Cruel Enchantment

by Janine Ashbless

  He stopped when he saw her. Sevran took another step back and was blocked by the edge of the table, solid against her arse. Without looking behind him, the man shut the door one-handed and dropped the latch, his eyes on her face. He moved towards her carefully. Sevran rode the rising tide of her shallow breaths, her eyes huge and pleading, her lips parted. He reached out to her with one hand and touched his fingers to her throat – she jumped at his touch, then held herself still as his hand described a caress across her collarbone, the curve of her jaw, under her ear. His thumb brushed her full lips, parting them easily, pressing into the wetness of her mouth. She slid the tip of her tongue around the callused pad of the thumb.

  He moved in closer, standing over her, still wordless, pale eyes burning in a face still masklike. His other hand found the back of her neck, buried itself in the thickness of her hair, knotted it, held her, pulling her inexorably back as he leaned over her. The hand at her face drew free and sought her breasts through the linen. Her nipples were so hard that the touch of his fingers was painful; Sevran gasped with shock at the pleasure that stabbed through her as his hand passed from breast to breast, fingers and palm exploring the rich curves. When he gripped her left nipple and tugged it, a hot wave of helplessness washed over her and she moaned in her throat, closing her eyes. It was as if he had drawn hooks across her soul, snaring her in a thousand pricks of agonised delight – if he had not been holding her up, she would have collapsed across the table. Her own hands, white knuckled, lost their grip on the table edge and flew up of their own volition under his shirt, finding smooth skin over hard planes of muscle.

  For a moment, in their questing, they each mirrored the other, then the man abruptly pulled her upright again and released her. Sevran’s eyes flew open; she feared she had done something wrong, but he simply needed both arms free to drag the shirt across his head and discard it. Sevran’s impertinence was rewarded by the sight of his naked torso, strangely hairless, lean and well muscled but scarred across chest and shoulders. She touched a silver scar tentatively and felt a shiver chase across his skin; as if to punish her now he knocked her hands away, caught both her wrists and gripped them behind her back with one strong hand. He loomed over her once more. Swiftly he tugged her undershift down across her shoulders. The deep neckline caught across the swell of her breasts but he was not going to be thwarted and pulled the cloth ruthlessly over their soft resistance, snagging the erect nipples. Stripped naked, her breasts were beautiful; full and dark nippled, their generous size emphasised by the narrowness of her waist, their firm softness contrasting with her strong, work-honed shoulders and stomach.

  Sevran arched herself against the hand at the small of her back as he stooped over her, his mouth suddenly against her skin. It was a demanding, hungry mouth, teeth grazing her skin, tongue and lips devouring her, twisting her nipples, tugging and sucking across her eager body. She tried not to moan too loudly, but was barely conscious of anything but the flames of sensation and desire ripping through her flesh. He bore her over so that she lay flat upon the table, her crossed hands pinned behind her by her own weight, her legs pushed apart by the edge of the wood against the back of her buttocks. His weight was pressed down on her thighs and while his mouth was busy laying claim to her breasts and stomach, his hands, both free now, pushed the skirt of her undershift up to bare her legs. Soon it was bunched about her waist only, serving to hide nothing, only to act – twisted about her wrists and hips – as a rope to tie her helplessly so that she could not block his touch.

  His hands moved over her thighs, gentle once more as they explored the brown fuzz of her pubic mound, her parted labia, the moistness of the cleft between them. Suddenly he was in no hurry, savouring each inch of her flesh. He stood upright to look down upon the body that was offered to him, touching her aching nipples, her yearning lips, her panting throat, all with the certainty, the total possessiveness of one who has inherited a kingdom that needs only to be explored, not to be conquered. He dragged one hand across the taut stretch of her stomach, making her writhe as she strained to follow his touch. He parted her legs further, entered her wet and gaping sex with one finger and then another, spread them to stretch her tightness, raised one eyebrow slightly, though at what Sevran could not say: for, although she stared at him, she could no longer think of anything but the movement of his fingers inside her. With free and unhurried fingers he coaxed more moisture from her and then spread it shamelessly from clitoris to arsehole, his touch at both making her gasp and bare her teeth in frustration. Sevran felt the muscles of her vagina clench about him, pulsing with their own rhythm. He was working her harder now, more than one finger – she could not tell how many – thrusting deeper, rotating, laying her open, preparing her. She ground down on his tormenting hand, her face slack with desire, his taut with concentration. The juices of her sex coated his hands now. He caressed the puckered mouth of her arse with the wetness borrowed from her other eager hole until it yielded, then with one smooth and utterly merciless movement drove his fingers into her anus. For a moment the pain that hit Sevran was blinding – then that agony exploded, inverting into a savage orgasm that tore her apart. She came, jolting and shuddering, on his hands.

