Erotic Tales of the Nyphrazi - Complete 7 Part Series

by Minky St Anne

  I bounce my arrival on the skanky couch in the hut belonging to Ben’s friend and look around wildly for him; finally spotting him out on the deck.

  “Ben!” I yell loudly enough for him to hear me and he’s at my side in an instant.

  I lie back and peel myself open for him, too far gone to be embarrassed with my wicked behavior.

  “Fuck me, fuck me hard.”

  I’m incredibly frustrated when rather than do my bidding; he sits back on his heels and stares down at my body with his gaze running up and down it several times. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “What? What? Just fuck me.” I’m whimpering with need because all the sensations left there by Praedytus are swirling around in my body looking for release.

  “You’re glowing,” says Ben, before reaching out to tentatively touch one of my nipples. He hisses as hard as I do.

  “Holy fuck.” He stands so quickly, he nearly falls over, but swiftly gains his balance and loses his clothes shortly afterwards.

  I’m relieved to see he’s hard because the need to have him buried deep inside me is overwhelming.

  “Coffee table!” I grit out and while he settles himself I struggle to free myself from the depths of the couch. “Hold yourself ready for me, because I think if we touch before then, it’ll all be over.”

  With my legs wide, to avoid touching him, I move forward until I’m right over the top of his splendidly hard cock. I slowly lower myself and as soon as I know I’m on target, I slam myself down, hard, feeling every inch of him in the process. But it’s still not enough and I grind away trying to take him ever deeper, while he draws hard on my nipples with his mouth and grips my ass as though to get us even closer.

  But both of us are still hovering on the edge and looking around wildly in hopes of finding something, anything that will help us to come. I’m crying in frustration when I hear Praedytus’s voice clearly inside my head, “I told you I was addictive.” That I then feel his hot mouth close over my clit to suckle away on it is enough to having me coming so hard that I have spots before my eyes. Ben follows right after.

  “Did you feel that?” says Ben, once we’re lying in a heap on the couch?

  “Feel what?” I’m not sure I want to admit to him what I felt.

  “In the middle of all that, I’m sure I felt someone sucking on my balls.”

  I don’t dare explain to him that this was courtesy of a George Clooney lookalike who’s old enough to be all our fathers. I think it would ruin his buzz.

  It’s not until we’re safely in the truck heading home that I ask Ben something that’s been niggling away at me. “So, what do you know about nickel?”

  I try to be as nonchalant as I can, but he’s not fooled for a second with his expression clearly telling me that he’s worked out which god is next in line, but eventually he answers, “Um, atomic number 28, fairly corrosion resistant, takes a high polish, can causes rashes. Magnetic at room temperature.”

  All I can take in from this list of attributes are the rashes and magnetic bits. Damn, and here I was thinking Praedytus was going to be a handful. It doesn’t look as though Axel is going to be a breeze, either.

  God of Nickel

  Erotic Tales of the Nyphrazi

  Part 5

  Chapter One

  It’s been four months since the Goldie Box incident, as Ben and I jokingly refer to it, and there’s still been no sign of Axel with his potentially magnetic and rash-causing capabilities.

  And that suits me fine.

  What doesn’t suit me is that yet again any contact with Vyran has been severed although this time I suspect it’s as a result of his father rather than his brothers.

  It’s not that I haven’t tried, requesting Vyran’s presence whenever I’m safely on my own. But it does no good and if I persevere all that happens, is I end up with a blinding headache that takes a couple of days to recover from. When Ben had found out what I was up to, he’d looked so hurt, that I’d put my search on hold; at least for now.

  And yes, Ben and I are officially ‘dating’ and he’s even met my parents who like him, although my mom did a double-take at his bright red hair. Not that the official part has made much difference to how we act with each other. The main obstacle our relationship faces is when and where we can screw each other’s brains out. With Ben living at the hostel and me at home, our moments are few and far between and I’d rather forget one extremely athletic session we’d had in the cab of Ben’s truck. I’d ended up with a killer cramp in my hip and come close to being screwed by the stick shift knob.

