Erotica Fantastica

by Saskia Walker

  It took Icarus some moments to level after his second spending. When he did he realized the nymphs were on their feet and whispering to each other. They had grown curious and their discussion revealed they were about to lift off his mask. His father had warned him not to be discovered, and he realized he must make haste back to the task from which he had been lured by the sight of the two nymphs cavorting on the rocks below—his departure from this land. As much as he hated to leave them he rose to his feet awkwardly. Bowing to each of them in turn, he lifted his hand in farewell.

  "Farewell, man–god," the darker haired nymph called out.

  Icarus smiled and preened as he hastened away from the place. They thought him a man-god. That gave power to his stride.

  Charging through the trees, he headed for the clearing. Once there he manipulated his wings, lifted from the ground, then spiraled upwards into the sky, his wings flapping vigorously. He soared and soared, his body vibrant with ecstasy, his loins still palpating from the glorious lovemaking he'd experienced.

  When he glanced back he saw the two nymphs below, as beautiful as two young goddesses, and yet staring up at him in awe, waving, and still he soared higher, carried on their admiration. The rushing of his blood alone felt strong enough to fuel his flight and it was as if the heat inside his body was glowing all around him.

  And so Icarus soared on, magnificent and potent against the expanse of crystalline-blue sky. He noticed that his bronzed arms shone with luminescence, and his wings were barely visible with the strength of the light flooding through them, making them all but transparent. His head burned, as if a crown of sunlight had been placed upon him, and he bellowed his pleasure aloud, bathing his sated body in the heat.

  So filled with ecstasy was he that it took him a while to notice the droplets of wax that sizzled and dripped from his wings, and it was too late that he saw the stray feathers that floated down, one or two of which now bore evidence of the intense heat where they had been singed by the sun.

  Too late he realized his fate, but he could not regret his dalliance, for the pleasure he'd been given still reigned within him, and when Icarus plunged to his death in the sea, he was still suffused with pleasure—his mind, body and soul consumed with the passions that the nymphs had shared with him in the woods.

  A sadness-tinged tale it is, but such an amorous and ecstatic death is a special thing, and has been prayed for by leagues of mankind, both before Icarus and ever since. That, and the ability to fly.

  WHERE THE HEART IS

  Come home, Rhiannon. Come back to me.

  Rhiannon Bryson stirred in her sleep, her awareness sharpening as she faltered on the edge between reality and her dream world. The man called to her again, luring her to him. In the dream she was out on the moors and she struggled to move, to look back over her shoulder and seek out his image. The old manor house was there just as it had been so many times before, shadowed and looming against the high crags. Then he stepped out of the mist that surrounded the house, strode over, and lifted her in his arms.

  I know this man.

  His face was so familiar that it was etched in Rhiannon's memory, and his heart beat hard and fierce against hers, locking its beat to his own. He held her tightly, so tightly she could scarcely breathe. When he dipped to kiss her mouth time and place morphed, and she was rolled onto a bed. Then he was between her thighs and thrusting into her, stretching her open, claiming her. His body arched and bucked, as if he were desperate to find his release within her. Ethereal touches tantalized her body. Struggling against the torpor of sleep, her skin was feverish, the ache at her center demanding. She felt his kiss against her throat—and at the moment of climax, his bite.

  As always, it was the bite that woke her.

  Rhiannon's eyes flashed open and she swallowed hard, panting for breath in the wake of her sleep-drenched orgasm. Blinking into the darkness she rested her hand on her chest and found the skin damp. Her core was still in spasm, and she ached for the ghostly presence that had aroused her so. Denying the truth of her situation she threw off the bed covers and sat bolt upright. It was a strange phenomenon, one that she could not ignore. Her pussy was slick—her groin suffused with the heat of her climax—and a man's name was on her lips: Edgar.

  The thundering of her heart and the ache of loss made her cry out in frustration. She ran her hands through her hair and looked around her bedroom, sad to be back in the here and now.

  "Who are you, Edgar?" she whispered into the night.

