by Nina Harper
I had forgotten the joys of worship. In modern egalitarian America, with modern arrogant men, I had forgotten the delicious pleasure of demanding a man’s service, his submission. As a princess, even the most minor female member of the royal family, I had regularly enjoyed the attentions of attendants and slaves who had treated me with this level of deference.
I knew it was just a sex game. I knew that Marten was proud enough to be a demon—which was why this act of submission was so very sexy.
And I wanted it. Suddenly I knew that I was going to take what I wanted for myself. Not for Satan, not for Meph, not for anyone else. I was going to demand my pleasure for myself alone and . . .
I smiled slowly as I relished the thought.
Marten had already begun on my other foot. Oh, of all the reasons to wear heels, this was the best. To be pampered, to be massaged, and to feel the slow relief that made wearing those beautiful implements of torture all worthwhile.
His lips were back on my ankle, kissing slowly up my leg. I bent over and took a handful of hair in my hand and jerked his face up to me, his neck extended. “You serve me tonight,” I said. “You are mine and you serve me.”
Fear crossed his face, and a touch of defiance, but both gave way to desire. Cocky Marten, master of demons, wanted to be my boy toy and I wanted him right there. So long since I’d indulged in a boy toy for a night, and I deserved it. “Do you understand?” I asked, my voice soft.
“Yes,” he said as I gripped his hair.
“Yes what?” I replied.
He blinked. “Yes, Lily?”
I shook my head.
“Yes, ma’am,” he tried, and I let his head go.
“Better,” I told him. I lay my legs over his shoulders (mm, such nice broad shoulders) and let him glimpse my lavender and gold lace panties.
He took the hint admirably and massaged slowly up my thighs, kissing lightly where his fingers had been, slowly approaching my own desire.
I leaned back, resolved that I had only to enjoy the evening, to enjoy him. I didn’t have to do anything for him, nothing that I didn’t want to do. I wanted to be worshipped, for him to realize his great good fortune and thank me in the way I could most appreciate.
He understood. His mouth moved up my thighs, warm and soft at the tops of my stockings, and then he breathed gently on my mons. I writhed just a little as he took his sweet time, barely touching my panties to build my anticipation.
Oh, the revenge of the boy toy on his knees. I could not protest his careful attention as he reached under my dress and caressed me lightly above the line of my panties. Then he stroked over the fine lace, teasing, approaching and then darting back to my leg, my belly, my lace.
“That’s very nice, but don’t make me wait too long or I’ll be angry,” I commanded.
As if my order had freed him, he removed my panties (which had been worn properly, over the garter belt for easy access) and sought the center of my pleasure with his tongue. I lay back and gave myself up to the sweet sensation, his demanding, untiring mouth creating waves of delight that shuddered through my body and crashed before I crested higher.
More, more, I couldn’t wait, couldn’t stop. Delicious heaviness centered at my core, promising sweet release soon, so very soon.
Reading my sighs and shudders, Marten stepped up his pace. Maybe there was arrogance in his ministrations, maybe he reveled with pride in how my hips thrust and I moaned, demanding more, but he gave me what I needed more than breath in that moment. Gave me more sensation, harder, faster, until I cried out and my body succumbed to desire.
I came, and came more, and wanted him inside me. There was only so far I could go without him, and yet the demon in me wanted to deny him. To have my orgasm and refuse him his seemed only justice for all the men who had had their pleasure with me and left me uninspired and, frankly, bored.
The tension of decision grew with new waves of desire, until Marten picked me up and lay me on the bed.
“May I?” he asked.
Asking was what I needed, not his denial but his acknowledgment that tonight was for me. He asked and gave me the opportunity to withhold, and so there was no longer any need to refuse him. And I wanted him so, to be filled up with him, replete.
“Yes,” I said. And there was a moment of cool air while he left me and then hot skin next to mine. He entered me slowly, careful to show that he was serving my need and not sating his own. I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him into me harder. “Give me,” I commanded. And he obeyed.
Rapture. Joy and rapture as only a succubus can know or give, I met his pent-up need with my own.
I howled and came and melted into a climax that went on and crested and did not abate but built immediately again. On and on, glory on top of need, I screamed out my satisfaction. And only then, only when I told him I was ready, did he join me.
And when he withdrew and wrapped the condom in a tissue, he thanked me. And then he curled up next to me and cuddled me until he fell deeply asleep.
chapter
NINE
I lay next to him and smelled his sunwashed skin, and wiggled my toes. Marten, like all men, had managed to fall asleep. I enjoyed the sensation, listening to his deep breathing. It isn’t often that I get the chance to experience that after-sex languid sleep with someone. And Hotel Gansevoort has lovely linens, soft and superfine that feel every bit as good on my bare skin as my own Frettes.
Then, after the novelty of soft indulgence had worn off, I remembered my plan. Which had worked brilliantly. I felt like one of Charlie’s Angels, only more cool because I didn’t need any gadgetry to help me out. (I tried not to think about the part where I don’t have any martial arts training.) I slid out of the bed without disturbing Marten’s rhythmic breath and started to snoop.
