“And I’m done letting you. You’re mine, Little Wolf,” he growled, flipping her to her back and entering her savagely. She cried out, alternately panting and losing her breath as he showed her just how deep his claim on her went.
The End
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Queen of Storms
Tales from the Tarot of the Acolyte
By
Ashen White
1
The searing rays of the mid-August sun blazed through the open French doors of the cottage bedroom, and glistened on the sheen of orgasmic perspiration coating Cassie Bettancouer’s silken ebony skin. She lay in relaxed afterglow on the large, low bed, her eyes closed, her lips and limbs occasionally twitching, her head resting on her fiancé’s muscular abdomen, luxuriating in the formidable early-afternoon heat as it soaked into her sexually-tensioned muscles. Tremors rippled through her body as, with a tender fingernail, Gerry O’Keith slowly traced sensual patterns across the sensitive, passion-slick velvety skin of her back and down between the firm, round cheeks of her ass, eliciting gentle moans and sighs from her kiss-engorged lips.
A short while later, she slowly rolled over to face her lover, the black pools of her eyes radiating the passionate peacefulness of satisfaction into the pale blueness of his. Licking her lips, she lifted herself up and kissed Gerry tenderly, their tongues tangling briefly, the embers sparking between them, the dark stiffness of her nipples brushing against his chest; then she stood up, the firmness of her breasts swaying gently as she moved, and walked around the bed and out through the screened doorway into the blistering heat, the fury of the sun’s fierceness engulfing her tingling nakedness like a flaming robe. Sauntering across the narrow veranda that encircled the cottage, and then down the trio of steps and onto the long, wooden dock that traversed the yard and led out into the small, secluded lake, Cassie scanned the dense foliage of the surrounding forest for signs of intruders and, seeing none, smiled inwardly as she approached the end of the quay and then dove into the glistening waters.
The coldness of the water hit her nervous system like a giant bear hug, causing her languid muscles to spasm in shock, driving the air out of her rapidly contracting lungs, sending her quickly back to the surface to gasp in more. She broke through with a shriek of laughter, filled her lungs with a fresh supply of air, then dove back under, swimming strongly through the refreshing water, washing the stubborn residues of heat and passion away. After a few long, strong strokes, she turned back toward the dock.
Gerry stood by the wooden ladder and watched the rivulets of water running down Cassie’s breasts and dripping off her still hard nipples, and smiled as a sudden shallow breeze brought ripples of goosebumps across the surface of her skin. He handed her the towel he had brought with him so she could dry herself off, but she just strung it across the back of her neck and over her shoulders, and stood letting the sunshine dry her instead.
“Water cold, babe?” he asked, his eyes tracing the pathways of the drops running down her thighs.
“Uh-huh,” she replied, “but very refreshing, hon. You should try it.” She prodded him playfully with her finger, and grimaced in mock disgust. “Eew! All sweaty and sticky!”
“Oh, yeah?” he replied, lunging at her, but, giggling, she deftly avoided his grasp and, dropping the towel, dove back into the lake. A few seconds later she came back to the surface, only to be greeted by an explosion of water right next to her as Gerry cannonballed into the lake. Shrieking in mock fear, she tried to swim away from him, but Gerry was a strong swimmer, and effortlessly snagged her ankle as she dodged away from him. Pulling her back into his grasp, he wrapped his arms around her then, taking a deep breath, he dove down under the water, dragging the kicking and struggling Cassie with him.
~* * * *~
A short while later, the couple lay side-by-side on the towel on the dock, letting the sun dry their refreshed, naked bodies. Cassie stretched her arms up over her head, raising her breasts so the sun could dry the moisture beneath them. The heat felt good on her skin, taking her mind back to the beaches of Bermuda, where she had grown up, chaperoned and secluded. They would never have been allowed to lie even topless in the sun back then – only tourists did that, and even then it was frowned upon!
Turning on her side to face Gerry, she took in the cut of muscles just beneath the skin on his shoulders and arms, noticing the redness of sunburn starting to flare on his pale body. Playfully she poked him in the ribs, giggling.
“Hey, honey,” she said, accentuating the drawl of her mellow Bermudan accent, “you better be getting yourself covered, yo! You startin’ to burn!”