  That old familiar ache for the place that haunted her dreams lingered. Home. Somehow she knew that. Deep down in her soul she knew that he'd called to her from home.

  * * *

  That weekend Rhiannon stood on the wilds of the Yorkshire Moors and let the place fill her senses. The atmosphere was like no other, up here where the high crags seemed to brush the sky. It was here that she felt closer to him—the man who stalked her dreams—more so than at any other time in her waking hours. This was the place that made him call to her, she was sure of it. The very thought made her heart beat a little faster, her anticipation building as she hiked out across the landscape. The late-September sun was burning into the horizon, warming the purple and yellow swathes of rough heather on the far hills, picking out the thick, lush moss that covered the rocks. Blustery wind streaked the sky with fast moving wisps of cloud, filling the air with the heady scent of peat and heather.

  This place had fascinated her since she'd been brought up here on a hiking trip as a teenager. The dreams started soon after. Strange, erotic dreams they were, featuring an old manor house out here on the high rolling hills, where eerie mist and gaunt shadows suggested movement, ghosts, and strange creatures. As she grew into adulthood, the man had stepped out of the mist and into her dreams.

  "Don't go out on the moors alone," she'd been told many a time.

  Rhiannon couldn't heed the advice because the place called to her. The sense of timelessness on the moors seemed to tune into her very soul, and the peculiar heritage of the landscape also kept her a lonely bookworm, studying everything she could find as she tried to make sense of her connection to the place. Folklore and legend were just a small part of it. The area had been a hotbed for UFO sightings in the 70's and 80's. All of that, and more—something innate and inexplicable—compelled her to the place.

  It was quiet and desolate today, and the silence of the moor was somehow filled with anticipation. That sent a shiver up her back and kept her senses keen as she followed the well-trodden path. It was narrow but worn by footsteps, some places inset with blocks of stone, a testament to how old the trails were.

  It was easy to get lost up here, so the guidebooks said, but if you stuck to the path you couldn't go wrong. Mostly she did, but not today. Today Rhiannon strayed from the path into the wild, and yet that wild place felt more familiar to her than her lonely flat in town and the local bookshop where she worked. Here, she felt right, as if she belonged to the moor.

  "I know this place," she said aloud as she kept the high crags in her sights. Her words were whispered away on the wind. She hurried on, and reached a spot where an ancient wedge of stone erected on the hill marked out the lay lines on the moor. The occult insignia carved into its head was barely visible nowadays, it was so weather beaten, but she'd read enough about it to find and recognize the sturdy rock.

  Rhiannon observed in awe as the lowering sun sent a shiver of light across the ancient wedge of stone, exposing its worn carvings. The thrill of discovery quickly fired her blood. She reached out and touched the stone. Static clung to her fingertips and then shot up her arm. Rhiannon trembled, but could not break the contact. Light pooled around the stone and as she watched, in awe, it was picked up on the far hill and arced across the moor, a prism of startling illumination lighting the underside of the sky. As quickly as it had appeared it was gone, and she withdrew her hand.

  The sound of footsteps behind her made her jolt.

  Rhiannon.

  Her
breath hitched. It was his voice, calling her name. Bracing herself she turned to seek him out. As she did the sky grew dark and the earth fell from under her boots. Skidding down into a ditch, her body rolled, her face hit the ground, and the scent of moss filled her nostrils. When her jaw was forced shut by a series of impacts she coughed and tasted blood in her mouth. The scrape of rough, exposed rock tore at her legs. Pain seared her skin and bit deep into her left leg, and then she felt the thump of hard earth against her back. Winded by the sudden fall, she grunted heavily. Consciousness faded and she was gone.

  * * *

  When Rhiannon came to, the sky was growing dark. She quickly tried to gain some sense of her whereabouts. She'd fallen about five feet, as deep as she was high, into a peat bog. Her leg was pulsing with pain, as was her head. She thumped the earth with her fist, incensed. She'd pulled something in her calf, a sprain, at the very least. Glancing down she struggled to see in the gloom. The fabric of her combat pants was ripped to shreds around the painful area and up as far as her knee. Her shirt was torn too and her chest was exposed and badly scratched. Blood darkened the rip in her pants and she swore again. She needed medical attention, but how was she going to get out of this bloody ditch?

