Lustfully Ever After

by Kristina Wright

  The giant wave crashed over them. Kit’s ears rang with sounds like thunder and the screeching of sea birds combined. Her own need was still great, but elation at her new master’s release buoyed her up, and indeed it was mere moments before his desire began to revive. He pulled her to her feet, then crushed his mouth against hers and ran his hands roughly over her body, arousing her to the edge of pain. She scrabbled at his clothing until it was all in a heap along with hers, and skin could press against hungry skin. When he lifted her so high that he could tantalize her breasts with nips and bites, she wrapped her legs tightly about him, his cock hardening once more beneath her buttocks; he forced his mouth roughly onto her aching nipples, one after the other. She could hear herself growing shrill with the desperate need for more.

  He carried her through another door into a second room. Soon a bed was beneath her, lurching under her thrashing body as she opened to him, begging to be filled. He responded with more than she had thought she could hold, thrusting hard, sending bolts of pleasure into her deep, ravenous core until her own wave hit, overwhelmed her, and receded in ripples of such joy that she scarcely felt his second eruption.

  In the aftermath Kit noted drowsily and with gratitude that her ogre’s long scar, and several others she had not seen while he was clothed, ended well short of what had given her such piercing fulfillment. With one hand she stroked tenderly all down his body, noting the effort he made not to wince away.

  “Does it still give you pain?” she asked gently.

  “No. Or, at least, not enough to signify. But…how can you stand to touch me? To even look at me?”

  She wriggled onto his belly and chest. “It is you yourself I see and touch. Not merely certain parts, except when they are in a particularly interesting state.” She touched his cock, hardening yet again. Good. Let him not regret his moment of vulnerability. Better to distract him.

  Kit reached up to the posts at the head of the bed. “What are these contraptions? Playthings?”

  He tensed in quite the wrong way. “Cuffs and fetters. Restraints. There are times…dreams of battles…when I must…”

  She could feel him retreating from her. “Well, all the better to have someone attend you who knows how to deal with them. Especially if you should wish to travel abroad, as I have always longed to do. Besides, I have also heard of such things used for pleasure. Perhaps you should show me…restrain me, punish me, have your will with me, test my strength. I might surprise you.”

  She saw his arousal revive, and knew, with a prickle of anticipation, that she had succeeded. If there had indeed been a test, she was sure that by now Mrs. Thorne would know that she had passed it beyond any possible doubt.

  Two nights later Kit met Jotham at the abandoned shack. She was moving a bit stiffly, still savoring the soreness. “I have a most secure position,” she assured him. “How did you fare?”

  “Oh, Kit, she is the most beautiful creature!” he gushed. “Sweet and delicate…she thought all our countrymen were rough louts until she met me! They are leaving very soon for their own land, but I have hopes.…”

  “Hopes? Of going with them as a footman?” But Kit could tell already that there was more to the story than that.

  “Well, at first it was like that, but when I told her I was the impoverished younger son of a nobleman, and my horse and fine clothing had been stolen as I swam in the sea so that I was reduced to common rags, and I had only applied as a footman because I had seen and loved her and wished to be near her…and when she told her father she would have no other husband…”

  There was definitely more to Jotham than Kit had ever suspected. And possibly a good deal less. “Can this all be truly settled?” she asked dubiously.

  “Oh yes. At least…I told him that my distant cousin owns the castle by the sea, and now he wishes to see it. I was sure you would succeed there, so if you could arrange to let them come at least into the gardens and have a cup of tea, saying that your master is not at home, my entire life will become a heaven on earth!”

  Fools and their luck, Kit thought. And their wild, if sentimental, imaginations!

  Two days later, while Mrs. Thorne served the guests tea in the castle gardens, the master of the castle was unfortunately indisposed. In fact, he was fettered to his bed, after Kit had pointed out that it was all very well to let loose the lion or ogre within, but it took even more strength of will to submit like a lamb, or perhaps even something as outwardly weak as a mouse. By then there was enough trust between them for him to acquiesce, and while tea and conversation were consumed below, Kit was in the tower making submission very much worth her master’s time. Among other delights, she had but to twitch her fingers toward a part of his body to make him writhe with remembered pleasure. If she had a few tricks, why not use them?