  For a long moment he held her like that, watching her spasm, before he slid from her and left her bereft. Sevran felt the loss and the muscles pulsing around empty space; she gasped unconsciously with disappointment. Then, without dropping his trews, the man freed his prick from the cloth and guided it to her now sopping cleft. Sevran could see nothing of this new invader from the angle at which she lay, but she felt the hard tip of his cock running up and down her oozing slit, then pushing relentlessly into her. She welcomed it, gasping to be filled again, feeling the tides surge in her once more.

  But he withdrew, just as she opened for him and before penetrating her fully. He stepped back, picked her up from the table and dropped her to her knees before him. Sevran stared, at a loss, open-mouthed. She had seen an erect penis before, but not this close. It seemed huge; surging from a nest of white hair, glistening dully at the engorged tip, it smelled of her own sex and – sharply – of the man’s alien maleness. It twitched in the warmth of her breath, jerking back against the rigid plane of his belly. The slit at its head wept moisture.

  ‘Your mouth,’ said the man thickly, taking her head in both hands and twisting his fingers in her hair. He guided her lips down over the end of his prick and pushed into the wetness of her mouth. Sevran began to suck eagerly, hardly knowing how it must feel for him but lapping as best she could with her tongue. Her lips gripped his shaft behind the head of his cock, engulfing him in hot velvet; she heard the barely voiced gasp of his gratification. Freeing her hands from the tangle of her undershift, she sought his crotch, playing with the full pouch of his bollocks, trying to divide her attention between their incredible heavy softness and the rock-hard rigidity of his prick. His legs and arse were rigid too with strain. She traced the ripples under her tongue wonderingly, making a delicate foray into the crack at the cock-tip. The man tightened his grip. Then he began to move, thrusting the length of his shaft into her throat, forcing her head down on him. Sevran choked. She wanted to take his length, she tried to yield to him, but her throat was not used to this treatment and she gagged. He let her wrench away after a second. They were both gasping. He tipped her face up to look into it, saw the tears spilling down her cheeks and her swollen, bruised lips. Reluctantly he released her and lifted her to her feet, the undershift falling away from her as she stood.

  Sevran clung to his arms, wretched with disappointment, but he did not give her time to blame herself. He pushed her back on to the table and spread her legs. He did not bother to pinion her arms, this time. He simply entered her, pushing the full length of his aching cock into her. She was tight as a closed fist but she was wet and she was hot and she wanted him. Sevran sank her fingers wildly into his pale skin, clawing at his back then buttocks as he lowered himself down on her with each successive th
rust. She wrapped her thighs around his and pulled him further into her with her legs. He thrust fiercely and without restraint, but she welcomed every movement of his body within her and on her, felt him battering down the walls that separated her from the light, pushing her through, smashing down barrier after barrier –

  The light engulfed her. She sank her nails in, arched and screamed. His naked shoulder muffled her cries and she bit him in delirium. He spasmed above her and his climax tore a groan out of him. Then the light died into the long pulsing throb of his semen pouring into her and the wet gulping twitches of her body drinking it up.

  Slowly the man lowered the full weight of his torso on to Sevran’s. They were both glazed with sweat, their groins fused by hair and hot moisture. She held him as he recovered his strength, feeling the pulse in his throat beat against her cheek. Then he withdrew and turned away from her, very slowly, his lips brushing one bruised breast as they passed. He said nothing as he propped himself against the table, and he did not look at her.

