To have this man with whom she was more than a little besotted see her like this, naked, gagged, and trussed to the ceiling…oh, and that blasted pear!
Cheeks scalding, she turned her face away as the two men came to stand before her.
“Eyes forward,” Darius snapped.
She hesitated.
He seized her chin in a painful grip and wrenched her head around to face them. “Take care, Charlotte,” he warned. “I am in no mood to tolerate defiance. Be accommodating to our guest, or you shall suffer the consequences. You have made my friend’s acquaintance already, yes?”
“All too briefly. Lady Somerhurst.” Elic bowed, an act of common courtesy that struck her as incongruous, bizarre even, given the situation; yet she found a measure of comfort in the gesture. “My friend can be a bear, I know,” he said with a conspiratorial little smile, “most especially when he is of a choleric disposition, as now. Perhaps my presence here can lighten the atmosphere a bit.”
With a scornful little roll of the eyes, Darius said, “If you are done playing the gallant, perhaps you’d care to inspect my little gift, and tell me if it is to your liking.”
Darius gestured for Elic to take a turn around Charlotte, which he did. He paused behind her. She felt a little tremor deep within her as he fiddled with the knob of the steel pear, the stimulus sending pulses of arousal into her quim. “You’ve been a busy fellow,” he told his friend.
Darius sighed. “She’s very demanding.”
She was demanding? Was it not he who was lord and master in this unholy liaison? A stinging retort was on the tip of her tongue. Perhaps it was best, after all, that she was gagged.
“Did you shave her?” Elic asked.
“She came to me that way. Do you like it?”
“It suits her.”
A pair of unfamiliar hands—long-fingered, warm, and ever so slightly rough—stroked her backside almost reverently. “Parfait,” Elic murmured. “Has she ever been shared?” he asked as he circled her, admiring and caressing.
Shared? Did he mean at the same time? wondered Charlotte, heart skittering. Two men at once?
“Never,” replied Darius, who remained behind her, pinching and kneading her arse. “But she craves it more than anything else. Don’t you, my pet?” He spanked her hard when she didn’t respond quickly enough to suit him. “Don’t you?”
She nodded, thinking, How could he know that? She’d never told him, never even hinted at it. From the beginning, it was as if he were privy to her most secret and shameful longings, most especially her need to be punished for Nat’s death.
The pear shifted inside her again, this time sliding out a bit, then back in, easily because of its sheen of oil and how accustomed she’d grown to its unyielding presence within her. Darius pushed it in and out, in and out, slowly, turning and twisting, as if readying her for what was to come.
Two men at once. She’d had offers before, tempting offers, which she’d rejected from fear that the pain would outweigh the pleasure. Now, with that fear assuaged, she trembled in anticipation.
Standing in front of her now, Elic took her breasts in his hands and squeezed them gently. She started when he thumbed her nipples, which the thumbscrews had left distended and keenly sensitive.
He stepped closer, his erection nudging her through his robe as he tilted her face up and lightly kissed her cheek. “You want this?” he whispered in her ear, too softly for Darius to hear.
She nodded.
“All of it?” He glanced at the gag, the manacles.
She nodded again.
He smoothed a hand downward over her belly, sliding a finger into her sex as if to confirm the extent of her willingness. A soft little hum of pleasure rose from his throat upon finding her wet and ready. He stroked her with just the right touch—deep but soft, in a deliciously unhurried rhythm. So raw and hot was her flesh there, thanks to the cantharides, that every brush of his fingertips kindled a little firestorm of pleasure. She widened her legs as best she could, poised as she was on the tips of her toes, and rocked into the caress, feeling the pleasure rising, rising…
“Quite a sweet little notch she’s got there,” said Darius. “Surprisingly snug, considering how much company it must have entertained over the years. She’s wonderfully fuckable, comes explosively. Uses promptos facit, eh?” Turning his head, he purred a translation into her ear, “Practice makes perfect.”
