by Mael d'Armor
She offers Aurélien her finger to be sucked.
His lips close over the offering. This seems to fire his blood for his eyes narrow and the bulge in his trousers grows noticeably.
Jenny looks at Sandra.
‘Undo his pants and suck him.’
Sandra complies with feverish hands. She is almost shaking with need. She eases Aurélien’s proud staff out of its niche.
It is a splendid specimen, full of life and hard promise.
Her mind flashes back to her hotel capers in Sydney. She never got to blow her lover after all. To smoke his pipe. But this one is hers to please. This stranger. This vibrant hottie. Jenny told her she had to. She is so grateful, and so horny for this. She will be so obedient. She will do everything that is required of her, and more. She will not let him go.
She flicks her tongue at his swollen tip for a quick taste, then wraps her lips around it — too eagerly perhaps — and starts working him with her hands. She tries to keep it slow and slinky but her senses are spinning on the youthful smell. In the flash of an eyelid she has lost all restraint and is going hard.
Aurélien does not seem to mind. He has a beatific smile on his face.
‘Not so fast,’ commands Jenny.
Sandra forces herself to ease her pace. And stifles a whimper, for her demon is going berserk. She is losing control. She has to touch herself. She drops a hand and begins to knead with urgent fingers. Flush herself with delight.
A smack on her arse. And another one, twice as hard. She freezes in shock. Almost releases her prize.
‘Don’t you dare touch yourself.’
She is smarting like hell. She lets out another frustrated moan but she must obey. She must. She has no choice. She returns her hand to its man-fondling task. Returns her lips to their sultry trail. And stays on the boil for what seems like eons, her creature squirming in honeyed pain. Lashing against its bonds. Bucking inside her in mounting frustration.
Above her, Aurélien is groaning like a ship’s hull in a storm. He holds her head tight with both hands and pushes in deeper.
Then he starts dictating his tempo.
There is nothing left of his earlier hesitation. She looks up and sees an instinctive sheen in his eye. She knows he is only thinking of his pleasure, and using her, and the thought inflames her further. She is thriving, gagging on that thought. Gagging on him as he smothers her throat. She wallows in the dark joy of being his toy. His plaything. His pleasure doll.
The grip on her head has hardened. He is pressing his claim, pumping faster. Using her as a luscious fit to his will. She wraps herself in her subjection.
Frantic. He is frantic now. Going all out, choking her, glutting her. Then he hangs in mid thrust. She flicks up her eyes again. His face is going through various shades of rapture. His hips shudder and he splinters loudly, like a schooner’s foremast struck by thunder. She swallows his shot gratefully. Greedily.
Her demon is loving this. Loving her humiliation.
‘Turn round, your face to the wall.’
Jenny’s voice has snapped like a whip.
She does as she is told. Gratefully. Greedily. Then wipes a little come off her lips, with absent-minded fingers.
‘Bend over. Legs apart. Palms on the wall. You are not to move. Not to look behind you. Keep your hands on that bleeding wall.’
She yields to this new demand without a murmur. She knows her place and must do as she is told. She positions herself, drawing more perverse glee from her submission. She is on display, swollen, leaking. To be gloated upon. Then enjoyed and ransacked.
‘And I don’t want you to get off until I say so,’ whispers Jenny in her ear.
Oh God. She is not to come. But she is so wound up. So desperate. So full of her aching wetness. She hears noises behind her — humid, torrid — and can only guess what they mean. Jenny blowing the student back to life. Pleasuring him, pleasuring herself maybe. Being sucked in return. Wet, dirty noises in a hot shrine of moans. She feels herself responding viscerally to that tune. Feels her lush bloat starting to ooze down her thighs. Ooze. Overspill. Fuck. Her urges are so fuzzed, so deliciously blended, that she doesn’t know what’s coming out of her, nor how much.
