Paranormal Erotic Romance Box Set

by Lola Swain

  “I want him to fuck me like Daddy!” I said.

  Papa stood with me still pressed against his lap and walked across the office to his desk. He put me down on his desk on my hands and knees and stood behind me.

  “Close your eyes and see it!” Papa said. “See the glory that you are and all that you have!”

  I closed my eyes and saw Professor Teresi fucking me on top of Papa’s desk, standing behind me and ramming his cock in and out of my pussy like a piston. He clawed at my body and raked the flesh from my back. He gripped my thighs and pumped my pussy over his cock. I slid forward and back on top of the desk with each of his powerful thrusts. I felt the skin peel from my knees and much more than pain, felt the power that Papa brings. I felt the power that He is.

  “Fuck it harder!” I said through clenched teeth. “Fuck my pussy harder!”

  “Earn it,” Papa said. “Tell me there is no one more powerful than you. Say it!”

  “There is no one more powerful than me!” I said.

  He speared me, in the last, best thrust, on his cock. The muscles of my pussy contracted and convulsed as my body completely let go and I came.

  “Fuck!” I said and screamed.

  He growled like something I never heard before and lifted me off the desk. He buried his cock into my pussy until it could go no further. He held me tight and I felt his cum, as warm as fleece and fluid as liquefied gold, explode deep and seep into every cell in my body. My pussy tried to hang onto his cock, but the cock won and backed out of me.

  “Now,” Papa said. “enough of this whining. No more wondering why you’re not good enough for this man, this teacher. No man is worth the question and no man is worth your doubt. He’d be lucky to have you, Lyric. And as you said, there is no one more powerful than you. It simply is.”

  I struggled to sit up on the desk and the room spun like a top. My body burned and I was so hot, I felt like I would spontaneously combust.

  “Thank you, Papa.” I said as I slid off the desk and turned to face him.

  But he was gone.

  “It is a revenge the devil sometimes takes upon the virtuous, that he entraps them by the force of the very passion they have suppressed and think themselves superior to.”

  George Santayana

  I walked into his class with the courage and power that Papa fucked into the night before. I stood in front of Bobby Sharpe’s desk and made stupid conversation while I stared at Professor Teresi. He glanced at me and looked away. There was no reason this man shouldn’t want me and yet, he went out of his way to make sure I knew that he did not. My confidence faltered and I remembered what Papa told me—there was no one more powerful than me.

  “Okay, take your seats, class. Today we’re reviewing The Second Coming by Yeats as detailed in your syllabus. Now, as I’m sure you all did your assignments last night, we don’t need to review before we begin. Genève, please read the poem aloud and we’ll discuss.”

  I didn’t need to do the assignment last night. I’ve known this poem all my life. Seriously, since I was conceived. The poem was repeated and repeated until I knew it by the time I was two. Most parents force a steady diet of silly toys and television shows onto kids to keep them out of their hair. My father made sure his children were conceived hearing the first poem of many.

  Papa is the Devil.

  Not metaphorically…he really is the Devil.

  He fucked my mother eighteen years ago in the alley behind her apartment building in Greenwich Village. I’ll tell you a secret, unlike the books you read about a red man with cloven hooves and horns jutting from his head, the truth is, he looks like a man. A man who you would fuck. He is not an apparition, he is Lucien Trucido.

  My mother wanted him from the moment she saw him and he took her. He took her behind that building, ripped her dress from her body, turned her around and pressed her tits up against the frigid stone. He fucked her from behind, ramming his huge cock in and out of her cunt until he almost split her in two. He whispered a poem into her ear, a poem she never heard before which burrowed into her brain like a rhythmic song. She died with that same poem on her lips.

  He squirted his seed up her pussy and it plunged into her selected egg immediately. Not until his big fat cock released itself from her pussy almost ten minutes later, did he pull out of her. He flipped her around to face him, pressed his body into hers and spoke:

  “You will bear our daughter. She will be wicked and will have no use for you. You will name her Lyric and she will be as evil and as beautiful as a rhythmic song that burrows into the brains of men and women unmercifully. I will come for her after the sixth month of her sixth year and when we are ready, you will hang yourself from the highest beam of your home.”

  He left her standing in that alley, naked, in pain and alone. As he prophesied, she bore me nine months to the day he fucked her, named me Lyric and I was wicked and had no use for her. She told me every day that I drove her insane. I learned to feed and clothe myself by the time I was two years old. I sat in front of the window of our dilapidated row house every day and waited for him to come for me.

  Six years and six months after I was born, Papa came.

  I sat in front of the window and she sat in her rocking chair staring at the back of my head mumbling about how I drove her insane. How she had such hope for herself six years and six months prior. Before she fucked the Devil and before she bore the wicked child who was as beautiful and evil as a rhythmic song that burrowed into the brains of men and women unmercifully. She said that this was the day he would come and that she would kill me before he did. I turned and looked at the sad woman with wild hair.

  “No, you will not,” I said.

  She stood from her chair and went to the kitchen. She returned and stood in front of me and held a large butcher knife over her head.

  “I will kill you before he comes,” my mother said. “I cannot let your wickedness loose on the world.”

