Great.
Jason lifted Lili as if she were weightless and sat her astride his lap, facing away from him. “Here, you can lick us both this way,” he told Elle. With one arm, he tucked Lili up against him so that his cock was just south of her pussy; with the other, he played with her breasts.
As Elle dropped to her knees on the smooth wooden floor, Lili gave her a wide-eyed smile of delight that said, Boy, did we underestimate this one.
Elle pleasured both Lili and Jason with her mouth while stroking her own clit to maintain the intensity of her arousal. When she took him, she should be ready to come, and come well, at the same moment he did. A dusian transfert de sperme worked best when all parties involved—the dusios, the harvested male, and the female recipient—experienced powerful, extended orgasms. On the male’s part, this produced an especially copious discharge. On the female’s, it caused the cervix to spasm, increasing the likelihood of semen being drawn up into the womb.
“Pinch her nipples hard, rolling them a little,” Elle told Jason as she finger-fucked Lili. “She likes that.”
Lili bucked and cried out as she came. Jason lifted her up a bit, aiming his cock between her legs, but before he could enter her, she rose off him, saying,“Much as I would love to keep you all to myself, chéri, it is Elle’s turn, non?”
Elle went to take Lili’s place on Jason’s lap, but he had a different idea. He grabbed one of the wedge-shaped wooden backrests, set it flat on the upper bench, and had her lie down on it with her hips on the high end, canting them up. Draping her legs over his thick shoulders, he buried his face between them and proceeded to do things with his tongue that had her moaning and clutching at his hair in short order.
He shoved a thick, long, deliciously calloused finger inside her, located her G-spot in about a second—of course he would, with his knowledge of physiology—and started massaging it in just the right firm, rhythmic way. Lili kissed her, whispering “Let me know when it gets to be too much, Khababu.”
Elle nodded, clinging to Lili as the pleasure rocketed higher, higher . . . At its breathless, heart-pounding peak, when a mortal woman would be convulsing in orgasm, Elle remained suspended in carnal rapture . . . until she began to sense the inevitable metamorphosis of unrelieved pleasure into pain.
“Now, Lili . . . Oh, make him stop . . .”
“She wants this now, chéri,” Lili told him, reaching between his legs. “She wants it deep and hard. She wants to come with her pussy stretched around this big, beautiful, hard cock.”
“God, you girls are great.” He mounted Elle with one foot braced on the lower bench, guided his cock into her, gripped her shoulders for purchase, and snapped his hips.
He groaned as he filled her, and then with each sharp thrust, droplets flew off his hair. With his size and ferocious energy, it was like being ravished by a sweaty, rutting beast.
Lili, kneeling on the lower bench, reached around Jason to cradle his balls while rubbing the root of his penis just above them. It was what she often did when she helped Elle in extracting a gabru’s seed, not to enhance his pleasure—although it certainly did, judging from his groans—but in order to monitor how close he was to orgasm.
When Lili felt his scrotum draw up tight and full, she caught Elle’s eye as if to say Now, while brushing a fingertip very lightly and rapidly near her clit. She knew just what she was doing, of course. Elle came explosively, as did Jason, who growled, “Fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh. Oh. Oh, shit. Fuck. Oh. Oh. Oh . . .”
He sucked in great lungfuls of air as the pulsing of his cock gradually slowed and then stopped. “Holy shit,” he gasped through an exhausted chuckle.
They washed up together in the adjacent oversized steam shower. Built to Inigo’s specifications—of course—it had walls of amber-colored Venetian marble studded with two dozen massage jets that were adjustable in intensity from “slow pulse” to “acupuncture.” There were four wide rain showerheads in the ceiling, a steam generator, two handheld showers, dimmable lights, stereo speakers, and a telephone, all of it controlled by a digital panel that looked as if it belonged on a space station. Built-in seats of different shapes and sizes facilitated sex play, as did the various handholds and trapeze rings.
