The Wolf's Captive (Erotic Romance) (BDSM Bacchanal)

by Chloe Cox

  On a patch of grass just inside the walls, Lucia spied a mass of flesh, tangled limbs and buttocks bouncing in the air, belonging to…she couldn’t even tell how many people, many of their masks having fallen off in the melee. A crowd had gathered round, cheering, drinking amberwine, and shouting out suggestions. Lucia looked away, surprised to find herself somewhat embarrassed. David only chuckled, and led her farther into the land of the dead.

  The cemetery wasn’t a planned city; it had grown up organically over the thousands of years of J’Amel history, until the city at long last decided to wall it in and impose some sort of order on the place. The oldest graves were nearer the center, and organized vaguely by dynasty or government. The tomb that was to host Paolo’s party would be somewhere closer in, but there was no map. And there were plenty of distractions along the way.

  There was the giant man, wearing the mask of an antlered stag, who stood naked on top of a tomb, stroking his enormous, glistening cock for the benefit of a wondering crowd gathered below. There was a small group of Severille slaves, lined up and positioned with their legs spread, who their masters gave away to any passersby. And finally, when they had wandered their way to the center of the cemetery, and David had gone off to locate the exact tomb, there was their friend Marina.

  Lucia watched, transfixed, while Marina, naked except for a little green mask that did nothing to hide her identity, straddled a man with the papier mâché head of a stallion and rode him hard. The man lay on a smaller tomb, a waist-high stone marker of moderate wealth, and Lucia could see Marina’s knees redden from the friction with the stone. She didn’t seem to care. Her friend’s body shone with sweat, her muscles contracting in a rhythmic tide, her hair swinging gently across her face. As Lucia watched, another man, lean and hard, in a matching stallion’s mask—a twin?—came up behind Marina, balanced at the edge of that tomb, and grabbed her breasts. Marina cried out with relish, and arched her back to give the second stallion greater access to her chest, her hips working furiously below. Lucia stared as the second man began to tease Marina’s nipples, wondering what he would do next. She was ashamed of her ignorance, and the inexperience at its foundation, and yet her sex began to throb, and her nipples tightened beneath her relatively modest dress. Lucia suddenly felt she was wearing too much clothing, but there was nothing for it now. As she felt the blush begin to spread on her cheeks, she was glad of the white mask that hid most of her face, and, for once, of the satchel she clutched in her arms.

  The man behind Marina removed his hands, but only to press on her back, pushing her forward, down onto the stomach of the man fucking her from below. She half-turned in surprise, but he pushed her back down. The man below her compensated for her sudden lack of leverage, increasing his upward thrusts, and Marina once again seemed to fall into blissful rapture.

  Lucia watched, wide-eyed, as the second man spit into his hand and smeared his saliva on Marina’s tender, exposed asshole. The man below her seemed to know; they were twinned, working in tandem. He wrapped his arms around Marina, holding her down, and stopped thrusting. Marina seemed to wake from her daze at that; she started, but was held fast, and the man behind her positioned the tip of his swollen cock at her puckered asshole. She understood. Even from where Lucia stood, she could see Marina’s momentary shock and fear, could see her friend’s body briefly stiffen. But the man below her rolled his hips, his dick still thick inside her, and Marina gave in, nodding once and folding down onto his chest and presenting her ass to his brother.

  He took it.

  Marina yelped as he forced the head of his cock past the tight ring, her back briefly straining against the locked arms of the man who had her pussy. The second man was fully in quicker than Lucia would have thought possible, moving inside Marina in shallow thrusts, building slowly to deeper, harder strokes. Marina grunted, and when the man below her began to move his hips in time with his brother, both of them thrusting in and out of her two holes, an animal cry welled up from deep within her throat and tore across the cemetery.

