by J. L. Foster
"Perhaps they have captured him an’ be torturin’ him?” Michael asked with a hopeful tone of enthusiasm in his voice.
"Perhaps, but it be much too quiet below deck. I'm growin’ fearful for me men."
Michael detected the roughness in Columbus's voice. It was evident that the man had lost crewmen before. The young man knew this was a harsh memory to live with. Michael's father had been lost at sea, aiding a ship in need that was hit by a merciless, sudden hurricane, taking the ship apart. His father's own ship—though much smaller than the large vessel it was aiding—had miraculously survived the storm, albeit without its captain.
"Well then,” the young captain began, “I suggest that we go below deck an’ see what's up."
"Fine suggestion, Captain,” Columbus smiled, thankful to have another captain by his side. He had begun this voyage with other ships—none of which survived the trip. “In Spain, I shall see that ye be highly rewarded for yer efforts here."
"Too kind o’ ye, Cap'n."
"Let's see what me mates be up to.” With a heavy grin, the elder captain led his new accomplice below deck and into a narrow, dark hallway.
Chamber after chamber, they searched to no avail. There were no signs of the stowaway or of the eight missing crewmen. The captains grew weary the further and longer they searched. A terribly—if impossible—thought began to fill their heads, but they knew that it could not have been. Still, it seemed to be the only explanation for the crewmen's absences.
"Have—have they vanished?” Michael asked with a doubtful look in his eyes.
"Impossible.” Columbus sighed and thought heavily over the answer he had just given. “So, if they've not vanished, where be the crewmen?"
"What's below this level of the ship, Cap'n?"
"A bunch of planks and wood, I imagine,” he confessed strongly. “I have crewmen to know that information for me."
Below the level of the cabins, Michael and Columbus found themselves faced with even tighter darkness. They could not see each other, much less what was in front of them as they moved forward. They used their hands to guide them and feel for danger as they traveled. Both were filled with hope that when the time came they would be able to find their way back to the door in which they entered. Clumsily, they felt upon various unknowns—some made of wood and some made of solid steel. They were in an equipped area unlike any that Michael had ever been in, and he wished that he could see it. It was no large secret that he was fascinated by the workings of ships of all sorts.
His hand edged forward a bit more and his movements came to a halt. A chill encompassed his body, tingling into the rough of his spine. Whatever he was touching was as smooth and as cold as ice. It was large—almost as tall as he was. Michael continued to run his hand over it, finding the top of it to be smooth and round, the front fondly chiseled.
"Ye have ice sculptures on this vessel?” he inquired as he continued to feel around the frozen block.
"None that I know of,” Columbus snorted absently. “An’ if we had, they surely would o’ melted by now."
"Reach out an’ feel."
"Oh, me,” he whispered with a slight shock. “That be deathly cold."
"Aye, it be. Cold as ice."
As Columbus continued to smooth his hands over the icy form in front of him, he took a sudden gasp and ceased all movement. His right hand was on what appeared to be an icy arm holding an icy sword. The arm he wasn't so certain of, but the feel of the ice-sculpted sword he recognized immediately.
"These be no ice sculptures,” he stated thinly, taking a large step back. “These be me crewmen."
Deafening thunder roared from the heavens above and mighty currents brutally rocked against the ship. Michael and Columbus were nearly thrown from their feet, but they managed to hold on to the steel poles surrounding them. The human ice sculptures fell victim to the currents however, and Columbus cringed with dread as he listened to eight ice sculptures—his eight crewmen—fall and shatter on the ground.
"Me men...” He breathed heavily, feeling Michael's hand taking him by the arm and leading him in the direction that they had come from.
"Somethin’ be very wrong here, Cap'n,” Michael explained in a quiet rush. “We best check on the rest of the men."
Vicious thunder continued to roar throughout the sea as they made their way back to the deck. There, the sounds of the thunder competed with the shouts, screams, and cries of the captains’ remaining crewmen.