After about twenty minutes of soaping each other up beneath a steaming rain shower, with Elle and Lili paying special attention to each other’s hard-to-reach places, the two women sat Jason on a corner bench with strategically placed jets and went down on him. They were going to finish him that way—in fact, they were having a friendly argument about whose mouth he would shoot into—but the young man had a different idea.
He stood Lili up facing the wall, lifted her a few inches off the floor with a massage jet thrumming directly between her legs, and had her grab a pair of handles near the ceiling. He pushed his cock deep inside her from behind and just stood there unmoving except for an occasional hard squeeze of his ass. Elle kissed them both, tongued his ear, suckled Lili’s nipples, fingered his ass . . . Lili climaxed over and over. Jason roared when his orgasm came.
“Damn,” he panted afterward, pushing his hair off his face with a shaky hand as he leaned against the wall for support. “You two are gonna ruin me for other girls.”
“We tend to have that effect,” Elle said.
Six
NAKED AND HALF-NAKED hippie chicks danced and cavorted around a roaring bonfire in front of the bathhouse around dusk, breasts and faces polished with sweat, gypsy skirts whirling, streams of hair switching this way and that as they spun and laughed and passed their joints around. A few of the guys were dancing, too, beers in hand, as somebody slapped out a drunken rhythm on the lid of the cooler chest.
I was watching not from within their midst, but from the rear of the bathhouse, where I sat against the rock wall near the cave entrance with my own beer bottle, empty for the past half hour, observing the goings-on like an anthropologist studying the ritual of some primitive tribe.
The ceremonial consumption of these intoxicants induces a trancelike euphoria and diminished inhibitions. In this state of intoxication, the clan performs the sacred fertility rite, a period of ecstatic dancing followed by indiscriminate mating.
Said mating had already commenced, judging from the English-accented whispers of the couple lying under an afghan in a far corner of the pillow-strewn bathhouse. They probably didn’t think I could hear them, but I’d always had good ears.
“Lizzy, please, baby, let me put it in. An inch, that’s all. I just want to feel it inside you.”
“No way. I told you, I love George.”
“And I love Elaine, but they’re both in London. I’m here. Love the one you’re with, baby.”
“Nigel . . .”
“Come on, Liz, I’m begging you here. My balls are so blue, it’s killing me.”
“We should never have started this. I should never have let you kiss me.”
“Please, baby. I’ll make you come like you never—”
“Don’t touch me there.”
“Your knickers are soaked through. You want it as much as I do. Come on, Lizzy. One inch, that’s all. I promise. It’s not shagging if it’s just an inch. I just want to stick the head in and feel your pussy hugging it, all warm and cozy, and then I’ll pull out.”
“Yeah, right,” Lizzy said, but her next breath emerged as a soft moan.
“You like when I do that?” Nigel asked. “Right there? Mm, I can feel your clit right through your knickers.”
She gasped. “Oh, God. Oh . . .”
They kissed for a while, her breath coming faster and faster; his, too. I lit a cigarette, acting like I had no idea what was going on over there, knowing I shouldn’t be listening in, but doing it anyway for the vicarious stimulation—purely mental, of course. If Old Sparky had any voltage left, I would have been sitting there with a boner. Or I wouldn’t have been sitting there at all. I’d be off somewhere with one of those bonfire chicks, balling my brains out.
Actually, I wouldn’t have ev
en been at Grotte Cachée. I would have been back in Chicago with Lucinda, making love or whispering in the dark, or curled up with my face in her hair. She had the silkiest hair I’d ever touched, and it had a pronounced, sweetly herbal scent from the shampoo she used. It was a popular shampoo with a strong fragrance, so I’d catch a whiff from time to time when I was walking down the street or whatever. Every time, it made my heart beat so hard my chest would hurt.
“Lift your bum a bit so I can get these off you,” Nigel whispered.
“Just . . . Just so you can touch me, right? You’re not gonna . . .”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
I saw movement beneath the afghan, heard the rustle of feathers in the pillows they were lying on, then him saying “Oh, God, Lizzie, you feel so good. How’s this? You like being touched like this, nice and slow?”
