Viola Grace - Saguinary Seduction, page 8
It wasn’t enough.
Arms out flung exactly as they’d been since the instant of her landing, she felt her hands begin to open and close, open and close. Uselessly, and far beyond her ability to control or direct their motion.
There was no need to control. None at all to direct.
Her body knew what it wanted. More. Deeper. And it was fully prepared to act on its own to get it. All of it.
“You want satisfaction,” Peter declared in his calm and cool tone that had much more effect than if he’d shouted and raged the way, she realized with a sharp stabbing of stunned amazement, she herself had never stopped shouting and raging.
What he’d said hadn’t been a question. It didn’t require an answer…didn’t solicit one. But Drucilla gave it anyway. “P-p…” And when her voice failed, she gave him all she had with an unhesitating surging of her deepest moisture. Torrents of it.
Tornadoes and torpedoes of it, all telling him as she was unable to tell him with words that she looked forward to that satisfaction. Looked forward to anything he might choose to give her.
Peter pulled back slowly. Ultra slowly. His reversal of 66
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motion carried him nearly, perilously, to the point where he would abandon her. Where she would be reduced to emptiness and doomed to return to cold longing.
Peter backed away. But he still clung to her. Barely between the aching layers of her.
Drucilla groped for him.
Clawed, her fingers fell upon the thin heat of dusty air somewhere beyond and behind his shoulder. Hooking themselves tighter, they dragged at that air in repeated, useless attempts to find something to grip. Something to cling to and derive needed steadiness from.
Peter towered above her. Over her. A distant shadow in winter-lit dimness. Gazing impassively, he watched her struggle. Watched her veer ever closer to drowning in secret puddles of her own misted, unmet yearning. He watched her writhe. Watched as she cried out, struggling to help herself.
Her cry was a choked sound. A low one fraught with meanings of all kinds and all varieties, some of them never meant for open expression. Never meant to be revealed and made available to anyone else. Least of all to her tormentor, her punisher, her desire.
Drucilla cried out in full desperation. Freed, more free than she’d been since her life began, she thrust eagerly with her hips. Following his every movement. Straining once again with her hidden muscles, raw and aching muscles, to keep him.
Hold him. Savor him.
Stopped with only the most extreme tip of his shaft penetrating and brushing gently against folds that flexed and fumed in their efforts to hold him, he held her where she was and as she was. “It was inevitable,” he murmured after the longest of times, entering her with that same exquisite, torturous slowness he’d displayed upon leaving. And with far more deliberation than before.
“Wh-wha…” She quavered. Roiling columns of heated steam surged inside her, leaving her all but senseless. Opening wider than it had ever been meant to open, her body rippled delightfully. Ready for his attention. Deliciously eager to 67
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receive it. “What was inev-vitable?”
Pushing harder, Peter rotated his shaft. Stroking his hips rapidly, insistently from side to side, he pushed all the way into the final depth of her. Hard enough to force her backward across the sturdy, dusty floor.
Ancient splinters tore at the exposed areas of her arms, the small of her back, the backs of her quivering, spread-wide thighs.
Drucilla didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Shivering in the face of a tsunami of smolder-steaming mist Peter extracted from her as surely as he knew how to extract every secret from his enemies, Drucilla tried to close her eyes.
She couldn’t do that either. Endlessly wide and probing, her gaze found his face. Her gaze locked upon it. Taking in every handsome, impossibly undisturbed feature of it.
“What?” she asked again, fascinated by the look of him…by the expression on his smoothly rough face.
It was a look of ecstasy. Unmistakably a sheen of ecstasy found and much more anticipated. Incipient ecstasy about to blossom into something hotter. Something more virulently crimson even than the fresh spill of blood with which she’d so recently brightened the deep-woods snow.
“It was inevitable,” he repeated, laughing very, very softly.
Laughter rumbled inside his body. And thanks to the endlessness of his joining with her, thanks to his shivering, shimmering intrusion into her, it rumbled sinuously through hers as well.
“One way or another we were destined to find ourselves in this position, my little Pomegranate. Alone. With nothing to do but fuck, and experiment, and find new ways of tantalizing each other.”
Alone, because that’s the way you set it up. That’s the way you…
If there was more to her thoughts…she thought there was more…it never registered.
Her thoughts faded into a kind of deep, snow-choked dream. Of surrealism. Some distant distance from which Peter would never allow her to return.
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With every sense heightened to the breaking point, Drucilla became aware of the floor growing harder beneath her. She became acutely aware of stirred dust and splinters that grew more devious about finding vulnerable flesh and twisting their way into it.
For a time, accompanied only by the sound of harsh-rasped breathing and a soft ticking as wind wracked the outermost walls of their cabin and snow settled with increasingly heavy weight upon its ancient roof, he did what she’d dreamed of him doing.
He fucked her.