"Bloody fuckin’ hell,” Columbus whimpered, watching several of his crewmen scatter as they tried to both capture and avoid what he assumed was their stowaway—a tall, round, white bearded man that forced instant fear into the Spaniard's soul. “What in the name of God be it?"
Michael stared in disbelief at the image he had only heard of in childhood stories. “That, me Cap'n, be Nicholas Von Barron."
It was like watching a weaponless bullfighter in the ring. Each time one of the seamen so much as neared the giant beast, Nicholas would no nothing more than breathe, transforming each into ice sculptures of their former selves. Their weapons proved useless to them. Each was equipped and well-trained with their swords, but in order to use the swords they had to be able to near the beast. Michael watched as one man attempted to throw his sword into the beast and pierce him, but the moment the sword touched the beast it turned to ice and fell to the ground where it shattered into a million tiny fragments.
"There's no stoppin’ yon monster,” Columbus whispered, watching helplessly as each of his crewmen's tactics proved useless. “Everythin’ that touches him turns to ice, an’ everythin’ he touches doeth the same."
"You have cannons on this ship, yes?” Michael asked, attempting his best to form an idea in his head. Currently, only eleven crewmen remained in human form, and they were weakening quickly. The smaller the group got, the stronger and more dangerous Nicholas seemed to become.
"Aye, but ye can expect the cannon ball to do just the same as the swords—turn right to ice."
"Perhaps, but I be hopin’ that the impact will be strong enough to knock him over board an', with any hope, render the beast unconscious."
"I'll help ye with the cannon,” Columbus said, finding no better solution and in no position to disagree.
Due to the threatening rains that continued to plummet down atop them, the cannon seemed nearly impossible to light. Yet, when no more than six crewmen stood alive, the flame ignited and the fuse burned with eager purpose. Both Michael and Columbus took heavy steps back, waiting with dire anticipation. The cannon was their only hope for survival.
As the fuse sizzled down to nothing, the captains braced themselves and plugged their ears. The cannon exploded with a horrible bang, firing its heavy ball in the direction aimed—focused on the large, imposing body of Nicholas Von Barron.
Wise to the sound of the firing cannon, the remaining seamen scattered across the deck, leaving Nicholas as the only target. The massive beast of a man turned toward the sound of the explosion and watched with dominating, ice-blue eyes as the ball plummeted into his gut. It formed immediately into a heavy rock of ice but its force held strong for a colossal impact. The trick worked just as Michael had hoped. Having already been positioned near the edge of the deck, Nicholas was sent high into the air, rendered immediately unconscious, and then banished into the icy, torrential waters of the all-mighty sea.
All became still for a moment, and even the rain appeared to lighten a bit. The sky calmed and the gray clouds parted, letting the cold air settle. Michael and Columbus stood from their crouched positions and took uneasy steps forward, shortly joined by what remained of the crewmen. No one spoke a single word for quite some time. The experience had rendered each of them into a state of shock. In disbelief and mourning, they lowered their heads to their icy mates—trapped forever in their frozen hells.
Edging slowly to the side of the ship, Michael stared down at the cold seawater. His eyes searched desperately for a glimpse of Nicholas Von Barron,
but there were no visible signs of him left. The impact of the cannon ball had been strong enough to send him sailing to the bottom of the sea, and he hoped that it had buried him there.
"Ye see anything?” Columbus asked, approaching him from the side.
"Not a thing."
"Nicholas Von Barron, huh? Hellish Saint of Satan be what he was."
"That's almost amusing, Cap'n,” Michael whispered, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. “St. Nicholas. Instead o’ eaten children for centuries, he gave them gifts and treats."
"Only in myths an’ legends could that ever happen,” Columbus stated blandly, turning his sights back to his stunned but still living crewmen. “Only in myths and legends."
Chapter Three
December, New York City, Present Day
She felt warm in his embrace. To have him inside of her made her feel as if winter had never arrived, and as he suckled on her right nipple, she teased her left one with enthused pleasure. Straddling Dylan, her husband of three years, she panted heavy breaths, each one growing deeper as she quickened her speed against his thrusts. The further his member pressed into her, the more she moaned and edged closer to her climax.