Charlotte glanced at him, wanting to say, My Latin’s probably better than yours, you arrogant bloody bastard. Good thing she was gagged; God knows how he would have reacted to that, in his present surly humor. He’d changed since they’d begun this dark adventure. In the beginning, he was commanding, but in a quiet, restrained way, a way that inspired trust and confidence—else she never would have put herself in his hands as she did. In the interim, though, for reasons Charlotte couldn’t fathom, his attitude toward her had taken on an angry, bullying edge. He’d become high-strung, belligerent. With any luck, Elic’s presence here would help to keep his friend on his bearings.
She felt Darius’s arm brush against her as he unbuttoned his trousers. He pulled out the pear and tossed it aside, provoking a gasp from Charlotte and a sudden, aching emptiness. “Lift her up for me,” he told Elic.
Elic did so, saying, “Wrap your legs ’round my waist, my lady. Aye, that’s it.”
She felt Darius’s fingers in the cleft of her arse, and then a hard pressure as he positioned the head of his cock where the pear had been. Widening his stance as if to brace himself for the effort, he gripped her hips and drove in, filling her in one slick, groaning thrust.
She shuddered—not from pain, precisely, more from shock at such swift and absolute impalement where she was least accustomed to it. He felt thick and huge inside her, stretching her open, his balls pressed right up against her.
“Are you all right?” Elic asked her.
“She’s fine.” Darius reached between Charlotte and Elic with both hands, spreading her sex lips as he crooked a finger into her quim. It clenched reflexively, a telltale sign of the depth of her arousal. “Oh, yes, more than fine. It’s what she’s been dreaming of, a nice, hard cock buried deep in her ass, and another in this red-hot little cunny. Isn’t that right, my lady?”
God help her, she nodded, her head rolling back against his shoulder. Raising his hands to her breasts, Darius rubbed her sex juices onto her inflamed nipples, plucking and teasing. Gripping Charlotte’s legs, still banded around his waist, Elic rubbed against her, his silken robe as liquid smooth as a layer of oil between his sex and hers. She writhed deliriously, causing Darius’s cock to slip in and out of her with a lubricious friction that felt like nothing else she’d ever experienced.
Elic’s breath grew hectic as he ground against her, his gaze unfocused. “Hold her,” he told his friend.
Darius curled his hands under her thighs, spreading her legs wide open. He flexed his hips, thrusting her own hips forward, her own naked, flushed sex, as if in offering to his friend.
Elic fumbled with the hooks of his robe, swore under his breath and yanked it open with both hands. He had the physique of a young god, lean and muscular, his cock rearing up sleek and hard and ready. He moaned as if in an agony of lust as he entered her, pausing halfway to close his eyes and hiss something in a language unfamiliar to Charlotte, not French; it sounded Scandinavian. His cock felt almost impossibly hard, as if there were a rod of steel beneath its taut, shiny-smooth skin. Just the sight of it, wedged half-buried in her slit, made her feel as if she might spend at any moment.
Elic pressed in another inch or so, arms quivering. “Are you all right?” he asked her, a little breathlessly. “It’s not too—”
“God’s bones,” growled Darius.
Charlotte nodded reassuringly to Elic, whereupon he clasped her waist and sheathed himself fully. He stood unmoving for a moment, as did Darius, letting her savor the feeling of being penetrated by two men. She felt incredibly full, utterly stuffed; th
e sense of possession was absolute, even more so than she’d imagined.
“Mind you don’t spend till we do,” said Darius as he withdrew his cock and shoved it back in. “Else you get the whip.”
Elic muttered some exasperated imprecation under his breath, but he let it go.
Both men started thrusting then, falling into the same measured rhythm, Elic clutching Charlotte’s waist, Darius her hips as she dangled like meat from the ceiling. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the bliss of two cocks stroking her tingling-hot flesh from within—and stroking each other, as well, for how could each man not feel the presence of the other inside her?