She can’t. She can’t hold it in. Holy horny cow. She is dying for a hard poke, a knead, a release. She is on that tormented brink again. And yet Jenny said she mustn’t get off. She mustn’t. She knows she has no say. Hands on the wall. Arse on offer, dripping with overswell. She must endure her torture. Endure the visions preying on her mind. Of Jenny vamping him with wet lips and velvet fingers. Rousing him with her tongue. Raiding his tousled hair. Clawing his chest. Licking, biting him rock hard.
Oh God, she can’t hold it. She doesn’t have the strength. She is full to bursting. This is too much. Too freaking much.
She drops her head and erupts on the spot. Choking on her messy breaths. On her broken moans.
She looks down, teary-eyed. Oh no, she has gushed all over the floor. Over her tunic too.
Her creature is spinning, teased to distraction by the hollowing.
Jenny’s voice is back in her ear, sweet as poisoned honey.
‘I ordered you not to come.’
‘Sorr . . . sorry,’ she splutters, half in tears. ‘I couldn’t . . . couldn’t help it none.’
She is heaving. Trying lamely to dam the next eruption. The next overflow.
‘Please don’t . . . don’t be crazy-mad.’
‘You are so weak,’ taunts Jenny. ‘So cheap.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she rasps. ‘For . . . forgive to me.’
‘I think you do not deserve him. I think I’ll keep him for myself.’
‘Noooo,’ she pleads, horrified.
‘And whyever not?’
‘Need . . . need this . . .’ she hiccups.
‘See?’ she hears Jenny say to Aurélien. ‘She is raring to go. Bon appétit.’
Sandra’s throat fractures in relief, in more raw gratitude, when he takes her. She tilts her hips to ease his claim. She wants him up to the hilt. Wants him to crush her, to humble her.
Soon, he is exacting his price with randy urgency. She shatters into mangled moans.
‘My beautiful little slut,’ crows Jenny to her side. ‘So keen to serve. To debase herself to the first stranger.’
As before, the words compel her, swell her beyond measure, adding to her turmoil. ‘Oui, oui . . .’ she drools, as she gets pounded. She knows. Oh God she knows she’s a tramp.
‘I think our host will be pleased tonight.’
Yes, pleased, she thinks blindly. She doesn’t have the faintest who Jenny’s talking about. But she knows she has to please. She has to serve.
And as before in the hotel, in the shower, on her medieval bed, she tumbles into a whirlpool of insane pleasure, her mind scorched by feral illusions. The orgasms come thick and fast, pummelling her like hot, dense, blinding rain. She cannot stop. She cannot stop coming. For that man is thrusting so wickedly, so divinely, arcing her to his rule. To his selfish thrills. And she could sell her soul for this humiliation. Sell her soul and everything she owned.
And the floor is slippery from her gushing. From those wet releases that hurl her creature to new crests of need.
And there are fingers on her clit too, Jenny’s fingers, pressing, twisting, goading. Milking her for more of her dark ecstasy. More of her hot ejaculate.
And she has sunk her nails into the wall, desperately, because she wants to claw it down, rip off the paint. Rip it off, tear it off, like she will the clothes of the next stranger that walks through the door. And the next. And the next. She will serve them all. Service them all like the perfect, obedient slut she is.
And at the thought she shatters in raucous groans, soaking herself in a new bout of squirts. Soaking the hand that is milking her. And she falls to her knees, gouging the paint with her nails. The stranger still deep in her. The fingers still draining her sap. And she ruptures again till she hears no more.
; No more.
24
They are back outside. The fresh air has restored part of her composure, as it had earlier on. A very thin, fragile part, she can sense. Her creature is only dozing with one eye open. She knows she is now entirely in its thrall, and a slave to whomever might be its master.
She passed out on the joint’s floor. God, she is making a habit of this — blacking out. And her mind is a balmy fuzz, as after each surge of her compulsions. She would be incapable of walking were it not for Jenny holding her hand.
The shop was a mess when they left. With her gushes. With his gushes. With gutted kebabs which were sent flying everywhere in the heat of the moment. They left Aurélien curled up in a corner, fast asleep. She has a vague idea he would not be getting home tonight. She wonders if he has a girlfriend.
Her tunic is soiled but her gorgeous, dominant lover appears unconcerned by the fact.
