by G A Chase
His hands explored her body from butt to breasts until his palms completely covered her small mounds, leaving only her light-pink nipples protruding from his grasp. Rip-cord strong, his fingers twisted her tender flesh.
She grabbed his hands and pressed them hard against her boobs. Her hips ground against him as if trying to rub their pants away from their mutual longing. Why the hell don’t pants come off easier? she thought through her endorphin-filled haze of desire. Her fingers quivered as she traced every muscular curve of his arms.
With each flexing of his hands against her breasts, the cord-like tendons in his arms adjusted under her touch like the taut strings of a musical instrument. She leaned forward into his grasp as her hands descended from his arms to his chest. She hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes until she opened them. He stared back at her with his longing-filled smoky-brown eyes.
I could spend a lifetime gazing into those pools of dark amber, she thought.
As her hands worked down his rippled stomach, his left her breasts and caressed the curves of her sides. They met at the tops of their motorcycle riding pants. As she fumbled with his belt, he unclasped the snaps and the concealed zipper of her pants as if he’d designed the damn things. She barely had his buckle unlatched when he snaked his hands under her leathers, grasped her by the cotton-panty-covered hips, and flipped her to the bed.
“That’s not fair,” she protested.
Kneeling on the mattress, he gave her clothing one firm tug, yanking her pants and panties down her legs and off her feet and pulling her boots off with them. He tossed the pile of clothing on the floor like discarded wrapping paper before towering over her. “I thought you might want a better view for your first time seeing a real man.”
“I’m not a virgin,” she said as much to her longing as to his taunt. She lay mesmerized as he finished unbuttoning the top of his pants and worked the zipper down. From under his boxer shorts, his cock looked to be doubling in size now that it was free from the leather confines. When he pulled down his shorts, she realized how naïve she’d been in thinking she knew anything at all about men’s bodies. Doppelgänger cocks looked like little plastic doll willies compared to his towering rock-hard shaft that arched out at her. Veined, dark tan, and throbbing, Rampart’s cock lived up to every one of her fantasies. Saliva filled her mouth as it bobbed in front of her face like a thick nine-inch finger beckoning her closer.
“My turn.” She bolted up so fast she head butted him in the chest as she grabbed his body. With her hands around his ass and his cock between her breasts, she nearly lost focus on the fact that there were still clothes to remove. She flipped him sideways on the bed then ran her hands along the dimpled sides of his butt, along the leg muscles that dwarfed her palms, and finally, to the pants and shorts bunched at his thighs. With a couple of grunting pulls, she had the last of the clothing off his magnificent Adonis-like body. She saddled up to him, grasped his cock, and lowered her pussy onto it.
He ran his hands up her thighs. “You don’t mess around, do you?” he asked as his cock throbbed into her.
Her hips began their usual rocking action that she’d used on the doppeldildos in hell. “I suppose I’m used to taking charge of my sexual needs.” Talking about what she was doing had never been a part of her release. She grabbed the sides of his abdomen, closed her eyes, and humped his cock.
Instead of just lying there, he sat up and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Try to relax a little. Take it slow. Sex isn’t a battle. It’s a collaboration of desires. Let me show you.” He leaned his forehead against hers. They sat facing each other with her legs around him and his cock inside her. “See how our breathing has synchronized?”
She wasn’t looking for collaboration. Sex was about the release of frustrated desires. As she stopped trying to dominate him, though, her body developed a rhythm with his. His cock gently explored parts of her she’d never felt before. And as her body began to accept the foreign presence, so did her soul.
Unlike her previous psychic mergings with human spirits, she remained fully herself in her own body and Bart in his. Yet there was a connection between them. She could anticipate each movement of his hands on her hips, his head pressed to hers, and his cock against her clit. Each of her body’s movements found him at the ready like a dancer prepared to lift her desires higher into the air. The synergy magnified her longing to keep him inside her.