  Six months later, in a great city on the continent, a wealthy and imposing figure strolled amid the demimondaine with an assured bearing that made one overlook his scars and eye patch. The sleek and charming page so often beside him inspired sighs from both men and women, but their highest awe was reserved for the lady who sometimes hung on the gentleman’s arm, dressed in the finest and most severely tailored of women’s clothing in greens and bronzes that set off her shining russet hair. Either of those companions wore especially elegant boots suited to their respective costumes. No one was truly deceived, of course, but that made it all the more entertaining.

  The chambermaids were well paid to refrain from gossiping about their household, though of course they did, especially about the rather specialized accoutrements of their bedchamber. After all, such fur-lined restraints were not unheard of in certain circles. No one bothered to relate how the lady, when the man occasionally tousled her hair and call her “My pretty puss,” would stiffen for a mere second as at an old memory. Her lord would beg her pardon, earning a fond kiss and forgiveness. “You may call me anything you like, my love,” she would say, “as long as I have such fine boots to wear.”

  THE LONG NIGHT OF TANYA MCCRAY

  Michael M. Jones

  I was lost. My guidebook’s maps were either out of date or outright fabrications, my smartphone’s GPS had claimed I was somewhere in the Atlantic before running out of power, and every set of directions I’d begged from passersby had led me further into the labyrinthine neighborhood of Puxhill known as the Gaslight District. Now, with night falling, the antique lamps that gave the area its name flickered to life, casting mocking shadows against uncaring brick walls and dark windows. I stood on the corner of two nameless streets—one little more than an alley—and threw up my hands in frustration.

  My excursion had started well enough earlier. The Gaslight District had evolved out of Puxhill’s original settlement some centuries past, a chaotic tangle of narrow streets, scenic courtyards, and old buildings. It was a cultural melting pot, a unique blend of backgrounds and beliefs. During the day, you could find treasures and wonders in its tiny groceries, bookstores, and curio shops. Where it bordered the normal parts of the city, like Caravan Street or Tuesday University, you could find popular hangouts and hotspots. My mistake had been in venturing too far off the beaten path. Camera in hand, I went searching for new and interesting shots, not heeding those who said it would be a bad idea.

  “Tanya,” I told myself, “this is all well and good, but standing here isn’t helping. Puxhill through the Lens won’t get finished if you vanish, never to be seen again.” I squared my shoulders, pretended I’d given myself a really good pep talk, and picked a direction. I hoped I’d find somewhere still open, where I could get proper directions or use the phone. For all of its many tiny nameless streets, the Gaslight District was still a finite area in a much larger city.

  Several blocks later, I wasn’t so sure. Twilight had fallen, and I hadn’t seen a single other person in ages. I pulled my denim jacket close as a chill ran through the air. All I saw were closed doors, dark windows, and capriciously dancing shadows.

  The silence broke. Raised voices.
Harsh laughter. A pained cry punctuated by a soft thud. Jingling chains and scuffed movements. Common sense told me to head away from what sounded like certain trouble; other instincts urged me around the corner, where certain trouble was already in progress.

  Given the time and place, what I found was no surprise: five thugs, ganging up on a victim. They were uniformly dressed in steel-toed boots, dirty jeans, black T-shirts, leather jackets proclaiming them all as “Corbie Boys.” Crows of ill fortune, mobbing the crumpled figure at their feet. Without any thought for my safety, I raced forward, instinctively letting out a war cry. I pointed my camera in their direction and pressed the shutter button as rapidly as possible, the flash disconcertingly bright against the twilight. The gang members froze before scattering, unwilling to face my unanticipated threat.

  I knew I’d only bought us a little time. Once the Corbie Boys realized they’d been taken in by nothing more than a woman with a camera and an ear-splitting scream, they’d be back. I offered a hand to their erstwhile target. His grip was firm and warm, and he stifled a pained groan as he stood.

