Seductress, page 8
His fingers and toes were lightly frostbitten, his hair a wild and tangled mass and he had not shaved since leaving home a week before. He spurred himself on, like an ailing horse, with thoughts of hot roast pheasant and wine. He could almost taste the rich succulent flesh of the fowl as he marched on through the gloom. He imagined tearing it apart with his aching fingers, relishing the savory oily juice that would coat his desiccated lips. The claret would warm his throat from tongue to belly. On and on he stumbled, because there was no turning back. He had a message to deliver.
On the afternoon of the eighth day, he came upon a beautiful but sadly neglected house. It was perched upon a vast granite outcrop, facing the setting sun, and almost seemed to grow out of its rocky foundation, as if it were one with the harsh terrain. The young man wandered about the deserted mansion’s grounds, growing vaguely uneasy as he sensed that he was observed by hidden eyes. Yet every time he glanced up at the windows of the desolate hall, all that could be seen was the dusty darkness within. He fingered the knife, stroked its razor-sharp edge. It was getting dark again and he was so desperately cold. The young man decided that, ghosts or no ghosts, he would find a way into the sad old house, make a fire in the grate and have shelter for the night. The sun was setting as he kicked against a crumbling door, its distant wintry rays reddening the windows of the hall as if there was a fire within.
It’s so beautiful.
He was in a vast chamber with a great fireplace. The lofty walls were draped with ancient moldering tapestries. The glass-eyed heads of stuffed and mounted game peered blindly into the echoing space. A long table of dark, almost black wood took pride of place in the once magnificent room. On the table, as if recently abandoned, stood an empty wineglass. Somehow the sight of the glass instilled a deep melancholy in him, a peculiarly irrational sadness that seemed to have crept like an insidious miasma from the very fabric of the house.
What nonsense. I must be more tired than I thought.
Shaking himself like a dog just out of water, the young man set to making a modest fire in the grate. He unpacked his meager supper of dry bread and sausage and set to toasting it over the flames, whistling softly to himself, and shivering as the small blaze thawed his well-chilled limbs. He’d never felt such cold. It seemed to insinuate itself into the very marrow of his bones, despite his stout clothes. Huddled on a sheepskin rug, the young man fell asleep, thankful for one night in which he would not have to keep an ear open for the wolves.
Sometime in the dark depths of the freezing night, he woke with a start, as if a sudden sound had roused him from his dreams. The house was silent but, to his amazement, the fire in the grate had not died down to embers as he slept. Indeed, a gay conflagration danced in the fireplace. The young man stared at the leaping flames and his heart skipped a beat. Someone had put some logs on the fire. This was not the mean little blaze of sticks and twigs over which he had toasted his bread. A soft sound from the other side of the chamber made him whirl around. There was a rustle of skirts as a small slender figure emerged from a shadowy corner.
“Good evening, Christian.”
The voice belonged to a young woman in a deep blue gown.
The young man was horrified. But the house was empty! It seemed he had made a terrible mistake and deserved to be thrown out into the frigid night. And how did she know his name? It was his given name, the one no one ever used, preferring a trite nickname. Had she looked through his belongings to ascertain the identity of her intruder? Christian stumbled to his feet.
“Madam, please forgive my inexcusable behavior! I truly believed this house was abandoned and sought shelter from the cold.”
The young woman smiled graciously.
“I understand. My home is not what it once was. Please do not distress yourself. Are you hungry?”
Christian thought of his pathetic meal of sausage and bread.
“I have eaten, but not well. But please do not go to any trouble on my behalf. Under the circumstances…”
The young woman placed a delicate finger against her rosebud lips.
“Hush now. I’m fond of eating late at this time of year. You cannot travel on with a half-empty belly.”
Christian could not disagree. What marvelous good fortune! It was odd that the lady did not appear frightened by his impromptu appearance by her fireside, but he was glad that it was so. He warmed his back by the crackling fire as he watched her set the table. Then she disappeared to some other chamber to procure their meal. Within a few minutes, she returned, bearing a laden tray, which the young man carried to the table.
“I hope you like pheasant. And there is a nice claret. I drink so little by myself, it’s a treat to have company.”
Christian stared at the delicious food that was neatly arrayed on a silver platter. It was the supper of his daydream in the frozen forest. Perhaps he was hallucinating. Slyly, he pinched himself on one thigh but the sensation seemed real enough.
“You are very kind, Miss…?”
The young woman frowned slightly.
“You may call me Delphine. Now please…eat! It really would give me such pleasure to see you well fed.”
Christian ate. Everything was superb. The pheasant was meltingly tender and full of fragrant herb-scented juice, the accompanying root vegetables were sweet and faintly caramelized by roasting around the bird. The wine was excellent, as soft and round as a lovely woman’s thighs. After recharging his plate and glass several times, he finally sat back in his chair, feeling more content than he could ever recall. In his haste to eat and drink, he had paid little attention to his lovely companion and, realizing his folly, he flushed deeply and muttered his contrition into his napkin.
“It seems I must make my apologies once again. I make a poor dining companion.”
The young woman shrugged.
“A better companion than spiders and moths. I do so yearn for human contact.”