"You feel so good, Jasmine,” Dylan grunted, buckling hard against his wife's soaked pussy. “You're so fucking tight."
"You like that sweet pussy, don't you, big boy?” she questioned him with a ruthless, sex-filled voice.
"You like Momma's hot cunt."
"Oh, yeah,” he moaned, closing his eyes and pressing his head hard against his pillow. His full eight inches were inside of her, and yet he still wanted to go deeper.
"Say my name, baby. Say my name."
"Jasmine!” he cried, grunting fiercely as he pumped harder in and out of her. “Jasmine! Oh, my fucking god, Jasmine!"
"That's right, baby,” she charmed, taking on a suddenly sweet tone of voice. “That's right. Show Momma what you're made of."
"I ... I don't think I can last much longer,” he pouted, opening his eyes and smiling as he attempted to slow his strides.
"Oh, no you don't,” she grunted, climbing up off of him and easing off the bed. Moving over to the dresser, she faced the mirror and placed her hands firmly on the dresser's surface. Looking over her shoulder, she grinned coyly, spread her legs, and pressed her bottom up into the air.
Dylan watched it for a moment from his position on the bed. He could see the hole he had just visited between the thick, pink lips of her pussy, and he hungered for it still. Taking his cock in hand, he stood from the bed and edged over to his wife, coming up behind her and dropping down to his knees. There, he began to feast on the warm, plump cunt that tempted him so devilishly.
He had learned long ago that when a man went down on his woman, he was fully in charge of the situation.
Jasmine melted down onto his mouth, sitting on his face as his tongue delved deeply into her pulsating hole. She cried out with tense excitement, finding that her voice was growing weaker with every lap of Dylan's long, thick tongue. Over the course of their relationship, he had proved himself extremely talented with his tongue, and he was currently giving her a “best of the best” moment.
In a fiery instant, he went from tonguing her cunt to suckling on her clit. She whimpered helplessly, pressing her horny pussy as hard against his face as she could. Dylan then began to alternate between the sucking of the clit to the lapping of it with his tongue. The laps were swift and electric, and each one took strength in bringing Jasmine closer to the brink of her much anticipated orgasm.
"Oh, Dylan,” she moaned, feeling his tongue explore areas that she had at one time not known existed. Dylan Wylde had been the greatest lover she had ever known, and she had kept him as her own. “You're going to make me cum."
His only response was a brief whimper and the quickening of his lapping and suckling of her clitoris. Finally, Jasmine's heavy scream forced itself from her body and she felt herself orgasm into her husband's mouth. He suckled on her sweet fluids for quite some time, relentlessly continuing his torturing of her clit. Then, when he'd had his fill, he climbed back onto his feet and pressed the head of his cock against her wet opening. With a single thrust, he entered her from behind, filling her with his thick manhood. His strides were fast and long, pumping into her with strong, trembling emotion. It was not long at all before he felt the goosebumps rise to his skin, the lightning shriek through his body, and the intensity of the orgasm arriving at the head of his cock. Gazing into the mirror before him, he stared into his wife's eyes, which stared back into his with a lusty look, pleading for him to fill her with his seed.
"I'm cumming baby,” he groaned, collapsing onto her back and pulling her hips hard against his pelvis.
"Fill me, Dylan,” she pleaded, buckling her pussy hard against him and clenching her muscles to squeeze every last drop out of him.
He panted hard and heavy, shooting what he currently thought was his largest load ever inside of the woman that he loved more than life itself. When the last pellet trickled out into her, he stayed inside of her, holding her beneath him and passionately kissing her neck and ear.
"It's been so long, Dylan,” Jasmine panted breathlessly, gazing through the mirror into the eyes of her husband.
"We made love just last night,” he grinned curiously.
"Like I said, it's been so long."