  Raw fear hit her. She was out on the moor and dusk was fast turning into night. The folklore witches were probably the least of her worries. Who knew what madmen were out here? Never mind the UFOs, more recent reports of big, wild cats preying on the local farms had hit the news. The tradition of the dark moor had called to her regardless, that fatal attraction of fear and desire latching her to the place, beckoning to her relentlessly. It was no one's fault but her own, whatever happened. Hot, futile tears stung the back of her eyes. She'd strayed from the path today, and she'd found the rock marking the lay lines. It felt significant, and she was afraid.

  The sound of footsteps focused her. She recalled the sound from earlier. Had she dreamed it?

  "Hello?" It was a feeble effort that caught in her throat. There was someone else out here, but she wasn't at all sure if that was a good thing or not. Friend or foe? That's what they called out during the war. Halt, who goes there, halt, friend or foe? As if any fool would say "Foe," and get shot on the spot. So she didn't ask if it was friend or foe, she just hoped, and prayed to a god she didn't believe in.

  A dark shape blocked out the remaining light—a figure looking down at her.

  Fear built into a solid wall at her back. Looming and silent, its posture suggested a creature about to pounce. It made her think of the local TV news, a man scared witless by what he thought was a big cat, an escaped panther the reporter had suggested a few weeks back. Was she going to find out why that man had been so afraid?

  The figure moved across her line of vision, squatted and leapt—on all fours. She gulped for oxygen, her heart hitting panic rate, and her mouth drying. It thudded down into the ditch, the dark shape moving toward her, but as it did, light spilled behind it, haloing it. Moonlight. Had she been out that long?

  "Please, don't hurt me." Her voice was barely audible.

  The creature, whatever it was, started to move towards her leg, where it was hurting so badly. Oh, no. She could feel it touching her, moving against her, nudging up the torn fabric of her combat pants. She writhed when she felt the flap of torn fabric lifting and then the rasp of a hot, damp tongue over her sensitized flesh, broad and wet.

  Healing you now.

  The words shot through her mind as her hands grasped at the earth.

  When she tried to rise up the creature moved, swift and sure, and began to run his nose along the length of her leg, toward her groin, like a wild animal in heat. Vulnerability and humiliation suffused her. Every nerve ending was wired, her blood rushing. She had to do something. She lifted up on her elbows and as she did, she came face to face with him.

  He — undeniably he — was feral, wild as the moor itself, but she recognized him as the man she had dreamed about. He was strong and he captured her easily, his body squatting over hers, as fit and feral as a big wild cat, pure feline. His eyes glinted black in the moonlight, his hair long and unkempt shrouded his face, his clothing covered in a long cloak making his shape indistinct. He cocked his head on one side, and opened his mouth, breathing in her scent across his tongue, audibly rasping it in. Never had she felt so much the object of someone's attention. Someone, or something. His face, to all intents and purposes was human, and yet…

  "Edgar?" The question came out of somewhere deep inside her, and she reached out and touched his shoulder, instinct driving her.

  His head lifted and he nodded at her. That simple sign sent relief flooding through her. His eyes glistened with some secret inner power. The spirit of the moor? The suggestion whispered around her mind. Was he the truth behind the big cat reports, this feral, half-man creature? "You are Edgar, and you are in my dreams."

  A sense of calm descended on her, briefly.

  He growled low in his throat, his hands clutching at her arms roughly, as if pleading for more, her recognition affecting him visibly. Then his head dropped back, and she saw his strangely handsome face in the moonlight. His lips lifted back and he bared his teeth.

  When she saw the fangs, her blood pressure dropped away to nothing.