  While he dusted himself off, checking for injuries, I examined him, hoping I’d chosen the right side to help. He was a smidgen taller than me, and I come close to six feet in flat shoes—God forbid I wear heels. Weathered skin several shades darker than my own Irish pale, with intense dark eyes, short brown hair, and strong features. In the right light, he’d be a perfect model; I ached to shoot him in some of Puxhill’s more interesting locations. Possibly naked. While battered and bruised, he didn’t seem to have suffered overly much from the attack. He was dressed far nicer than the area called for, in a dark suit set off against expensive black loafers, a light blue shirt, and a tasteful red tie. He smiled, making my knees wobble. I blamed it on the adrenaline still racing through me. “While I appreciate the help,” he said, “I fear you’ve made some inconvenient enemies. The Corbie Boys don’t take well to challenges, and they react poorly to loss of face.”

  His voice was low, cool, and utterly in control. It was liquid sex and velvet, sending shivers along my spine. I shrugged. “Then I guess we’d better not stick around. Any ideas which way we should go?”

  He looked around before nodding in one direction. “That’s our best bet.”

  I fell in beside him as he headed down the sidewalk briskly, easily keeping up with my own long stride. “I’m Tanya,” I said. “Tanya McCray.”

  “Devin Hunt.”

  “Nice to meet you. Please say you know where you’re going.”

  He chuckled. “Good news and bad news, then. Yes, I know where we’re going. No, I can’t get us out of here right now.”

  I stumbled to a halt, then backed up a step. “How’d you know what I was going to ask?” Well-spoken eye candy that he was, I hadn’t forgotten that he was a relative unknown, and we were alone at night in an extremely strange part of the city.

  He stopped, holding up his hands to show empty palms and an earnest expression. “I’m sorry, I misspoke. It’s just—look, I know this area like the back of my hand, but the Gaslight District, it gets weird at night. We’re trapped until sunrise, when the paths straighten out again.” His expression turned rueful. “My business here ran late, and the Corbie Boys were set on keeping me here until sunset. We don’t get along. I don’t accept their delusions of territorial superiority.”

  No stranger to weird corners of the world, I frowned. I’d explored abandoned mental hospitals, decommissioned cold war bunkers, and burned out schools; this somehow beat them all for unsettling.

  “So we wander the streets until morning?” I asked. There was no life to be found around us, only gaslights casting inhuman shadows with their inadequate light.

  Devin shook his head. “We find safe haven and hole up for a while. Trust me, the Corbie Boys aren’t the worst things hiding in the night.”

  Of course not. I rejoined him. As he led the way, I kept close. Our footsteps were disturbingly loud in the otherwise silent night. I couldn’t hear the city anymore. “So you spend a lot of time here?” I asked.

  “In the daytime, yes. Work brings me down here frequently, and I know the area pretty well.”

  “How big is the Gaslight District?”

  “As big as it wants to be. The outskirts and main streets are pretty stable, anchored by landmarks like Club Euterpe or the Theatre of Dreams, but as you’ve seen, things…change the further you venture.”

  This wasn’t reassuring, but I accepted it for the time being. At least I was in pleasant company. Devin had the cool, self-assured manner I looked for in a guy, confidence without arrogance. I could always rely on a guy like that. Especially in bed, where he turned that confidence into performance and took satisfying a partner as a worthwhile challenge. I glanced sideways, wondering how his lips would taste, how his hands would feel on me, how—I derailed that train of thought. I liked him, and he looked damned good in a suit, and it had been months since my last fling, but this was not the right time.

  He caught me looking and quirked an eyebrow; I hoped it was too dark for my blush to show. There was something in his expression that suggested he liked what he saw. That he appreciated lanky blue-eyed redheads with fair skin, too many freckles, and slight curves. A partner once claimed I was built for speed, not comfort, like a greyhound, but Devin seemed fine with that. I reached back to adjust the red braid that fell past my shoulders, then shoved my hands into my jacket pockets instead.