She nodded, breathing raggedly. After a minute or so of kissing and petting, both of them breathless now, she said, “Wh-What are you—?”
“It’s just my finger. Oh, man, you’re so wet. God, Liz, you’re so fucking sexy. I’m so hot for you. I swear, I’m gonna explode.”
There came the metallic grating of a zipper.
“Nigel—”
“I just want to show you what you’ve done to me. Here, give me your hand.”
“I don’t think—”
“Feel that? It’s aching for you, baby. It wants to be inside you. Feel how hard it is.”
“Mm . . . Yeah, but—”
“Just one inch,” he pleaded. “Just the tip.” She must have shaken her head, because he said, “Let me rub it against you, then, slide it along the slit. No harm in that, is there?”
“Um . . .”
“Like this.” More shifting around, him getting on top of her with his hair hanging down. “Open your legs. It’s all right, you’ll see. Am I heavy?”
“No.”
“Ah,” he said gruffly, the pillows rustling in a slow rhythm now. “Oh, yeah. How’s that feel? Good?”
“Yeah,” she breathed.
I homed in on a distant figure beyond the bonfire. It was Madeleine, strolling out of the darkness on the path from the château, a beer bottle in her hand. She was wearing the same sleek blue dress she’d had on earlier, but she’d ditched the platforms. This was the first I’d seen of her since leaving Morel’s office that afternoon. Emmett still hadn’t returned, so I’d been flying solo for the past six or seven hours.
I waved to catch Madeleine’s attention, then raised my empty beer bottle and turned it upside down with a plaintive expression. She veered off toward the bonfire to snag another beer from the guys manning the cooler chest.
“Are you close?” Nigel whispered. “Are you gonna come?”
She nodded, her breaths coming in whimpery little pants.
Stilling, he said, “I want to feel it. I want to feel your pussy squeezing my cock when you come.”
“Don’t stop now. Oh, God, Nigel . . .”
“Let me put it in, Lizzy, just an inch, just so—”
“Yes, all right, do it. Just . . . Oh,” she moaned.
“God, but you feel incredible,” he growled. “Oh, fuck . . .”
“Don’t stop moving,” she implored. “Please, I’m so close.”
“If I move, I’ll go in deeper, and I don’t know if you want me to—”
“Oh, God, just do it. Just fuck me. Just—Yes,” she said as he began thrusting in earnest. “Oh, God, harder. Harder. Oh . . . oh . . .”
I chuckled. Well played, Nigel, old man.
I grabbed a pillow and set it next to me as Madeleine circled the pool with that leggy, feline walk of hers, her half-empty beer dangling from one hand, my full one from the other. She turned and lowered herself onto the pillow in one fluid motion, holding my beer out of my reach when I went to take it. “Trade you for another smoke.”
“Deal.”
As I lit Madeleine’s cigarette, I could see by the trembling glow from my match that her eyes were a little puffy. “You been crying?” I asked.
“Hours ago, but I’ve got the kind of face that shows it for, like, days.”
“Morel?”
A cloud of smoke emerged on her sigh. In a broad imitation of le seigneur’s accent, she said, “ ‘You are very beautiful, but, how you say, not quite beautiful enough.’ ”
“He didn’t say that.” I took a swig of the beer; it was bitingly cold.
Madeleine drew on her cigarette, squinting at the heaving afghan in the dark corner. “Looks like Nigel finally wore Lizzy down.”
“He could give lessons. What did Morel really say?”
“He said he was in love with his wife.”
“Well, you’ve got to respect that.”
“Of course you’d say that. You’re an old soul, very mature, very into duty and honor.”
“How would you know? You’ve just met me.”
“Well, you are in the Army, but—”
“Air Force.”
“But that’s not why I know that about you. It’s your aura.”
I groaned. “You realize you sound just like Bernie.”
“Bernie doesn’t know shit about auras or chakras. He’s picked up a few phrases and now he uses them to get laid. Me, I’ve always been able to see auras, and over time, I’ve learned to interpret them. Yours tells me several things. It tells me you’re wounded. It tells me you have secrets.”
