Lustfully Ever After

by Kristina Wright

  Devin’s hand slid along my waist, teasing apart jeans and shirt, fingers brushing along the rapidly widening strip of bare skin. Goosebumps rose in reaction to the simple yet maddeningly erotic sensation. I didn’t know if I wanted him to go up or down. Yes. And I’d help. A whimper escaped my mouth, swallowed by his. He nipped at my lower lip, and the shock ran all the way to my taut nipples. My shirt was shoved almost to my breasts, cool air on hot flesh. I wanted him. I needed—

  There was a clatter from outside, an ominous mixture of loud voices and stomping feet and drunken singing. Like a scalded cat, I jumped out of Devin’s embrace, stumbling as I got to my feet. I tried to smooth my hair and pat my clothing back into place. He’d gone dead white. “Damn it.” I was about to ask him what was wrong when the front door opened amid a terrible racket.

  In spilled the Corbie Boys. Not just the five we’d seen earlier but several dozen, a feral assemblage of black-clad villains. They talked and argued among themselves, exchanging obscenities and boasts, and they brought with them a feast: still-steaming roasts and rotisserie chickens, all manner of side dishes and desserts. I didn’t know where they’d found such bounty, but I doubted it was come by politely. My stomach rumbled, threatening to carry over the ruckus. The Corbie Boys were here, and it was nigh impossible to miss us. Any second now, and—

  The first one to spot us choked on his beer in surprise. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed.

  One by one, the Corbie Boys stopped in mid-activity, turning to stare in disbelief. Dozens of hostile glares threatened to kill us on the spot. Devin and I exchanged quick looks, wordlessly strategizing in the second we had before we were mobbed and slaughtered. We couldn’t afford to be cornered here. We had to take the initiative. Devin stood to join me, his stance brazenly casual. “Evening, boys,” Devin called. “Nice party you have going on. Room for two more?”

  It wasn’t often their prey came to them, and our bold behavior threw them all for a loop. We strolled toward the bar, pushing past one Boy after another, until Devin was able to grab us fresh drinks. Capriciously, I snagged a drumstick as I passed a bucket of chicken.

  “Devin Hunt,” growled one man, a burly bald bruiser with cold eyes and an oft-broken nose. “You really got some balls to crash our territory.”

  “You know as well as I do that this is common ground, Billy, and your only claim lies in strength of numbers—and potency of body odor,” said Devin, smile wide and cocky. “We were just waiting out the night, and in you came. Go figure.”

  Corbies closed in around us, blocking off all escape. Growls chorused from a dozen throats, jackets rustled as hands crept toward weapons. “You got a death wish, Hunt?” Billy shot back.

  “Not at all. I just know you don’t understand subtlety.” Devin popped the cap to take a swig. “I figure whatever happens, happens. You have us at your mercy, what harm is there in letting us eat, drink, and be merry for a while?”

  The leader’s eyes narrowed into thoughtful slits. Finally, he bellowed a laugh, slapping Devin on the shoulder. “Fine. You dumb bastards can have your last meal, while we figure out what sort of horrible things we’ll do to you.” He gave me a long, hard look; I shuddered at the hunger in his eyes.

  True to their word, the Corbie Boys let us eat and drink our fill for some time, all the while discussing their favorite methods of rape, torture, murder, and mutilation; I’d never even heard of some of what they fancied. They themselves tore into the food with great abandon and appalling manners.

  All too soon, they grew restless, our reprieve reaching its end. Devin and I held another silent conversation, his expression telling me all I needed to know: he was out of clever ideas. This one was all on me. I stood. Using two fingers to whistle shrilly, I got their attention. “Gentlemen!” I called. “You’ve all been such wonderful hosts, it’ll be an honor to be brutally killed and molested by you! But before we get to that, I’d like to get a group photograph. Something to commemorate the occasion.” I removed my camera from its case, holding it up. I injected a throaty purr into my voice. “What do you say? A group shot of you fine fellows?”