She looks down to assess the damage. The wet patches are fading. Her breasts feel oddly swollen. They seem to be pushing the fabric with more zeal than before. Surely she can’t have enlarged? Or this is temporary?
There are sticky smears where the nipples are straining. She slips her hand under the flimsy material to check herself — cautiously for fear of rekindling her beast. She is wet from a thickish ooze. She does not have a clue what it might be. Some sort of milk? She brings her fingers to her nose, as discreetly as she dares. She cannot see properly but it has a rich, captivating smell. The potent scent of her arousals. She hastily takes her hand away.
‘Your demon’s overspill, honey.’ Jenny is eyeing her sideways. ‘You’ll have to get used to it. You’re changing. Maturing. Becoming more rounded. And it’s not just your breasts. Your sweet peach too. I could feel it back there. It will remain engorged from now on. On permanent alert. There’s all this lovely heat in you. Even your hand is boiling. You will serve us well.’
She keeps steering Sandra with a naughty smile.
Jenny’s right. The heat is everywhere. In her head. Her limbs. Her belly. Like a background buzz that never fades. Again, she derives incredible satisfaction from the knowledge she is a pawn in her friend’s fiendish games. She cannot help this perverse fulfilment. She closes her eyes and embraces her submission.
They have stopped in the shadow of a fortified city gate, complete with drawbridge, barbican and long arrow loops. Sandra looks up. The dark outlines of machicoulis are visible in the moonlight, near the top. A frisson runs up her spine and she is overcome with a strange apprehension, between fear and excitement.
‘La Porte Prison,’ volunteers Jenny. ‘One of the oldest access points to the walled city. Don’t be put off by the forbidding name. A hangover from the French Revolution, when those that wouldn’t dance to the republican tune were kept here against their will. But you, Sandra, are not here against yours, are you? For you have none left. For you, this old gate will be a frontier. A transition. A new beginning. Who’s the lucky girl?’
She steps up to a narrow wooden door encased in a roofed extension of the rampart. And presses on the button prominently displayed in its middle. There is no audible bell tone but a slit of light appears in the door, soon filled by a pair of eyes.
‘Princess Ahes,’ says a deep male voice, matter-of-factly. ‘My mistress has been expecting you.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
The eyes in the slit dart sideways, suddenly suspicious.
‘Yes, she’s here. Are you going to let us in or should I go looking for more suitable accommodation?’
The eyes melt away and the door swings open without a noise. The man inside is a feast for female eyes. Tall, with a hyperbolic muscle mass index. Brooding eyes and a face cloaked in a helmet designed by the gods of virile sex appeal. His chest and shoulders are sheathed in leather armour and his palm rests almost negligently on the pummel of a sword dangling from a belt.
Jenny whistles appreciatively.
‘And you are?’
His face impassive, the man motions for them to step in.
‘I see. The strong, silent type. Well then, take us to your mistress, O great leather-strapped, muscle-bound, verbally-impaired warrior.’
They follow him along a curving corridor, then down some steps, past a few medieval suits of armour standing like sentries before heavy tapestries, then back up some winding stairs that grow narrower the further up they go.
‘What brain-addled architect planned this place?’ grumbles Jenny. ‘And no lift,’ she adds, between breaths. ‘How about suggesting a high-tech upgrade to your mistress?’
But she does not have to keep puffing much longer. They emerge onto a tiny landing and their guide pushes open a bulky door, triggering a crystal chime. He lets them in, then posts himself right behind them.
Sandra casts curious looks around her. The room is circular, like Yaouen’s private quarters, and she assumes they have reached the top of the Prison Gate. It is bathed in soft, flickering candlelight and strewn with couches and chairs covered in thick animal skins. A few large paintings of bare-breasted girls riding stags hang on the windowless walls. At the back, framed by plush drapery, towers a large, elaborately carved throne raised on a dais.
A pair of long smooth legs protrude from its seat but their owner’s face remains hidden in shadows.
‘Finally we meet again,’ says a seductive voice. ‘After all this time.’
