by Emily Tilton
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
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The Immortal’s Pet
By
Emily Tilton
Copyright © 2017 by Stormy Night Publications and Emily Tilton
Copyright © 2017 by Stormy Night Publications and Emily Tilton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Tilton, Emily
The Immortal’s Pet
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by 123RF/lenetstan, 123RF/whitehoune, 123RF/Jodie Johnson, and 123RF/creative4m
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Chapter One
“Sir?” Molly asked hesitantly.
“Yes, girl?” Daniel’s voice sounded a little impatient. He had been waiting for Molly to come kneel before him and do her most important daily chore for several minutes while she had fussed in the kitchen. Molly reflected that in another dominant man the impatience—indeed the requirement that his house girl sink to her knees once a day and take his manhood deep in her throat until she had relieved him of both his tumescence and his seed—might well be seen as churlish. But Daniel Magus was by no means an ordinary dominant man, let alone an ordinary member of his gender or his species.
Nor did Molly’s fussing in the kitchen, cleaning counters and rearranging spice bottles, resemble the tedium of an ordinary scullery maid’s or wife’s attentions to household duties. She stood stock still in the center of the large, bright space where she delighted in cooking elegant meals for Daniel (and, incidentally, herself) and let the cloth travel of its own accord over the counters as the spice bottles shifted subtly to reflect her current thought as to whether coriander or cumin should go in front.
Molly stood there fussing that way because she had a confession, which also constituted the reason she had called to Daniel from the kitchen instead of going to kneel before him. Sucking his beautiful penis was her favorite part of the day, but she knew he would be able to discern that she had something to tell him, and she knew she would almost certainly get spanked whether she confessed or not.
She called back, “I need a spanking, Sir.” She stopped the cloth and the bottles and sent the former flying back to the rack of dishtowels to the right of the sink. She waited, looking at the matted chrome refrigerator door.
This way seemed much better to her, despite how she knew it would annoy him: the spanking she got down this path would probably be a little more lenient, though Daniel always spanked her hard.
“I’m listening, Molly,” he said, from much closer.
She whirled, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks, to see that he had come to stand in the doorway of the kitchen.
Daniel Magus, youngest of the three immortals, stood six feet, three inches tall. To be the youngest of the three meant having a mere fifty thousand years of life behind him, but Daniel didn’t look a day over forty-five, and he generally acted somewhere between eighteen (when fucking Molly) and fifty (when deciding the fate of the mortals in whom he had taken an interest).
To say that Molly loved him hardly did justice to her feelings. Daniel told her often that she must not expect so much from him—that the necessity upon him was great, that he would disappoint her, that above all his immortality did not in any way constitute divinity, let alone goodness. She could not, though, avoid thinking of him as a god, and she knew that he knew it. She knew that he liked it, and needed it—and in fact expected her worship and its daily embodiment in her sexual service to him.
His black hair was shot with a single lock of silver that always seemed to Molly to illuminate his face somehow, as it trailed to his shoulders. His face, with its high cheekbones and dark brown eyes, seemed old despite only bearing the slightest of creases around his eyes. When they had made him immortal, he had told her, long ago and far away, they had, he guessed, given him the power to stop his body’s already very slow aging when he chose.
He had chosen an age that had made Molly, eighteen then, weak in the knees when he had asked her for the side of guacamole he had ordered, and she had forgotten to bring. That evening in Newark, when her life changed forever, she had thought that, despite the way some viewed the matter, an older man represented precisely what an eighteen-year-old needed.
Now Molly was nearly twenty, and she lived with a fifty-thousand-year-old man whom she sometimes called Sir and sometimes Master.
“Sir, I want to put Emma in my cage.” The words came out in a rush. Daniel’s brow crinkled.
“And you think I should spank you for that, little one?”
Molly felt herself starting to melt, down there. That seemed to happen every time he called her little one. “Yes, Sir,” she said quietly. “I should be worshipping your cock right now, shouldn’t I? But I’m here in the kitchen, and I’m thinking naughty thoughts about my friend.”
“Remind me about Emma? Is she the girl from across the street—the one who just came home from school?”
Molly nodded. “She got kicked out, she told me today.”
Daniel’s chin went up, and a surprised expression came over his face. “Kicked out? That seems very strange. I don’t sense anything like that around her.”
Living with a ‘man’ who could sense practically everything about a person from fifty feet away had its stranger moments.
He continued thoughtfully. “I think I told you that she’s a repressed submissive, though, didn’t I? They can get themselves into trouble.” He looked into her eyes and the ghost of a smile turned up his rather thin, very noble lips. “As you know very well.”
Molly blushed: she always blushed when he brought up how naughty she could be, and had been before she came to live with him.
