“I’d get out of the rain if I were you.”
Rolling out of the brush box, I mumble, “Shit!”
“And Ellison?”
“Yes?”
“Stop being so afraid to ask for a little help now and then.”
My legs carry me as fast as they can until I’m so turned around in the woods, I don’t know where the shoreline is anymore. In the distance, I spot a shed with a thin tendril of smoke wafting from the chimney. Maybe they will let me in. Perhaps it will be the big bad wolf. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m cold and wet in an awful way.
I rush to knock on the door. “Hello! Hello! Is anyone home? I got lost in the storm.”
A dainty older woman opens the door. “What are you doing out in the weather, child?”
“Can you help me?” I ask as tears stream down my face.
She welcomes me in. “Let me get you a housecoat.”
I doff my clothes in her entryway as she hands me a towel and a fluffy pink robe. I feel like I’ve met my fairy godmother. “Thank you so much.”
“Come in,” she says. “I was just about to have some soup.”
I waddle to the kitchen and gasp at the sight of the beautiful Mistress. Her hair is disheveled, and her makeup is smeared. “Mistress! What are you doing here?”
“We all have secrets,” she whispers. “Don’t we, Ellison?”
“Why are you here?” I ask in a demanding tone. “And where is Sig? Did he lose his nuts?”
She giggles. “Last time I checked, Sig’s sack was fully intact and functioning, which was a few hours ago. Whatever makes you so concerned about his testicles, though?”
“Because one of the Queen’s soldiers came looking for Twig and I. He said they had our Mistress and her betrothed. And he had already been castrated!”
Her blue-violet eyes flare with a fright. “The Queen stopped cutting balls off when she started removing heads! And I don’t mean the rod!”
“Are you marrying him?”
“We’ve been married for several years, El,” she happily replies as two small children dash into the room. They look like miniature versions of their parents. “This is Lucy and Dea.” She stands up to show off her protruding belly. “And Jules is on the way.”
“Were you pregnant when we met?”
“That was years ago,” she says as I plop in the chair. “I’m half-way done with this bun.”
“I’m so fucking confused,” I mumble as the nice older woman places a bowl of soup in front of me.
She lays her hand on my shoulder. “It’s alright to be a little insane doll. All the best bitches are.”
“Where have I been all these years?”
“With Twig, of course!”
“By my count, I’ve known Twig less than four days,” I say, tasting the soup and noting several caterpillars, crawling out of the bowl. I spit up on the floor. “Maybe I’m not crazy, and everyone else is absolutely, completely, totally, utterly fucking mad!”
In the robe, I run outside.
It’s snowing—I should correct that—it is snowing enormous flakes the size of baseballs. They look like Christmas decorations that melt on my skin and tongue. I open my mouth, and they taste like cocoa-peppermint stick-cotton candy. I glance at my clothes. I’m dressed in a navy-blue pantsuit with red heels. I turn around to look at the dilapidated house, which isn’t shanty at all, but a grand white Craftsman. Holding the rail, I step off the shiny wooden slats of the porch and peer into the garage.
There is a truck big enough that I must question if someone is compensating, a swanky sports car, and a bunch of motorcycles. “Where the fuck, am I?”
“Hey, beautiful…when did you get home?”
“Just a few minutes ago,” I answer, playing along. “Where have you been?”
“Up at Boston’s.”
I’m not sure why this man, who looks like Twig but much hotter, was in Boston. “Who, am I?”
“You’re Ellison Alicia Kingsley Cr…”
“No!” Whit shouts, kicking the bedframe and jostling me awake. “You don’t get to sleep in a bed and dream like a little girl. You had that opportunity, and you tossed it for the taste of blood. You have too much work to do! Get up! We aren’t done!”
“Whose house is this?”
“The crazy cat lady’s…”
“Where is The Mistress?”
“I’m right here,” she says, giving Whit the evil eye. “Give us a minute, if you will, Mr. Dare.”
Her words are a warning… I think she’ll slit his throat if he doesn’t walk away.
