Rumpelstiltskin hesitates at the doorway, uncertain in the face of candlelight, conversation. His wife is in the chair beside the fire, curled up and making herself seem small as can be. Well, he alarmed her earlier; snatched at her with a strength that he had not meant. Hadn't he wanted her to fear him?
She's defiant, even in the face of her fears. The proud lift of her chin, the effort at a smile of greeting, oh yes, but unhappiness pours off her like dark smoke, and Rumpelstiltskin cannot help but taste it. He knows the look of an unhappy wife, and the falsehood of words, so he crouches before her chair and watches her. Her nightgown buttons to the throat, tonight, as pristine and virginal as it's possible to imagine, and she watches him with wide, blue, blue eyes.
He ought to have known that she would be dutiful, this one. She offers her bed, as before; stands and begins to go towards it, but there's resignation there. As soon as he touches her, catches her slender waist to have her look at him, she flinches. He feels the muscles beneath his fingertips attempt to crawl away from his touch. She gasps, and Rumpelstiltskin smiles. Of course.
"Not so willing, now?" He forces aside the memory of her yielding warmth and leans close, whispering his satisfaction into her ear. Even her ear is tiny, delicate - a thing of unreasonable loveliness. Rumpelstiltskin resists the urge to touch it with the tip of his tongue to see if she shrieks aloud. "I see." Instead, the girl gives him a shove - a feeble one to be sure, her hands connecting briefly with his chest, and responds with an infuriated scowl.
"No, you don't," she declares, lifting that chin of hers again. "I don't, so you can't possibly. There's so much I don't understand. I don't know how a wife should feel." There's the barest hesitation over that last word, and her cheeks turn rosy while her eyes dodge his gaze.
Feel? How should a wife feel? Rumpelstiltskin has no idea, except that his ought to be weeping or cowering or raging, and she's none of it. Not one drop of it. She seems lost, and seems to be looking to him for the answers. To him!
He gropes for something to say - the right thing, or anything - while his wife hangs her head and looks miserable, rubbing at the wrist he seized earlier. He should never have come to her door!
"Was I perhaps... too forceful?" he tries, certain that he took every care with her last night. But she's an innocent, and perhaps any touch offends her senses? He ought to allow for that, if she can allow for the likes of him.
At once, she's all apology and reassurance, more frightened at the notion of being misunderstood than she is of her husband. Not that, she promises, stumbling over the words while her eyes shine bright with sincerity. She's made of it, this little woman. And she says that she does not want him to go.
Rumpelstiltskin thinks that he ought to take her to bed. She'd no fear of him there, none worse than the quick pounding of her strong heart, and required no words of him once he touched her. That was better; silence, and darkness. It's on his lips to offer her the potion again, and see if his new wife is one to battle her desires or surrender to them utterly. He cannot imagine her writhing, panting, straining and sweating as lovers do, but his potion will unlock anyone's loins for a little while. The merest touch would leave her moaning, and Rumpelstiltskin thinks that he would like to hear that very much. But the girl wants to know what a wife ought to feel.
He takes her place in the warm chair, a slave to his own curiosity. She bunched up and shivered when he touched her lovely little breast, before. It might be enough, and he would have his wife feel pleasure if he is to enjoy her. It's only fair, and flesh is flesh. Even his.
Belle looks so young as she perches herself upon his knees, obedient and wary. She's afraid that he'll mock her, trick her, but that is all that she's afraid of. Rumpelstiltskin can see that clearly, though it baffles him to the bone. A certain moist heat upon his thigh adds to his intrigue and perplexity; the girl is wet, and her nipples make dainty little peaks beneath the thick cotton of her nightgown.
He doesn't have the nerve to ask her about this inexplicable state of arousal, suspecting that she would only blush if he did so. Youth is in her favour, and there's no lack of vitality about Rumpelstiltskin's new bride.