  Lucia felt a pang of her own desire, of wetness creeping between her legs, and her mind flashed back to the Wolf. Lord Cesare. It was as if her body were intimately connected to him, body and mind tethered to the unattainable image of Lord Cesare Lupin, scarred and strong, standing guard above her half naked body in the midst of chaos. She turned away from the sight of her friend’s ecstasy, more in sadness this time than in anger. Would she think of a man she would never have every time she felt the pull of sex? Think of Lord Cesare, and then think about all the demons he raised in her, all the ways she felt her physical desires betrayed her idea of who she was? She wasn’t a slave, and yet she wanted to be owned by him. It was a curse, to want only someone she’d never even touched, only to have the rushing tide of her desire for that man followed by an equally strong countercurrent of fear. Every. Single. Time. It was insane. It was completely unfair.

  She looked at Marina again, whose screams were continuous now, filling the cemetery. Lucia couldn’t imagine herself being so vulnerable, so open, with anyone.

  I wouldn’t have to worry about any this in a convent, she thought bitterly. But she was aware, in the corners of her mind, that the dark desire that she feared would betray the rest of her pride—the thing that compelled her to turn to the Severille, to thrill at humiliation, to want to be owned and dominated—was getting stronger. Everywhere she looked was some form of sex; everywhere was Bacchanal. And every time she felt her pussy come alive, the thing inside her grew stronger.

  As did thoughts of the man called Wolf. He called to that darkness in her more than anything. Just her luck that the one who brought her to life also brought forth…that. The thing that only confirmed for her what her grandmother had told her: Keep yourself to yourself. Keep yourself hidden. No one will want you otherwise.

  She closed her eyes and tried to close her mind to Marina’s cries. These thoughts did not help her; they changed nothing. She still had to help her father. And the only way to do that was still to beg Paolo Ramora for his help.

  She held the satchel close. With growing dread she realized that offering the Duke’s Blend to Paolo Ramora would give him a powerful weapon over her. She had committed a crime for him.

  “Lucia.”

  She jumped at the feel of a warm hand on her bare arm, and jumped again when she saw that it belonged to Paolo. Immediately she remembered his face as it had been the previous night, angry and vengeful and lustful, and contemplating the unthinkable.

  He flinched. It seemed he was remembering, too. She’d never seen him look so uncomfortable.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

  She didn’t know how to respond to that, and he didn’t seem to know what else to say. It occurred to Lucia that Paolo, the pampered only son of a merchant prince, and with a famously overly indulgent mother, did not have much experience in offering apologies.

  At last, he reached for her hand, prying it away from her bag. “I have something I have to show you, Lucia,” he said.

  She gritted her teeth. He meant for her to follow him. Where was David? She’d assumed he would accompany her; she’d never thought of being alone with Paolo again, although now she realized how foolish that had been. Of course she would have to be alone with him. Many times. Probably for the rest of her life.

  And she needed his help.

  “If there’s something I can ask of you in return,” she said. She looked up at him through her mask, knowing he would read her eyes. She tried to make them look promising. “But I have something for you, too. A present.”

  “Of course,” he said, waving his hand like he expected it. “But come with me first, Lucia. It’s important.”

  “Let me find David—”

  “It’s a surprise, Lucia.” There was an edge to Paolo’s voice. No more argument. He reached down and pulled her up from the grave where she sat, cradling her in the crook of his arm. “Just for you.”

  Did she have a choice?


  She thought of her father, so inept at so many things, never quite knowing how to get on in the world, not understanding anything except for the wonderful alchemies that produced the many varietals of amberwine. She swore her father could weave a spell in his still, could make potions with specific effects, could blend vintages to order to give his customers the exact feeling they most desired. He was an incomparable genius, and yet he couldn’t balance the books, or carry on a conversation with a stranger, or even remember to eat regularly. And he only loved, and understood, two things in the entire world: amberwine and his daughter. And if she did not act, both of them would be taken from him. Or worse.

  “Show me,” she said, and forced a smile.

  Paolo smiled back, and his relief was almost enough to calm Lucia’s nerves. Almost. He led her through the towering, ancient tombs of the city’s ancestors, lit sporadically from below with the soft white lanterns of Bacchanal, and adorned with flowering spring vines and rutting couples. Frenzied drummers, hidden behind skeleton masks, beat out a feverish rhythm while Father Ash danced on top of the largest tomb, watching over his kingdom.