Never made love, because it was clear from his every glance, his every expert movement, that he did this entirely for his own enjoyment. That he was a man who knew his way around a woman’s body, around every tender and vulnerable part of it, and that was his primary concern. His only real concern. To explore for the sheer pleasure it afforded him. The thoughtless enjoyment of performing sex. And the woman… she…mattered little in his scheme of things. She was the vessel, and giving pleasure in equal amounts to what he received meant little to him. Nothing to him. And success or failure in returning it would neither stop him nor change the outcome.
Peter Granatum had sex with her because he could.
Because he was skilled in the exercise, and because she had no desire at all to stop him.
“We will discover so many ways of releasing the sweet syrup you hold so jealously inside yourself,” he promised, leaning forward to nuzzle the side of her throat just above the confinement of black leather. “And then, after a while…” He nuzzled endlessly the quaking flesh of her throat. Caught up a long and twilight-silvered strand of her hair and stroked her throat with its burning tips. Stroked her throat with demonically slow deliberation.
“After a while?” Her voice shook violently. It almost reverberated with the force of its shaking.
After a while?
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He didn’t answer. And that didn’t matter either.
“Peter…” She was ready. Her hands scrabbled helplessly, palms flattened…heels, too…against the floor. “P-please, Peter. Please…”
She was willing to plead. More than willing. As she was willing to strain mightily, shoving with the back of her head and lifting her hips as much as she could toward him. She would be glad to plead, glad to do anything she could. If she could only find a way to make pleas reality and reality sublime.
Instead, she gasped. Wordless. Breathless. Weighted down by the onslaught of the enormity pressed into the depth of her.
“I know you need,” Peter said with smoke-hued huskiness, his voice just one more provocation designed to make her struggle anew to lift herself into his downward grinding. “I feel you needing.” Then again he pulled back. Just for a second or two, then once again stabbed forward. He pulled, plunged, pulled, rammed. Pulled and re-took in a sudden, mad and maddening blur of possessive motion.
Drucilla’s only reply was a groan. One long and quavered ripple of anxiety that expressed utterly the true breadth and depth of her need.
All around her, the air simmered. And shimmered. The air became a softened haze of moist mist and heated hazes of desire. The air shimmered endlessly as columns of searing moisture rose to fill her. To inundate her and ultimately, inescapably, consume her.
The air shimmered in rainbow quavers made up of dissociated colors and formless shapes. Colors and shapes that changed at random, at their own will and leisure. Colors and shapes that had little to do, nothing to do, with what had moments before been a dimly lit rustic cabin locked in the grip of cruel and colorless winter. Colors and shapes that had transmuted themselves magically somehow. Because Peter was there. Peter had awakened the same transformation inside her.
Now, suddenly, the air became summer. The world became summer, alive and alight with a million, billion, trillion shades of green-gold-azure-rose. The air grew warm with summer.
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Moist with exhaled essences of her body as Peter drove it stark, raving wild. The air grew redolent with the scent, heady with the scent, of Drucilla’s own anguished sexual pleading.
If she could not plead with her voice or with words, she could with her body. And she did. With steaming effluences, she swirled for him and streaked higher and higher toward him. Farther and farther out of control. And through it all, Peter held her down. Pressed hard into the softest places, the most intimate and weeping places she possessed, he held her to the dusty-rough planked floor, seeming to want to press her through it. Into whatever dusty, disused space lay beneath.
The earth, perhaps. Or some hidden, unsuspected torture chamber filled with sinister wonders that would eclipse and ultimately put to shame even the infamous torture device he’d taken such delight in describing to her. Along with all the legendary, assorted sufferings it could inflict when used by expert hands. Merciless hands.
Thinking of it, wondering at the possibilities of it, she had to pause. Had to gasp and cry out, gripping Peter’s shoulders harder, with palms so sweaty and slick with sweat that they could barely grip at all.
But was she trying to pull him closer? Or was she trying to shove him away? Was she trying to gain for herself some small amount of control and some minute, desperately needed, bit of breathing space in which she could regroup and regain at least a little of her sensibility?
Or was she trying simultaneously to do both as he continued to pummel her? As he continued to arouse more and ever more steaming currents of the misted moisture her body seemed powerless to stem. As he then set fire to each and every one of those aroused clouds and slowly, surely, certainly, urged her body to consume itself from within. And then, once the consumption began, urging it to escalate rapidly and exponentially.
With no bounds, no limits, no restraints, the consumption quickly became the most extreme imaginable example of life-draining, life- giving hunger for everything. Anything. Including 71
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the overheated mouth that swept down and down along the shivering length of her. The mouth that stopped any infinite number of times, with all exquisite deliberation, to taste and sample nearly every iota of the wasted flesh it encountered. To stroke with long and laving lashes of a tongue so soft, so steaming, it might not have been real at all. Inciting her.
Seducing from her more releases, in greater quantities than ever, of the storming-sweet grenadine he’d promised once…about a thousand years before…to coax from flesh so deluged and drained that no further storming seemed possible.