  She was jolted back again barely moments later, because he hauled her body over his shoulder and lifted her. Rhiannon was afraid, but clung to him instinctively. Am I dreaming again? No, the thud of his booted feet on the ground reverberated through them both. He moved fast, scrabbling out of the ditch with her body easily latched over his shoulder. His strength seemed superhuman. He half-ran across the moor and she clutched at the cloak on his back, jolting, pain and fear coursing through her.

  Eventually the path became easier and he wound his way between outcrops of jagged rock. He paused, then mounted steps and kicked open a door. Rhiannon clutched at his back, twisting her head from side to side to catch sight of their whereabouts. Dark as it was, she recognized it. It was the house from her dreams, and he had taken her inside.

  The long, ostentatious hallway was covered by several of his easy strides. Agile and fast, he climbed the stairs and took her to a large bedchamber where he laid her out on a bed. Candles flickered in sconces on the walls, but he pulled open heavy velvet curtains and she found herself in the spotlight of the moon.

  When her eyes flashed shut for a moment, she knew she had been here before. Strange memories fled through her mind. Memories of waking in this bed, waking in her lover's arms, happy. The house was well lit and furnished, a happy place filled with love and laughter. And she saw him, Edgar, as he had been. Handsome and powerful, dark eyed and determined as he wooed and seduced her.

  This is my room, my home.

  How could it be? She forced the strange images away, denying them. When her eyes opened, a cry was lodged in her throat.

  The light filtered through his straggling hair, outlining his form. She swallowed hard when she realized how vulnerable she was. Then he bent over her and lifted the hem of her shirt, hauling it up and off, baring her flesh as he cast it aside.

  Rhiannon shivered under his scrutiny, her hands instinctively reaching to cover her bare breasts. There was no hiding from this man, if that is what he was. His wild aura was powerful and demanding. There seemed no one else to help her, no voices came from beyond the walls of the room, and the ghostly candles offered the only sign of movement beyond him. Did he live here alone, way out on the moor?

  "Please..." Even as she whispered the plea, she was not sure what it was she asked for. His presence had affected her strangely. The pulse point deep at her center thudded violently, stimuli from this strange encounter weaving its own spell upon her baser instincts. I should be afraid, I should try to escape, but I cannot.

  There was an undeniable lure between them though, a sense of need so primitive and powerful that it would not be quelled. Rhiannon reached out and touched the side of his face. The brusque rub of his stubble sent a charge through her fingert
ips, startling her. He let out a gruff sound in response, turning to kiss her fingertips, his hand enclosing hers where it touched him. His actions set lose a strange yearning deep within, and memories of the sexual release she had found in her dreams flooded her, making her body grow hot and tremble.

  "Mine." The single word he uttered was barely audible, delivered in a deep, unearthly rumble as it was. His hands arrested her waist as he said it, and he narrowed his eyes. His head lifted, his nostrils flaring as if seeking the source of a scent on the atmosphere nearby. With one hand he tugged at her fly, pulling her pants open.

  Rhiannon started, shocked to the core and yet hellishly aroused as his fingers found their way inside her pants and underwear, and stroked her pussy. Heady desire sluiced through her groin, her body responding keenly to his attentions. He hauled her clothing down her hips and dropped down to nestle his face against the warm, tender spot between her thighs. Rhiannon swore beneath her breath, her clit throbbing wildly as he closed. Then she felt the sharp edge of his fangs as his face moved over her tender flesh and cried out, her body pressed hard against the pillows at her back.

  Undeterred, he threw his head back as if he had found salvation. Grasping at his throat, he ripped at the tattered fabric covering his body. With a wrench his cloak was gone and his shirt was gaping wide. Once his chest was bared in the moonlight she saw that it was covered the raised tattoo of healing scars. His hands clawed at them, a guttural sound of pleasure in his throat.

  A sense of identification hit the pit of her belly, hot and restless.

  "Oh, fuck," she muttered, confusion hitting her when she realized how readily her body was responding to him. She should be trying to break free. Instead she was noticing how hot he was. Arousal and fear had twisted together in her veins, a heady concoction.

  His head snapped back as he focused on her again.