Between the Ridge and the River
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Part IV – The Years After
Romance Sex Story: Part IV – The Years After - Clarita owes the mountain her seventh daughter’s seventh daughter. Michelle breaks every salt line she finds. Hate becomes hunger, hunger becomes rope and brand and fist. To keep the witch in the walls fed, they pay with blood, welts, hot wax, and shattering squirt under the Mothman’s red eyes. Love here is a debt paid in screams and perfect surrender. The ridge claimed them. They claimed each other harder.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Reluctant Romantic Lesbian Fiction Horror Paranormal Ghost Magic Were animal Demons BDSM DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Rough Sadistic Spanking Torture Anal Sex Analingus Exhibitionism Fisting Oral Sex Sex Toys Spitting Squirting Voyeurism Water Sports Body Modification Menstrual Play Needles Public Sex Caution Slow Violence
(When the Debt Became Devotion)
Spring 2024 – The Thaw
Dogwoods bled white against the ridges the week the snow finally let go. The creek roared drunk with meltwater, carrying last year’s grudges downstream.
Michelle sold her Chicago apartment over a crackling satellite call while Clarita plowed the garden with a mule named Damn It and a grin she couldn’t quite hide. They moved Michelle’s cameras, chemicals, and the last of her city clothes into Clarita’s cedar-log ranger cabin (the one Clarita had built herself with her own hands and a stubbornness that could shame granite).
They argued over shelf space, whose turn it was to split kindling, and whether bears really did shit in the woods (Clarita insisted they preferred Michelle’s compost pile to be assholes). They made up on the bearskin rug in front of the woodstove, slow and filthy and laughing, learning every inch of each other like reading braille in the dark.
Some nights, Clarita wore the collar (a simple strip of leather cut from her daddy’s old razor strop, the buckle worn smooth by generations of discipline). Some nights, Michelle did. Power flowed between them like creek water (sometimes gentle, sometimes a flood that left them both bruised and shaking and whispering “I love you” into sweat-slick skin).
2025 – The Marking
Michelle’s photographs (black-and-white studies of rope shadows on collarbones, of bite marks fading like storm clouds, of Clarita’s hands splitting kindling with the same reverence she used to tie knots) won awards in cities that no longer mattered. Clarita got promoted to district ranger and spent the raise on a custom St. Andrew’s cross for the barn and a new forge that glowed like a dragon’s mouth on ritual nights.
Every year on the anniversary of the burning foot (February 14th now, because the mountain has a sense of humor), they renewed their vow the only way that felt honest:
Clarita heated the branding iron (crescent moon cradling a seven-pointed star) until it shimmered white. Michelle knelt naked on the bearskin, thighs spread, hands bound behind her back with the same rope from their first bargain night. Clarita pressed the iron to the soft inner flesh of Michelle’s left thigh, just below the crease where leg meets cunt. The sizzle was soft, intimate. The smell of charred meat and singed hair filled the cabin like incense. Michelle screamed once (raw, beautiful), then went silent, floating in the white-hot place where pain and love are the same thing. Clarita cooled the burn with spring water carried in her mouth, then licked the blistered moon and star until Michelle came just from the contrast of cold tongue on seared flesh.
The next night, Michelle took the tattoo needle and India ink and carved a matching brand into Clarita’s wrist while Clarita bit down on a leather strap and came untouched, eyes locked on Michelle’s the whole time.
2027 – The Switching
Some years, the power flipped entirely.