Laughing, Gerry got up and sauntered back up to the cottage veranda, enjoying the sunshine on his shoulders. Swinging away from the bedroom door, he instead entered the cottage great room through two open French doors, letting the screen door spring shut behind him with a dull thud. Despite the lack of air conditioning, the room was significantly cooler than the air outside, the heavy curtains covering the many windows keeping the direct sunlight out, shading the dark interior. Slowly he walked across the large room, heading for the kitchen on the far side of the small building, when his eye caught site of the small tin box resting on the low coffee table, the raised swirls of its engraved surface glittering as they reflected the sunlight. The sight of the object made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle again, just as they had earlier that day in the small bookshop in Orangeville, and, casting his mind back to those few, short hours ago, he tried again to make sense of what had happened...
~* * * *~
“What was it you were looking for, dear?” For some strange reason, the old, wizened voice behind him sent an involuntary shiver running down Gerry’s spine. Turning around, the tall, muscular biker came face to face with a small, elderly woman, with ragged lips and a hook of a nose, wearing a long, black shawl draped over her shoulders despite the blazing summer heat outside, and the close, humid atmosphere inside the bookstore. “Real Tarot cards, was it?” she continued, her steel-grey eyes boring into Gerry’s as if she could see right through to his brain. Suddenly dumbfounded, Gerry stood there, staring down at the old crone, his mind unable to make the connection to his mouth, until Cassie nudged him in the ribs, bringing him out of his apparent stupor.
“S-sorry,” he stammered out, embarrassed by his sudden reticence. “I was just remarking how those decks of Tarot cards you have seem so, erm, mass produced, and plasticky!”
“That’s because they are, dear,” the old lady replied offhandedly. “Mass produced crap for the masses, eh? That’s what I always say!” She chuckled, showing two rows of gnarled, chipped, uneven, overlapping teeth, yellowed with age and lack of care. “But maybe,” she continued, a bright gleam filling her eyes, “I might have what you are looking for in here.” She turned and led the way deeper into the small bookshop and through a black, beaded curtain into a small, dark store room at the back of the store, Gerry and Cassie following close behind her. The room was cramped, and packed with shelves stacked with old, used books and unopened, dust-covered boxes, piled on top of each other, teetering precariously as the trio carefully passed them by.
At the far end of the chamber the old woman turned to look Gerry in the face, studying him carefully, for what, he did not know. “Irish, is it?” she asked, apropos of nothing. Surprised by her insight, Gerry breathed in haltingly before answering her.
“Ah, yes,” he responded, “maybe three or four generations ago.”
“I thought so,” she replied. “I could see it in your eyes.” Gerry looked at Cassie in disbelief, not knowing whether to laugh, or take the old woman seriously. Cassie’s dark brown eyes, almost black in the dim light of the store room, smiled back at him, a look of gentle forbearance playing across her face. The old
lady rummaged around in some boxes in the far corner of the room, then, with a feeble “Ah ha!”, she brandished a metal box in the air. “I think you’ll find something of interest in here,” she said. With a look of awestruck reverence, she handed Gerry the small, highly decorated, tin box, a dark patina of age filling the hollows and carvings. Despite its size, the box was surprisingly heavy, and Gerry almost fumbled it as he took it out of her scrawny hand. He was about to open the tin, but the old lady stopped him before he could get the lid off.
“Trust me, Gerry,” she said, looking into his eyes. “You’ll not find another Tarot deck like this one, my dear! ‘Tis one of a kind, handmade from rare materials and precious metals and jewels. And I couldn’t even begin to guess its age, although a smart gaffer like yourself could probably work it out.”
“H-how did you know my name?” Gerry asked slowly, the back of his head tingling in alarm.
“Ha!” she laughed in response. “Just a shrewd guess, dear. ‘Tis a common enough Irish name, isn’t it? So, that will be $200, cash.” She ignored the noise of the sudden intake of breath that Cassie made from behind Gerry, and held out her hand for him to drop the money on to – which he dutifully did! “Thank you, dear,” the old woman beamed at him, crushing the four bright red fifty-dollar bills in her hand. “I am sure you will have a lot of fun with that, finding out all about its mysterious powers!” She turned away from him and, as if dismissed, Gerry cradled the tin box in his arm, turned around, and walked slowly out of the room and out of the book store, into the blazing early July sunshine, followed by a quiet and thoughtful Cassie.