  There was some muttering and shuffling, before Billy nodded. “Yeah, sure. Come on, boys, let’s let the crazy bitch take our picture. Ain’t like it’ll save her.” Clumping up at the bar, they jockeyed for position, making obscene gestures, grabbing their crotches and scowling for the camera.

  “Here’s to your health, here’s to ours. May you hold that pose for twenty-four hours,” I said. Click! A blinding light filled the room; when it died away, the Corbie Boys, one and all, were frozen like statues: unblinking, unmoving, unknowing.

  Devin, who’d watched me with morbid fascination, stepped over to peer over my shoulder at the picture captured on the camera, then at the unlikely tableau I’d created. “Tanya McCray, you are full of surprises,” he said with awe. “This beats my idea to steal one of their guns and take Billy hostage.” His breath tickled the back of my neck, a shiver of need dancing down my spine. That close to me, he was all male, and my body responded.

  I blushed. “What can I say, I’ve learned some interesting things in my travels. It’s a variation on an old family trick, passed down through the generations. Legend has it one of my distant ancestors was a German soldier, who won the secret of freezing people from a beggar woman or angry dwarf or the Devil.”

  To his credit, Devin didn’t even bat an eyelash. “How long will they stay that way?”

  “For a day and a night, unless I choose to release them first.” I eyed the grotesque bunch. “I’m not inclined to break it early.”

  Devin chuckled, still close, and I wanted to lean back into his arms. “You’re something else, Tanya. You charge into trouble with a banshee’s wail, face down hostile gangs, and shrug it off as nothing special. What will you do for an encore, slay a dragon?”

  I turned to face him, throwing caution to the wind. As the potential danger faded, my body’s urges left me charged and restless. “I’ll claim my reward for saving your ass not once, but twice,” I said, before kissing him, eager to pick up where we’d left off earlier.

  Eventually, we broke apart to catch our breath. My skin was hot, a furious flush contrasting its normal paleness, and my lips tingled with excitement. Devin’s eyes blazed with hunger; he looked rumpled for the first time all night. We knew what we both wanted. Unfortunately, there was no way we could do it here, not with the Corbie Boys present if oblivious.

  We considered covering them with a tablecloth, but that solution didn’t thrill us. So we went exploring into the depths of the building. Kitchen, too cramped and messy. Stockroom, too dark and dubious. Then we found what had to be a guest room, a sparsely appointed affair containing little more than a bed and nightstand. “Wish we’d known about this earlier,” I said, wistfully thinking of the time we’d already wasted.

  Devin kicked the door shut behind us, already stepping out of his shoes. “Just as well we didn’t. Imagine one of them coming back here looking for a place to crash and catching us with our guard down.”

  I shivered, first with horror at the thought, then with anticipatory glee when Devin pulled me back into his arms. The kisses turned fierce, as he tried to devour me, while I gave myself to him eagerly. Our hands roamed freely now, fumbling at clothes in a heated frenzy. I unbuttoned his shirt, letting it hang open so my fingers could run over the firmness of his chest, nails raking over his nipples. He growled, tugging at my shirt, yanking it up over my breasts to reveal my white cotton bra. Had I known what was in store, I’d have opted for something a little more decorative, but he didn’t seem to care. Instead, he tugged it up as well, freeing my small breasts, which he cupped in his hands. As he deftly teased my need-stiffened nipples, I moaned, breaking the kiss. It was all I could do to keep a semblance of focus as he caressed me; my own hands resting on his chest, kneading like a cat.

  Increasingly tangled in half-removed clothing, we paused to finish the job. His shirt, pants, and socks went flying, lea
ving him clad in black silk boxers, which did little to hide his erection. Dear lord. Long and lean and well-built, he was a man who kept in shape without going overboard. I think I licked my lips as I eyed him. Meanwhile he busied himself in tugging my shirt and bra off, sending them flying across the room. I helped by shimmying out of my jeans. His desirous look set me ablaze, made my nerves tingle, made me wet with need. He pounced on me, unable to hold back.