  As we passed dark alleys and crossed deserted streets, we fell into a comfortable silence. Soon, we came to a building lit against the darkness. It had no sign, no name identifying it as we approached, just a tall candle in the front window. Devin pushed the door open with a smile, waving me inside. His chivalry warred with my practicality; I almost insisted he go first, just in case. My aching feet and empty stomach cast their votes. Outvoted, I entered.

  It was a cross between a bar and a pool hall, the sort of place where people come to feel at home and be themselves. While dim and dingy, it was also warm and welcoming. It smelled of alcohol and tobacco, fried foods and cheap pastries, sawdust and chalk. It smelled like heaven. Oddly, we were the only ones here. I looked at Devin, both eyebrows raised. He shrugged. “There are safe places, and there are places that can be safe,” he said. “Unfortunately, this was the best I could do under the circumstances.”

  “In other words, I might not like the clientele, but it’s better than the alternatives?”

  “Exactly.” We chose one of the booths along the side. Back to the wall, I stretched out, groaning with relief. Clearly amused by my actions, Devin shrugged out of his suit coat, carefully draping it next to him. He removed his tie and tucked it into a pocket. I could feel his gaze on me, almost erotic in its sudden intensity, his eyes lingering like a starving man in front of a feast. I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way my nipples tightened and a sudden warmth between my legs. Did he have any idea what that look was doing to me?

  “Casual Friday?” I teased.

  “Trust me, you don’t want to see me in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. I strike people blind,” he shot back.

  I tried to picture Devin like that, but my brain refused to cooperate. Instead, it conjured tempting images of unbuttoning his shirt, undoing his belt, finding out if his body was as lean and lithe as I expected. If he had any lingering bruises, I could kiss them all better….

  I turned the fantasy into a cough, distracting myself by looking toward the bar. “So. What are the chances of getting some food and drink as long as we’re here?”

  “Not bad,” Devin said. “It’s strictly self-serve here, on the honor system. Trust me when I say you don’t want to know how it’s enforced. The owner has a long reach and a short temper, for all that he doesn’t drop by often.” He left the booth for a moment, returning with a pair of bottles, still ice cold. They were dark and brown, sporting stylized labels from some local microbrew. “Cheers,” he said. And we drank. To a weird night. To chance meetings. To th
e mutual attraction simmering below the surface of our words. Potent stuff, it tingled on my tongue, charged down my throat, and warmed me inside.

  We drank in companionable silence for a while, well into a second round. As my body relaxed, my imagination took the opportunity to run wild. I barely knew Devin, yet he and I had clicked right from the start. I felt right at home in his presence, and I knew right then and there, I’d be a fool to let him get away come the morning. Startled by the way my thoughts were going, I swung out of my seat, steadying myself with a hand on the table. “We need snacks,” I said. “No drinking on an empty stomach.”

  His hand wrapped around my wrist, pausing me. Our gazes met. I figured he was going to tell me where the pickled eggs and peanuts were kept. His lips twitched. He moistened his lips with a lightning-quick flick of the tongue. “I—” he said. “I wanted to thank you again. For saving me.” My skin crackled with unspoken desire where he held me.

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way to reward me,” I said, trying to make light of the wanton desires running rampant within me. I tried to tug free, instead somehow losing my balance. The next thing I knew, I’d tumbled right into his lap, sprawled awkwardly like an overgrown kid visiting Santa at the mall. Devin was warm and solid, and far too close for comfort. He was—oh. He liked having me in his lap, the proof hard and insistent against my bottom. Oh my.

  He leaned in, I arched up, and our lips met in the middle. I melted against his chest, draping my arms around his shoulders. We fit together perfectly, just enough space in the seat for me to happily nestle in his lap. Our mouths teased as a series of light, tentative kisses grew longer, more involved. Devin’s tongue stroked my lips, and I parted them, letting the kiss deepen. His fingers roamed my back, and I arched as he traced the length of my spine. I ran my hands through his hair, lightly massaging his scalp, thrilling at the low sounds of appreciation he made. I wriggled my rear against his crotch, a frisson of delight sweeping through me as I felt his arousal. It had to be painful, trapped like that, but he made no signs of discomfort.