  “Where are we going?” she whispered, already knowing the answer. He was leading her to the giant tomb where Father Ash danced.

  “It’s all right,” Paolo smiled at her. “Trust me.”

  Well, that’s not possible, Lucia thought. But it didn’t matter either way. She would have to indulge his surprise, and pretend to like it.

  It was the tomb of the Patriarch that David had mentioned. The exact names had long since worn away from the crumbling stone, so the inhabitants of J’Amel knew their Patriarchs by their choice of tomb. This one had favored snakes. Stone serpents coiled around the base, up the sides, and over the open, arched doorway. Faint music wafted from inside, though it looked empty.

  “Here?” she asked.

  “Trust me,” Paolo said again, and pulled her into the darkened tomb. From above she saw Father Ash briefly nod his assent, approving their entry to…an empty tomb? What would he have done if they hadn’t been on the apparently very exclusive list? Lucia was about to let her natural sarcasm loose, as she so often did, when Paolo effortlessly pushed aside the stone top of the sarcophagus. It rolled, as if on bearings, and beneath it rough-hewn stairs stretched down into the darkness.

  The catacombs, Lucia thought. Those were reserved for the old, moneyed families who had paid for secret tunnels eons ago, and the tight guilds of thieves who’d figured out ways to sneak in, and for a few wily people in the know. Anyone else would get hopelessly lost down there. But Paolo didn’t even think twice. He was halfway down when he remembered to check for Lucia. After that, he held her hand the whole way.

  Please let it not be so bad, she silently begged the universe. Please let this work. Please let him help us.

  Vials of the glowing white liquid derived from jellyfish hung from the low ceiling at interminable lengths, lighting the tunnel just enough that you’d be sure something was watching you just out of sight, if you had that kind of mind. Lucia had that kind of mind. Worse was the darkness, the mystery, even Paolo’s hot, insistent hand covering hers…she fought the wave of feeling, and pushed aside thoughts of Lord Cesare. She was only torturing herself now. She would close her eyes and do what she had to do, which was, she had come to believe, to give Paolo whatever he wanted, somewhere deep below the city, and beg him to help her father. There would be no oscario here. There would be no Lord Cesare.

  Maybe it would be easier, in a way. Part of her was even relieved. If she were bound to a man who couldn’t arouse much in her, maybe in time she’d quell those dark desires entirely. He would never possess her fully, not the way Lord Cesare threatened to. It would be a dull life—at best, she reminded herself, at worst didn’t bear thinking about—but at least she would retain some semblance of self. At least she wouldn’t have to face those parts of her that threatened her pride. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about Paolo seeing her for who she really was, and turning away.

  And she would have fulfilled her promise. Her family would be secure. She felt guilty for not feeling happier about that.

  The music, a soft beat overlaid with thrumming strings, grew louder, and Lucia thought she could perceive the glow of torchlight around a corner. She was about to speak when Paolo turned and pressed her to the stone.

  “Just once,” he muttered, and he kissed her, one arm pinning her to the wall, the other snaking downward. He yanked her dress up and pushed his hand between her legs, dipping briefly into the wetness there. And then he pulled away from her. Even in the dull light, he looked furious.

  Lucia held her breath. It had been so quick, and then it had been over even more quickly. She had no idea what was happening.

  “Follow me,” he said abruptly, and turned the corner.

  Dazed, she followed.

  Lucia didn’t have time to wonder what any of it meant; now she was preoccupied with where he was taking her, and why. She had been right: it was torchlight. They were in a large cavern, large enough that the smoke from the torches wasn’t oppressive. At the other end of the cavern was a very old door, nestled in a carved recess in the rock. In front of that door was one of the largest men Lucia had ever seen. He wore black leather and the red armband of the Severille, and the huge, horned mask of a bull. He didn’t seem to care much about their presence, which was a relief. Even Paolo seemed intimidated, though he dragged Lucia forward.

