STEVE'S MONKEY'S PAW by Neale Sourna

by Neale Sourna

  Note: Western Cultural Tradition. The engagement/wedding rings go on that particular finger, the Venus finger, because allegedly there is an important vein or nerve or such that runs from it and straight to her heart. So, to bind that finger meant you could bind a woman’s wild, uncivilized nature and therefore forever join her to you. [Men aren’t wild nor uncivilized, I guess.] Anyway, back to this ring.

  I repeated to them that there would be “no ring”, and absolutely no “cleave onto one another” marriage.

  Running out of points, and tired of their annoying mutual silence, I headed for the door. Guy’s voice was almost inaudible.

  “Take her.”

  Ren struck a concussive blow between my shoulder blades, knocking me hard to the floor, before deftly disarming me of my Beretta. I fought—kicking and scrambling—even got a real good backhand on his cheek; but, outweighed and outreached by a superior martial fighter, I was soon disoriented from too many hits, and sacked over Ren’s broad shoulder, as he schlepped me to his bedroom.

  Guy just sat there.

  My ears were ringing, as I heard him talking foreign on the phone, as I pulled it together, and made another attempt at freedom while lying on Ren’s floor, after catching a second wind, which Ren promptly knocked out of me with a brutal, abbreviated shot to the ribs. He could’ve broken me but didn’t. Then, he ripped off most of my clothes and restrained me with soft, buckled handcuffs at wrist and ankle on his bed, stomach down, my still trousered ass to the wind.

  His bed, unlike his “playroom”, didn’t ordinarily come equipped with four cuffs, it was so nice that they’d planned ahead. Stupid me.

  He cut off my fitted, stretch jeans with his trusty pocket switch­blade. The fighting struggle between us was one thing, even the shredded clothing was . . . tolerable, being bound wasn’t. I don’t like wearing cuffs, snug watches, constricting collars, or tight, binding engagement and wedding rings. I don’t like engagement or wedding rings. Period. Not on me.

  “Ren, release me, right now!”

  The fucker took his sweet damnable time about undressing where I could see him, as I struggled with the bindings. No wonder insane people get crazed wearing straitjackets.

  “Let me go!”

  He mounted the bed, picked me up by the middle to stuff a pillow under my abdomen, then started with my left shoulder, with my Aegis tattoo. Some lousy sign of protection and guidance it was turning out to be. He kissed and licked, tasting every inch of me he could find, and he found every inch, before making himself at home over my ass, licking and kissing it, softly biting each cheek, then he parted them.

  I was already breathing deeply, and completely wet; my cunt contracting on itself for want of him. I couldn’t really see him clearly at that angle, as he blew softly on my most delicate places, then ignored them to kiss and lap at and around my bunghole, stiffly poking his harsh tongue, then heavily lubed fingers into its idle tightness. I held off vainly rewarning him about my detestation for being assfucked, before forgetting justified repulsion and nearly even the restricting bindings.

  Ren brushed his iron cock through my slickness, hole to clit, over and over, before slipping something hard, vibrating, and about the size of an ob® tampon into my pussy. The damned thing felt like it had rotating ball bearings. What it did have was a remote control! Which he cranked up, letting the baby vibrator take its affect on me, as he squeezed thick, warm lubricant into my anus, prior to pushing his codhead into my slick, welcoming shithole. He patiently moved in and out of me, getting me used to the disconcerting, intrusive fullness of him, while his vicious, tiny collaborator quivered inside me.

  The hard wall of his body flush against mine seemed to push the machine deeper within, getting an unguarded moan out of me, before abruptly banging my ass mercilessly, as with each maddening thrust the vibrator accented his every move. I prefer man to machine, but both? This was too much. I used the headboard for leverage, as I fucked just as hard back against him, before . . . .

  Finally noticing Guy beside the bed watching us, watching me . . . .

  [story break—Not for sale/Authorized Bootleg]

  “Simply speaking, Arte, you’re ours . . . mine specifically, in public. I’d put a hot brand on that beautiful, round brown ass of yours—.” My gut churned at that. Guy doesn’t “make up” scary tales to frighten his women. What he says, he means. Or at least is seriously considering.