I studied her eyes, trying to figure out if she was bullshitting me, or if she was for real.
She stroked my face. And then she kissed me, or tried to. She touched her lips to mine.
I backed away.
“Okay, why?” she demanded, her voice quavering. “What’s the matter with me?”
“There’s nothing the matter with you, Madeleine. You are beautiful. You’re really sexy. I don’t know, I guess maybe you’re just not my type.” I winced inside at how lame that sounded.
She looked incredulous, as well she might have. Madeleine Lamb, with her Botticelli hair and her come-hither attitude, was every man’s type.
“What is your type?” she asked.
Lucinda’s face materialized in my mind’s eye: brown hair, brown eyes, standard nose, standard mouth . . . But put it all together with that smile of hers, that silly laugh, that warm, bottomless gaze, and it absolutely undid me.
I must have hesitated too long. Madeleine said, “Go to hell,” and walked away.
Seven
YOU REALLY THINK I need to use the liggia spiall on her?” Elle asked as she and Lili stood in the hall outside Isabel’s room later that night, both of them in silk robes with their wet hair in ponytails. “Why don’t we just explain that I’ve harvested the ‘high-quality spermatozoa’ she’s looking for, and that all I have to do is transfer it to her, and she can have a child who’s not only genetically superior, but gifted, to boot?”
When Elle reversed The Change and became Elic again, the semen he’d captured from Jason would end up in his seminal vesicles in an enhanced form. This zeru, as Lili called it, having become infused with certain psychic qualities, would ensure that any child born to the worthy female, or arkhutu, who received it, would have the Gift. The only other way to produce a gifted child was through the union of two gifted parents.
With a slightly impatient sigh, Lili said, “Problem is, there’s only one way for a dusios to transfer zeru to an arkhutu, and that is through sexual intercourse. You know how human women feel about sex, Elle. It always becomes so dreadfully complicated. Do you really expect Isabel to just lie back and spread her legs for you?”
“But if she wants a baby that badly—”
“She does,”Lili said, “and that’s why you need to do this discreetly, without giving her the opportunity to freak out over it. And you have to do it now, because chances are you won’t have another opportunity. Once Emmett is gone . . .” She shook her head, her eyes glazing over with moisture.
Elle took Lili in her arms, kissed her forehead. “I know.
I know, mins Ástgurdís.” It was never easy, watching a beloved human depart his mortal form.
“Once he’s gone,” Lili said, “and it will be soon, we both know that, it’s quite possible we’ll never see Isabel again.”
Although Emmett still assumed that Isabel intended to succeed him as administrateur, she had made it clear to Adrien and the rest of them that she had no intention of doing so, thus bringing the curtain down on her family’s two and a half centuries of devoted service to the gardiens of Grotte Cachée.
In contemplating her motives, one couldn’t help but conclude that there was bad blood between Isabel and Adrien. Until her father’s illness, she hadn’t visited Grotte Cachée for nineteen years. She’d been a frequent guest since then, of course, but she and Adrien always seemed a bit standoffish with each other. The fact that he stayed in the hunting lodge during her visits suggested that it was he, not she, who was at the source of their “cold war.”
For whatever reason, Adrien didn’t like her, but out of respect for her father, he had kept that dislike to himself. Nor had he confided as much to Elic, although the two of them had developed a close friendship over the past couple of decades. Of all the gardiens that Grotte Cachée had seen during the 2,061 years in which Elic had been living there, Adrien was the most compatible with him in terms of temperament and interests. They often hung out in the library together in the afternoons, reading and shooting the breeze. But whenever Isabel’s name came up, Adrien somehow always got around to changing the subject. Lili was undoubtedly right in thinking that Isabel would never visit Grotte Cachée after her father was gone; why should she?
“Do it tonight, my love,” Lili said. “She’ll thank you later.”
“So you think I should tell her . . . after?”
“Only if she becomes pregnant, and we should know that within a day or two. Le seigneur will see it in her aura—he’ll tell us. Since she doesn’t have a boyfriend right now, she’ll be wondering how it happened, no?”
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