At last, Christian examined his hostess’s features. She was very pale, with fine golden hair neatly parted down the middle of her scalp then swept back into a softly gleaming coil. Her eyes were an indeterminate gray blue, the kind of shade that changes with the light. There was a translucency about her, a delicate porcelain doll effect.
Yet she must be as strong as iron to survive alone in this desolate place.
Assorted questions sprang into Christian’s mind, lingered briefly then were dismissed.
She’s so lovely.
Suddenly, his head reeled with the rich food, the wine and the heat of the blazing fire. His blood beat in his ears and every inch of his body seemed suffused with heat after the interminable chill. He was vaguely aware of his hostess taking his hand. She spoke as softly as snow falling on snow.
“Do you want to kiss me?”
He didn’t pause to consider her question but merely nodded and answered, “Yes.” Surely she was mesmerizing him. It was a terrible impropriety, but he did not care. Who would see or know? His mouth found hers and he kissed the dainty rosebud lips that tasted of wine and pheasant and something else that he could not quite discern. She was wonderfully giving yet yielding and, again, Christian imagined her as a doll. In his passion, he imagined doing with her exactly as he desired, yet, in truth, he had little experience of the fairer sex.
“Take me as the wolves converge upon their prey, as the eagle swoops to spear a fish.”
She had read his mind. Indeed, it seemed as if she was within his mind. Moaning with desire, Christian pressed his lips upon the sweet clean skin of the young woman’s throat. Something in him wanted to bite, nip, suck. He had become a predator and Delphine was willing prey. The next moment, her tiny fingers felt like steel rods in his hair, twisting and drawing his head to her half-exposed bosom. With one harsh movement, he wrenched the flimsy bodice of her dress aside and revealed her lovely ivory breasts. Again, she pushed his face toward her succulence, crying for him to feast upon her. Christian drew his mouth over the perfect mounds of satiny flesh, which reminded him strongly of two neatly molded milk puddings, sweet and creamy, wobbling on the spoon of his tongue. Delphine’s nipples were pale pink sweetmeats, berry shaped and swollen, and he drew them into his mouth one by one, sucking hard, causing his hostess to shriek. He thought of her moist little cunny. It would be honey—manna to lap until she passed out with pleasure. His rod was harder than it had ever been, pressing against his trousers like a caged animal.
“Devour me. Make me yours!”
There was no sense of time’s passing as the feverish young man entered his partner. She felt like burning velvet as her hot cushioned passage swallowed him whole to the hilt and seemed to search for more. His fat knob met the resistance of her womb and knocked insistently, his hips grinding and bucking in a wild primeval rhythm. No one had taught him the dance and its frenzied, abandoned steps were far from the clumsy fumblings of his few past affairs. Delphine began to scream and to tear at his hair as he erupted within her depths, feeling as if every last drop of his essence had left him to become part of her.
He must have fallen asleep as swiftly as a babe does. The pale morning sun cast feeble fingers of light through the dusty windows of the old house as the young man stirred. The fire was long dead in the grate and his bones ached from stiffness and chill. Slowly, Christian got to his feet, looking sleepily about him for signs of the lovely young woman. She must have retired to her chamber, wherever that was. Oddly, everything seemed strangely unmarked by their midnight tumbling. He could even see his own footprints in the heavy dust that carpeted the floor of the ancient hall, but not hers. A shiver ran down his spine, one that was not caused by the terrible cold. Hallucination? Dream? He would not think about it. He would dismiss it from his mind. Briskly, he collected his pack and left the house, horribly aware of the single dust-drenched glass that still sat on the long, ebony table. Outside, the snow was falling, as soft as the feathers in a maiden’s powder puff. Two more days and, God willing, he’d deliver the message and be done with the ordeal.
Into the forest again he strode, knowing full well she watched him from a window above, but not looking back, else he be turned to ice with the horror of what he saw.
MINIONS HAVE NEEDS TOO
Anya Richards
The hunt was successful?”
Keeping her gaze lowered, Syllabelle shivered, the energy trapped inside writhing, firing her blood anew.
“Yes, master,” she whispered, longing to look up. It had been so long since she’d been in his presence the urge to devour him with her gaze was almost too strong to overcome. “I hope to please you.”
“We shall see.” Theodictus’s voice rasped over her skin like the rough tongue of a cat, causing her to tremble even more, need twisting deep in her belly.
Chancing his annoyance, she shuffled a little closer on her knees until his strong bare feet came into her line of sight. “All I desire is your approval.”
Theodictus laughed, a boom of sound that ricocheted through her bones and made yearning flare and pop through her body. Her breasts ached and her cunt throbbed in time with his mirth.
“Is it, sweetling?” His feet shifted, moved farther apart, toes curling slightly into the smooth stone floor. “Is there nothing else you want from your master?”
The mocking tone, the hint of cruelty, caused fear to blossom cold in her belly, but also heightened her need.
Careful, she told herself, careful.
“I also desire your pleasure, and if it should please you to send me away…”
He was silent for so long fear turned to terror, and she envisioned once more being sent to the incubi who, in greed and desperation, would carelessly suck her carefully collected tribute away. The thought almost made her beg, plead, but that would only make it worse. So, instead, she chose meek stillness, holding her breath as she waited.