Standing next to his big, black Harley, a fog seemed to suddenly clear from Gerry’s mind, and he turned to look at Cassie, a knot of trepidation growing in the pit of his stomach.
“What just happened in there?”
“I’d say you bought what I hope will be a very interesting deck of Tarot cards from an even more interesting old lady, who seemed to exercise some strange, magical powers to extract two-hundred bucks from your sweet, little wallet, Gerry.” A smirk played across her full, dark-lipped mouth, and ran up to twinkle in the darkness of her eyes.
“You’re right,” he said slowly, wonder growing in his mind. “How the hell’d she do that?”
“Beats me,” Cassie said, “but she certainly seemed to have you sussed! Even knew your name, and that your family were Irish. Kinda cool, that!”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asked, her infectious mirth easing the strange tension he had been feeling.
“Yeah, well, it was kind of odd, especially the way you just ante’d up with the cash. And you don’t even know what you bought!”
“Damn, you’re right! You think I should go and get my money back?”
“Nah! You don’t even have a receipt! Just a tin box which, judging by its size, must hold some humungous cards in it. But I think you should keep it, anyways, hon.” Stepping up to Gerry, she pushed a long index finger between the buttons of his shirt and ran her fingernail slowly down the channels between his abs, causing the muscles of his abdomen to tighten. “How about you and I ride on over to the cottage, and,” her dark eyes smouldered with unbridled fire, “we can look at your ‘etchings’ there?” Gerry grasped her hand and pulled her closer to him, a tremor running through him as her body bumped into his obvious arousal.
“My etchings?” he chuckled, and kissed her full, dark maroon lips with growing vigour. After a few moments, she laughed and broke free of his embrace.
“Yeah,” she gently teased him. “Who knows? You may have bought a work of art, like she said, or you may have bought a lemon, but I am sure it will be much more mysterious in the gloomy, wooded atmosphere at the lake.”
“Ah, the lake, is it?” he asked, playfully lunging at her as she dodged around the back of the bike.
“Uh-huh!” she replied coyly, pouting sensually and winking at him.
A few moments later, they were headed north out of Orangeville, Cassie hugging him closely, her hand gently kneading the lump in his crotch, troubling his concentration, as they sped along the highway, the tin box of cards safely stowed in a saddlebag and, for the moment, forgotten.
~* * * *~
“You thinking about your fancy woman back in that bookstore?” Cassie’s sensual voice cut through Gerry’s reverie, bringing him back to the warmth of the cottage great room. He shook the remnants of the bookshop out of his head and turned to see the smile playing across her lips. His arm snaked around her waist and pulled her close to him, her skin cool and dry despite the baking heat she had just stepped out of.
“Now how could I be thinking about that little cutie-pie back there, when I have a magnificent filly like you to keep me occupied?” he said, his eyes glinting.
“Filly, is it?” she asked in mock shock.
“Well, that’s better than saucy minx, isn’t it?”
“Let me think about that,” Cassie replied playfully. “But, in the meantime, let’s have a look at those cards. You may have bought something rare and valuable, for all we know.”
“For two hundred bucks,” Gerry spurted. “More likely some kids canasta cards!” He stepped over to the couch and sat down, then picked up the metal box from the table. He turned it around a couple of times, checking to see how it opened, then, setting it down on the table again, he pried up the front of the lid with his thumbnails, and the box flipped open. Inside there was what appeared to be a soft black leather bundle, tied up with a thick leather cord that was intricately knotted into an almost filigree pattern.
“That’s pretty,” Cassie said, sitting down next to him and looking over his arm. “Must’ve taken some time to tie that knot.”
“Yeah, no kiddin’,” Gerry said thoughtfully. “I don’t know how I am going to replicate that if I have to tie it up again.”
“Here, take a picture or two,” Cassie said, stretching over to pick up the black digital camera from the table and handing it to him.