  “What will you do, Mommy?” I said. “What will you do when Papa and I leave?”

  She looked up at the ceiling. She looked at the highest beam and she knew she would do just as Papa predicted.

  “Put the knife down Mommy and go get the ladder,” I said.

  She did as I told her. She always did as I told her. I had no use for her.

  My mother grabbed the tall ladder that stood in our hallway since the day she dragged it from the street into the apartment one year earlier.

  I remembered the day when she brought the big, cold ladder into the apartment and leaned it up against the wall. She stood in front of it, staring and shaking her head.

  “Why is this here?” she said on that day. “Why did I get this?”

  “To be prepared, Mommy,” I said. “You must always be prepared. Like the poem.”

  The night after she brought the ladder home, she fashioned the noose out of a bundle of marine rope. She sat in her rocking chair looping the rope around and around as if she were knitting a pair of mittens or a scarf.

  On the day Papa came for me, I combed my hair with two hundred strokes and wore my best dress. I drew a picture for him that he still has. My mother set the ladder under the highest beam and climbed to the top. I looked up at her from where I sat.

  “You look beautiful, Mommy,” I said “Finally, you look beautiful. As beautiful as he saw you on that day.”

  She swayed slightly at the very top of the ladder and looked down at me.

  “I do?” she said and smiled.

  “Yes, you do. But you forgot one thing, Mommy,” I said.

  “What, Lyric? What did I forget?” she said.

  “The rope, Mommy,” I said and walked to the closet in the living room. “You forgot the rope.”

  I pulled the long marine rope out of the closet and dragged it to the bottom of the stairs.

  “I did? Yes, of course.”

  She smiled at me and began her decent down the ladder. When she reached me at the bottom, she grabbed my shoulders and brushed a
curl out of my face.

  “Why, Lyric?” she asked. “Why have you never loved your mother like other children?”

  “Because you are human, Mommy,” I said. “You are weak and you never think of yourself. I only have use for Him. I will only ever have use for Him.”

  “But Lyric, you are human, too,” Mommy said. “If I take that knife and stab you, you will bleed just as I would if you stabbed me.”

  “No, you are wrong,” I said. “Now climb back up the stairs, Papa will be here soon.”

  My mother turned and climbed the stairs and dragged the rope up with her. She mumbled the poem the whole way up and when she reached the top, she stood on her tiptoes and threw the long end of the rope around the beam over her head. She looked down at me and smiled.

  “Do I look beautiful again, Lyric?”

  “More than ever,” I said. “Say the words, Mommy.”

  “The darkness drops again but now I know, that twenty centuries of stony sleep,” my mother said.

  She gazed down at me and tears fell from her eyes and hit my face like raindrops.

  “Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,” I said and sucked her tears into my mouth.

  She put the noose around her neck and stretched her arms out and waited.

  “Together, Mommy,” I said. “Let’s say it together.

  “And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” we said in unison.

  The front door opened and there he stood.

  He is a strikingly handsome man. He is tall and dark and has a strong jaw and straight Roman nose. His eyes are blue and glow as if phosphorescent. Black hair curls around his graceful neck and you know just by the breadth of his shoulders, that you will always be taken care of. Forever.

  “Papa!” I said.

  My mother teetered at the top of the ladder when she turned her head to look at him. And there he was…the man who predicted everything, six years and six months before.

  “Yes, Lyric,” Papa said as he entered the apartment. “I have come for you. Tell your mother what she already knows…what she has always known.”

  My mother looked down at me and I stood close to the ladder. Her tears poured from her eyes and landed all over my face. I thought I may drown so many tears came down. But I didn’t avert my eyes from hers. I wanted to drink her tears, to always remember the day she knew for certain I had no use for her and I was, as my Papa told her, truly wicked.

  “Lyric, please don’t,” my mother said.

  Papa stood next to me and I looked up at him. He put his hand on my shoulder and in that moment, I felt everything he is. I felt his strength and his promise to give me that strength.

  “Tell your mother, Lyric,” Papa said. “Give her that and then come with me.”

  Papa walked to the door and waited for me to tell my mother what she needed to hear. I spoke with his strength pumping through every vein and artery in my body. My mother shook her head back and forth, raining tears and begged me not to say it. Begged me not to do it.

  “Things fall apart,” I said as I stared up at my mother. “The centre cannot hold, mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”

  She looked down at me and shook her head. I looked into her eyes a final time and pushed the ladder out from under her feet.

  While I watched my mother’s face, I thought about the puppy I strangled a year earlier. Her eyes were open and fixed on me. I spun in a circle under her and her eyes followed me. I faced Papa and ran toward him. He hugged me tightly and I handed him the picture I drew. It was a picture of the two of us…together always.

  “There are others, Lyric,” Papa said as he looked at the picture. “You have brothers and sisters who you will have lots of fun with. Does that sound good?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  I took a last look at the limp body of my mother spinning slowly by the neck. Except for her tongue hanging grotesquely from her mouth, she looked like a beautiful aerial acrobat.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Papa said and gripped my hand.

  That was twelve years ago. My life is more incredible than I ever imagined it would be.

