Primal Moon

Primal
Moon

An Erotic Romance Novella

by Brooksley Borne

Published by Brooksley Borne

Copyright 2013 by Brooksley Borne

Other Titles By Brooksley Borne:

Taken

The Landlord

The Rescue

He Tamed Her

Not Such a Bad Girl

Hot Shorts: 10 Erotic Romance
Short Stories

The moon hung low to the ground
and bright white against the cloud-splotched sky. Like the great
moon goddess Hathor herself was gazing at Aziza through a crown of
crow feathers. The night was as black around the glinting orb as the
light was silvery on her copper skin. Hard to believe it was the
same moon that hung in the sky over Cairo. She wanted to climb up a
beam to it and have it spill her back home.

Fairies menaced her. She
flicked them like scarabs. They were trying to tell her something.
She shouldn’t be there. She shouldn’t be doing what she
was doing.

That Aziza hated everything
about her new land made the unnamed pull from deep within her to this
forbidden spot that much less deniable. It was a place where she
found her only peace and warmth and soothing. Her only comfort, it
was the only place she didn’t feel alone, for reasons she could
not name. She was called to it by an inner, ethereal voice but
restricted from it expressly by an outer, lowly voice. Forbidden to
come to the woods by a beastly laird.
Uh
.

The men of her home were
sophisticated, smooth-skinned and seemly. This place crawled with
blunt, uncouthed, unshaved, gigantic barbarians. And despite an
order to the contrary by the legendary giant king of the beasts,
Laird MacDunna himself, Aziza came to this forbidden spot every
chance she got.
Well, an order by proxy. Aziza never
actually met the laird, though she belonged to him.

She kept a running rant in her
head, rehearsed daily, of a tirade she was going to unleash onto the
laird at first sight, if and when he actually made it home to her.
Her speech was like a well-sharpened weapon she was going to pierce
him with. She had it down cold. She was often heard muttering it to
herself as she went about her dreary business. It was because of the
laird that she was there in Scotland instead of Egypt. It was
because of him that she was alone.

So lonely.

Aziza bowed, flat as she could,
praying to the moon in hopes that it would requite her with passage
back home. Or to send her a prince to take her away from this. To
make it better. On nights like these when the sky was so ripe, the
first chance she found to creep into the breach of the great black
woods, she took it. The drive was insane lest she answer it. It was
what she imagined the draw to a lover to be. Like the beckoning of
the great and charismatic and handsome sultan himself, the grand
vizier Ayyubid Saladin by whom she had been chosen to marry. Aziza
sighed with the very thought of him.

Then her stomach sharpened with
disappointment.

The sultan gifted her to his
respected foe, Richard the Lionhearted who foisted her off to some
barnyard animal Scottish knight noted for his breastly brawn but
lamb-like loyalty. She had never met the grand vizier, nor the king
and never this oafish rudimentary creature who had the callousness to
not even show. To keep her waiting for him for over a year while she
was left stranded among crude conditions, among creatures farthest
from the civilization to which she was accustomed.

Aziza hated her Scotsman with
everything she had. She savored each practice of her little
soliloquy that would let him know one day just how much she loathed
him and why. She wanted to go home. Back to Egypt.

She lay in the forest litter,
mottled by shadows and moonlight, not finding her ease in celestial
supplication. She was being nipped alive by blasted fairies buzzing
and their bites were starting to itch. Just as she was about to
abandon her endeavor and call it a night, she spied shadowy figures
stealing into the trees. She crouched against the springy pine
needles and observed in secret.

In the spotlight cast from the
sky, she beheld a line of young clan women dressed in clan finery,
heeding the escort of hooded men. In the center of the line wearing
a green, gossamer gown that looked like a dream, like it was meant to
be worn by a fairy or perhaps a bride was the woman Aziza knew to be
betrothed to the laird’s brother.

As far as filthy Scottish men
went, the laird’s brother was remotely mannered and not at all
bad to look at. In fact, Aziza thought he was quite stunning and it
made her curious as to how much he might look like the laird. The
brother had been just a boy when the laird left to fight in the Holy
Wars. But the boy was a giant now. A beautiful giant whose passing
glance stirred Aziza in the pit of her stomach and drew her up
between her legs from deep inside. Though Egyptians kept as little
body hair as possible, he, like the rest of Scots, was practically
carpeted. Aziza envied the bride or whatever she was. Not only
because her dress was that beautiful but in her day-to-day life, the
bride seemed to be the center of attention of an exquisite man.
Simply witnessing this line of moonlit forest trekkers conjured a
strange yearning in Aziza. She wished it were her turn for whatever
it was they were doing.

The procession had all the feel
of a human sacrifice. If this scene had been taking place in her
land, that is exactly what it would be. Though their faces were
shrouded, Aziza suspected the identities of the men by their posture
and their gait, with the exception of a slightly larger man,
overseeing it all. Perhaps it was because she didn’t know who
he was and therefore she was curious that Aziza felt drawn to him
most of all. She could almost hear the connection between them snap
into place as she laid eyes on him. He turned his hooded profile
over his shoulder in her direction. Aziza recoiled, shrinking in the
cover of the shrubs.