  Sevran stood up slowly. Her arms and legs were shaking, the muscles jumping under the skin. She felt his seed, mingled with her own wetness, begin to ooze out of her and run down one thigh. She looked at the man shamelessly. His trews still hung on his hips; out of them, still erect, his cock rose like a spear, slick with their juices. She wanted to lick it clean. The man sat with his head bowed, lank white hair falling across his face.

  ‘Come to bed,’ she said softly. The man lifted his head to look at her. She indicated the curtain of her bedchamber with one hand and held the other out to him. Rather hesitantly, as if surprised, he laid his hand in hers and their fingers snagged together. For the first time, he smiled.

  The Dragon’s Bride

  THE LITTLE CART lurched over the stones of the track and Sheldi jammed her feet against the side to steady herself, her heart jumping as she looked at the cliff-edge so close to the wheels. A crow floated in the void below her, ink-dark against the greens and browns of the heath. Sheldi was self-possessed enough to find her own fear funny, in the blackest way, and she bared her teeth in a bitter grin. Her father, walking behind the cart, saw her grimace and mumbled, ‘Nearly there, my petal.’ Sheldi turned her head and spat at him, but her throat was too dry and she produced only the noise of her contempt.

  It was not as if bracing herself would help. Her hands were tied behind her back to one of the struts on the cart-side. If the mule pulling the vehicle should lose its footing on the narrow track that wound down into the quarry – or, more likely, throw off the two men walking at its head and bolt over the edge with fear, because it was already shivering and skittering about with nervousness, its nostrils flaring at the acrid scent of the wind – then she would be dragged down with both animal and cart into the drop. She could neither fall out nor leap to safety. Not that there was any safety left for her; the retinue of royal guards would see to that. Sheldi stared into the air that gaped to the side of the small procession and wondered why she should be afraid of falling.

  She did not look into the faces of the men with her, even when the group reached the flat quarry floor and halted by the stake while she was untied and lifted down. She fixed her gaze on the cliffs around them, watching the horizon for movement. She had told herself that she would not show cowardice but it was impossible not to look about for the beast, knowing that it could lurk behind any crag or crouch above them on any height. The soldiers were looking around them too, their weapons gripped tightly – as if they would be of any use – and the priests in their white robes held down their flapping head-dresses and wheeled in tight circles, waiting for the vistas of rock to metamorphose into scale and flesh. The wind here was blustery and loud, hissing through the rocks and caves with a muttering susurration that threatened to hide the approach of any flapping creature. And the place stank of burning and of the unburied remnants of the quarrymen in the blackened ruins of their huts, so that the mule rolled its eyes and jerked at the hands of the men holding its bridle. A pink froth was dripping from its working jaws. Sheldi watched a bright gob of foam fall and splatter on the rocks at its feet. She knew they would not be able to restrain the mule for much longer if they did not lead it away soon.

  Hands belonging to several soldiers seized her and pushed her back against the stake, not gently. Her wrists were retied. The men worked quickly, anxious to get away from her presence, as if she were something unclean. Her father hovered, his face grey, but as soon as she located him Sheldi looked away again, tilting her head back to stare into the cloud-streaked sky. Another hand, unseen, reached from behind her to loosen the ribbons in her hair, so that the heavy honey-coloured length of it slipped free to stream around her shoulders and wrap tenderly against the rough iron of the spike at her back. There were flowers in her hair, and gold jewellery at her throat and wrists, and her tight robe was of fine green silk worked with embroidery, which clung to her frame in emphasis of her youth and her curving figure. She was dressed as a bride would be, though this was no wedding and her partner would not be a man. But it was tradition, as was the iron stake – a tradition not called upon in fifty years, and now four times in as many months.

  The oldest of the priests, and the highest ranking she supposed, stepped in front of Sheldi and offered a small flask to her dry lips. ‘You may drink this,’ he said as the wind tugged his long beard sideways. ‘It will take away the pain.’