Finally, when she could hardly bear the quietude a moment longer, Theodictus chuckled.
“Convince me it is worth my while to receive what you have brought. If it pleases me, I will take what you have to give. Tell me of the hunt.”
Relief stole her breath, and she was forced to inhale deeply, taking in the scent of his expensive cologne; the elusive, underlying hint of brimstone; before she could reply.
“Would it please you, master, to see it instead?”
She heard his hissed breath, the rush of movement as he sat forward, and inwardly smiled. Theodictus was her master, but she knew him well. Her skill at retaining the remnants of her hunts, the ability to hold and transmit them, was unusual among her kind. It raised her value and, although she knew it would never be enough to keep her completely safe, she’d honed it during her banishment.
“You’ve worked hard, little one, to regain my favor.” The harsh gruffness of his words filled her with pride, but she tamped it down, for just such an emotion had led to her previous punishment. The centuries spent slowly starved of sustenance, and then being mauled by the incubi, had taught a painful lesson.
“Yes, master.”
Again silence, but now it hung heavy, like a humid pall laced with arousal between them. Suddenly his leg moved, one foot coming to rest against her knee.
“Show me what you have for me.”
The breath she took shuddered into her lungs and, as she reached out a trembling hand to caress his foot, she released one memory—
He was the lookout in an alley, the drug dealer’s boy, a hard case scrabbling up the twisted ladder of his chosen profession, unafraid and always ready for the worst. Around him bubbled an aura so black and angry it washed like acid over Syllabelle’s skin.
Turning, he saw her coming into the moonlight, reached instinctively for his gun. Then the fact of her unarmed nakedness broke through, and he smiled.
By then she was close enough to cup his cheeks, capture his glittering gaze with hers.
“You are mine,” she whispered. “All mine.”
He struggled, unwilling to submit, to bow to anyone. But she had him, refused to release her hold, and when she took his lips he surrendered all at once, flooding her with his desperate, angry desire.
Pushing him against the wall, she undid the heavy belt buckle, unfastened his jeans. He pushed the pants down, low growls of need pulsing from his throat and into her mouth.
“Be still now,” she whispered, delving deep into his psyche, finding the one moment in his life he never, ever wanted to let go—pulling him back into it. “Be still, and come with me.”
“Oh, geez, Cindy.” His voice was suddenly so young, and he was once more looking down at the sweet-faced blonde kneeling between his trembling legs. She’d left her tank top pulled up so her creamy breasts swung free, the nipples tight and wet with his saliva. Her Cupid’s bow mouth was slightly open, glistening from his kisses. “You don’t have to.”
The tip of her tongue peeked out from between innocently curved lips, and he groaned.
“I want to.” Her eyes were so blue they could have been shards of a summer sky. “I have to taste you. I’ve wanted to for so long.”
Around them in the dank basement lay the remnants of his poverty-stricken life—a sofa so moldy he wouldn’t even let her sit on it, the boxes his old man had tossed down the stairs and forgotten. But as the warm, succulent mouth touched his cock for the first time, and her tongue slicked a silken path around the head, he was suddenly richer than any other man in the world.
Drawing back, eyelids heavy with passion, she smiled, and his heart slammed with happiness. “You taste so good, baby.” She licked her lips again, and his balls tightened to the point of pain. “I love the shape of your cock, how hard and soft it is, all at the same time.”
“Don’t Cindy.” He could hardly speak, already hovering on the edge of coming just from hearing those words from her sweet lips. “Don’t talk like that.”
In reply she licked a path of warm fire down to his sac and back up again. “Why not, hm?”
The last part of her question was hummed around the head of his dick, and he stiffened, pushed her gently away, almost dying from the suction she kept on him right until he was released.
“You’ll make me come, Cindy.”
“I want you to.” Soft fingers touched his balls, and her breath puffed against his aching flesh. “I want to watch you blow your wad.”
“Cindy.” The word wheezed from his throat, and she giggled softly, palming his cock, wrapping her fingers around it, pumping.
“I wish we could fuck,” she whispered, “and I could feel you inside me. I want to spread my legs and let you look at my pussy, suck on it the way you suck my tits, until I’m screaming and begging you to take me.”
All he could do was groan, imagining it, feeling the wet heat of her virgin cunt surrounding him, milking him as she screamed his name, her ass flailing under him, his balls slamming against her.
“Fuck,” he shouted, as she took him deep into her throat. Fantasy merged with reality, and he pumped into that innocent, fucking incredible mouth, the come shooting out of him like bullets from an automatic weapon…
Shuddering from the transfer of memory, reliving the orgasm she’d had while stealing the oblivious drug dealer’s seed, energy and memory, Syllabelle stroked the burning hot flesh beneath her fingers. Theodictus’s harsh breathing echoed through the chamber, each rasp of sound filling her with delight.
“A hard man returned to the most innocent and thrilling sexual experience of his life.” The demon’s voice was soft, just a rumble of sound. “Intriguing, Syllabelle.”
He withdrew his foot, and she felt the loss like a blow.