I opened his suitcase and found it empty. The closet was full of clothes, all hung properly and spaced so that they wouldn’t crease. All designer, all lovely. The gray ceremonial gown I had seen him wear in the meeting was nowhere in sight.
How did an accountant on Aruba acquire this wardrobe, I wondered. There weren’t even many places to buy this kind of clothing on that island, at least so far as Margit would tell me. She always went to London or Paris to shop.
I went through the drawers incorporated into the closet, full of socks and shirts and sweaters. No magical implements, no robes, no books.
There had to be books somewhere, and a computer. Or something.
I went back to the room. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I opened the curtains slightly. Enough moon-light filtered through the glass that I could make out the desk, the piles of clothing we’d dropped on the floor, the telephone and the little hotel pad and pen on the bedside table.
Marten’s computer sat on the desk. I opened it and turned it on and cursed softly. I’d forgotten how much I hated Windows. I’d heard XP was better, but he was running 2000 and it was miserably slow.
First off, I knew I’d need some kind of cover prepared in case he woke up and found me with his computer, so I opened Explorer and brought up Zappos. If he asked I could always say that I couldn’t sleep and was just looking at shoes. In fact, I found Zappos.com high up in his history. Which answered part of how he found great shoes on his tiny island.
Then I opened another window and clicked on a familiar icon that looked like it should be MagicMirror. If he actually had credentials on the site that would explain a lot. And would demand a lot of other, more difficult explanations. I could understand him having some of the software. I knew that certain departments made software for the Initiated among the mortals, and it seemed that Marten ranked there. But if he could actually connect . . .
It was slow. I didn’t know if it was just searching aimlessly or if the machine was just slow. And then, haltingly, the familiar welcome page came up with the animated graphic fire motif. He was on.
I was going to have to ask for some answers on that one.
Unless—I wondered.
The window took me directly to his profile page, complete with picture. Meph was on his friends list, along with Marduk and Hatuman and a few other demons of my acquaintance. Margit wasn’t on his list—so at least he didn’t know about her. Or maybe he did and chose to make himself less visible to the local Hierarchy. I made a mental note of his user name.
He had found me, too, and had added me to his hot list to read, but not as a friend. Which meant that I wouldn’t know that he was reading my public postings.
How long had he read my journal? Suddenly I was paranoid. Had he been stalking me? Had he been reading for a while before we left the States? Or had he only found it after I’d left?
I went to read his journal, and since I was reading with his sign-in I had access to all of his locked and private posts. I went back to before I arrived on Aruba. I wanted to see if he’d been tracking me beforehand, and if he wrote anything about meeting me.
The days leading up to my trip were boring and then blank. He posted about surfing and weather conditions and once about a French restaurant that was supposed to be the best new place in Aruba. Idly, I wondered if he had met Meph through foodporn. Nothing about his supposed job.
Ah, there it was. “Met quite a lovely lady last night. One of us, I’m certain, but even if she were just the typical tourist she would be compelling. Alas, the life of the solitary magician is not conducive to serious relationships.”
Hmmm, I wondered. Did magicians all give up actual relationships for their magic, or was this just Marten pitying himself? Though he never seemed to be the type for self-pity, and he must be aware that the only reason he didn’t have a serious girlfriend was that he didn’t want one. A man with his looks, charm, dancing ability, wardrobe and, well, bedside manner, shall we say, could have any woman he wanted. So he must not have wanted, not beyond a series of flings.
I read further in his journal. “I am so sorry she is leaving. Always before I have felt that a short acquaintance and fun was what I wanted. And yet, this one intrigues me more than I had anticipated. I had expected beautiful, but not so intelligent, accomplished, and stylish. And sophisticated. No wonder Meph thinks so highly of her! Well, then, perhaps it would not be impossible to visit New York after all . . . Hmmm . . .”
Well, that was nice to know. At least he wasn’t entirely using me for my demonic contacts and position with Satan—he had found something about me alone to be intriguing. And maybe he really had used the party and all because he wanted to be here to see me.
I smiled a bit and gave myself about five seconds to feel pleased. Then I went on. While I’d answered one question, I’d found another. The more I looked at his MagicMirror, the more I was certain that he wasn’t an accountant. Not like the guy I go to for my taxes, at least. And even if he were, he certainly wasn’t supporting himself on that salary.
I went through his MagicMirror, but there wasn’t anything terribly useful. Clearly he had learned not to put anything online that you wouldn’t want your mother to see. Even in such a locked and protected place as MagicMirror.
So I closed the browser and took a look at his documents folder.
And there was everything I wanted to know about Marten and what he was doing, how big a fund he had accumulated from Mephistopheles, everything. I’m certain of that.
And it was all written in Dutch.
I swore under my breath. How completely ridiculous, insane! What kind of modern metrosexual was he, to keep his records in a language I couldn’t read? The nerve of him.
