The Lover's Crease

Daemon descended into the water, slow and silent as a shadowcat. The whole time, his manhood was unavoidably, inexorably there. It bobbed just above the water, tapping lightly against his legs as he moved, all taught and veined and throbbing. The way it dangled was proving quite entrancing, Rhaenyra found her mind racing with possibilities at the sight. The truth was, she hadn't much experience with cocks in a practical sense—there were only a few occasions where she'd really been able to so much as see one, let alone actually handle one—so seeing his was quite a delight. The dreams she'd had about this were beyond counting, and as her nuncle began wading toward her, she wondered how the real thing might compare. She expected him to keep going until he came right up to her, he instead banked left to the bath's nearest corner, where she'd brought some some scented soaps and the washcloth she'd used to clean herself some half an hour ago. There was no way of knowing precisely what he was going to do, but as was so often the case with Daemon Targaryen, the possibilities were endless, and the air was heavy with their presence.

When Daemon reached the small pile of objects, he stared down at them for several moments, considering. "You don't know much about the Stepstones, do you?" he asked, suddenly. Rhaenyra was taken aback at first, but as her mind processed each of the words in turn, confusion turned to curiosity. "No," she lied. The truth was that on the day Daemon left King's Landing with Caraxes beneath him and his army behind him, Rhaenyra had sent her lady-in-waiting, Elinda Massey—irritating girl, ungainly waist and fat ankles—to procure as much on the way of history books and nautical charts concerning the Stepstones as possible. She would not have him go off to fight in a place without her knowing its shape and nature, without being able to picture the hills and caves and outcrops where he would be making his valiant stands against the craven pirates who had come from across the sea to take it from its rightful rulers. As a result, she knew most everything there was to know about the Stepstones.

But she also knew most everything there was to know about Daemon Targaryen, and history told her that her uncle did not like it when others knew more than him. "Only the name," she added, to better shore the little deception up. "It's... on the Narrow Sea, isn't it?"
"Yes," he reached out to take the cloth, inspecting one side and then the other as he talked. Rhaenyra winced. "A sorry collection of islets and rocks, all things considered," he continued, "but valuable for the purposes of trade. Letting ships come and go is at the discretion of whoever holds them, lose the Stepstones and you lose control of the trade lanes... but I digress." He was unfurling it now out of the square shape Rhaenyra had left it folded into. "My point is, the Stepstones are drab, windy and featureless. All you can smell is gull shit and the salt on the waves, and everywhere you go the breeze whisltes through the rocks." His tone sounded wistful, at once irritated and strangely nostalgic. "There's nothing like the kind of sounds you pick up on the wind in King's Landing, the kind of things you can see, the kind of..." He looked down at the cloth, she felt that most curious of tinglings, down beneath that tantalising triangle of suds. It made her hold her breath. Daemon paused and turned to her before he taking it. "The kind of scents you can pick up. Do you mind?" His eyebrow was raised, his gaze bright with amusement as he held the cloth up for her approval. The question was perfunctory—he would be taking it, her response was more a question of how her feelings on the matter. Rhaenyra shook her head slowly, trying not to let her eyes drift too far down. His cock was not so very far from all she could think about; it was making it difficult to concentrate, when it was so hard and so present, and the space between her legs was so eager for filling.

She closed her legs, opened one of her palms and slid it into the narrow, warm gap of her thighs, and that helped a little—she could almost forget it was her hand and not someone else's, some dextrous lover content to stroke and tease her down under the bubbles. The thought was sharp and compelling, and inspired within her a fresh wave of that jagged, panicky excitement that emerged whenever she was behind the drawn curtains of her bed with her shift rucked up about her hips, frantically touching herself under the covers, that she might arrive before the owner of the footsteps in the hall. This was necessary, in light of Daemon doing... whatever this was instead of getting within 'accidental' brushing distance already. Daemon nodded, apparently pleased with her answer. Finishing with the unfolding of it, he laid the washcloth flat against his open palm, then, without a second's hesitation, lifted it to his face and placed the thing neatly over it. It covered his eyes, his mouth, his forehead... his nose.