“She’s going to be late!” he angrily hisses. “She cannot be late!”
“She won’t be late,” The Mistress calmly replies. “She will be in attendance for your tea party tomorrow! Now, if you will, please… Get the fuck out!”
I cover my mouth, praying I don’t crack up. With my eyes as wide as saucers, I watch Mr. Whitman Dare sulk towards the door and slam it behind him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling responsible for his outburst. “I didn’t know he would be such a…”
“Absolute pain in my ass!”
She breaks into laughter, and I do as well.
“You aren’t pregnant,” I mutter, staring at her fingers. “And you aren’t married either!”
“No, you were dreaming,” she whispers, touching my hair. “You were soaked to the bone and freezing. We can’t have you turning into an ice princess.”
“Is Sig…”
“He traded my release for his incarceration. He’s in the royal dungeon,” she replies with a pout. “But I’m sure he’s thinking of ways to get out of it.”
“He hasn’t been beheaded or de-nutted?”
With a blush on her cheeks, she cackles, “I know he still has at least one head.”
I panic with worry. “How did you get out?”
“I am The Mistress, and my whip knows no bounds.” She winks.
“The Queen? She kneels? For you?”
The Mistress cackles, “I don’t know if I would call it kneeling, more like forced submission while I thrash her ass red.”
“I left Twig by the sea.”
It sounds like a bad B-Movie—Twig by the Sea.
“Oh, he’ll be fine,” she reassures, clasping my hand in hers. “He’ll go where the wind blows.” She hovers closer. “And what do you want most in the world?”
“I suppose, to wake up from this nightmare and go to jail for my crimes.”
“Puhleese!” she shouts, lifting her hands in the air. “No one ever wishes to go behind bars. Try again. What do you want most in the world, Ellison?”
“I want to be free from my demons.”
“Then you need to let them go,” she encourages. “The only one holding you back is you.”
“Do I have to go with Whit?”
She shrugs. “Whit can wait. I’m sure Zig will keep him busy.”
I detect her suggestion as her fingers run from my hand up my arm. “What are you doing?”
“Getting mine.”
Her lips sensually press against my neck and drift along my collar bone. My body involuntarily reacts from the arousal. I shift my hips and welcome her caress. She is so much different from any of The Merrymen. “Wait… What are you doing, Mistress?”
“Seducing you.” Her hand skirts beneath the edge of the robe, capturing my breast in her palm. She isn’t hurried or rushed, but painstakingly slow, driving up the ache between my thighs until I can do nothing but beg. “You need to experience everything, Ellison, including the love of a woman.”
I may have been the doctor’s favorite girl, but it was never like this. With every brush of her hand and kiss from her lips, Mistress heals and cauterizes the wounds of my past. She understands me—and my body—like no man can. Falling into her lair, I surrender my spirit and accept her grace.
She pulls open the robe and sweeps her tongue delightfully over my nipple. I close my eyes as her mouth wraps around the peak, an
d she suckles so very slowly. Her hand smooths down my belly and dips into my slit. Her finger curls around my clit, lightly rubbing tiny circles. “Mistress,” I breathe as her lips catch mine.
The tip of her tongue trails along the seam of my lip until she submerges in an unforgettable kiss. Her softness stuns my senses. I expect a Mistress—a Dominant—to be rough and staking her claim. And she is, but not by brute force. Her erotic tantalization of my skin knows no bounds with every whisper of her warmth and touch of her splendor. I become more hypnotized by her magic. The birth of my loyalty to her will last an eternity despite the ephemeral moment of this passage.
She tracks kisses between my breasts and down my navel to the darkest parts of me. The pieces I never have wanted anyone to breach until arriving in this fantastical land. I have found freedom in the arms of The Merrymen, but I find myself in her. Her tongue rolls between my swollen lips—blowing and sucking, licking and tugging—with not so much as a hush between us.