  We’d thought about heading back up to the cabin up in the hills, but the risk of disappearing for four days, or even more, in some weird Nyphrazi time warp is too great and so we’re avoiding going anywhere near the place. Even the shack where I’d lost the Goldie Box is no longer available now that Ben’s mate is home again.

  Now, other than the occasional night in one of the local motels, we’re having increasing difficulty in scratching each other’s itches. It can’t last, and neither can we.

  Ben and I stand and stare transfixed at the properties for rent in the realtor’s window. They range from straight out hovels to palatial pads with all the bells and whistles, but not a lot in between.

  “This isn’t going to be as easy as I thought,” says Ben, peering at the photo of a cabin that’s unquestionably at the hovel end of the spectrum.

  We continue looking at the cards in silence until this is broken by Ben. “The pain in the ass is that I already own the hill cabin.”

  “You do?” This is news to me because he’s always made out that it belongs to a family friend.

  “Yeah,” says Ben, looking sheepish. “Some girls get funny when they find that out.”

  I don’t know whether to be flattered that I’ve obviously passed some test or pissed to find out that I’ve been one of many females he’s taken up there. On the up side, he’s good in bed because of it, so I can’t really complain. There’s also the small point of my having been fucked by four of the Gods of Nyphrazi now, with two of them, or maybe three, while I’ve been seeing him.

  I know it’s only a matter of time before Axel the God of Nickel makes an appearance but I’m making the most of his reluctance in the meantime. The one god Ben and I have interacted with since my last trip to the Nyphrazi is Praedytus, the God of All Desire. Not that Ben realizes our sometimes amazing sex is due to the oldest god of them all. I’d tell him, but I’m not sure how I feel about it myself, to be honest.

  “What about this place?” says Ben, breaking in on my thoughts.

  “I thought you wanted to rent.” I’m sure as hell not going to be able to help him with a mortgage. While my credit card balances might be down to manageable levels, I’m not going to stop throwing money at them until they’re cleared. Even then I want a decent stash of cash slugged away in the bank before I’ll be totally happy.

  “I thought I did, but at that price I’d be crazy not to buy.”

  “If you can afford it, you go for it,” I say, hoping to subtly let him know that if he buys the place, he’s doing so on his own.

  I look around the carpark, again. “He did say three o’clock, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, and he’s late,” says Ben, stating the obvious.

  I move my weight from one leg to the other until I’m swaying on the spot but at least it’s gotten my blood flowing again.

  “You the folks interested in The Metal Beast?” says a chap, who suddenly pops up next to us.

  Damned if I know how we missed him though, he’s wearing a comb over, checked sports pants and a butt-ugly orange blazer.

  He still gives me a start though and I’m unable to stifle the small scream that escapes, but this soon turns into a snigger. Who the fuck calls a boat The Metal Beast? While I’ve been going through this raft of emotions, Ben has confirmed that we’re who the realtor is looking for.

  “Follow me,” and we do, although it’s hard to keep up beca
use he sets a cracking pace across the carpark and then straight onto the floating walkway without slowing down. I keep waiting for him to take one of the walkways that branches off on either side at regular intervals, but he keeps going until his only option, other than swimming, is to turn to the right. He takes the corner like a pro and we dutifully follow.

  “There she is folks,” says Stan, according to the name embroidered on the pocket of his bright orange polyester jacket.

  The Metal Beast occupies the last spot but one.

  “Fuck me!” says Ben, after looking closely at the motor yacht, “Is she seaworthy?”

  “Yes indeed, the rust is mostly superficial. Just needs a spruce up here and there.”

  “Spruce up?” I mutter under my breath to Ben. The photo we’d seen in the realtor’s window had obviously had quite the run in with Photoshop.