Rhaenyra was aghast. Oh gods, she kept thinking, oh gods, it's not clean, and if it's not clean he'll think... he'll think... That she was disgusting, that she was horrible and filthy and... and...
Sweaty.
Oh gods, it was coming back to her now. What he was doing, why he was interested. But how did he know? How could he know? It wasn't just that she'd bathed with it, it was where she'd bathed with it. Oh but that was so... but then he was so...
The trouble was, when she'd washed herself with that cloth, she hadn't simply wiped the sweat off her brow or scrubbed down her back. That cloth had seen other places, ones more hidden and altogether more... intimate. Like...
Rhaenyra looked down at her groin, not at the main attraction, but at the little joins in her skin either side of it. Those clean, thin lines that cut diagonally across the tops of her legs, connecting thighs and lower body.

The lover's crease, they called it. She and her ladies-in-waiting had spent much time gossiping about the goings-on in the marriage bed between a man and his wife. The story went that since time immemorial, young, green husbands had been thrown into bed naked with their new lady wives and left to their own devices. No supervision, no instruction, just two bodies, left to get on with that which should comd naturally between them. Many of the men had never laid with a woman before, and if they'd received any advice at all, it was usually vague and excessively bawdy—more jest than suggestion. The result was that, when the time came for them to carry out their sacred duties and seal the marriage with the union of their flesh, the poor fool would scarcely have any idea of where to put it. On his first, second, third and sometimes even fourth attempts, instead of finding the correct field in which to sow his proverbial oats, he would instead run aground and profess his love instead to the warm furrow of that suggestive little crease.

Hence the name, naturally.

On hot days, her sweat gathered there, dabbed at by the thin, fluttery silks and linens of her underskirts when they became trapped within it as she went about her day. After sundown she would retire to her chambers and slip into her smallclothes, making absolutely sure the door was latched before taking the hem of whatever slip or gown she had on and gently pressing the cloth into the pale, delicate trench of each crease in turn, then taking it off and wriggling under the covers flushed and blissfully naked. She hated that feeling of being stuck in layer upon layer of finery, painfully aware all the while of the situation transpiring—or rather perspiring she supposed—beneath her dress. Today had thus far been as close to scorching as King's Landing was ever liable to get, and it had been her hope that she could come here and, among other things, take care of herself in peace.

The result of that little plan was that, when she had scrubbed herself down with the washcloth, she had done so everywhere, including down in her lover's creases. Afterwards, when she had wrung the cloth out and left it by the side of the bath, she had smelled herself on it. When unwashed or perspiring, Rhaenyra's scent was something akin to the tart, ripe odour of lemon mixed with the faintest helping of vinegar. She didn't like to smell herself when she was like that, she didn't want to.
Daemon on the other hand? Daemon couldn't seem to get enough. He went at the cloth like a hound, taking in more of her musk with each intake of breath. When he inhaled, Rhaenyra stared agog as his cock rose higher to attention.

He... likes it? She was caught somewhere new, between disgust at the open perversion of sniffing her washcloth at all, let alone in front of her, and a perverse enjoyment of her own, an arousal emerging in response to his arousal. Her thighs squeaked as she unconsciously rubbed them together, her eyes taking on a sleepy, heavy-lidded aspect, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. He likes it... Was it truly this deep? Was his want for her, for her body, so great that even the scent of her unwashed creases was enough to send him feral with lust? Something in her was calling to him, an aching in her loins so sweet it made her eyes water. She crossed her legs, a fresh wave of awareness washing over her that made her understand just how naked they both were. She had the conflicting urges to protect her modesty at all costs, hide away her intimate areas and shrink away from him... and to throw herself into his arms. Spread her legs, tongue his member, present him her breasts as the freshest and most well-formed of fruits, ready for his probing and groping and licking and fussing.

And here they were. Alone. With the only thing separating them from each other being scant few feet of bathwater, and a helping of bubbles over her private parts. Bubbles that had been, this entire time, slowly but surely popping.

[Author's Note: I always enjoy and appreciate feedback in terms of what's working and what isn't, so please feel free to like and/or leave comments!]