  “I can, you know, brand you, in many parts of the world; but, in lieu of that, this ‘choker’ will have to do. It’s the acknowledged custom here, when a man wants to mark his woman as ‘private property’, ‘off limits’, ‘absolutely do not touch’, or fuck.”

  He stroked my body, possessively, proud in his ownership. Their ownership. And, by the way, he hissed in my ear from behind, as he mounted his favorite ride, that I ‘don’t want the punishment [they’d] deal’ me, if I ‘step out of line or take [his] ring off one more damned time’ . . . .

  [end of “Aegis” excerpts]

  www.aegis.neale-sourna.com

  www.Neale-Sourna.com

  Novel excerpt from work in progress:

  “All Along The Watchtower”

  by Neale Sourna

  From Book One

  . . . He saw in her war tent, the roomy, collapsible sleeping platform, with its gold wildcat’s pelt covering, but did not look at it overlong, assuming nothing except that she might simply thank him and dismiss him for escorting her through the two rival army camps, which from what he had seen of her personal battle skills on this first day of their pre treaty meeting, she had not needed aid. He remembered his best spies had said that these wild Steppe horsewarriors traveled with a degree of comfort befitting their wealth and strength, and they had said of her in particular that her skills were of speed, cunning, insight, and . . . magic.

  anahk Tor did not believe in magic and one preternaturally prescient dream of this woman would not change that. He only believed in fertile brain, hot blood, hard bone, and sharp, tempered metal.

  “My Lord General Tor, I would see your sword, if it is well with you. I believe its examination would pleasure us both, greatly.”

  He wore neither of his broadswords, and had not looked at her directly since entering her private quarters, and now did, finding her extremely close to him examining every aspect of his face, her apparent desire for him now, for the first time, boldly displayed.

  Hers was a well-balanced, untamed face, with intelligent mid-dark eyes, which flashed quickly to the tune of her bright intellect, with richly dark brown hair of a deep red cast that in sunlight revealed it also had two auburn-copper streaks. But, in the interior light of the evening, her luxurious hair appeared soft black.

  He looked again into her expressive, wide eyes, startling his heart . . . and he forced it to calm. For throughout the long day her hunger had been very much less obvious; leaving him in the dark without a guide in her shelterless, foreign land.

  Tor did not move, as he flushed hotly throughout his body, whose temperature already ran naturally hotter than most men and was as torrid as the Egyptian summer fertile Blackland in which he and his brother had been born.

  General anahk Tor, infamously known as “The Destroyer”, did not move, because this woman already meant too much to him.

  Dara’s full lips bowed, half drawn, as if approving his restraint, as her fathomless eyes gazed on him, while she leaned into him and saw the stray brown strands among the deep black of his lengthy, abundant soft dreads and braids before sniffing the pleasant scent of it, her nose tip resting a long moment on the hard throb of his scaldingly warm throat, before her cool lips brushed . . . then rested on his, without physical pressure.

  He did not remember telling himself to drop his well-held restraint; however, he must have, as he found himself holding her tightly to him and devouring his royal host’s perfect mouth and tongue, as she eagerly devoured his in return.

  Then, she abruptly thrust him from her. And, he reluctantly let h
er go, afraid she would tell him to leave.

  He knew she saw the animal shiver that ran through him at her touch, as she slowly took stock of him, becoming completely familiar with his angular, lean muscles under his long, dark green, quilted dress tunic, before undoing the gilded hooks of it and slipping it from him; clearly pleased with the sight of his strong, war scarred, bare torso and arms, while she took her time taking an appraising inventory of his dark and tanned skin . . . .

  He was losing the vicious battle of that damnable shiver, as his flesh answered each time she touched him softly and sniffed him deeply and kissed and tasted him . . . delicately, voraciously, then delicately again, from head to waist, back and front, grazing her fingertips lightly up the backs of his leather-bound, iron hard thighs and across his even harder buttocks.