  We tumbled onto the bed, which creaked in protest under the sudden weight but thankfully held. We ended up in a frenzied tangle of limbs, exploring each other with an initial burst of passion that didn’t seem likely to fade anytime soon. His lips found my neck, my throat, my breasts, leaving a sizzling trail of kisses and nibbles that made me squirm and whimper. His fingers stroked and glided over sensitive skin; I arched and twisted greedily, demanding more. Passion driving me, I tugged at his boxers, sliding them down until his cock sprang free, erect and magnificent. “Please,” I demanded. I was wet, and hot, and empty. I wanted Devin in me. I emphasized my point by stroking him, fingers gliding along the shaft, nails ever so lightly scraping his length.

  “Tanya!” he exclaimed raggedly. My panties ripped as he tugged them down. He paused, responsibility conflicting with need, then rolled off the bed with a muttered curse, diving for his pants. I almost cried, waiting for him to get back to me. He returned, foil packet in hand, and I snatched it eagerly, tearing it open. A moment later, I’d rolled the condom down over his cock, rubbing him all the while, marveling at his feel.

  He wasted little time in entering, kissing me fiercely even as he guided his length into my heat, fingers spreading the moisture of my arousal, making me ready. As Devin slowly buried himself in me, I lost the power of speech, moaning as my muscles clenched to hold him in place. Then he started a slow, steady rhythm, thrusting with gradually increasing force, filling me each time. As he took me, he met my eyes. Our gazes locked, a flood of emotions poured between us. The spark was undeniable; I knew this was no one-night-stand for either of us to quickly forget afterward.

  I dug my nails into his back, pulling him to me, hips thrusting upward to meet his movements. He quickly abandoned his controlled rhythm for something far more primal; I responded in kind, bodies bucking as we took each other. I came well before he did, an intense orgasm ripping through my core and setting every nerve on fire, a series of ecstatic cries exploding from my lips until he silenced me with a kiss. He continued to pump and thrust, keeping me there on the edge until a second wave of pleasure crashed down, this one encompassing us both. I moaned, he growled; as he came, he held himself deep within me, so I could feel the pulsing release of his own orgasm. Slick with sweat, breath coming hard, we clung together as our motions slowed and stopped. Satiated, I curled up against him, resting a hand on his chest. “Reward acceptable,” I murmured.

  It turned out to be a reward in several parts, one that kept us busy until morning crept up on us. We hurriedly—and reluctantly—dressed, gathered up our belongings, and left. I threw the frozen Corbie Boys a one-finger salute of my own on the way out. It was easy to navigate our way out of the Gaslight District in the light of day; only a block separated us from the edge of Caravan Street. We stood on the sidewalk as early morning people passed us by and shared a few more kisses. “You never did tell me what you do,” I said.

  “Real estate agent, specializing in properties in the Gaslight District,” Devin admitted. “It’s an…interesting job.”

  I nodded. “Tell me about it.”

  “I’d love to,” he said. “At length. For a long time to come.” He grinned, slipping an arm around my waist, and I snuggled in. “Just promise me you’ll ask permission before taking my picture.”

  I snorted with laughter, extorted a promise to meet him in a few hours after I’d gotten some sleep and a shower, and began the trip back to my hotel. I had the feeling my stay in Puxhill would be a lot longer than originally planned.

  SHORN

  Lisabet Sarai

  Do not believe what you hear of me. It was not to preserve my chastity that I was imprisoned here, in this amusingly phallic tower with its sealed entrance and single window. I have not been a virgin for years; even my father knows that. In the cesspit of hypocrisy that is his court, no one cares what goes on behind closed doors. Only appearances matter.

  And appearances are what landed me here in this unorthodox prison. I’m confined to this aerie because despite all blandishments and threats, I refused to cut my hair.

  In a society like ours, valuing external neatness and order above else, my wild auburn locks are an offense to public decency, or so my royal parents would like me to believe. My father’s crown rests upon a bald pate, shaved daily. My mother and sisters wear pale helmets of curls that are clipped back whenever they grow beyond the earlobes. Every proper citizen plucks, trims, waxes, and shaves to eliminate any hint of the hirsute.