I reach for the sheet, looking for something to hold onto because it is all too much too soon. I didn’t plan on being the village slut. And I damn sure never imagined being consumed by a woman. Her kisses to my nether region ignite a bright spark inside of me. My dim cunt develops into a beacon under her tutelage with accurate and precise strokes bringing on a whimsy narrative that sings in my soul.
I want to howl out hallelujahs and give praise to The Mistress.
Without asking, she is bringing me into her world and unilaterally recharging and restoring my faith in myself. What so many have tried and failed to achieve, The Mistress succeeds in as she confidently slips her knuckles inside of my wetness. I buck, wantonly, desperately yearning for her to elevate my subconscious to another plateau, past the ramshackle decay I’ve resided in for so many years.
I’m accustomed to slumming it.
That is my natural place.
Mentally. Physically.
I live in the cesspool of greed and instability, of dire consequences, where betrayal is everyone’s middle name, and the knife I wear in my back like the latest fashion craze is a present from Mommy and Daddy.
Love doesn’t exist like this where I come from.
It’s not rare; we don’t express it, have it, own it, or know it.
This love The Mistress of The Darkland is showing me is completely fucking foreign. I don’t know this sweet epic sonata, which she portrays so open and willing. I’m mystified by the phenomenon and my reaction as my body arches to every graze of her lips. I collapse into her rhythm, contorting myself to her will, as every stroke of her tongue causes a rift, and I spread my thighs wide for her consummation. Each pump of her fingers catapults radiant energy through my veins as my heart pounds faster and faster. She’s making love to me as if I loved myself enough to care.
But she does…
She cares more than enough for both of us.
This love warms my cold heart to being no longer inconsequential. I matter. She matters. This moment matters. And saving my tragic mental landscape matters too.
I come without warning and let the dam holding back the agony and pain trickle into a flood. “Mistress,” I moan, clutching her arm. “Don’t stop giving!”
With her hair tossed more than before, she eases up from between my legs and whispers, “Then don’t stop taking what is rightfully yours.”
After taking a moment to recover, I bravely touch her cheek and ask, “Why do you look like you’ve been crying?”
“These aren’t tears of pain, but marks of joy. I get a little emotional when I think about my boys.” I want to ask which one brought on the mascara stains, but I can’t. I know it had to be Sig or Twig. “They’re all special in their own way. Each man brings something different to you. The key is finding the one you love.”
“You love Sig.”
“Is it that obvious?” she giggles as tears well in her eyes. “You weren’t far off. We’re supposed to marry after the fall of the oppression.”
“But he was taken,” I whisper, rubbing the tips of her silken hair in my fingers. “And now…”
“Now, I don’t know what the future holds,” she confides, attempting to put on a brave face. “I need to get him out of the castle before the uprising.”
With a shaky voice, I respectfully question, “What can I do for you?”
“Do what you were born to do.”
Borrowing The Mistress’ sexy coat, I take off the next morning to Whitman’s house. It’s a good distance, but my thoughts keep my mind busily scraping over the minute details.
Like why Twig was escorting me to the castle if he knew about Mr. Dare’s party? Were we planning on backtracking? And why in the world am I attending a party when The Darkland needs saving from the evil Queen?
While I am slightly disturbed, partying at a time like this seems ludicrous. And if Whitman’s idea of a celebration is a cake or tea…or a slap to my ass, then he has another coming. I am taken by The Mistress and her Merrymen, more specifically, Twig.
I do so like him.
And maybe leaving him on the cliff was the worst thing I could’ve done, but I had no choice. Well, I did, but he doesn’t need a train wreck of a girl like me weighing him down.
Stopping at the broken oak, I spin around to search for the house. The Mistress gave instructions to me. “Where is it?”
“What are you looking for?” The large beast in the tree asks. “Certainly, you must have some idea where you are going?”
Staring at his glowing fangs, I mutter, “Not really, no.”
“You are the Ellison.”
“Yes, as many have repeatedly informed me. I am supposed to be at Mr. Whitman Dare’s house.”
