"Yes, my liege, I mean no, I only mean, I may never marry—"
"Silence! Or tonight you will feel a worse stinging than you do!"
He positioned his rod of flesh at her opening. Before a heart beat had elapsed, he tore into her, his hard cock ripping down the wall of her childhood.
Magda screamed. The pain from her ass mingled with the pain of her ruptured maidenhead until she ignited, her body blazing under him as he pounded into her, stoking the flames, leaving her no defense against being consumed by them. He punctured her throat when she was least aware, although she felt a sharp pricking that she only identified the next day.
In the morning she stood before her mirror. Her green eyes had never sparkled so, her cheeks had never been so flushed. She examined her body, the full breasts, slim waist and rounded hips. The body of a woman. Her bottom glowed a brilliant red and seeing it made juices she had not realized were inside her flow and her cunt shudder.
She hid the wounds on her neck with a shawl. Over the next few days, whenever she was forced to sit down she was reminded of her night of passion with her demon lover. She feared she would never see him again, never be bent anew to his strong will. She clung to the thrilling words he uttered as he had departed just before sunrise: "We have only just begun, my beautiful Magda, a gentle start to an eternity of painful pleasures that await you. Eternity consists of endless night, and fortunately I am a worldly man, skilled at adapting and applying techniques from a variety of cultures. My imagination has no limits, as will become apparent. You are a raw canvas onto which I shall paint erotic masterpieces for a thousand years."
A finger rammed into Magda's asshole. Startled, she cried out in shock and pain.
"You were always sensitive," he said, thrusting in and out energetically, "but, as I recall, eager for your lickings.
"You have disobeyed me, Magda. And you will be punished. What is your preference?"
It was an old game. A game of foreplay. He encouraged her to believe she had some control over her fate. Pinioning her to the horse of pain was his way of assuring her she did not. The idea of again being controlled completely sparked a memory too exquisite to bear; she realized exactly what she had been lacking. A shiver of desire rippled through her for the first time in a long time and involuntarily her rectum contracted around his finger.
"You have become a cold woman. Your flesh wants warming. A warmth that only I can administer effectively." He slid his finger from her anus and she felt empty.
"I shall whip you, Magda, more thoroughly than you have ever been whipped. You need discipline. You will receive a taste of it tonight and plenty more in the nights to come. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sire," she said, her voice quaking.
"What is your preference?" he asked again.
She dreaded each of the cruel instruments. The walls were crammed with leather and wood paddles, thick and thin straps, single strand whips and whips with many knotted strands, metal rods and clamps, and objects from the Far East, made from the rubber tree. Each, she knew from experiences that were rapidly returning to memory, created a unique pain. Each could be used convincingly and creatively by a master disciplinarian. Vlad was such a master. But she had waited too long to answer.
"Is your silence a cry for help or stubbornness? Either way, your need for chastisement is greater than I had suspected. Perhaps something intimate will speak to you most forcefully."
He stepped back so that she could see him from the chest down. She watched him unbuckle the thick ebony belt he wore and slip it out through the loops on his pants. The belt was made from the tough skin of an African animal and stained black. Short coarse hairs still lay imbedded in the leather here and there, like stubble from a beard. The belt was so stiff it could not be bent in half lengthwise, and would barely double.
He waited. "Have you forgotten the words, Magda?"
He paused, then sighed, his voice resigned. "You are willful and full of resentment. I see now that I have failed you. Perhaps I have been preoccupied, but as of tonight all that is changed. You will repeat: Master, punish me severely."
It was difficult. Very difficult. Her lips could barely form the words. "Master, punish me severely."
"How shall I punish you, Magda?"
"Well."
"And for how long?"
"As long as you see need to, my lord."
"And how hard?"
"Until my pride is broken."
Leather smacked her ass. Her body tried to jump to safety, but the restraints kept her from moving. He strapped her again. And again. Heat seared tender flesh no longer accustomed to such kisses. Because she was so spread, the leather licked her gaping asshole, and the sensitive fleshy folds of her cunt opening. She howled in pain.
Crack! Crack! The rigid strap burned her, adding fuel to the growing fire. He brought the heavy leather down harder than she remembered from previous strappings, but then those had been so long ago it was as if this was her first time.
Tears gushed from her eyes and cries from her lips as the leather cracked mercilessly.
"Do you wish more, Magda?"
To answer no would doom her. "As you see fit, Master," she wailed.
"I do see fit."
The strap whipped across the top of her ass cheeks. He had been an excellent marksman in life and eternity had only refined his aim. He lay on the leather, snapping at the top of her ass cheeks until she thought the skin would split. She screamed for mercy but, as always, her cries did not deter him. And just when she knew she could take no more, he shifted to her undercheeks, where the strap cooked her cunt opening as well and caused the flesh of her ass to boil.
Magda screamed out her agony as he flayed her; only her upper body was able to writhe beneath the stinging blows that seemed endless. Her red hair whipped about her face and her full breasts bounced wildly, the nipples achingly hard.