“Yes, Sir. I think it had to do with that. She didn’t want to tell me the whole story, and I didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable…”
“Even though now you want to put her in a cage,” Daniel remarked drily. The heat in Molly’s cheeks grew.
“She said it had something to do with a professor. I think she fell in love with him.”
Now Daniel nodded. “Ah. Yes, that makes sense. Still repressed though—and still a virgin, by the way—so I imagine she did something very embarrassing without actually seducing the professor, or being seduced by him.”
His gaze had drifted into the corner of the room as he spoke. Molly bit her lip as she waited for him to return to the matter, well, at hand: her need to have her naughty bottom spanked for not coming to suck her master’s penis, if not for the terrible fantasies she had.
Daniel looked at her very thoughtfully. “Why a cage, little one?”
Molly looked down at his feet in their ancient leather sandals (not literally: when she had asked about how old they were, thinking he would say “five thous
and years,” he had said, “Oh, I think I got these in Chicago in 1982”). “Don’t know, Master,” she mumbled.
“Don’t know, little one, or don’t want to tell me?” His voice had turned a little stern, and the effect of it on her made her want just to get to the spanking.
She put her hands behind her and twisted the ball of her right foot on the red tile of their beautiful kitchen. Her ‘uniform’ as Daniel Magus’ house girl—a short but flowing cotton nightgown with pretty lace at the collar and cuffs, with nothing underneath—didn’t help her concentrate on answering the question, especially in its contrast with the black robe he always wore at home, similarly with nothing underneath. Molly didn’t want to talk right now, really; she wanted her spanking, she wanted to suck her master’s cock, and she wanted him to tell her to take her nightgown off because it was time for bed, and bed meant naked.
Bed meant Daniel’s hard, ancient body over hers, enjoying her with his penis and forcing the pleasure on her that she had never thought she could feel because she was a bad girl with dirty thoughts like putting new friends in cages.
“Molly, look at me.” Still stern, but also kindly, now. She obeyed hesitantly.
“You’ll have your spanking. I promise. You know I’ll never refuse to discipline you when you need it. But it’s very important to me that I help you grow in your service to me and as the sweet girl you are. There’s a selfishness in that, I want you to understand. By developing your submissive fantasies, we will make you more responsive to me. Your little cunny will flow more readily and your sweet bottom will yield more delightfully. But more important, I want my presence in your life for these brief years to be a blessing to you. I want you to learn to speak of your desires, to excite your lover, and to know yourself better.”
Molly had no idea what to say to this: sometimes Daniel’s ideas seemed just beyond her own reason’s grasp.
He studied her face for a moment, and then he put out his hand to her. “Come, little one, and lay yourself over my knee. I shall spank it out of you.”
The tiniest hint of a return of impatience in his voice—and, she could feel with her empathetic powers, in his mind—made Molly instantly regret her request. She drew back. Why had she wanted a spanking? Was she crazy? Daniel spanked so hard!
“Girl, do you want me to tell you to fetch your paddle?” Molly’s paddle, into which she had had to stitch her name as her first magic craft, controlling the needle with her mind, when she first came to Daniel, waited in the top drawer of her dresser.
“No, Sir,” she whispered, and accepted his hand.
In the living room Daniel released her hand, and Molly received the command that set her heart racing even faster. “Pull out the spanking chair, Molly.”
The big leather armchair where Daniel would soon sit to receive her worship after her spanking had pride of place in the room, but against the wall next to the fireplace there stood a simple, sturdy chair made of dark oak, with a rush bottom that Daniel said had been replaced many times. This, he said, really was ancient: he had owned it since men first sat in chairs, and he had made his house girl then, thousands of years ago, build it with the mental power he had given her out of the stool upon which he had first sat to spank her.
It made Molly shiver to touch it, but though she could have pulled it out into the middle of the living room with her mind, she wasn’t allowed to do that. She must always go and pull the heavy thing from its place, and drag it to the middle of the rug, where her immortal sat in it. Always he drew her down immediately and without ceremony, upending her and baring her bottom in a single motion. Always Molly gave a little yelp of fear at the mastery the position gave him over her. Always her pussy, bared for his pleasure and at his command, peeping out, she knew, between her thighs as he looked down at her bottom, gave a little contraction.
If he had made it entirely clear before the spanking began why he felt he needed to discipline her, he would also begin the spanking or the paddling immediately, and he wouldn’t slow or stop it until all her arousal had flown away and she was writhing and sobbing and screaming her penitence over his lap. When she had used her powers to make the nasty neighbors’ car not start, he had said only, “I know what you did. Get the spanking chair.” Then he had paddled her until she thought she would never be able to sit down again.
Now, though, he employed his more usual style: he held her bare bottom in his big right hand, to let her know he regarded it as his property, to be disciplined as necessary, and he spoke to her from above.
