Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
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Serving the Immortals
By
Katie Douglas
Copyright © 2017 by Stormy Night Publications and Katie Douglas
Copyright © 2017 by Stormy Night Publications and Katie Douglas
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Douglas, Katie
Serving the Immortals
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by Dreamstime/Bartosz Wardziak, 123RF/Harris Shiffman, and 123RF/elisanth
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Chapter One
It was late evening when I first saw her. I was sitting out on the patio and trying to draw moonlit foliage in a tiny village in the south of France, where I’d arrived the day before, to study art. I think she caught my attention because the birds had fallen silent in the still air as her shadow passed them. The rustle of a long skirt was barely audible, accompanied by the vision of a tall woman, with dark hair bound in a high bun, a black figure casting her shapely silhouette over the leaves I was trying to draw. I was intrigued, for I thought the only other occupant of this cottage was my reluctant and irritable elderly tutor, Elodie Neige, the famous former landscape artist.
This was not she. The lines of her body were too strongly defined; a tall and elongated hourglass. I got to my feet, glad I wasn’t wearing heels, and took two steps forward, barely able to take my eyes off the dress she wore, which seemed to be made of a portion of midnight.
She glided to the gate at the bottom of the garden and she maneuvered the mechanism so quickly that she seemed to pass through it. I was torn between hurrying after her and keeping my distance. It was probably a bit creepy to be following a strange woman on a dark night, and I didn’t want her to be angry with me. Whoever she was, I just knew there was something special about her.
From a safe distance of about thirty feet, I studied her balance and poise. She was in control of every muscle in her body, and she seemed to be in command of her hair and clothing as well. It all moved in the right way to be intriguing and mysterious and hot, all at the same time. I had never chased after someone like this before, and I wondered whether I’d know what to do if I caught up with her.
As she made her way down the steep path toward the valley, she moved with such self-assurance that I could tell she was one of those people who never faced such dilemmas. I felt my nipples hardening at the idea of her finding me, undressing me, piercing me with her gaze and looking into my soul. Deflating slightly, I acknowledged that she would probably find me lacking in some way. There wasn’t a lot I could offer to a woman like that. I had decided to turn around, to concede that this whole situation was irrational, but my feet chose that moment to betray me. The flat shoes had no real grip on the damp grass and I slipped, tumbling toward a ditch.
I was in her arms before I realized she’d caught me. All my brain could concentrate on was the fact that her dress was made of black velvet.
“You were following me,” she observed. Her voice was deep and creamy, and the French words sounded so sensual on her tongue.
I was so deeply struck with awe that I didn’t know what to say. My nipples were straining against my t-shirt, making it hard to concentrate.
“Run along, little girl. The night is not your home.” She deposited me on the path, facing toward the cottage, and gave me a little push. I tried to hide a gasp as she touched me, her fingers igniting a glow where they made contact with my shoulders through my t-shirt. Something about her voice compelled me to obey her. When I turned around, finally able to speak, she had gone.
Mystified, I returned to Elodie’s home and went to my bed, leaving the drawing forgotten.
* * *
The next three nights, I sat out late and hoped to catch a glimpse of her, but she didn’t return. On the fourth night, I was upstairs writing in my journal and half-daydreaming out of the window when I spotted her on the path below, a moment before I heard the heavy front door closing. She had been in the house, here, and I hadn’t even known! That must have been why I saw her the first time, too. Elodie’s cottage was the only building in the remote landscape. There was no way I could get to her before she could vanish into the night again, camouflaged by the black velvet dress she wore. Instead, I clattered down the staircase and interrogated Elodie, who was angrily decapitating carrots as though she were their executioner, letting their severed green tops tumble into the garbage. She didn’t look up, and when I asked who the woman was, she glared harder at the vegetables as she cast them into the stew pot, then muttered something in Catalan that I didn’t understand.
“Sabine Fischer, you will stay away from that creature,” she spat in barely intelligible French. The old lady picked up a rolling pin and hurried me out of the kitchen before closing the door behind me, leaving me with an eyeful of peeling mint-green paint.
Being naïve and twenty-one besides, I didn’t listen. Do I wish I had? I’m not sure, but that was definitely the point when a more sensible girl would have turned back and forgotten about the woman in the black dress. I was smitten, however, and more to the point I was curious. Feeling restless, brave, and invincible, I decided that Elodie was old, grumpy, and not worth listening to.
* * *
The next night, I saw her leaving the cottage once more. I was in the conservatory so I dropped everything and pursued her. I would have chased her to the end of the world, just to hear her tell me to go home again.
If she did, would I have to obey her again?
I followed more cautiously this time, not wanting her to know I was in pursuit, and I found that in the bright moonlight she was easy to follow from a greater distance. Her dress was nearly invisible but the curve of her bare neck called to me like a white beacon.
