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This platform is in need of more content and I hear that erotic short stories for women is a massive market, so I thought I'd jump into the fray.
Introducing...
“The Watcher in the Bell Tower”
A /Farcastles Tale
The castle bell hadn’t rung in years.
Not since the Accord. Not since the wars ended and quiet settled over the hills like fog. But tonight, it swayed. Just once. A low, aching groan of brass that echoed through the sleeping stronghold.
Sarra heard it first.
She rose from her bed in nothing but her shift, moonlight slanting through the stone-carved windows, pale and cold across her collarbone. Her breath fogged in the air. Something stirred in her—half memory, half hunger.
The bell meant someone had crossed into the North Wall. Someone who shouldn’t be there.
She took a cloak, barely tying it, and made her way through the silent halls, barefoot against the icy floor. Each step echoed like a secret spoken aloud.
When she reached the tower, she saw him.
A man—no, a knight—drenched from the storm, leaning against the bell’s iron chain. His cloak was torn, armor slashed, eyes the color of struck flint.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, voice calm, but her pulse quickened.
He looked up, slowly. “I rang the bell for sanctuary.”
“You’re supposed to ring it twice for sanctuary,” she replied.
He smirked, exhaustion hanging heavy on his frame. “Then consider the second ring implied.”
She should’ve turned him away. But something in the way he looked at her made her stay. There was no threat in him—only longing. And something else.
“Let me help you,” she said, stepping closer.
He watched as she reached for the buckles of his ruined cuirass, hands brushing the warmth of his skin beneath. A long scar curved just under his ribs—earned, not inherited. Her fingers paused over it, then moved lower, over muscle, sweat, storm.
The air between them tightened like a bowstring.
“You’re shivering,” he whispered, eyes on her lips.
“So are you.”
“I’ve been cold for a long time,” he murmured. “You… You feel like the first fire I’ve seen in months.”
She pressed closer, letting her cloak fall open, letting the heat between their bodies rise like mist. His hands found her waist, hesitant at first. Then firmer. She kissed him—not with fear, but with familiarity, like a promise made long ago and finally fulfilled.
Their mouths moved slowly, then hungrily, as if tasting a life they thought they’d never have.
She pulled him to the stone bench by the bell, straddling him with the confidence of a woman who’d spent years surviving a world ruled by men and monsters—and was no longer afraid of either. His breath hitched as her shift slid over her thighs.
“Wait,” he said, voice husky.
She paused. “What is it?”
“I need you to know—this isn’t a mistake for me.”
She touched his face, brushing wet hair back from his brow. “Then stop thinking. Just feel.”
And so he did.
With the storm raging outside and the great bell looming overhead, they gave in to the quiet war of desire. Slow. Unhurried. Reverent.
Not the kind of love sung by bards. The kind forged in silence—when you forget where you end and the other begins.
By morning, the tower was quiet again.
But the bell had been rung.
And the Farcastles would never be the same. 5 replies
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