I can feel every hair on my stomach bristle in turn as your hands stop in this patch. You linger here, exploring this forest, meandering fingers across my midsection.You’re primal being knows its gateway home, and it has arrived. And now you find yourself in the same inner struggle, the primitive one wanting control over the shy one. Your touches are that of the shy one, but the definite energy in the air, the heat radiating from your body through your gaze is that of the primitive one.My fingers find a path under your lace, and your primitive one takes momentary control. Your body arches back and momentarily stiffens, your left hand clenching the armrest, your right hand flattening out, fingers spread, and then delicately but with a definitive purpose, tries to slide under the waistline of my pants. I move forward in my seat, accommodating your touch, allowing the opening you seek.You anticipate finding the elastic and cotton briefs normally worn under jeans, but instead you find. You are no longer what you were, came the witch’s voice in his mind, and a vision opened on him of the frantic old woman shrieking into a fire. I call you Morwendor! The ghostly image faded from his eyes. He scrambled his brain, trying and failing to remember what had happened to him. Shaking his thoughts clear, he gave the sleeping man a last glance and slipped from the room. Sniffing the air warily, he could smell sickness and herbs, and found himself unable to get the unsettling taste out of his mouth. Passing an outer hall, a breeze picked up around him, and he turned his nose to it, grateful for the scent of nature, and something else, something that made his mouth water. Pinpointing the enchanting aroma to another building, his senses zoned in, and dismissing everything, he gave into instinct, and went sprinting towards it. Approaching the stone-walled building attached to the tall, pointed castle, Morwendor poked his nose through the window, noting the enticing scent was.
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