Selkie

Dedicated with many thanks for much inspiration to

by JunoMagic
Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives-ShareAlike license

Selkie

The last heat of the day rises from the heather, a honeyed scent. A soft breezes stirs the surface of the loch, adding spice to the air.

Summer solstice today.
New moon tonight.

At last the sun is sinking. Only at the western horizon tendrils of fire mingle still with the sparkling of the stars.

Dressed in white, wreathed in water lilies and wrapped in the perfume of passion flowers, the bride waits on the shore. Her cloak is too large for her and pools around her feet in swirls of white silk. Adorned in nothing but his silver Selkie skin, the groom swims towards her from the dark depths. When he reaches the shallow waters near the shore, he halts. He shrugs – and suddenly he stands before her, tall and naked. His Selkie skin he wears as a mantle now, a cloak woven of moonlight. To her he seems to glow as bright as the full moon in this short and moonless night.

She could drown in the darkness of his eyes as easily as in the depths of the loch. But when she lowers her gaze, she gasps. Heat flushes her cheeks, and the water carries his chuckles towards her.

He approaches her slowly, savouring each solemn step, as if they are all alone, as if no one is watching.

But the inhabitants of both villages are all present and accounted for. They stand and stare, observing this fey ceremony in awe or shock. The Selkie chieftain preens. The lady of the castle dabs at her eyes with the corner of a tartan shawl.

When he steps out of the water, the light of the candles lit in the village behind her make the droplets running down his naked skin glitter, and the silver of his sealskin sparkle. At last he stands in front of her, barely an inch separates them. He waits a heartbeat, inhales deeply.

She can feel her heartbeat in her ears and waves of desire wash over her, as she breathes in his cool, clean scent. Water and silver, just a hint of salt.

He removes the cloak of his skin from his shoulders and holds it in his hands. For a moment he gazes down at the sealskin, so soft, like suede, silver-bright, and more precious than any treasure on earth to him.

But he kneels down before his bride without wavering, now completely nude, and offers his skin to her.

‘My skin and my life I give into your keeping, guard them well.’

She holds out her hands, and he lays his skin upon them. With a gentle grasp he folds her fingers around the skin. A flash of light, and the skin is gone.

Now she is holding a heavy silver ring in her hands, ancient runes of power lining it. At first it appears much too big for her small, slender fingers. But when he slides it onto her left ring-finger, it tightens of its own accord until it fits perfectly.

When she raises her head, she’s crying and laughing at the same time. Her fingers fumble with the catch of her white cloak. Then she holds her cloak in her hands and offers it to him.

‘My body and my life I give into your keeping, honour them well.’

With a sigh he takes the silken garment from her hands and holds it high. The fabric catches the nightly breeze and swells like a sail. He throws the cloak over his shoulders. Wide, and cut like a robe, it is sufficient to clothe his nakedness. For the time being.

As husband and wife they greet the cheering guests. Then they turn and walk away, into the village, to their cottage, to a wide bed dressed with white linens.

Once inside the bedroom, he shrugs out of his cloak and quickly divests her of her bridal dress, skilled fingers flying over clasps and hooks.

Naked and smiling they stand before each other. His hair has dried, but it’s still dark and silky. She steps towards him and entwines her fingers in his hair, while he swiftly disentangles the blossoms from her curls. Pressed against him, she finds his muscular body still cool, save for one spot. He smirks. Moving slightly, he slides himself over her heated skin.

She gasps again, he steps forward, forcing her gently backwards until they’ve reached the bed.

Another nudge, and she lets herself fall backwards onto the sea of white sheets and blankets prepared for their wedding night.

He follows her at once and stretches out beside her. This night is short, the shortest of the year.

She senses the urgency searing through him. An answering fire blazes within her.

But when she makes to reach for him, he stays her with a shake of his head. No, even though this night may be short, he won’t be hurried.

His long slender fingers reach for her forehead, trace the line of her hair, the shell of her ear, tickle her throat, trail down her collarbone … and by the time he bends down to kiss the hollow at the base of her throat, time and space have lost all meaning.

Her breasts ache for his touch and she arches towards him, her breathing heavier. Her hands slide along his arms, her legs nudge his, her feet stroke along his calves.

For a moment he stills, his eyes closing, a sigh the only sign that he has to fight for self-control.

Then his hands move to her breasts. His caresses form spirals, meandering motions that start at her side, move downwards, dip inwards, sweep over the swell of her breasts. Over and over again. His strokes are like waves lapping at dunes, swirling, moving, mesmerizing, until she loses herself to the sensation.

When he kisses her nipples at long last, she keens at the surplus of sensations, and when he nips her, ever so lightly, she’s had enough. She presses herself against him, pushes her hips against his, wraps her legs around him – an inviting position that leaves him just inches from her core.

‘Like that, is it?’ he growls.

‘Yesss,’ she hisses. ‘Exactly-‘

When he fills her, she can’t keep silent.

‘So good, so good, so good,’ she chants, until he calms her with a kiss.

But this is just the quiet before the storm.

Slowly he begins to move again, an easy rocking motion. He’s propped up on his elbows, a somewhat awkward position, but his long fingers curl upwards, still seeking her breasts. His eyes burn like coals. A drop of sweat pearls on his forehead, slides down to his eyes. Intense. So intense. She can’t escape his rhythm, she’s helplessly adrift. He can turn her into a puddle, no, an ocean of desire. With his Selkie magic he controls her, the ebb and flow of lust within her veins.

His strokes grow fiercer.

His rhythm finally falters.

She can’t help it, she claws at his back, arches instinctively towards him.

Then he rasps: ‘Wait – wait -‘

He raises himself just a little, slides a hand between them, downwards, finds her hard and round. ‘Like a pearl,’ he murmurs. ‘Preciousssss…’

He presses downwards with the pad of his thumb.

And that is enough.

Gasping, breathless, she convulses around him, soars, with him her only anchor, even as he drowns within her, shuddering with his own pleasure.

Afterwards, becalmed, they lie entwined, having reached their harbour within each other.

~~~*~~~

They lived happily unto the end of their days. She treasured his skin, he cherished her body – and they both loved each other, and their life together, for every day and every night that was granted them.

Thus they proved once and for all that trust and love may endure against all odds.

Song of the day:

And: “Selkie” by Danielle Ballantine

Link(s) of the day:

Selkie-Art: ‘selkie’ by Let’s escape |‘Selkie’ by Daniel Dutton

Stories: The Selkie-Folk |A Home for Selkies

…and my wish for you today is:

That you may find someone whom you can trust with your love and your life, and someone who returns that trust.

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