Okay, big boy, show me what you’ve got. Once she stopped forcing the action, he started working his cock like a conductor directing an orchestra: circling, thrusting, gently retreating then plunging hard. And like a performer, she submitted to his every gesture, allowing the desire to build like music within her.
At her orgasmic crescendo, he maintained a thrust so deep inside her she found it hard to breathe. Every part of her, body and soul, quivered against him. She held her hands tightly to his shoulders and pressed her head so hard to his she feared she might bruise him. Her rock-hard nipples teased along his chest until their sensitivity rivaled that of her clit against his cock.
As she trembled down from her orgasm, he grasped her butt so firmly she could feel the building undulation rolling through every part of him. His gave a low grunt of animal desire from inside his clenched jaws, then his inflated chest crushed her breasts. His six-pack abs rippled against her stomach, his hips forced against hers, and finally, his straining cock exploded deep within her. His hands pulled her hard and close as his magnificent body shook against her like an earthquake that had its origin in his soul. His warmth filled her so completely she felt as if she would burst. Spent, he lowered his head to her shoulder.
She wove her fingers into his wiry black hair and gently cradled his head to hers. Flexing her butt cheeks, she held him within her for as long as she could, but his drained cock lost its rigidity almost as fast as his tired muscles. Slowly, she eased off of her body’s tight hold around his cock. “Why does it have to be over?”
He put a finger under her chin and lifted her lips to his. “So we can do it again from the beginning.” His passionate kiss was quickly followed by his muscles flexing their readiness for another round.
The bare mattress over the weapons locker was only slightly less comfortable than the one in Sere’s loft, but being stretched out naked next to Bart was closer to heaven than she’d ever hoped to experience in this or any other lifetime. As she lay with her head on his shoulder, she ran her fingers through the sparse hair on his chest. With her leg arched up over him, his cock throbbed valiantly against her inner thigh. The man was exhausted. She’d ridden him like a racehorse, and even thoroughbreds needed a break after winning the Triple Crown. Gently, she rubbed his cock with her leg to express her appreciation without trying to rile it up again.
His massive hand gently caressed her sweaty hair. “Who are you, Sere Mal-Laurette? You’re not like any woman I’ve ever met or hope to meet. Where do you come from?”
Sere hadn’t shared her personal history with anyone and wasn’t sure she was ready to start. “It’s a long, complicated story, and you don’t really want to hear it.”
He turned slightly on the bed and moved his hand from her head to her back. The adjusted position allowed her to slip her leg between his, causing his cock to extend along her thigh to her hip. “I want to know all about you. This is what people do after making love—they share their most intimate life stories.”
She flexed her thigh, hoping the stimulation to his cock would distract him from his inquiry. If he had enough energy to listen to two hundred years of nonsense, he’d hopefully prefer to refocus that energy back to having sex. “It’s really not as interesting as you might think. I’m more a live-in-the-here-and-now kind of woman than a let-me-unburden-my-past-trauma type.”
“You know I’m not going to let this go. We’re more than partners, at least as far as I’m concerned. Sex was the physical part of our new status. Confiding in me is the emotional end.”
Fuck you, Bart. Refraining
from snarkiness, she said, “Okay. But I’m telling you, it’s a lot of information—more than most people would be willing to endure. So any time you’ve had enough, just say so, and we can go back to fucking.”
He kissed her on the forehead before snuggling her again in his python-like arms. “Boring is not a term I will ever use to describe you. Lay it on me.”
She rested her head against his chest and wrapped her arm around his abs while their legs remained woven together. “I guess to understand me, you’d first have to see my father as I do. He wasn’t always the devil, but he never was a good man. By the time I was born, he was already the bank president, which made him the most powerful man in New Orleans. He used that position to ruin anyone who crossed him and more than a few who didn’t. He took whatever he fancied: men’s wives, daughters, land—whatever his opponent cherished.” She pressed her cheek hard to his muscular chest. “But even that wasn’t enough for him.”