Seducing from her immeasurable quantities of that sweetest of pomegranate-born syrups that his mouth, greedy when it closed around and over the weeping flesh between her legs, began to drink with full eagerness.
As if he was a man who’d been starving.
As if he’d only now found the liquor he needed to sustain himself.
As if the promised sweet grenadine was all he’d ever needed.
72
Der Werwolf
K.B. Forrest
sha pushed up her heavy glasses and made another entry into the ledger. Her dull pencil made thick lines as U
she
took notes—level number five, sector eight.
Anthropology—the study of man. She sighed.
She knew about man, but only as far as her academic study took her. Days of teaching, bad teacher reviews and faculty meetings were the stuff of her boring life, but this was her true love. It was research that took her to far off places, and in this case, to a castle deep in Germany’s Black Forest. It was a place still almost uninhabited, despite the crowded German cities.
People avoided the awful dark place with its dangerous secrets and few were successful in attempting to settle in the inhospitable area.
It was solitary work, but a true respite from life as a university professor. It was only day seven of her long-awaited first sabbatical. She’d have a glorious year to delve into the secrets she had dedicated her life to, much to the amusement of her colleagues, who thought her to be a quack. They were satisfied dealing with safe, worn out old topics. Anything as long as no eyebrows were raised. The damn cowards!
She had been lucky enough to somehow get tenure.
Perhaps it wasn’t just luck, for her father had been a professor of great renown in that backwater, cow-town state university.
He still had many backers, even after his sudden death. This 73
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research would vindicate her and her father both. She had planned carefully, and to add to her delight, she’d been offered a place to stay with a distant relative who still owned a castle in the midst of the area she wanted to study. It was a dream come true. Every day she set off to the castle, where she could work in the tomb-like quiet, away from the noisy students, prying colleagues, the damn Internet and email.
She believed that werewolves had a place not only in the rich German folklore, but also in reality. There were entirely too many accounts, all very similar, to dismiss it as fantasy. Her research had convinced her that werewolves had a perfectly logical explanation. Usha was certainly pragmatic and considered herself a scientist grounded in the strictest of scientific method. Just because something was part of folklore, did not automatically make it false. There was a scientific explanation for everything—of this, she was certain.
Werewolves weren’t supernatural, rather, they were very natural. The variation in the human gene pool was the real source of this so-called myth. The principle was quite simple.
First of all, it was well known by this time, that some individuals had faulty gene strings. Actually, it was quite common. All it took was a broken strand of chromosomes that naturally sought for segments of DNA to fill the gaps. It was under these conditions that some sort of mysterious transformation in the replication of genes actually coded for the latent ailment.
It was hard to prove, especially without the corroboration of researchers from the Center for DNA Research, a government center, which was part of her university. Usha had given several talks there, and at first had gotten some interesting feedback, only to find that those hypocrites were laughing at her theories behind her back. Although they had to admit that her theories were at least highly plausible, just the word werewolf was enough to cause them to snigger.
Basically, she contended that the myth behind the bite of a werewolf was the key to the gene coding. A string of aggressive DNA introduced into a person who had a certain anomaly in 74
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their genes, could cause the person with the broken gene set to incorporate the alien DNA. The fact that a wolf had been the creature to contribute the DNA was not so astonishing.
Wolves were the first animals to be domesticated, but in that process, many a human had been bitten. The strain of human with the receptive DNA had been limited indeed, but almost surely, they were ancestors of the people who now lived in the area we call the Black Forest. It was most likely here that the affliction first showed up, but a few outcasts may have spread their genes to other areas. This was, however, the site of its genesis.
Werewolves remained a living myth in the area. People still claimed that some poor souls living on the periphery of society were in fact, werewolves. Quite often cattle and sheep were found mangled, and not too infrequently, people disappeared, although the authorities attributed that to runaways and the like. Why and how did a ninety-nine year old run away? Well, maybe she wandered off and died in the woods. Surely, the real wolves would have eaten her body and scattered the bones. It was always easier to shrug off other possibilities. This was a normal human reaction to the unexplained or unusual, but only visionaries dared look into other possibilities.
People laughed at the descriptions Herodotus, the fifth century Greek historian, gave of the bizarre Scythian royal burials. He wrote that upon the death of a Scythian king, they would kill the king’s personal entourage, along with their horses and then set them up in a sort of diorama. All the warriors would be mounted on horseback, skewered through the dead horses’ bodies so that they appeared to be walking along after the king, who was similarly positioned. This was dismissed as utter nonsense until the day that such burial mounds were discovered, exactly as he had described them.
Strange things were not necessarily impossible things.
In the past, people living near the Black Forest feared the roaming packs of wolves, but it was the werewolf, der Werwolf, that people really dreaded. This was a creature too close to being human, for it was human. A human with a rare, but very 75