He moved to the side of the left cheek, beating there until she was screaming anew. Then he chastised the side of the right cheek, letting the stubbly belt mark his displeasure into her flesh. When he returned his attention to the middle of her ass, he whipped first from one side, then from the other, making sure that neither cheek escaped for long and that her bottom hole was well attended to. Finally he used just the end of the belt to skillfully snap down the length of her crack, lingering over her bottom hole until she shrieked, and then again at the soft folds that led inside her feminine hole. Her screams echoed around the circular walls. Memory assured her that nothing she could say or do would make him stop. She was completely at the mercy of a merciless being. The moment she accepted that truth, the leather stilled.
Sheets of tears blinded her. She could hardly see him. Her ass blazed as if flames shot from the fiery flesh. Her ears rang from her own screams and her throat was raw, but she knew he was far from finished with her.
Through blurred vision she saw him now naked. His cock stood erect, longer and thicker than Jonathan's. And far more experienced. Rock hard already, despite her agony, Magda felt proud that she still had this affect on him.
"Take me, my lord." Her voice was almost gone, but sincere. "Anywhere that pleases you."
"You have learned well."
His scalding cock found her burning cunt hole. As it touched the scorched outer flesh, she gasped. It had been so long since he had entered her that it felt as though her opening had closed up and she was once more a virgin. His cock head nudged, like a firm, insistent knock on the door. Before she could open to him, he broke into her, the long sturdy rod penetrating its full length, pushing her walls aside to make room for him. Slowly he pulled out of her completely then reentered quickly, burrowing deeper, ripping moans from her throat. Each extreme thrust caused her extreme pain, and pleasure. He slid a finger into her smarting asshole, then two, then three; her moans increased in volume. "My master, anything to please you. Anything!"
He squeezed one of her sore ass cheeks hard, sending her into another spin of pain; her cunt contracted
around him. Her body rippled with pleasure as his fucking speed increased. Her walls gripped him, working with him, sending waves of delight rushing through her hot pussy and along her rectum until she felt she would go mad with the sensation. The fucking seemed eternal. Each time he entered, her folds parted submissively, as he withdrew, they accompanied him to the door, her tunnel tightening for his next thrust. He rode her hard and she rode the dark horse of pain, her ass cheeks an inferno, her cunt exploding. Their gallop became a pounding run, bodies working together towards the moment when pain and pleasure inextricably tangled and they merged.
Magda cried out her ecstasy as he shot into her scalding body a cooling stream.
A Preview of CHILD OF THE NIGHT
Chapter One
Carol crossed her legs and rolled the stem of the wine glass slowly between the thumb and fingers of her right hand, too aware that this was her third dry white since dinner. Let's not overdo it, she warned herself, but then took another sip. She sighed. Better turn her attention from the local grape drink to something less toxic.
By the light from the café's quaint oil lamps Carol went back to reading The Philadelphia Inquirer, barely able to make out the print. Not that it mattered; she'd read the week-old newspaper already, just after boarding the plane to Paris, and again on the flight to Bordeaux. Still, it was something from home. But feelings of comfort and pain cancelled each other out; the paper couldn't hold her interest. She drank more wine, trying to wash away the disappointment she'd also brought across the ocean.
The small outdoor café on Les Allées de Tourny, one of Bordeaux's main downtown streets, faced Le Grand Théâtre. She studied the details of the building's classical facade. Her guide book had mentioned this theater as the model for the old Paris Opera House. The immense colonnaded portico, topped by twelve statues of muses and graces, each representing a month of the year, was breathtaking, even magical, especially illuminated against the impenetrable black of the night sky. At least there's still some beauty and magic left in the world, she thought, if not in my world.
She wondered if an opera or a play was being staged and decided to check it out tomorrow. Maybe La Traviata. Right! she thought, the one where the woman is rejected and dies of consumption! She swallowed the rest of the wine.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle. Vous permettez?"
She looked up. A smartly dressed man stood at her table.
"Je ne parle pas français." She stumbled through the only complete French sentence she could manage.
"I asked if I can share your table." His English was flawless, his tone confident, his face haughty enough to be irritating.
Carol felt annoyed. The whole reason she had come to an off-the-beaten-track place like Bordeaux was to avoid encounters like this one. "I'd like to be alone. Sorry."
"Understandable," he said, but continued standing, watching her.
She felt uncomfortable and went back to reading.
"The café's full. There are no other seats."
She peered over the top of The Inquirer. Every chair was occupied except the one at her table. She looked back up at him.
He was handsome, well-heeled Rob would have said. Except for streaks of silver at the temples, his hair matched his fashionable leather clothing—midnight black. His skin was pale. For a moment, probably because of the darkness behind him, she had a peculiar visual image, a weird blend of two dimensional on three dimensional, like the cardboard effigies tourists stick their faces and hands through for a photograph. His most outstanding characteristic was his grey eyes. They were like smoke, a disturbing color, intense, even in the faint light. A year ago she probably would have found his features an interesting combination.
She shrugged. "Have a seat."
"Merci. You're too kind."
