waited, eager for him to continue.
“Then he would
remove your robe, untying every ribbon with care and easing it down,
off your shoulders, off your waist, dropping it carefully around
your feet. And he would kiss your feet, and rub your ankles
with the lightest of touches.”
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We
drank a little more, and watched a number of couples begin to move
away from the light of the fires, slinking into the darkness, as
was the custom. I caught the eye of the man with the scar as he
went past, and he returned my smile.
He
chuckles. "I'm going to inflict pleasure. It's
an old interrogation method where I come from, called the Gunther
Method. Anyone can withstand pain; it can be overcome with
the mind easily enough, but keep a person from attaining total pleasure
and they will tell you anything." With that he pours
something warm and oily on your breasts and begins to knead them
using soft, sure strokes, occasionally tweaking the nipples into
hardness. 