  Very pleasant.

  Even more than all that—well nearly more—Tor loved how genuinely fascinated and amazed she seemed by his hard-palmed hands, in her close examination of them; gently, then wickedly sucking the long, durable fingers which, at this moment, he felt to be inept and too brusquely rough for such soft, yielding fruit as this, beautiful mouth . . . kissing the cursed palms, that had been covered with hot blood and spilled viscera too many times to recall.

  Dara put her nose again into the crook of his throat, sniffing, flicking and licking him from throat to nipple, where she paused to gnaw and madden him before resuming her tour to navel, stopping at the waist of his leather pants, teasingly pausing near the thickly hardening mass between his thighs, which she teasingly cupped . . . and lightly squeezed . . . making his desire to have more than her hand all too apparent.

  Her smile now was full, not mockingly dismissive as earlier in the formal evening when she had found his gaze continually upon her, and had glanced down him at this same fierce bulge, now straining the leather that seemed just barely able to contain him.

  She put his hand on her dress, over her breasts, before guiding his fingers to the many thin leather cords along both of her shoulders and arms, which bound her in the dress.

  He smiled; her nipples were hard as wood. He smiled, recalling that earlier, when she had discovered him once again staring at her, and not glancing away, he had methodically looked down her and seen these same breasts tightly bridled under her full length, creamy white chamois dress, cut to fit snugly to display her womanly curves, as the thin, soft goatskin further softened by the warmth of her form, revealed the intimate shape of these very same nibs, as they had hardened before his delighted eyes.

  She cleared her throat, to bring his attention back . . . to the many, many lacings in her clever garment strapping her in.

  He truly enjoyed the time it gave him to detain the wild urge rioting within him while loosening each one; slowing revealing the remarkable sable brown skin beneath.

  Then, having undone enough of them, she finally slipped the fabric down; exposing firm, round breasts with mahogany aureoles; an opulently full, athletic body. The whitened leather slipped past her shapely hips, he brushed his fingers against and through the dark, silken, curled hairs between her legs before tracing the faint, deep lance scar, etched into her left inner thigh.

  Her patch beckoned him back and he knelt to kiss her there, to bury his nose and fill his head and lungs with her aroused, musky scent. He parted the hairs then inserted his long, strong tongue to lick the soft, plump, mulberry coloured, humid flesh within, as her fingers caught into his thick hair and held him snugly to her. Her outer body felt cool but was warming to his hot hands, for in contrast to the bold heat of General anahk Tor, Princess Dara Jaxartes’ temperature very often ran cool to cold.

  Dara softly sighed, which encouraged Tor, as he stepped beyond his station and laid the War Chief and Royal Heir on her bed. He gazed and felt his way up her incredible body from toe to head, with his forcefully gentle tongue and lips, and paid much attention to kissing and licking the lance scar on her upper, inner thigh, where the flesh is always most sensitive, even for one so accustomed to the bare back of the horse.

  When he continued his journey up and down her, the weight of his long black hair fell enticingly, purposefully across her, adding hundreds more “fingertips” to the many sensations he generated deep within her, making him pleased to see her now shiver as well, as he suckled her tongue, her lips, her ripe breasts, and her little cave of a navel, all of her soft, fragrant and tasty skin—then he paused in the same place she had stopped with him, his hand resting upon her. She was a little overwhelmed by him and that pleased him more, because he wished to please her and because it distracted her from touching him too much.

  Her touch made him too urgent.

  He was between her legs, stalling at her dimpled waist and looked up at her, teasingly, knowing by the feel of her, the sound of her, that she wanted more of him. He slipped his fingers into her and she boldly writhed against them, which pleased him, seeing that she neither hid her desire nor her pleasure from his eyes and ears, to leave him to guess, like so many others of her kind, of her status had before.

  “Yes.” She said in her Pers-Scythian tongue, one of the first words of that language he had learned and committed to memory this day. And, “Please.” Which was in the Nilo-African High Court dialect of Her Father, which he understood better.