A fuzzy brow arches up high on his forehead, and his whiskers twitch. He’s no less than ten times the size of Nida. “They do not own a house.”
“Head thataway,” he says, pointing with a sharpened talon. “Go to the river, and you’ll find their assemblage.”
“… Assemblage?”
“Respectfully,” he says, licking his paw and grinning at me. “I cannot provide the details. What fun would that be?”
“Quite a bit better than all these secrets.”
“Says the girl dressed for a party.” My hands brush over my waist and hips held tight by the black leather shorts The Mistress let me borrow. I grab the side panels of the lace coat and tightly wrap the sheer fabric over me. I don’t like the way this kitty is speaking to me. Or the fact that his bulbous eyes convey arrant mischief. I take an easy step back as he leans forward with a smirk fit for a creepy clown.
“I will be going now,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
“No need.” He waves me off. “Watch yourself, girl.”
A shiver spreads throughout my body, and I scurry away as fast as I can. I run towards the river and wish I had a river to float away in. I have no idea where I’d go, but it wouldn’t be here or there, or anywhere I’ve ever been. It’d be a place of happiness. A space of my own where I could run barefooted in tall grass and get lost in the sunshine for hours. And I’d be free from the demons trapped with these lobes.
I was okay with believing I had died.
… Until Twig.
He fucked all my processes up with his kind words and fat cock. I didn’t need a man or his mayhem. And I certainly didn’t need a woman and her generous spirit.
No…I was just fine…all alone…by myself.
I slump to the ground in a fit of tears. I’m hysterically crying in a forest where no one can hear me. If I could burn these timbers down to the ground, I would. I’d rebuild these lands from the ash and start over.
If I only could…
If I only could…
If I only could…
“What are you doing here?” Pierre peps, with his squeaky voice, as I drop my hands from my face. “You should be at the gathering!”
“I’m so lost, old friend…”
Which sounds profoundly ridiculous considering…
“F
ollow me,” he eagerly slurs. “Sisyphus Mott is waiting on you.”
“I’m supposed to be at Whitman Dare’s house…”
“Oh, no!” he rattles with his bizarre accent. “Honey, you are supposed to be Sisyphus’ party.”
“Huh?” I ask, swearing I heard Pierre say I am the party.
Before answering me, he skitters off, and I stop…gasping…watching. Every nerve ending tingles, knowing I shouldn’t follow him into the brush. This is a mistake, but I do it because what other option does a crazy girl have?
I am stuck—for better or worse—in this looping narrative of crimes and misdeeds against other people. It is very misfortunate to be me.
And if they fuck with me, it will be very misfortunate for them.
I follow Pierre until my coat gets stuck on a bramble and tears. “Shit,” I mumble, trying to loosen it from the thorns. Stripping it off, I feel the uncontrolled twinge. “Fuck it.”
The cool light mist dampens my skin as I swim through the branches and leaves to find a chandelier reminiscent of the one above the bed in the woods.
Before, I stupidly followed a hare…before I foolishly let him draw up my skirt…before I consented to his slapping my ass into this nightmare tunnel. The vision of transgressions lays out eloquently, so pristinely, like the finely aligned china spread on the table before me.
And here, there at the head of the table sits The Madman.
Sisyphus Mott.
In a tattered hat embroidered with 25/8, he stretches his arms behind his head and gloats.
Yes, gloats.
Dick.
He knows he has me. I wish like hell he wasn’t wearing that snarl with lips the color of wine or raising a brow above gloriously deep-set, beguiling eyes.
“… You called?”
“You’re late, Ellison,” he chides, methodically twirling his knife. “Very fucking late.”
Dragging my finger along the edge of the ornate, highly polished table, I walk closer with an even pace as he rises from his chair. I twirl once…twice…along my way to meet his royal asshole. The Mistress…The Merrymen…Twig…they were nothing but a distraction to keep me from the grand magician and his haunting reverie. He is the one that has been demanding my presence since the beginning. He is the source, the core, and the machine.
Madness Page 8