  “Paolo Ramora,” he said, his voice catching at the end. “I’m expected. With guest.”

  Slowly the Bull angled his head down in Paolo’s direction. Only his neck moved.

  “Find the Rooster,” the Bull said, and stepped aside.

  What on earth did that mean? As if this could get any stranger. Lucia watched as Paolo struggled with the old door, and tried to keep her calm. Later, Lucia would remember those moments, before he hauled it open, as the last remaining moments of calm before the storm.

  Inside was an enormous cave, the ceiling stretching up past the reach of the lanterns and glowing vials, so that they could almost be outside, in another place or time, far away from J’Amel. Once you looked down, however, there was no confusion. This was J’Amel, and it was Bacchanal, in its purest, richest form.

  Lucia had never seen anything like it.

  In the center of this main cavern—for there were side grottos and passages and all sorts of dark places to get lost, if one were so inclined—was a massive fountain of what appeared to be the highest quality amberwine. Opalescent swirls of fire danced in the cascading liquid as masked beauties casually refilled their glasses. Severille slaves, naked except for their masks and scarlet armbands, stood rigidly still, holding plates of food out for the richly, if not provocatively, dressed guests. The cavern itself was furnished with rings of couches and beds and other items of furniture that Lucia would not have been able to name, but which seemed to have very specialized purposes.

  On one such apparatus, a young woman was tied, naked, spread-eagled, and blindfolded. An occasional passerby would fondle a breast, or dip a finger into her folds, and her resulting moans would entertain those who stood nearby.

  On a raised dais to her right, Lucia was quite certain that she saw the Comtesse de Granville bent over the knee of a footman, her slight dress hitched up around her waist, being spanked to appreciative applause.

  To her left, his genitals tightly bound, his erect dick swollen to a painful purple, stood a man with a leash around his neck.

  “What is this?” Lucia said.

  “The Severille Society’s Dance with the Dead,” Paolo replied. “Stand right where you are. Do not move.” He took her chin in his hand, and turned her masked face to his. His blue eyes flashed. “Do not move from this spot.”

  And then he walked away.

  Lucia stood motionless, shocked at being abandoned, ashamed that she felt so out of place that she cared if Paolo left her. But she did. Ironically, she would have felt less naked if she
’d been wearing less clothing, but as it was, her drab, modest dress and her homemade white mask and her plain canvas bag, pathetically clutched to her chest, stood out amidst the sea of lavishly decorated skin. She tried to follow the back of Paolo’s blond head as it bobbed through the crowd, in search, presumably, of the Rooster—whoever that was—if only to occupy her already anxious mind. She dared not think about why she was here. And she dared not make eye contact with any of the guests.

  The truth was, she wasn’t quite out of place here, not in spirit. Her skin had begun to feel hot the moment they’d walked through that door, and desire had begun to coil in her belly, winding itself tighter and tighter around her center, the more she looked.

  This was the sort of place where she could lose herself.

  Do not think of Lord Cesare, she admonished herself. Do not.

  “You look like you need a glass of wine.”

  Lucia began to turn to see who was speaking, but a firm hand grabbed her by the chin and neck. Whoever it was stood somewhere just outside her vision.

  “I heard your master tell you not to move. He was your master, wasn’t he, to speak to you like that? You shouldn’t move. It’s too bad we’re not allowed to use whips,” the voice lamented.

  Lucia swallowed, and slowly brought her head back to what she thought might have been its original position.

  “Very good. Let me help you.”

  The voice was male, with a slightly mocking tone. Everything seemed to amuse the man behind the voice, even the way Lucia struggled to swallow as he brought a full glass of amberwine to her lips. She gulped it down as best she could, knowing from the taste that it was an old vintage, and potent. Already she could feel its warm effects spread out to her limbs, her face, her pussy. Part of her knew that the last thing she needed, in this particular place, was something to calm her inhibitions, something to soothe her pride. And yet, maybe it would help. Maybe it would be the thing that made it all bearable. Maybe it would be the thing that helped her get through whatever it was that Paolo had in store for her, and secure her family’s future.