She tried to go back to reading but having another person in her space felt like an invasion. But Carol didn't want to talk either so she turned away, folded the paper onto her lap and gazed out at the typical French scene before her. As in the downtown of any insular city, everyone seemed to have a nodding acquaintance with everybody else. Mopeds and motorcycles swerved between small, gas-conscious cars. Many drivers were young, dressed in denim or leather clothing, shouting to their friends. The sidewalks quivered with life—people carrying brown paper parcels with baguettes or légumes sticking out the top; men and women lugging thick briefcases or plastic lunch pails; chicly dressed couples out for the evening. It was interesting, if only because everything here was fresh to her. But already she'd heard other tourists substituting the word 'boredom' for 'Bordeaux'. She'd arrived bored. She suspected she wouldn't be staying here very long.
"You're from the United States. The accent gives you away."
She turned to her unwelcome companion. He was staring, his expression casual but fixed. "Yes, I'm an American."
"Midwest, east coast or both?"
"Recently, Philadelphia."
"But you weren't born there."
The waiter deposited a large glass of red wine in front of her table mate. The man handed over a five Euro note. He picked up the glass, sniffed the contents, then put the glass back down on the table.
"An interesting country. I know it and the language well," he said, pocketing the change. "Not as old in history or tradition as France, of course, but what you lack in depth I'm sure you make up for in innovation."
"Probably," Carol said, turning away again.
"My name's André. And yours?"
She turned back. He was tilting the glass, rolling the contents around. The wine coated the glass briefly before it slid down the sides. His face reflected a fine blend of jaded disinterest and idle curiosity plus a hint of condescension.
"Look, I'm not in the mood for conversation. I really want to be alone."
"As you like." She knew he felt insulted but that was his problem.
Carol started to turn away again, but immediately he said, "Not many females travel alone to Bordeaux at this time of year, especially beautiful women. I've always loved the look—slim hips, large breasts, firm ass, chestnut hair, sapphire eyes, as clear as a summer's sky..."
With a disgusted sigh, Carol picked up her bag, turned her back on him and hurried away.
It was April but already warm enough for just a light jacket at night. She decided to walk along the river before going to sleep. She wasn't tired, and she wanted to think.
The water of the Garonne was murky, the result, she'd been told on a tour of the city, of being tainted by a winter's accumulation of snow and mud as it flowed down the mountains from the northwest towards the Atlantic. She strolled along the wide stone road on the left bank. During the day pedestrians and vehicles filled the waterfront with a cacophony of energetic sounds. But at night the docks belonged to the darkness. The squeak of thick ropes rubbing the bollards, imprisoning cargo ships, lulled her. Overhead the black sky was accentuated by the thinnest sliver of a new moon. It was quiet here, peaceful, with no one to interrupt her thoughts.
The whole thing had been like something out of a melodrama. Now, looking backwards, she realized she should have known right from the start that Rob was unfaithful. All the embarrassing signs had flashed like the lights when intermission ends; everyone else saw the end of the play coming. Like they say, always the last to know, she thought, aware again of just how saturated with bitterness she had become.
She heard a sound and turned. The path was empty.
"Great, nerves," she told herself. This is what happens when you're used to being part of a couple—you're afraid to be alone. But she knew that wasn't it. More, she wanted to be alone now. Even after a year she was still afraid to get involved. That's why she'd left home. Why she was in a country where she didn't speak the language. And as agonizing as the divorce had been, the aching loneliness had been even worse. But she'd endured it, day and night, until it became a sort of friend; now she refused to part with a feeling she considered an ally.
Again, that sound, like a pebble kicked.
She thought about heading back to the main street—it was within sight—but didn't want to face the real world yet. There's no one here, she told herself. The tunnel's empty. You can see through to the other end. It's probably just a cat.
The path sloped down into hollow darkness. Sound waves from river water flowing over rocks and slapping wooden barriers bounced around the walls accompanied by the echo of her heels clacking on moist stones. Traffic noise from the bridge overhead dimmed.
Suddenly she heard a rustling. "Who's there?" she called out in a high voice, realizing that if anyone was there they probably didn't understand English. Why-oh-why had she not bought a European cell phone? Well, she knew why; she had no one to contact.
She turned. The immediate darkness engulfed her and, beyond, the white light of the moonlit path.
She was halfway through, as close to where she would exit as to where she had entered. She hesitated but finally took a step forward. It sounded like there was a step behind. Then silence.
The thud of her heart filled her ears. Her lungs felt compressed and she realized her back and neck muscles were tight, her skin slick with perspiration.
Carol took another step forward but again heard a step in unison with her own. When she stopped, a split second later it stopped. She moved faster, running towards the far end of the tunnel, all the while looking behind.
Wham! She hit a solid object and screamed. She turned her head and stared up into the face of the man from the café.
"You!" she said, equally frightened and angry, stepping back and away from him.
He said nothing but only watched her. His face seemed thinner than before; he looked a little starved. He was a lot taller and larger than Carol remembered.
The Darker Passions Page 21