We walked for more than a mile, and she didn’t turn once, although my eyes were feasting upon her the whole time. I hardly noticed that the surroundings had changed to trees, but when the forest became denser, blotting out the light, I began to fear that I would lose my quarry.
In the thicker darkness of this woodland, a black shadow seemed to cut a piece out of the nocturnal landscape, leaving emptiness where there should have been treetops illuminated with silver. Was it a mountain? The sides seemed quite abrupt. As we got closer, the top started to look crenellated, and I knew then that it was a castle. Was this her destination?
I wanted to call to her, to tell her I was here, but I was afraid. What would she do if she noticed me? Awkwardly, I watched her disappear into the blackness, then I followed. At the doorway, I wondered if I should turn back now. This was her private place, and I was invading it like a stray dog. Would she want to speak to me if I violated her right to be alone?
I couldn’t lose her after coming so
far.
“You don’t know when to quit.” Her voice bled into the silence like a drop of ink expanding in some water, and my pussy clenched as her words resonated within my soul.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” I said, hoping she would understand.
She stepped forward, the minky velvet of her dress swirling in the closing space between us, then I finally saw her face. It was perfect. The cheekbones were high, the forehead smooth and youthful, the neck long; her skin could have been made of cream. A slight perfume rose from her swollen breasts, which were barely concealed by the low-cut neckline of the dress. I flickered into a daydream where I could hold them, kiss them, taste them.
She pounced upon me and held me by the throat; I could feel her breath on my cheek as she pushed me against the wall. I was powerless to resist her.
“I am going to spank you, for following me, then you are going back to your bed. It is too late for little doves to be out in the dark, alone.” Her voice was so mesmerizing that she had sat on a stone step and pulled me over her knee before it registered that she intended to bare me. The mysterious woman pulled on the button, undid the zipper on my jeans and slid the denim down my thighs, immobilizing my legs somewhat. I was suddenly filled with an urgent dread that was underscored with a shameful sense of anticipation. Next, she dragged my underwear down, exposing my skin to the summer night air. My pussy tingled as it was uncovered, but the rest of me disagreed with being so revealed and I felt my face blushing. I tried to struggle and kick, but by then it was already too late. With my legs encircled by my clothing and her left arm wrapped around my waist, she had me firmly held. There was nothing I could do to escape whatever she intended to do to me. She was close, and the scent of her body was sophisticated; I wanted to nestle into her and inhale until I could remember no other perfume but hers. Her hand was caressing my bottom cheeks, and my clit was twitching in anticipation. What right did she have to take control of my body and elicit such a reaction from me before I even knew her name?
“You can’t!” I tried to protest, but it seemed somewhat redundant since I was already over her knee and the cold night air proved my slit was already damp.
“This is not your land, little girl. I can do what I like, here.” She sent a ringing slap to my sit-spots. As the sting resounded through my cheeks, I tried to kick free again, but it just caused her to spank me harder. Had she no sense of decency? An especially hard swat made me gasp when I felt it land on the crest of one of my upturned cheeks. It was matched on the other side by one of equal vigor. Staring at the inky ground, I wondered how long she would do this for; how long I could stand it. The swats were loud, and I began to sob. As if immune to my condition, she scattered spanks across my haunches, pausing occasionally to caress the curve that my behind made as it turned into the small of my back, which was involuntarily arched at a sharp angle due to the position she held me in. Then, as if dissatisfied with the temperature of my skin (for surely, she couldn’t see the color in the near-darkness), she resumed again, paying no heed to the sounds of discontent I was making. This definitely wasn’t how I wanted our second meeting to go. My rear burned as she kept spanking me; her hand was really hard, and soon I was crying and clawing at the ground. I could taste my salty tears, and then the whole world seemed to revolve around my sore bottom.
When she stopped, she left me over her knee until I ceased crying. I was comforted by that. I felt as though we had shared an intimate moment together, which I was reluctant to let go of, no matter how little she thought of me for crying over her soft velvet dress like this. When I calmed myself, she tipped me upright, onto my feet, where I wobbled unsteadily for a moment. I felt thoroughly chastened and humiliated. My bottom still burned, and the feeling was worse when I pulled my clothing back over the tingling skin. When I looked into her eyes, the irises were black, and for the first time, I felt fearful.
“Why are you out here at this hour?” I asked, as I tried to push away the spell of her beauty.
“Sense of place is potent to ones like me; we lust for the landscape in the same way your body is lusting for mine at this moment.” She got up and stood before me; tall, sure of herself, and radiating power.
“How do you… I mean… I’m not lusting for you!” My face flushed the same color as my bottom must have been, and I hoped she couldn’t tell in the dim light.