  We, my brothers and sisters and our Papa, live in a beautiful penthouse on Park Avenue in Manhattan. As I said, there is no red devil with cloven hooves and horns, he is a man. There is no Lucifer, Beelzebub or Belial. There is only Lucien. The books that you read have it all wrong. Papa is the bringer of the light and the proclaimer of all truth. There were just some people who thought his light dangerous and his truth a sin.

  This life, this sometimes cold, miserable life we live would be infinitely easier if people adopted his truths. But people wish to be led to the slaughter, blind and gullible and unprepared. If you followed Papa, you’d be none of those things. The blinders would be stripped from your eyes and you would see everything as it is rather than the way you wish it to be. The moment you fool yourself, the moment that you disregard the truth, you are dead. It doesn’t have to be that way. Truly it doesn’t.

  There are parts of Papa that are just as human as you. He loves his children. He lives forever through us and he makes sure that we’re safe. The very same night Lucien fucked my mother and pumped his seed into her egg to produce me, he did the same with five other women. All women were chosen carefully by Papa to produce six perfect children. He groomed the six of us to carry his message and defend his law: that death comes to the weak while the strong live forever, that just as fire, earth, air and water are absolutes so is rebellion, non-conformity, intellectualism and sex, that the worship of the self is the only worship allowed and that lex talionis, the law of retaliation, is the only law to uphold.

  We grew together as a gang. We only need each other. My three brothers are Julian, Nico and Alexander. My sisters are Serene and Rose. And there is me, Lyric. Together we sit at the feet of our father, each of us slightly different, but as beautiful as the next. We need only to be together and will rip to shreds anyone who dares try to make us suffer. We were instantly accepted in school and rose through the silly popularity ranks to become the people to follow. As Papa taught us, to be a leader is the only way.

  We knew we were different from others from the moment we came to live with him. But we are different in the most wonderful ways.

  There is never a day that music isn’t reverberating off the pre-war walls of our apartment. All kinds of music…rock and classical and rap and pop. Seven days in the week and seven of us allows one day for each person to choose the genre of music that will play that day. Serene was on a country kick about a year ago. Luckily for all of us, she got over that quick.

  The library was the first room we were introduced to when we came to live with Him. Stocked from floor to ceiling with ancient manuscripts and modern hardcovers, the only thing Papa demands is we read. We all lie on the floor in the library and read a book every day. Papa quizzes us on our readings. He read them all already so he knows if we absorbed everything or if we just skimmed. Julian went through a skimming phase. Papa promised him that fools die young. Julian wanted to live forever with us so he stopped being a skimmer.

  You may wonder why education is so important if we are the children of the Devil. Why do we need to learn anything? That’s a fair question. The answer is that our power comes from knowledge and we crave that knowledge. We get off on the knowing of everything: literature, art, science, mathematics. We get off on opinions, other worlds and other lives. We get off on you.

  We don’t have curled talons or pointed fangs. You would admire the esthetics of us, envy the life we lead, want to be our friend, but you wouldn’t think us strange. We speak like you, dress like you and embrace all things modern. We don’t sit around sacrificing babies and participating in blood feasts, we are just like you. Only different. We want the same comforts and have the same dreams. But we never wish on stars or pray to deities, because we know that everything we want, we will get. We are just like you. Only different.

  This year, we
are in our last year at Wilton Day, one of the most elite prep schools in Manhattan. We are eighteen years old and, as was his decree, deflowered in the most spectacular way. We are ready for domination, the domination he envisioned for us since the day he fucked our mothers.

  “Lyric,” Professor Teresi said, “what do you think he means?”

  “What? Who?” I said.

  He walked toward my desk, this beautiful man who I am in love with. The man who watched me rub my pussy on top of his desk and who rejected me after. He was unable to remove his eyes from me as I rubbed my clit, but after he treated me as if I am a monster. I know he’s a teacher and has to act as such. I understand that there are certain rules of social decorum to follow and all, but the dismissiveness that he treats me with is maddening.

  “We are discussing The Second Coming, are you with us?” he said and held up a copy of Yeats’ book. “Did you or did you not do your assignment last night?”

  The class laughed and my ears pounded. In addition to all he has done to humiliate me, he wants to make sure he puts me in my place. Fine, if he believes he needs more control, I’ll give it to him…for now.

  “Yes, I did my assignment. What Yeats is saying is that what you think you know and what you think is, simply is not.”

  “Simple? Interesting. I don’t think Yeats intended to be simple when he wrote this,” he said and stood over me.

  I moved the force of the burning I felt in my face into my eyes and stared into his eyes.

  “I used the word simply to condense. Yeats is saying that what all the good Christians thought to be true, is not true. When he wrote that the center cannot hold, he is telling people to remove their rose-colored glasses and see what’s around them because it is coming.”

  “And what is it?”

  “Anarchy,” I said.

  He stared at me for a second and a slight smile built around his mouth. But only for a second. He then turned his back to me and rattled off about the next assignment and my eyes burned into his back. The bell rang and the kids started to file out of the classroom. He sat down at his desk and I remained at mine.