Their thrusts grew ever swifter and more erratic. It was utterly intoxicating—two hard male bodies, grinding and pumping, two men clutching, panting, groaning…
Don’t spend, Charlotte told herself, even as she writhed in mindless pleasure, feeling the inevitable approach of a climax she couldn’t hope to forestall. She bit her lip as it gathered, thinking perhaps, if she kept still and didn’t cry out, he wouldn’t know. But so jolting were the spasms, in her ass as well as her quim, that her whole body rocked with them.
Both men stilled for one long, rigid, trembling moment. Darius cursed; Elic roared. Then came the extraordinary sensation of not one, but two cocks jerking and sputtering inside her amid a chorus of hoarse masculine groans.
Elic, breathless and damp with sweat, held her with shaking arms as Darius slid his cock from her ass a bit too swiftly for comfort. “Fucking little bitch,” he growled as he rebuttoned his trousers.
“Easy, Darius,” cautioned Elic as he eased himself out of her and gently lowered her legs. “She enjoyed it, same as we did, and why not? Why on earth should you—”
“Why are you standing up for her?” Darius bellowed at his friend. “Greedy little cunt, I told her to wait for us. She claims she wants to obey, she wants to bow to my will, but I’m bloody hard-pressed to believe it.”
“Look, friend,” Elic said evenly. “You’re not yourself tonight. You and I both know why. This thing has gotten its claws into you.” Gripping Darius’s shoulder, he said, “You need to step back and look at things from a—”
“Don’t!” Darius flung Elic’s arm away, his face darkening, veins bulging on his neck, his forehead. “Don’t tell me what I need to do. I know what I need to do.” Stalking past Charlotte to the wall of whips behind her, he said, “You can stay and watch, or you can leave. I suggest you watch. Then you’ll see how things really are. You’ll see her moaning with every stroke—and not because she wants me to stop—quite the opposite. Nothing excites her like a good, hard lashing. Isn’t that right, Charlotte? Tell him.”
Elic met her gaze. She hesitated, then looked away, nodding.
“You’re sure?” he asked quietly.
Another nod.
Dragging a hand through his hair, Elic said, “Very well, then.” He bowed, saying, “I thank you, my lady, for indulging me this evening. I wish you well.”
He walked away, rehooking his robe. Charlotte heard the door creak open, but she didn’t hear it close.
“This’ll serve you right,” said Darius as he came up behind her. She heard a metallic rattling, which puzzled her for a moment until she realized what he’d taken down from the wall: the chain whip.
Charlotte managed just one frenzied shake of the head when the first blow struck, followed swiftly by a second, a third, a fourth…Pain slashed at her as she twisted and flailed—real, searing, bone-deep pain, the shock of it so blinding that for a moment, she couldn’t even scream, and when she tried to, the gag rendered her mute.
God, help me, she prayed as blood ran from her ravaged back. I don’t deserve it, but have mercy, please…
“Stop! Jesus, stop!” shouted a man. Elic?
He hadn’t left after all, Charlotte thought as her legs gave out and her head slumped forward. Uneasy, he’d paused in the doorway, just long enough.
There came the sounds of a scuffle, Elic screaming, “Look at her! For God’s sake, look what you’ve done.”
Then a different voice—Darius’s voice, low, stunned—saying, “Christ. Oh, my God.”
“Help me get her down from here.”
“Oh, my God,” said Darius as the blood drained from Charlotte’s head and the world swam from gray to black to nothingness. “Charlotte. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
Nine
FINALLY, THOUGHT Anton Turek as he stood back to admire the sight of Ilutu-Lili bound and at his disposal, a sacrificial offering at the mercy of his whims.
After rendering her insensible, he’d wrapped her in her veil and carried her through the cave to the so-called Cella, a recess off the main passage that had been utilized, in primitive times, as a place of worship. Little wonder it had been chosen for that purpose, given the natural grandeur of its appearance. The mouth of the spacious alcove was rimmed in mineral icicles that had grown down from above and up from below. Some had merged to form columns in shades of cobalt, crimson, and orange that shimmered in the light from a pair of torches flanking the imposing entryway. Not torches of the primitive variety, Turek was pleased to note, but iron stanchions topped with round, cagelike cressets stuffed with flaming fuel—most likely pitch-soaked pine. They would burn a good long while without needing to be tended, which reduced the risk of unwanted company before Turek had finished with Lili.