And I bet, just like Nathan, he believed he was safe because no one could read what he’d written. Only in this case, thinking about me, he’d be right. I’d never learned Dutch and my German wasn’t particularly good. I’d spent time in Berlin in the 1920s, of course—the cabaret scene there was unlike anything in the world before or since. But there had been plenty of foreigners and no one cared if my German sounded like it had been learned in an Italian high school. Admin had not installed the language so it was not hidden deep in my brain structure. No, what little I’d had (and it had only covered directions, menus, and tourist necessities) had deteriorated as badly as if I’d been fully human and hadn’t used a language in eighty years. It was gone.
German isn’t Dutch anyway, and I couldn’t make out anything in the documents labeled Ritual and Mephistopheles and Program. Why had he labeled them in English but written them in Dutch? (Okay, he wrote them in Dutch because that was his native language, but why had he labeled everything in English? Just to make me crazy? I wouldn’t put it past him.)
Barely containing my frustration, I closed My Documents and went to look at the programs under Start. And I found Quicken.
And there I found out that his income was somewhere around two hundred eighty thousand Euros a year. Even for an accountant that would be very high.
I heard a groan from the bed and quickly brought Zappos.com back up. Then I looked over to check but Marten appeared to be asleep. Still, I figured I didn’t have much time and that I was pushing it as it was. The only thing left to try was his e-mail.
And here, like on MagicMirror, he had put his user ID and password on permanent Remember Me.
And I hit paydirt.
Really, people ought to not leave things like this in their e-mail. But . . . people very rarely do what they ought to do. And I’d already seen Marten’s notions of computer security.
The From line was Mephistopheles’ private e-mail. If I hadn’t known that address I might have passed it by—Meph is careful and keeps his private address known only to his intimates. Which already told me plenty about Marten. The Subject line read “Your Soul.” I had to at least glance at that.
Dear Marten,
You have sent me an intriguing proposition. Let me remind you of our earlier agreement, that you would be provided with funds, a background and status in the place of your choice, and the services of one demon (Level 2, fifteen hours a week) along with vigorous health and youth for the full span of your natural life plus five hundred years. At which time, in payment for the above advantages, your soul and full body of knowledge was forfeit to Satan. I have two copies of the traditional agreement, signed in blood, in our files. The third copy was for your own records.
Now you have proposed that, should you be able to help me in my current difficulties, you be allowed to reclaim your soul without losing your privileges. This is a highly unusual arrangement and I am not certain it is covered in the original contract. There is also, you understand, the matter that the executor of your original contract is Satan Herself. While in this matter you would be helping me personally in my service to Her, you would not be directly in Her chain of command. She may well choose to keep to the original agreement and void any further amendments that I, as Her servant, might make. So I do not have the authority to grant your request immediately.
However, as you have ascertained, this matter is of the utmost importance, not only to me but to Satan and the Hierarchy as a whole. If you are able to render substantial assistance, there is precedent for Satan being willing to grant you a boon. She is most generous and has always honored Her word, especially when acknowledging someone doing Her great and useful service.
If you are quite serious about voiding the terms of your prior agreement, this would be the best way to go about doing so. I will promise nothing, but I do advise you that Satan becomes quite annoyed by humans who renege on the terms of their agreements. If you put Her in the position of offering you a favor, you will have avoided a potentially diffi
cult negotiation, and one that you might not be able to win no matter what your skills and who your allies.
If you choose to continue on this course and offer your assistance on these terms, I will accept most gladly.
Sincerely,
Mephistopheles
So. Now I understood a lot more about Marten. He’d made a bargain with one of the Hierarchy to sell his soul in exchange for a rather hefty set of benefits, and now he wanted his soul back as well. I had to remember not to whistle through my teeth. He had to be a good negotiator to have gotten so many concessions. That, or he was a more powerful magician than I had heard about in a very long time.
I closed out the program and turned the computer off. I’d found enough.
Without the light from the screen the hotel room was covered in layers of shadow. I could easily imagine things lurking in the corners and behind the curtains. I stared into the dark recesses of the room, my mind far away.
On the bed I saw bright gold hair, shimmering in the stray starlight.
Marten was more complex than I had anticipated, even despite his lack of computer security. A strong enough magician to wrest money and power and the services of a demon along with the normal perks of soul selling, he must have caught one of the higher-ups in his salt triangle. Or whatever it is they use these days.
And coming forward to ask Mephistopheles to void his contract in return for help that he hadn’t even rendered yet—that took a lot of arrogance.
But then, we like pride in Hell.
The fact that Meph sounded like he thought it was a good idea for Marten to try meant that Marten had to have enough power to back up his grandiose plans. That said a lot, too. Meph is not easy to impress.
Not that the e-mail looked impressed, but I know enough about Meph and the way things work to know that normally he would have strongly discouraged a mortal with a contract from doing anything to change the terms. Not only is that standard policy, it is also wise. Almost nothing irks Satan as much as a human trying to get out of a contract with Her, especially when She honors all the provisions that Her underlings negotiate. Annoying Satan is not a good idea. Not for anyone, not for higher-ups in the Hierarchy, not for Her Chosen friends, and especially not for mortals who are enjoying their end of the bargain.