“Why am I going to spank you, little one?” The holding hand squeezed very gently, rubbed very slowly. Molly moaned, ashamed of herself, as always, but unable not to respond to him. She tried to separate her knees, invite him to touch her where she needed it most, but he said, “Keep your legs closed, Molly, or I will have to paddle you. You need to tell me what’s in your heart.”
But Molly couldn’t say. Daniel tightened his left arm’s grip on her waist and started in, to spank it out of her.
Chapter Two
Emma Woodbine lay in bed across the street, thinking about Molly Jackson and trying to interpret the strange look in her new friend’s eye, when Emma had made them both blush by talking about her expulsion from Reynolds. She hadn’t even said anything specific about Professor Gage—hadn’t named him, hadn’t even told Molly that he taught anthropology. Above all, hadn’t told her that she had gotten drunk and crashed a faculty event and tried to seduce him in the men’s room.
What had Molly called the man she lived with? Had she actually called him Master? Emma felt sure she had heard wrong. Something in Molly’s face, though, a slight casting down of her eyes, had made her wonder if her ears hadn’t deceived her—that Molly had actually said the strange word. Now Emma tossed and turned as she tried to remember precisely the sounds that had come out of her new friend’s mouth.
Pretty Molly, a year older than Emma, with ash-blond hair and cornflower blue eyes, who had moved into the empty house across the street while Emma was away at college. And the tall, elegant-looking man whom Emma had only seen at a distance, getting into his Jaguar and driving away. Molly had said he worked with the arts, hadn’t she? What did that mean?
Molly and her older companion represented the one ray of hope Emma could see: the one possibility that things back here at home in Albany might have more promise for her than a minimum-wage job and the half-angry, half-pitying looks of her parents. Maybe if she could tell Molly about how awful it felt to go to the mall and fill out job applications to sell earrings or milkshakes, when you were supposed to be in class with your friends, learning about early civilizations and statistical analysis, she could find a way forward out of what felt like the fog.
The fog that had descended with her third drink that night, at the awful party on her dormitory floor, and hadn’t lifted since. She hadn’t meant to go to the reception; she had just meant to go outside. She had known about the reception for the big-shot visiting anthropology professor, after the lecture that she had wanted to go to because Professor Gage had said, after class, “I think you might find this talk particularly interesting, Emma.”
She had blushed and thanked him, and felt sure for an instant that he wanted to kiss her as much as she wanted him to do that forbidden thing. She had thought to herself, If I go, I can ask him to walk me back, and he’ll ask if I want to go to his house instead, and I’ll say yes. I want it to be him who kisses me.
That thought had lasted ten minutes, but it had withered under the doubled assault of her certainty that handsome Professor Gage, somewhere around thirty to her eighteen, couldn’t actually want to kiss her, and her vision of what her mother would say if she knew Emma wanted to kiss anyone, let alone an older man.
“When you have a husband, Emma, he will instruct you about all that, as your father instructed me,” Joan Woodbine had said when Emma had brought to her questions about her changing body. Emma hadn’t been allowed to study the reproductive health curriculum; w
ith another girl, she had had to go to the library while the rest of the class learned about ‘those dirty things,’ as Mrs. Woodbine had called them. Emma had received from her mother a box of tampons and a box of pads, and the instruction that good girls didn’t touch themselves between their thighs except to keep themselves clean.
At college, though, girls seemed to have an entirely different idea of those dirty things. Emma had made a lot of friends, especially her roommate Carol, but when the talk turned to romance she felt utterly at sea. She didn’t know what to say to her friends, she didn’t know how to act around boys, and she didn’t know why she always felt ashamed of herself when she heard Carol say that she had hooked up, as if even to hear about that stuff made Emma guilty of a sin. She knew Carol could tell that Emma came from a very different background, and therefore kindly spared her the sort of details Emma sometimes overheard her sharing over the phone with other friends. That made Emma blush, too, and it made her want to put her mother’s precepts about the dirty things behind her for good.
“She’s so repressed,” Carol had said, once, about a girl across the dining hall. “Just look at what she’s wearing.” Emma had realized later that she had on practically the same thing: a long skirt and a high-necked sweater.
Emma had looked up repressed, but she had only gotten a few lines into the article online before her face got so hot she had to stop. It was about sex. Her husband would… instruct her.
Might Professor Gage instruct her?
After the third drink, she had to get away from the party, because Carol was flirting shamelessly with two boys, and Emma had never had three drinks before and though she did like the feeling of not worrying so much about everything, part of her also didn’t like that she liked it. When Carol said to one of the boys, “Billy, go talk to Emma—I know you think she’s hot,” despite the drinks a thrill of shame went all the way through her at the way the funny feeling down there reacted to Billy’s height and muscularity.