“This is the part that I’ve never heard explained. How did a powerful man extend his reach beyond the living?”
“With the help of a voodoo queen, the first Mardi Gras parade, and the stealing of a loa of the dead’s source of power. Baron Samedi was the most arrogant of the loas of the dead. He never could say no to a good party. So when my father and Marie Laveau concocted a celebration of New Orleans to honor the loas, the old fart couldn’t resist participating. The loa actually thought he could show up incognito. That’s when my father took his cane and control of the seventh gate to Guinee. Bad as Archibald Malveaux was as bank president, his evil took on a whole new level of malevolence once he became ruler of the afterlife and took on the title of Baron Malveaux.”
Bart resumed caressing Sere’s head, but this time, the action felt less stimulating and more comforting. “Is that when you committed suicide?”
Sere sighed. “Even that’s complicated. One of the men my father ruined—Kendell’s multi-great grandfather—paid to have a curse cast on my family. I was the first to fall under its power. I did slit my wrists with my father’s knife, but a six-year-old girl can’t really muster the strength to cut through tissue with a small, dull blade.” She arched her neck to face Bart. “Remember that knife. It was just a little thing my father used to clean his pipe. It’ll come back later in my story.”
“Noted,” Bart said with a smile.
She settled back against him. Unburdening herself of her story was a bit like drinking: the more she shared, the more addictive it became. “My soul landed in Guinee. With my father in charge, that version of purgatory was filled with women and brothels. Instead of passing souls through to the deep waters like he was supposed to, he selectively hung onto those who suited his desires. This is where my personal journey pauses. What I know of what happened next with my father comes from more of those family stories Kendell made me suffer through as a child. She had this conviction that I needed to know everything she’d done. I still think she looks to me for some sort of validation.”
“She loves you,” Bart said offhandedly.
“I don’t know what that means, and even if I did, it’s unimportant to the story. When my father finally did die, his soul took up residence in Guinee as the most powerful loa of the dead—guardian of the seventh gate, which during life he’d positioned in his office at the bank.” She looked back up at Bart again. “This is another important point, especially considering our current disaster.”
He nodded without interrupting her.
She settled back into her story and against Bart’s chest. “You’d have thought being in control of every dead soul would have been enough for the asshole, and for one hundred and fifty years, it was. But when Kendell stumbled across the pipe tool in an antique store, the old goat started getting ideas of returning to the land of the living with his immortal powers.”
“Kendell doesn’t impress me as the type to collect antiques,” Bart said.
“She’s not. Myles had some harebrained idea that he could see past events by holding onto objects. It turned out he was more right than he knew. Apparently, Kendell and Myles had met in college. They took a class together about paranormal energy transfer. Bet you can’t guess who taught the seminar.”
Bart’s fingers curled against Sere’s head. “Don’t tell me. That whack-job professor out on the docks who runs hell’s computer simulation.”
“Very good. A-plus. But I’m getting ahead of the story.”
Bart laughed and patted her butt. “For a badass, you can be a real nerd at times.”
She pinched his chest in playful retaliation. “Anyway, the more Kendell and Myles fucked around, learning about the curse and falling in love, the more my father found ways of manipulating his way back into life. He finally took possession of Myles. It didn’t last long. With a little help, Kendell was able to perform an exorcism and forced my father’s spirit into a voodoo totem.”
“Why didn’t the story end there?” Bart asked.
“It should have, but this is the point where we meet some of our current enemies. I already told you a little about the Laroque family. Through careful breeding they developed a worthy successor to my father: Lincoln Laroque. As Marjory’s son, Lincoln had every advantage money and breeding could achieve. She even named him Lincoln in an attempt to make his Southern roots more palatable to the general United States population. She intended on him becoming president, but he had loftier plans. The arrogant prick drank the spirit jar containing my father’s energy in an attempt to surpass his ancestor.”