Just inside ran the stream that meandered through the lower levels of the cave on its way out to the bathhouse. In a fortuitous fluke of nature, it was spanned by a bridge of rock with a relatively flat, walkable surface, enabling one to enter the Cella without wading through knee-deep water. To the right, the floor dipped into a shallow depression lined with a two-handled, tarnished bronze bowl that had been hammered to fit it perfectly; firewood and kindling were piled up in tall stacks against the wall next to a crook-shaped iron poker hanging from a hook in the stone. Overhead, in the center of the alcove’s high, domed roof, was a vertical shaft, one of several in the labyrinthine cave that served as natural chimneys. This one, Turek had been told, terminated in a wooded crevasse so deep in the craggy, heavily treed mountain overhead that any smoke issuing from it dissipated long before it was ever seen.
The focal point of the Cella was an ancient effigy that loomed against the back wall between a pair of flickering torches—cressets again, atop tall iron spikes jammed into cracks in the bedrock floor. Some ten feet tall, the statue had been carved, along with the wide platform on which it stood, of the same dark volcanic rock from which most everything in this valley, save the bathhouse, was constructed. Its craftsmanship was simplistic to the point of crudeness, with a stylized face that put Turek in mind of a mask, each upraised arm bearing a cup to signify fecundity. There were two breastlike mounds on the chest, as well as a phallic protuberance rising between the massive legs. The hermaphroditic anatomy, in concert with the name neatly inscribed on the front of the platform, DVSIVÆSVS, suggested to Turek that this supposed fertility god had, in fact, been a dusios. Curiously, there was a second inscription carved—or rather, scratched—atop the first, but it was written in an alphabet Turek had never seen before.
Dusivæsus wore five rust-encrusted iron torques, one around each ankle and wrist, with the largest encircling his neck. The latter at first glance looked to represent a snake swallowing its own tail. On closer inspection, the serpent’s mouth more closely resembled a yawning vagina, its half-consumed tail the head of a penis. Dangling from the neck torque was the pair of steel cuffs Turek had brought with him, locked snugly around the wrists of Ilutu-Lili.
Turek had stripped off Lili’s veil and tethered her naked to the statue with her arms stretched overhead and her feet resting between those of Dusivæsus, the height of the platform putting her and Turek at eye level—or so they would have been, but for the way her head hung down, ropes of damp black hair cloaking her like a mantle. Turek lifted her chin, pushing the hair aside to admire that striking face and lush body, gold-sheened in
the flickering torchlight. He cupped a breast, squeezing the warm, resilient flesh until she flinched, a kittenish little growl of distress rising from her throat.
His stomach responded with a grind of hunger; it had been days since he’d fed.
“Wecken sie. Wake up.”
She stirred groggily, her eyelids fluttering. “What…?”
“Naptime is over, my dear. We’ve much to accomplish this evening.”
Lili blinked at him, her eyes—those dark, dreamy, painfully beautiful eyes—widening as she took in his cool smile, the cavernous Cella, the stone figure to which she was trussed like a flayed lamb in a butcher’s shop. She stood up straight, yanking at the cuffs with a clatter of steel against iron.
Turek chuckled as she filled her lungs with air. “Go ahead, my dear. We’re far too deep in this cave for anyone to hear you, but I find the sound of a woman’s screams quite stirring to the senses.”
“Bastard,” she said in a voice quavering with outrage. “Monster.”
“Correct on both counts,” he said. “But what particular breed of monster, eh? Have you managed to sort that out?”
Her gaze lit on his mouth, no doubt recalling the fangs he’d given her a good look at earlier. “Strigoi?”
He shook his head. “They are close relations, the Strigoi, but I am, in fact, an Upír of Carpathian lineage—the most venerable of the vampyric lines, if I do say so.”
She addressed him with a frank contempt he couldn’t help but admire, given her predicament. “A bloodsucker, imagining himself venerable. It’s almost laughable.”
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