  Sheldi looked at the flask bleakly. ‘No,’ she decided at last. She raised her voice so that everyone could hear. ‘Tell Edwin that even if he is too afraid to send his own daughter, I can still face the dragon.’

  ‘Impudent slut!’ the priest snapped. ‘You may not use such words of His Majesty!’

  ‘Oh?’ said Sheldi. ‘And what will you do to me?’ But her voice had failed her and was shaking now. She watched the priest turn his back, then glanced over at her father to see his reaction. Above his stiff velvet collar the man’s face was pink and stricken. He’s embarrassed, Sheldi thought incredulously; I’ve let him down because I’m not behaving like a lady! The last words she had been saving for him died in her throat and she closed her eyes. The raging wound of her betrayal shrank like a doused fire; she was numb with pain.

  ‘In the name of His Majesty, King Edwin, and of all his subjects, I acknowledge the brave sacrifice that you make for the sake of the Kingdom and the city that you love, and I offer you our thanks,’ said the priest in flat tones. He raised his right hand as if to bless her, then changed his mind and waved at the guards. ‘Summon the dragon,’ he said.

  Sheldi kept her head bowed as the bulk of the party hurried off, not heading for the road but for some sheltering outcrop where they would be out of sight. One soldier remained, waiting until they were a reasonable distance away, holding a long trumpet before him like a snake he wanted to drop. The pause seemed interminable. Sheldi raised her head to watch him, looking for some trace of sympathy in his scarred face. His eyes were brown and met her own reluctantly, only for the space of a single breath. Nothing was said. He licked his lips, raised the trumpet and blew a long aching note.

  Sheldi flinched. The soldier turned and ran, his feet scattering stones. When the noise of his flight had diminished, there was no sound but the soughing of the wind and the roar of the blood in Sheldi’s ears.

  The dragon came over the lip of the quarry, high up, and circled four times, banking steeply, before it stooped to land. The rocks crunched and stirred under its bulk. Its shadow was vast, as dark as a storm cloud, but the huge membranous wings folded compactly as it found its footing on the stones and crouched over her, within striking distance if it should choose to stretch out its neck. Sheldi stared, could not help staring; she felt as if her heart had stopped and she had died in a rictus that froze her with eyes open. I don’t believe this is happening, she thought. It’s a dragon. I’m going to die now. She did not know which concept was harder for her to grasp.

  The dragon arced its sinuous neck and gazed down at her, and for all the
red-and-black scaled length of its form, the spines of the neck and the talons on each of its feet and the leathery, smoky stink of it, it was the eyes that seized Sheldi’s attention; eyes yellow as flame with black, vertical slits for pupils, eyes that gleamed like gold in the furnace, eyes that looked down the long, ridged length of its head, not set at the side as horses’ are but forward like an eagle’s; predatory, fierce, intelligent eyes that made Sheldi writhe within even as she clung motionless to the stake. The dragon opened its mouth slightly to reveal rows of curved teeth – all canines, sharp as spear-points. The ember-coloured skin of its throat worked.

  ‘Promising,’ it said. Its voice was like rocks grinding together in a river; it made the ground tremble and Sheldi could feel the vibration of its rumble thrumming into her fingers and spine through the stake. ‘What are you called, little thing?’ the dragon continued.

  Sheldi felt her knees weakening. She had to jam her back against the iron to stop herself from falling. ‘Sheldi,’ she forced out. It sounded like a squeak to her ears but the dragon heard.

  ‘Sheldi,’ it rasped. ‘Meaning “happiness” in the Western dialect. Are you happy, little thing?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ she croaked. She wondered crazily with part of her mind what kind of creature liked to talk with its prey, while the other half of her mind concentrated on not losing control of her bladder. Her vision skidded down the incredible muscular length of its body, trying to assimilate the dry, scaly immensity of a creature as big as a building. It was dull red in colour, fading to grimy black about the feet and tail and head, its wings and belly the colour of dried blood. Oddly, it did not occur to Sheldi to scream; perhaps because that would be too small a response to such a monstrosity.