She's all nervous willingness as he draws her to his body, cradles her in the chair. Just as in bed she waits, obedient, yet without the least trace of resentment. Rumpelstiltskin is at a loss, recalling that maidens dream of kisses and of being swept away by romantic declarations. The object of those fantasies is always comely and well-made, however, and Rumpelstiltskin was never that. All the same, his wife watches his hand as he tries touching her sweet breast; he thinks she liked that well enough, before. Her nipple is stiff against his palm, temptation for his fingertips, but he must be gentle with this sweet thing if he is to make her sigh. He kneads her flesh, appreciative of the small weight of her breast in his hand. She truly is lovely to the eye, and lovelier to the hand, and she quakes at his touch as if she had desired it always. Perhaps she thinks of another? The dukeling? Rumpelstiltskin purses his lips and listens to how his little wife breathes, her head beside his against the back of the chair.
Yes, youth and vitality will have their outlet. She yearns without understanding what it is she yearns for. It's delicious, and so is she, trying to be still there in his lap while he fondles her. How would her cries sound? She's so quiet, so composed, but would she moan in her carnal pleasure? Shriek? Whimper? Yes, he thinks that she would whimper - a soft sound, vulnerable and curiously honest. Rumpelstiltskin would like to hear that.
"Tell me what pleases you," he urges, while his hand enjoys her breast and his old heart enjoys her show of enthusiasm. "Tell me, most especially, if something does not meet with your liking." She nods, wetting plump pink lips with the tip of her tongue, and watches his hand playing with her through the gown.
Rumpelstiltskin's known a little of her bare skin, and cannot deny that he would like to know it further. He would like to bare her little breast and kiss it, stroke it and gaze upon it, but contents himself with playing with what is hidden. He imagines it, that sweet swell of pale flesh, darkening at the nipple, and squeezes harder without meaning to.
His little wife tells him that she likes it. She speaks quietly, the tiny tremor in her voice almost eluding his ears.
A high-born maid, Rumpelstiltskin thinks, watching his hand just as she does while he tries to rub her breast instead of squeeze it. Such creatures are sheltered from temptation, from understanding the business of the bedroom beyond what's required to secure a lineage. Her tight nipple brushes sweetly across the centre of his palm, inflaming desire for more than a taste of her lovely breast. Will she permit him, tonight? If he pleases her, perhaps; if he shows her that he will seek her pleasure with more than the required sense of duty. He would very much like to hear Belle whimper as she comes for him. The very thought of it fills him like strong wine, sending heat prickles across his flesh and bringing sweat to his upper lip. A less gentle caress causes her to fidget on his thigh, her legs restless, earning him not a whimper but a shaken sigh, and Rumpelstiltskin smiles into her soft hair. Yes, yes, his little wife needs to come and she doesn't even know it. Delightful!
"I think, mistress, that a particular need is what ails you. Won't you try my potion, my dear?" Giddy with excitement, he plucks at her nipple, making her gasp. He can imagine her with her loins aflame for touch, in the grip of that potion; he can imagine how she would welcome fingers and cock as they searched deeply for her satisfaction. "It's a good one. Effectiveness absolutely guaranteed."
The stubborn creature shakes her head, tossing her hair as she does so. It tickles Rumpelstiltskin's face as it slithers back to stillness. And she may be right, at that; she's trying to fit her dainty feet upon the seat of the chair beside his leg, to ease her wet heat away from his thigh. Perhaps she needs no potion to unlock her lust, if touch and teasing will bring her to this? Or was it being fucked last night that left her sticky, hungry and flighty as a moth? Rumpelstiltskin licks his lips, recalling the rose petal smoothness of her skin and the dry yielding of her lips.
Oh well. Better this than the look of scarcely concealed disgust that he has grown used to during the long centuries. And the girl knows her own mind - he likes that. Oh yes. She's coiled in his lap, now, and perspiring heavily; her bosom rises and falls with rapid abandon. She might let him look, perhaps? Open up the modest row of pearly buttons and bare a little skin? He's seen her shoulders before, after all, and the curving pillows of her bosoms peeking above the corset of a binding gown.