“Little doves shouldn’t tell lies,” she murmured, her lips brushing my ear, then she trailed a long nail from my ear down the side of my neck. I wanted to give myself to her. I needed to feel her touch on my most intimate places. She entranced me.
“Kneel on the ground,” she commanded. Her voice scared me. I knew I should flee and return to the cottage and its safety, but her eyes compelled me to obey. I got down on my knees, ignoring the chafing feeling of my clothing against my bottom, and I watched as she pulled a length of thin chain out of her pocket.
“Please, I want to go now,” I begged her, but she laughed. The sound was intoxicating.
“If you can’t stand the view, stay off the balcony,” she mocked, as she pulled my wrists behind my back and fastened the chain around them. Fear overtook me for several long moments, but the more I tried to get to my feet, the tighter the chain felt around my wrists. She bound my ankles, next, so I couldn’t get out of the kneeling position.
“It’s enchanted, so it becomes tighter when you struggle harder. Why do you fight your own desires, silly girl?” Her honeyed voice had an undertone of steel that made my nipples even harder, and I shook my head to deny it all.
“You’re wrong!” was the best answer I could think up, and I began to cry again.
She walked away and left me there, and I felt shame and embarrassment course through me. What if someone saw me like that? What if she had friends nearby? I had never wanted to be invisible as much as I did at that moment.
Alone, bound, and helpless, I started to take in my surroundings. I could see stars through a big hole in the roof, and around me, moonlight poured in through the windows, which were semi-covered with ragged, decaying curtains. The ground was covered in grass where I sat, but I recalled walking over something hard and flat, like flagstones, before I got here. This must be well hidden, in the woods far away from prying eyes. Elodie’s cottage was miles from the nearest village, so this place was probably relatively undisturbed. Would anyone find me here? My fear of being humiliated was overshadowed by my fear of being abandoned, and I tried to think through my options. No penknife, no handy sharp rock, no trained mice or rats to help me escape. Nobody knew that I was here.
When I tried to call for help, my voice came out in silence, and when I tried to scream with all my might, the only sound I made was a sigh. What had she done to me? I could breathe, speak, cry, but not shout or scream. I couldn’t move my arms or legs. Was she some sort of witch? I felt like a fly, trapped in a spider’s web, awaiting her fate.
At some point, I must have fallen asleep once more, but I kept waking fitfully, feeling uncomfortable and stiff in the position I’d been tied in. After what seemed like hours of confusing nightmares and half-remembered echoes of conversations, I may have dreamed it, but I felt like someone carried me. My hands and feet were freed and I felt the blood returning to them as I was placed on something soft. Before I could rouse myself, or even open my eyes, I felt the slightest contact of someone else’s lips pressed on mine, then I heard the faint sound of a kiss. My core glowed with lust. I dragged my eyelashes apart with willpower, but by the time I had focused in the dim morning twilight, all I saw was a dark shadow gliding out of my window. I was in my room, alone, with the lingering memory of that kiss to remind me of my dangerous obsession with the woman in the black gown.
I fell asleep properly this time, and when I woke to the sound of birds in their nest under the cottage’s eaves, I couldn’t say for certain if any of it had really happened or not.
Chapter Two
The vivid dream of being kissed by my mysterious stranger fad
ed in the light of the Languedoc summer, and the languid heat left me drained and tired. In my native Austria, we didn’t experience such intense summers, and I wanted nothing more than to breathe the clean, easy air of an Alpine mountainside. My visit with Elodie culminated in me learning very little from her about the actual mechanics of drawing; too obsessed was she with grumbling at every divergence from her usual routine. If I hadn’t seen her pictures hanging in Vienna’s art galleries, I would not have been sure she even knew how to paint. I left feeling disillusioned and with a nagging feeling of loneliness that kept bringing my thoughts back to the night in the ruined castle.
I returned home for several months, before I decided that I needed to travel more, see more, do more, if I wanted to hone my art. I kissed my grandmother goodbye once more and took a train to Prague, where I was convinced I would fill the emptiness growing inside me.
I was overconfident in my budgeting, and after three weeks in one of Prague’s finer hotels, I had to concede financial defeat and move to a small bunkhouse. Not having enough for the train journey home, and not wanting to admit to my grandmother that I couldn’t take care of myself, I took a job waiting tables at a local restaurant, which hired me quickly for my fluent German and passable English and French. At first, I was sustained by the romantic vision of the impoverished artist working a day job, unnoticed amongst Prague’s nouveau-riche and the constant stream of tourists. After six weeks, however, I grew weary. I never had any money to go out or visit the art galleries. Nobody ever tipped me, and the minimum wage regularly left me with the choice of either eating or paying my board. The artist truly was starving; starving for culture and companionship as much as for food.
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