“Good idea!” Gerry replied, taking the camera and snapping four or five photos from various angles, turning the box around as he did so. Then he carefully lifted the bundle out of the box and, placing it on the table, took another couple of snapshots, for good measure. Then, before she could hide herself, he turned and took a quick picture of Cassie sitting naked beside him!
“Hey, you!” she protested playfully. “That’s naughty!”
“Darned tootin’!” he laughed in reply, then turned his attention back to the wrapped deck of cards. Taking his time, he gently undid the knot holding the leather wrapping closed, and unwound the cord. Carefully, he unfolded the soft, black leather, exposing another wrapping beneath, this one of soft, black felt. "This is certainly well wrapped," he remarked. Cassie lifted her head and nodded her agreement. She held her breath and watched, intrigued, as he slowly unwrapped the felt, then gasped, a shiver running down her spine, as the back of the top card was revealed.
“Lord o’ mine!” she gasped. “That’s creepy!”
What they saw was a black surface, with a muted sheen, bordered by a thin band of glistening silver, with fine lines running through it, giving it a pattern of cut stone, like a castle wall. Lying lengthwise in the centre of the enclosed space was a perfectly elliptical eye, glinting in the light as if it was actually wet! The white of the eye was the brilliance of freshly fallen snow, while the pupil was a well of inky darkness, deep and enticing - a bottomless pool of secret knowledge. But the most entrancing feature of the eye was the colours in the broad band of its iris. Instead of being just a single colour, the iris was divided into quadrants, each of a different hue. The first quadrant of the iris was a beautiful sapphire blue, almost crystalline in appearance, with flecks of gold radiating into its heart. This quadrant flowed into the next, which was a perfectly pastel green, pale and pristine, with gentle hazel streaks. The green quadrant merged gently into the next, which was itself a deep hazel, with flecks that echoed the green of the previous quadrant, and chiselle
d with rays of chestnut and gold. The final quadrant of the iris was a cold, muddy steel-grey, hard and ungiving, scarred with minute twists of dark jade green. The colour reminded Gerry of the eyes of the old woman in the book store. The weirdest thing about the eye was the fact that it had a tear duct at both points of the ellipse, and from each of these, flowing in opposite directions, dropped a single, large tear - that from the point where the blue and green quadrants met was a beautiful crystal of limpid water, glittering as if caught in the rays of the sun, while at the conjunction of the hazel and grey quadrants, a bright crimson droplet of fresh wet blood hung down from the tear duct. The eye itself was seemingly held in place by a spider-web of fine silver filigree that spread out in concentric shapes, until the radiating strands attached the eye to the silver wall surrounding the edge of the card.
"That looks strangely attractive and ominous at the same time," Cassie said. "I hope these cards aren't some kind of evil talisman, Gerry."
"Don't be silly, babe," Gerry replied gently. "It's just a crazy deck of cards - expensive, too - that someone obviously designed to inspire exactly those types of feelings." He paused for a long moment, contemplating the weird emotions the cards were creating in him, too, despite his show of bravado to Cassie. Gingerly he stretched out and touched the eye with his right index finger, expecting it to feel cool and hard. Instead, the eye on the back of the card was warm and slick, almost wet, as if it was made of skin that was perspiring in the humidity of the cottage. Gerry pulled his hand back sharply, as if he had just accidentally poked the card in the eye! He shuddered and waited a few moments before tenderly running his finger along the line of silver edging on the card. To his surprise, it actually felt cold, like metal.
"Wow!" he gasped, picking the card up for a closer look. "That actually feels like silver, Cassie." He turned the card so that it was lying lengthwise in his hand and studied the eye carefully. The detail was exquisite, the colours of each quadrant vivid and clear - almost like stained glass - and the craftsmanship in the placement of the flecks and highlights brought the eye to life in a way that, if he was being honest with himself, he also found almost creepy and unnerving. It was possible to see from the minute variations in depth of colour between the eye on the card he was holding and that of the next card on the top of the deck, that each had been individually drawn and painted, yet the skill of the artist was such that only a very strong scrutiny would discern any differences in the detail of each eye that could be used to distinguish between them.
Voracious Vixens, 13 Novels of Sexy Horror and Hot Paranormal Romance Page 184