  Tor spread Dara’s swollen, fragrant cunt lips open, exposing to view the little bud of flesh that his father had taught him could not be ignored. He spread her wide open, until the tender, darker mulberry flesh gave way to the most tender and reddest of pinks, then his dark head dove to dine and drink of her freely flowing, sweetly salty juice.

  He forced his hard, probing tongue deep into her, until, in sharp desire, she ground her delicious crotch into Tor’s mouth, before again brusquely shoving him from her to watch, as he stood long enough to shed his now highly uncomfortable dress pants.

  Once unbound by his leathers, she could fully see how beautiful he was and exactly how much he wanted her, as she slipped her thrilling, calloused, hot palm up his thigh, cupped his swollen balls, that burned her and took Tor’s dark, hard cock in her eager hand. Dara bent her lips to kiss his shaft then lick and gently suck away his impatient precum at its head, before he kneeled and she guided him into her, causing them both to moan and sigh at full, deep contact.

  [story break—Not for sale/Authorized Bootleg]

  They were alone, it was eerily quiet, and she was standing in the water watching its placid surface. Tor was submerged, he had been for some time. Tor was . . . hotter than angry. He was incensed, and finally stood erect, cascades of water dripping from his long black dreads, his dark muscular back to her, and she waited till he whirled around and faced her; his eyes were not pleasant to view.

  “Tor, do not be this way. You have duties just as I have; yet, I also have obligations to my bloodline and My Goddess.”

  “And what obligations do you have to your husband, Dara?”

  “You are not my hus-Bänd. We are not wedded in the way of your west, Tor. I know what all that means, and as my officially Bänded mate you know I prefer you over all others; but, it is still necessary that I serve both Queen and Goddess, and the generations’ long alliance we have with Rüsjmahadan’s family. I will not be responsible for breaking ties with them because his parents should deem my lack of action on his moral behalf, in order to please you, as a gross injustice.”

  She softened her tactful plea.

  “If I do not do this for him, as contractually obligated, it would be considered not only a personal snub, but one that would cut his family and people to the very bone and blood. It is not just tactical or political, it would be a spiritual error . . . a blood and spirit curse upon his new extension of their royal house. I must do this.”

  He was minutely swimming backwards from her, staring at her face, watching it, noting every expression on it and of every intonation of her voice, even the way she gestured to clarify her stance in this enduring public intrusion into their private lives.

 
“Tor, I understand and for myself welcome your incredible intensity, but you cannot allow what I must do . . . for duty, obsess and hurt you this way. Furthermore, my life, as I was born to it and chosen for it, will always be a public life, and, as my Bänd, so will yours.”

  “Dara, public is one thing; however, how is it you royals can always find some manner, any manner to share your beds? There will always be another and another . . . duty. Why . . . why can I not have one thing that is mine alone? I will no longer share my bed, my woman with any . . . .”

  He did not bother to finish. His bed had never been so public before with this Mare Goddess’ ancient rules and unrelenting hold on what was his.

  Tor slowly submerged and stayed under until his lungs could not bear it. In waiting for him, Dara moved back to sit on the low stone shelf just above the water, used for diving and lolling. The day, the sky, the air, the water, all were perfect as she intently watched like a sentinel for him. He slowly swam back to her as his lung’s deeply refilled with fresh air.

  “Woman, Princess, High Pries—. . . .” He corrected his linguistic error. “ . . . Shaman Prime are there anymore Ceremonies I should know about?” She merely, sadly shook her head; this arguing and clarifying . . . his general opposition was draining the energy from her.

  “I am again Blessed With Child by you, Tor.”

  She watched him closely, hoping this fact would ease the pain he continually felt. His chest swelled, for his heart leapt inside him, and he sighed deeply. He did not move or even seem to breathe for a long while, then slipped his hand between her thighs and touched the outwardly most female part of her. He touched her until she sighed repeatedly for want of him, then he stood and rather abruptly slid the most male part of him deep into her potent soft folds. He languidly moved within her, the both of them enjoying the intimately penetrating contact; then, brusquely he pulled all the way out of her.