  Seeing we’re not going to enthuse over the piece of shit any time soon, Stan nips down the skinny floating pontoon that sits between The Beast and the luxury sloop moored at the very end.

  It’s not until all three of us are safely on the aft deck that he starts what is obviously a well-rehearsed sales patter, the gist of which appears to be that The Metal Beast is bursting with potential.

  Any potential makes itself scarce before we open the door to the main cabin, obviously being able to move a hell of a lot faster than the resident roach population. Never mind motels, we’re going to need to build condos to get take care of this many of the little fuckers.

  Stan points out that The Beast has good bones although these are hard to see under the sheer volume of crap that clutters every surface.

  “What about storage,” I say, assuming there isn’t any given the easy-access system currently in use.

  Stan assures me there is and proves it by throwing open cupboard after cupboard, with all of them packed to the gunnels with even more crap. There doesn’t appear to be any logic in how things have been stored either, with crumpled clothing sitting snuggly next to pots and pans and engine oil. I’m surprised there are any pots left in the cupboards considering how many await washing in a teetering pile in the sink.

  Since asking if the yacht was seaworthy, Ben has been strangely quiet and doesn’t speak again until we’re back in the carpark.

  “And they want fifty grand for that pile of shit?” says Ben, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

  Even from a couple of feet away I can clearly see the tic in his jaw.

  Stan opens his mouth and I think he’s going to defend the quality of the vessel, but he closes it briefly before saying, “forty eight actually.”

  Ben repeats this figure, although his delivery of the sum is nowhere near as smooth as Stan’s had been.

  “I’m sure there’s a deal to be done,” says Stan.

  “You better believe it,” says Ben, “but I’ll need to see that tub out of the water before I consider offering a cent.”

  The catch in Stan’s breathing turns into a coughing fit and so I’m surprised when, after getting his diaphragm under control, he says, “I’m sure that can be arranged,” although his voice is sorely strained.

  He leaves us in the middle of the carpark promising to stay in touch, but it’s not until we’re in the truck that Ben and I talk about the pros and cons of The Metal Beast.

  “There is a lot of space,” I say.

  “True, but I reckon there’s fuck all chance of them wanting to fork out on a haul-out fee and I’m not touching it without going over every inch of that hull.”

  “I guess that means you keep looking then?”

  “Yep,” says Ben, with a slight drop of his shoulders.

  We check out half a dozen other places without luck and are getting to the stage where Ben’s coming to terms with staying at the hostel when, out of the blue, he gets a call from Stan.

  It doesn’t look as bad as I thought it would,” says Ben, continuing to gawp at the hull that towers over us.

  “You going to paint it while it’s out of the water?”

  “For sure,” says Ben, poking the hull experimentally. That a large patch of paint and rust falls away as a result of his gentle prodding merely reinforces this decision.

  We’re wandering around underneath the boat examining it from all angles when, Steve, a mechanic friend of Ben’s, turns up. He proceeds to give The Beast a far more thorough check than we have, crawling over it inside and out before poking around in the diesel engine. All the while he’s furiously scribbling in a tatty notebook that he keeps putting down and losing. But after an hour he finally declares that she’s sea-worthy. Just.

  “He said the hull would have been worse if it hadn’t been coated with some copper-nickel product,” says Ben, looking at the very bottom of the boat. “Apparently that’s why there are so few barnacles.”

  With Steve on his way with a small keg of beer as payment, we don’t have to wait long before Stan the realtor shows up, keen for a sale.

  “So, folks,” he says, actually rubbing his hands together, “do we have a deal?”

  “Forty. Cash,” says Ben, baldly, resulting in Stan cringing like a whipped puppy.

  Cash? So much for me worrying I’d have to pitch in for a mortgage. I hadn’t realized Ben was so cash-rich.

  “That’s a lot less than the vendor is looking for,” says Stan, no doubt thinking of his commission.

  “There’s too much that needs doing for me to pay the full asking price,” says Ben, holding up several sheets of torn paper that list the fixes Steve has recommended.