25
‘Please form two large circles around the stone. Deux cercles! Girls on the outside, boys on the inside, a few steps away. Les filles à l’extérieur, les garçons à l’intérieur! This way you can best enjoy our magic show!’
The young red-headed woman who called out is standing by the megalith. She is flanked by three others that, except for the colour of their hair, look almost exactly like her. Cute popsies with long flowing locks, see-through tunics and lavish body jewellery.
He is finding this rather puzzling. He has been spying from behind his bush since nightfall and is still not quite sure what is going on, though he knows the four cuties near the stone are faes. Wood fairies to be precise. Foreign to the coast and, in view of their bracelets and arm rings, foreign to this land. Probably from Cornwall across the sea — which would explain their English. And why they speak French with a sexy Anglo lilt.
Their presence here is most curious. What are these fair maidens doing so far from home, he wonders, masquerading as illusionists? Something tells him they are not here just to get extra practice ahead of the Pan-Celtic Magic Convention.
He watches on. No point in showing himself. Better find out what they have got up their silky sleeves. Which is crucial, given the total news blackout from his usual sources.
That too is worrying. He spent the best part of the afternoon patrolling the stone alignments from the skies, in near-invisible stealth mode to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Touching down at times to search on foot for some clue — for anything that might suggest a link to the Parisian nude. And hoping to meet and question some of the locals.
Surprisingly, no one popped out of any hole or sprang from any rock crevice. Not a single Korrigan. He could not even sense their presence. He went to most of the master stones, actioned a number of runes to summon the little people. Nothing. Definitely irregular, since they were the proud guardians of the megaliths.
Of course, they mostly came out at night, as all magic folk around here were wont to do, but he knew they would make an exception for him. They would have to. For no fae creature — or any mortal for that matter — could afford to antagonise the great Merlin.
Not that he was vain or anything. He had left the sticky ponds of ordinary human pride far behind, in a now hazy past. At least he hoped he had. But he knew the power of his magic, nurtured and honed over the trickle of centuries. Magic too bold, too dark, too deeply rooted in the soul of the earth for most men to comprehend. The dwarves, however, had taken its full measure. No, they couldn’t risk getting on his bad side. So then, the reason lay elsewhere
. Something had happened to them — of the most fishy, most suspicious variety.
So naturally, when a distant commotion attracted his attention, he came to investigate. He alighted in a clearing, left Morvarc’h there, then pushed his way through the thickets all the way to the Géant — as the tall menhir was known in these parts.
‘Please, my friends, settle down, make two big circles,’ repeats the woman in the flimsy apparel. ‘Deux cercles!’ she says again, drawing a ring shape in the air. ‘Could the gentleman micturating against the small rock over there please hurry? I’m sure you’re all eager to see our show! Le magnifique spectacle de magie!’
She raises one arm in histrionic emphasis.
‘The great Karnag mystery show! The greatest on earth! Le plus beau du monde! We promised you dazzling displays, we promised you dreams, we promised you unmatched fantasies. And this is indeed what you will get! Des rêêêves fantastiiiiques!’
Yaouen shakes his head. She sounds like a bloody commercial. But at least things are moving along. And not too soon either. He has been crouching here for the past couple of hours, watching the young crowd cavorting in the clearing to the lusty sounds of binious and bombards. And laughing. And shouting. And drinking liberal amounts of honey-scented chouchen.
Entertaining enough, he admits, like most festoù-noz in this part of the world, but he is growing a trifle impatient, especially since he has had to fight off — twice — the attention of an inquisitive little boar that confused the seat of his pants with a sack of truffles.
But the partying has dragged on, with him stuck behind his bush champing at the bit. Now he can detect more than a hint of excitement in the voices of the revellers as they fall into place around the menhir. They are flustered from the dancing and the wine and he can see the light of the campfires dancing in their eyes.
Without another word, the fairies spread out around the stone and stand at an equal distance from each other. They seem to be guarding the four points of a sacred compass. A graceful wave of their arms, and wings snap out of their backs like blades from flick knives. Then, dainty as hummingbirds, they rise in the air to fly level with the top of the stone.