Bart’s stomach muscles tightened. “Wait. He voluntarily submitted to being possessed?”
“One thing you should know about the Laroque family—their arrogance knows no bounds. Lincoln thought he could control my father. Of course, it ended up being the other way around. Since you were just a kid at the time, you probably weren’t aware of when Baron Malveaux returned to run the bank. Marjory and her brother Gerald were able to keep the more sensational aspects of the new bank president out of the press.” Sere pushed against Bart’s chest, laying him flat on the uncomfortable bed. She then rolled on top of him to press against his cock and rest her breasts against his chest. “Are you tired of my story yet?”
He put his hands behind his head as if offering up his body to her. “Not at all. Feels like we’re just getting to the good part.”
“The complicated part maybe. I’ve never told you about my guardian angel. Sanguine Delarosa was a swamp witch and granddaughter of Agnes Delarosa. I’ve got Doodlebug sequestered in their old cabin. Hell’s version of that beat-up shack is where I was raised, but that comes later.
“Anyway, when my father took over as the seventh loa of the dead, the voodoo queen realized the mistake she’d made, but as he was now the leader of her religion, there wasn’t much she could do to fix the situation. She and Agnes—then a young swamp witch with the gift of foresight—formed a partnership. They both realized the day would come when the devil would need a cage.”
“You mean hell?” Bart asked.
“Exactly. For the rest of her life, Agnes devoted herself to creating the alternate dimension. From every brick in every building in New Orleans clear out to every blade of grass in the bayou, the old swamp witch made an exact duplicate of this reality. But it was still only a blank canvas devoid of human beings.” Sere crossed her hands over Bart’s chest and rested her chin on them. “You know, on its own, that realm isn’t half bad.”
“What happened next?” Bart asked.
“Like the voodoo queen and the old swamp witch, Kendell and Sanguine realized it was up to them to stop my father, who was now reincarnated as Lincoln Laroque. Together with their friends, they managed to cast the old goat into Agnes’s creation.”
Bart frowned. “But how did we end up with doppelgängers in hell?”
“Did you really think after ruling life and death that something as mundane as a hell dimension could contain the devil? My father kept finding ways to manipulate hell in an attempt to escape.” Sere thumbed B
art on the chest. “Remember that bit about Myles seeing past events in inanimate objects?”
“Sure.”
“Well, Kendell’s Scooby gang got this bright idea that if my father thought he’d escaped, maybe he’d settle into his new domain and leave them alone. But they had another problem to contend with. That stupid pipe tool ended up in a paranormal collection of my father’s things. Some dipshit organization thought it was their responsibility to contain magical objects. My father found their vaults in the abandoned World Trade Center building. In one of his efforts to escape, he set off a paranormal nuclear meltdown in the facility. Left unchecked, the runaway energy would rip a hole between all three dimensions: hell, life, and Guinee. He also managed to steal the magical vault containing his possessions.
“This is where the professor stepped in. His invention uses every structural part of New Orleans to record the activities of the people who inhabit the city. According to Kendell, the old scientist had speculated on the possibility of inanimate objects being used as recording devices during the class he taught. By using the power from the paranormal nuclear meltdown, his equipment transferred that information into Agnes Delarosa’s world. Using everything from her bricks to her blades of grass, the professor’s data is projected into hell, which is what creates the doppelgängers. In theory, those puppets are just supposed to be mimicking what their reals are doing.”
“I’m guessing something went wrong,” Bart said.
“Yep. Me. The doppelgänger puppets weren’t meant to see one of their own develop consciousness.”
“I was just wondering when you were going to resurface in your story.”
The memories made her wince. “Even hell dimensions have rules, and as this one was designed to mesh with voodoo traditions, seven gates needed to be created along with seven guardians to look after things. Sanguine had her spot out in the swamp, Myles the courtyard behind the Scratchy Dog—you get the idea.”