  Not I. I love my hair, not just the luxurious tresses that flow over my shoulders and down to the floor, but the rest, too: my unfashionably bushy eyebrows, the soft tufts gracing my armpits, the wiry tangle that hides my sex. My hair is a source of my power. My father suspects as much. An ancient prophecy says the kingdom shall one day be lost to a red-haired sorceress, and he fears I am the fulfillment of that promise.

  He need not worry. I care not for the sort of power he wields. All I want is freedom—to travel the world, to think for myself, to love whom I please. To my father, I am nothing but a bargaining chip in the game of alliances. For that role, my hair diminishes my worth—as do my forthright tongue and legendary temper. I’m pleased to note that I’ve successfully discouraged every suitor the king has attempted to lure into taking me off his hands.

  His ambitious Majesty sent his minions to my room while I slept, to shear me by force. When one returned with a broken arm, the other soaked with blood from the scissors embedded in his chest, the king decided prison was the only way to deal with the threat posed by my independence. He spread the tale that the servants had been injured fighting off rapists. Under pretext of guarding his beloved daughter from ravishment, he locked me in this lofty turret and sealed the door from the outside.

  To discourage rescuers, his magicians established a tall hedge of rose bushes round the perimeter. My father’s roses are thornless, as his subjects are hairless, but they exude the seductive perfume of forgetfulness. Anyone who ventures within a hundred yards of the tower forgets not only his intention to rescue me but his very name. He wanders, dazed and content, among the scarlet blooms, marveling at the tower looming above him and trying to recall his mission, until my father’s men come to lead him away.

  I do not rail against my fate. What would be the point? No, I bide my time in my tower. I gaze out the window, down at my father’s people who scurry along the roads of the city like ants, mindless and driven. I brush my hair until it shines like a river of copper, spreading in a lustrous flood across the carpet. My tresses reached to my ankles on that day two years ago when I was locked away. Now they are far longer, piled up in burnished coils around me as I sit on my bed, rustling behind me when I pace my cell.

  The days pass. My hair grows. I read, or write, or sing to myself the ancient songs my grandmother taught me. I practice her little spells. And I wait for my prince.

  He comes to me on the nights of the full moon, nights like tonight. A potent mage, he rides the moon’s pale beams into my room. He sinks to his knees before me and buries his face in the aromatic thicket between my thighs. His tongue is quicksilver and lightning, dancing in my cleft, gathering the nectar that flows just for him. He devours me like a starving man. I lie back upon the bed, pillowed by mounds of hair, spreading myself wide so he can feast upon my flesh.

  As he nibbles, strokes, prods, and probes, he kindles two kinds of pleasure. Sharp, electric delight crackles across my moist skin, so intense it is almost pain. My every nerve sparks in response to his knowing mouth. At the same time, a sweet ache swirls deep in my belly, swelling
and tightening as he draws me toward release. He bathes the swollen button at my apex in hot saliva until I am ready to boil.

  I lace my fingers into his jet curls and pull his face deeper into my cunt. He burrows into my hungry depths, eager to give me what I crave. I struggle against the bonds holding me back from release. I feel them weaken. Arching up, I grind my soaked, hairy pussy against his nose, his chin, his protruding tongue, any hardness he can offer.

  His teeth close on my clit, cutting me free to fly. Bliss shudders through me. I drift weightless, buoyed by joy, among glittering copper clouds. My lover’s strong arms cradle me as I sink back to earth.

  My prince smells of horses, leather, sweat, and new-mown hay. His scent makes me want him naked. I tear madly at his jerkin and leggings, seeking his bare, burnt-oak skin. He looses a soundless laugh and rises to strip away his clothing. Saliva pools in my mouth as I watch. He is dark night to my midday brightness, with ink-black hair that tumbles to his shoulders and eyes like chips of obsidian. His leanness counters my ripe curves. My softness balances the taut power in his muscled limbs.

  We are two halves of a whole, my prince and I. We both know this. He’s the youngest son of a neighboring king, and mute from birth. That scarcely matters—everyone tells me I talk enough for two. In any case, when we are together, we have little need for words. Like me, he’s a disappointment to his parents—an outcast. He chose to be a wise man rather than a warrior, and his father will never forgive him.