  Stan runs his finger down what looks to be a worryingly long list. “Ah, that,” he says, under his breath, although it’s loud enough for both Ben and I to hear.

  “What happened to full disclosure?” I say, remembering something I’d heard on a property show.

  Stan coughs hard rather than answer this, before saying “I’ll put the offer to the vendor then, shall I?”

  I think Stan’s going to have a coronary when Ben changes the sum on the sales paperwork to thirty five thousand before signing it. In answer to the realtor’s unspoken question, Ben says “If you were hiding the keel being dodgy, then I need to make sure I’ve got enough in the budget in case I uncover any other shonky shit.”

  Stan looks as though he’s going to argue, but there’s nothing forthcoming and it’s with a look of resignation that he collects the paperwork off the hood of Ben’s truck before trundling off to a gaudily sign-written sedan that’s seen better days.

  “Cheeky bastard,” says Ben, as soon as the realtor is safely inside his moving billboard.

  “Do you reckon there’s enough in the pot to fix everything?”

  “Yeah, I’ll hose in. Steve said a couple of grand should sort the keel. Everything else, I can fix myself.”

  Chapter Two

  We hear back from Stan with a counter offer of forty five thousand, but Ben won’t budge, telling the realtor he doesn’t want The Metal Beast that badly.

  An hour later and Ben is the proud owner of a hunk of rusting boat for the bargain price of thirty eight grand. Things move even faster after that and Ben takes possession less than a week later.

  “Hell, they really wanted shot of this,” says Ben, as we stand looking up at the boat that is still high and dry in the boat yard.

  “I can’t believe they managed to clear out so quickly.”

  We clamber up the ladder onto the aft deck where Ben unlocks the cabin door with ceremony.

  “After you,” he says, standing to the side to allow me to enter first.

  I walk towards the small doorway but stagger to a halt after a couple of steps.

  “Holy fuck!”

  Even from out here I can see the cabin is still packed with the previous owner’s crap.

  “What?” says Ben, turning to look inside. “Aww, shit.”

  A quick call confirms our worst fears, the previous owners had left town the night the money cleared their bank account, telling Stan they were leaving a few ‘chattels
’ behind to help us get started.

  It takes a full sized skip and a team of exterminators before Ben feels close to moving his stuff in. But even after we’ve given The Beast its first taste of disinfectant, it still has the aroma of long-forgotten sandwiches. We find out the reason for this soon enough.

  “I reckon you should buy a new one,” I say, looking in disgust at the inside of the oven.

  Every inch of the interior is caked in burnt offerings along with splatters of the softer variety.

  “I’m with you,” says Ben, slamming the door shut and having a go at ripping it out there and then, using a mix of determination and sheer brute force. In the end, he has to get Steve, his mechanic mate, back to help, with the unit stuck firmly in place by years of grease and grime. There are cockroaches behind it that’d died due to poor hygiene standards.

  The mattress follows the oven into the skip because there’s no way in hell Ben and I are going to go near it. Never mind a condom, the innerspring petri dish that had crowned the master cabin would require us wearing hazmat suits to come anywhere close to having safe sex.

  But our hard work pays off and a month after taking possession, Ben and I are out on the water in The Metal Beast. We’d wanted to change the name to something less, well lame, but had been told by anyone who’d heard us talking about it, that it was bad luck.

  “I still can’t believe we’ve got a week off,” I say twirling around and around in the captain’s chair in the wheel house.

  “You and me both,” says Ben, spinning me around ever faster until I have to put my feet against the wall of the cabin to stop him.

  “So, where are we headed,” I say, after my head stops spinning.

  I assume Ben has a few ideas given how much time he’s spent flipping his way through the various charts the previous owner had left behind. I’d been worried that these looked to be hopelessly out-of-date, but Ben had assured me they were really only there as a back-up to the latest GPS unit he’d bought.