She starts and holds her breath a moment, when he tries the top button. Rumpelstiltskin waits for 'enough is enough', for her sneer, her retreat, her excuse, but they don't come. She returns to her attitude of shaken fascination, controlling her shock, and Rumpelstiltskin loosens the second button. The nightgown has not the slightest allure. Quite the opposite, its plainness and expansiveness is forbidding and dull, where the gown she wore for her wedding night was at least artlessly pretty, but the very severity of it puts him in mind of hidden treasure. A challenge.
Rumpelstiltskin does so enjoy a good challenge. Each button gives him a thrill, though the cut of the collar still leaves everything to the imagination. His imagination is fertile and healthy, and fills his mind with perky pinkness as he slips his hand into the gap he's created for it, and finds her breast anew, skin on skin. She shudders to her core when he cups her breast, fighting to be silent. Silence is not required, but Rumpelstiltskin cannot find the breath to tell her that, nor the courage to let her know that her whimpers would please him better than any tentative coupling in the dark. His surety is slipping away, flesh on flesh; his hand feels overlarge, clumsy, the wrong tool for such a delicate job as this.
He hadn't expected temptation like this. A flat refusal of him, or a resentful acquiescence, but not the way she quakes and shakes now, any more than he expected her artless welcome on their wedding night. She's an oddity, all right, this bookish Belle. Here and now, she's an oddity in need of sensation, so he paws her breast until he's maddened by the roll of her nipple against his skin. He can't resist giving the pert little peak a pinch in vengeance for his growing discomfort - growing rapidly, in fact, inside breeches that are cut for flair rather than function. Rumpelstiltskin shifts against the seat, but the movement only adds stimulation to torment.
His pinch has earned him a fresh gasp, and an increase in her restlessness. His attentions to her breast please her, but not enough to set her loose, and at least she's known his hand between her thighs; he need not show her, gentle her overmuch. Still, his hand is coarse and she is delicate. Untried, uncertain. He doesn't want to leave her sore. Rumpelstiltskin tugs her nightgown up to her thighs, suddenly, and guides her own hand between her legs, covering it tightly with his own and feeling the involuntary curl of her fingers, inward. She yelps, panting, and liquid lust spills between her fingers to make his slick as well. She's delectable in her flushed abandon. When he pushes at her hand, makes her stroke her wet lips over and over, the tight shudders take her and he almost has his whimper.
"Guide my hand," he rasps, hardly trusting himself to keep from speaking some spell that would leave her flat on her back for him instead. He wants to bury his fingers in the sweetness, to rub and pluck, to fuck her with two fingers until her body snatches at them, but he obeys her clumsy guidance instead. She has him rub the flat of his palm over her hooded clit, harder and harder still, and Rumpelstiltskin growls his approval of her greed with, "Yes, that's good, isn't that good, you're close now aren't you? Like this? Like this?"
Near insensible, twisting and panting, Belle goes tight all over as it starts. Her hand convulses, striving, scratching the back of Rumpelstiltskin's hand, so he continues as she showed him, making sure to spread the moisture as he moves his hand; she must know only pleasure, he thinks, half blind with his own lust. He fights to keep himself from applying his greedy mouth to her dainty ear; he'd savour any part of her, just now, but he doesn't want to spoil her moment.
And what a moment she has, his little wife. She doesn't whimper, but yelps - shocked protests as her body unfolds its secrets for her, as she jerks and presses down onto his hand, lost to everything but the orgasm that, by the look and sound of her, she's been craving all unknowing since her womanhood blossomed. Rumpelstiltskin is more than pleased to oblige, even if his prick is straining against tight leather, an agony of self-denial. It makes him feel alive, to crave her.
She weeps, when it's over; dry sobs more noisy and violent than her pleasuring, and when she curls herself into his chest and thumps at him with the heel of her hand, Rumpelstiltskin puts both arms about her and holds her tightly. Poor fare he may be, but he's her husband. She will never break for the want of his devotion, nor want where she has an appetite. He swears it to himself, as his little wife subsides into snuffles and a glowing, abject relief.
Rumpelstiltskin swears it.