Just after the last of them
crossed her vista, unearthly moans and wails and shushes echoed up,
filling the sky. Wicked, animalistic sounds somewhere between the
mournful tones of livestock at slaughter and the grunting noises that
regularly drifted from her hosts' bed. She writhed on the ground in
a heady spell, fighting not to succumb to whatever it was that sought
her wits. She had to touch herself. Play with wetness between her
legs which sprang from a delicious ache, and stroke her firm full
breasts wantonly. Aziza needed something. She needed someone.

She needed a man.

She sat upright without regard
to being seen. She pressed her back against a tree, her body
suffering with such great need as strange and wonderful spasms washed
over her. She wept and gasped until they ebbed from her. It was a
visitation of a sweet sultry spirit that Aziza wished to summon
again. She smiled with gratitude. She dropped to her chest and
spied. Her livened, sensitive breasts and belly squirmed on the
damp, musty earth.

All but the strange man/overseer
were in pairs, inspirited. They were mauling, joining each other,
stealing glances as the laird’s brother who, crying up to the
moon, appeared to ready himself to mate with his bride. She was
prepared, tethered to a marble alter. The laird’s brother took
pause to gaze upon her.

Disturbed and enchanted, Aziza
had been relieved it was a marriage ceremony after all, uniting the
lovers in the fruitful phase of the great moon. She knew these clans
people, though mostly Christian, still marked their world by the
phases of the sky in their ancient custom. Not unlike her own
culture but in a much baser way. In a rare moment, she felt a sort
of communion with them.

The priestess put her hands on
the overseer who by this point Aziza had chosen for herself. He
requited the priestess with a hot kiss that seared Aziza with
jealously. She savored his masterful control over affection, the way
his body inclined over the voluptuous priestess, the way his muscles
rippled, the way he rendered the priestess so defenseless against
him.

“I wish he was kissing
me,” she found herself thinking out loud. She cast her words
to the ceremony. “I wish he were my husband.” As she
crept just a little closer for a better look, the laird’s
brother reared back, cried up to the moon, flared great white fangs.

Algul!
Aziza bit her
knuckle in horror. In Egypt, Algul were demons who drank the blood of
others. But there, bloodsuckers took the form of virgin women. In
this barbaric land, they were surely tawdry men. The overseer pulled
away from the priestess to hold the bride’s still, whispering
in her ear. He lifted her jaw and bared her neck. The laird’s
brother drew down on her, burrowing his face to the arched porcelain
flesh. He was on her and he was in her, grinding mouth and hips to
both ends of her. The bride screamed out.

Aziza joined her. Shrieking into
the universe in absolute terror.

The overseer pulled back and
looked Aziza straight in the eye with an intimacy and knowingness
that made it feel as though he were inches from her. The edge gave
way beneath her and she was air-born. She flew on a magic carpet of
earth, plummeting down the cliff-like incline.

Aziza hit the ground. She
passed out

* * * *

The forest whispered her name,
called to her and Aziza came to. She had fallen out of her under
garments and her clothes were in a tangle around her body. She
lifted her head but soon rested it. She tried and tried to progress
past that point but fairies spun around her head in a virtual Druid
crown. Finally, amid whispers and pests, she sat up, crossed her
arms in front of her chest to hide until she could get home. It was
broad daylight. This was how she imagined it to be after spending
the night with a lover.

To be in love. Dizzy and sated.

The whispered beckoning was
sensual and Aziza felt embraced by it. She relished the night’s
fingers still stroking her, bringing her to that honey place that had
her body clenching as she spied so wickedly, until the stark
recollection of the last images before she passed out.

He bit her neck. He held her
down. He looked at her.

Aziza quaked. Her disobedience
to the errant Jamie MacDunna had been luscious and ecstatic. Wet and
hedonistic. And absolutely the most horrifying moments she
experienced yet. Just as she was about to give thanks the laird was
absent, for he would surely take her as his brother took his bride;
just as she was avow to never come back to this forbidden place, she
felt a firm, very large hand grip her shoulder.

She had been caught.

“Are you all right, Aziza?
Have you been somewhere?”

He stood up straight.

Aziza almost shot out of her
skin. She blinked and blinked to focus. She could have wept for
what she saw. There standing in the clear sunlight, as giant as the
trees surrounding them was a Scotsman, one not familiar to her but
who knew her by name. He was magnificent. He was unnaturally so.

His reddish blonde strands were
exactly like gold tufting in the tamed breeze that lifted all around
him. He folded his mighty arms across his chest as though he was
imitating her, and looked down at her sternly. Perspiration made its
untimely appearance above her lip. Though she was nervous, both
starved and sickened, his great deep voice stirred the evening’s
sweeter sensations. Like the whispers. To look at him made her ache
with an emptiness worse than the one created by the night’s
escapades, and she needed to be filled. Flooded with time-old
instinct and she wanted him.

Aziza burned. Her prince.

The giant apparently found
something funny as he plucked white petals of mountain flowers from
her ebony hair. He brushed them from her shoulders and off the front
and back of her shift with an almost intimate caress. She did her
best to contain the heavy breaths that rose from her at his very
touch. Aziza could not speak. She could only gawk.

“Lass?” He smiled
affectionately as he tilted his head.

“Who are you?” She
struggled to affect the most regal of voices but his stunning beauty
made her warble. “And how do you know my name?”