Now, they laughed a bit and Dylan leaned upright, slipping out of her and knowing his seed was doing the same. Glancing to the floor, he watched a couple of drops land on the carpet and made a mental note to clean them up later. He stretched as he walked back to the bed and sat, patting the mattress beside him for his wife to join him. With a pleasant smile, she moved toward him, kissed him lovingly on the lips, and took the place where his hand had offered.
"I suppose you have to work tonight,” she sighed, gazing into his deep hazel eyes.
"You know I can't miss even a single day, Jasmine, but there's nothing I'd love more than to stay right here with you all day and night long."
"Still ... there is something, well, strange about working as a store Santa.” Her eyes crossed down to the floor as she blinked.
"Look,” he pleaded, placing his warm fingers against her chin and lifting her eyes back to his. “I've been out of work for months now. Every interview I've had since the company closed has been a bust. I'm lucky to have gotten this job."
"But they don't even give you the department store discount. You could do so much better than this."
"But I haven't.” His words were flat and needed nothing more to emphasize their meaning. Dylan Wylde had, ever so briefly, been the vice president of an up-and-coming technology corporation, specializing in antivirus software. For two years, ScanTronics flourished and money was coming in left and right. Then, an insider for a rival company was hired on staff and ScanTronics’ secrets were leaked within days. With nothing new to build on and their software codes having been leaked to companies offering the same technology for a much cheaper cost, ScanTronics was forced into bankruptcy. With this came poverty for Dylan and his beloved Jasmine.
"So, what time does Santa Claus report to work today?” she asked, forcing a thin smile over her voluptuous lips.
"Four o'clock. That's like a whole half day away almost."
"It's ten now,” she noted, glancing at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand beside the bed.
"That's six hours. That's only a quarter of a day.” Her smile turned to a pout, but her eyes showed that she was teasing him more than she was actually sad. “I'm going to go to the bathroom and ... freshen up. Why don't you go fix us some coffee?"
"Sounds good to me,” he yawned, kissing his wife one more time before standing and stepping to the edge of the small bedroom. Placing his hand on the doorframe, he looked back at Jasmine and offered a Cheshire grin. “You like it sweet, don't ya?"
"You know how I like it, Daddy."
"Ruff!” he barked at her in a humorous manner before laughing and stepping into
the thin hallway, disappearing from his wife's sight.
"I married a clown,” she giggled, plopping back against the bed. “But, god, can that clown fuck!"
Standing on weak, wobbly legs, she moved through the bedroom, into the hallway, and down to the small but adequate bathroom. There, she freshened herself from their sexual indulgence and, on a whim, sifted through the vanity drawer.
A few minutes later, she stepped into the kitchen completely refreshed and with a giddy smile strapped over her face. She held her hands behind her and batted her alluring brown eyes at her busy husband. When Dylan turned to her, he held both cups of coffee in his hands. The coffee was fortunate to survive, as when he caught side of his beautiful exotic bride, he nearly lost his grip.
"Every time I see you,” he began, “is like the first time all over again. I swear you've never been more beautiful than you are right here, right now."
Crossing through the room to him, she took her cup from his hand and tasted a sweetened sip. “It's just how I like it,” she confessed proudly.
"And you ... you're just how I like you. Mine.” Their eyes met again, and thus, so did their lips. The kiss held just for a moment, as both were afraid of spilling their coffee, but the kiss was still just as powerful as all that these two had shared. Pulling back, Dylan glanced down her body and stared at the arm being held behind her back. “What are you hiding back there? A present maybe? For me? It's not even Christmas yet."
"I think it's close enough for a treat,” she explained, swallowing deeply as she straightened herself.
"Okay then. What is it?"
"Close your eyes."
"This isn't going to hurt is it?"
"No, silly!” she laughed, sipping again her coffee. “Just do it."
"Alright. But if this hurts, I'm withholding sex for a month!"
"You couldn't go a week."
"You know me too well."
Once Dylan sat his coffee down on the counter and closed his eyes, he extended his hands out in anticipation of his surprise.