by Salem Roth
Copyright © 2016 Salem Roth
Simultaneously published in United States of America, the UK, India, Germany, France, Italy, Canada, Japan, Spain, and Brazil.
All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical method, without the prior written approval of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places and events are either imagined by the author or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, or actual events is coincidental.
A Rose with...Thorns
Eternal Pleasure Series
Book 1
By: Salem Roth
Table of Contents
Introduction
Theresa and Ian (2 weeks previous)
Rosa Violente
Moths to a flame
The Welcome
The Dungeon
Rebirth
About the Author
Introduction
This is erotic fiction with a dark twist. There's nothing light and fluffy to be found here, so if you are squeamish, please do not look past this introduction.
This is a fast and delicious read for someone who has a kinky mind, with dark, awkward corners. You know who you are.
Enjoy!
Salem xo
Theresa and Ian (2 Weeks previous)
The whole trip had been Ian’s idea, a get-back-to-your-roots kind of thing combined with the honeymoon. Practicality, that’s Ian to a “T”. I love him and all or I wouldn’t have taken the big plunge into matrimony, but sometimes I wish he was a little less rigid, except for that sensationally big cock. That’s a hardness I can get multiple O’s from in a heartbeat. I get wet just thinking about what he does to me, what he “makes” me do. God! Maybe it’s the new beginning or the rolling countryside that keeps me horny, but then again, I’ve always been this way. Craving the man-meat is in my genes, although a dalliance with a certain professor, Madeline Cuntillion, P.H.D., in college opened up some interesting avenues of pleasure. I guess I’m in touch with my inner slut.
In any case, here we were in Scotland, land of the ancient Picts and Sean Connery. Yeah, I’d do him right in front of Ian if that rich baritone whispered in my ear. It is beautiful here. I’ve never seen anything quite like the landscape with its rolling hills draped in an emerald green and jagged gray rock outcrops, thrusting through the Earth’s pliable membrane. Ian’s family came from Inverness, a city in the northwest of Scotland on the Moray Firth, a kind of inlet on the North Sea. That’s the destination, but his fucking itinerary is getting on my last nerve. Maybe that’s the price I pay for marrying a man a decade older; he’s 33.
We landed at Heathrow Airport in London, cleared customs, and were on our way north a half hour after getting the rental car. The vehicles here are so damn small, and this one looked kinda beat up. Ian said that the rental agency screwed up but he wanted to get moving so we didn’t miss anything. Booyah! I could have easily done without the side trip to Dumb Fries. They say ‘Dumfreeze’ here; Dumfries. Whatever. Ian just had to see his long dead, great, great grandmother’s bungalow. Over the next three days we visited and toured Glasgow, Edinburgh (the capital), and Dundee, not the Crocodile guy. How many mini Stonehenge-like sites can a person look at and ooh and ahh? The next day it was Aberdeen, near the top of the country.
The next we reached Inverness, thank God. For two days we lounged around, did a pub crawl, had lots of great sex in various places, and even got in some sailing. It may be July, but the nights are cool, sometimes sinking into the 40’s. Of course Ian packed sweaters! Inverness is what a honeymoon is supposed to be all about; relaxation, enjoyment, getting my pussy licked until I scream bloody murder, getting bent over the boom connected to the mast as I’m pummeled from behind and, well, you get the picture. You can have the picture as long as I get the cock, baby! I mean, the man is an Adonis incarnate. Sculpted pectoral muscles sit atop washboard abs lightly covered with fine hair that leads straight down to my favorite thick, eight inch toy. A compact butt that curves perfectly above his toned legs. I see him, I want him, I need to please him.
Inverness was so much fun that even Ian went off script and let his longish blond hair down. We were scheduled to leave on the morning of the fourth day, but decided to do the sailing thing. I have to admit, I appreciate sailing tons more now, especially the BOOM part. We sank to the deck afterwards, basking in the sun while his cum seeped from my shaved sex. I only left trimmed hair in the shape of a heart above the slit as Ian said he likes it that way. In any case, Ian’s ancestry is of the Highlands and we had no sun block. The poor man got a burn on his Gaelic skin that glowed pink so it delayed our exit even more.
We were due at Urquhart Castle a ways to the south the next morning. Ian was in no shape to drive with the discomfort he felt from the blistered skin on his broad chest, so I volunteered. The damn castle was only open for public viewing two days a week and if we missed it, Ian would have been impossible to live with for the rest of the trip. As a history professor at Columbia University in New York, he was fascinated with the medieval weapons and torture devices housed at Urquhart. We set out on the 320 kilometer (about 200 miles) leg of the journey at eight PM in a light rain that promised to intensify, if the dark gray clouds rolling in off the North Sea were any indication.
Ian sat slathered in aloe vera and fell asleep quickly after downing half a fifth of scotch, single malt of course. I laughed at how our friends and families would enjoy this particular post on our social media page. Most of the other posts were of us smiling inanely with 2,000 plus year old, man-made, stone formations or castles in various states of disrepair. Ian had done the bulk of the driving and it took some getting used to, to drive on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the road. The rain did not help as visibility was already poor out in the countryside. I was supposed to hop on the A82 but must have missed it. The Scots are not big on street signs and markers. Sooo…I missed the exit and we ended up near some town called Dores. At this point, I roused Ian to help and made the mistake of turning off the ignition. A groggy minute later, Ian shifted in his seat, winced in pain and asked where we were.
“Don’t know, hon. I must have missed the turnoff for A82.”
Ian stared at me for a few seconds before responding, then looking through the rain spattered front windshield, “So we’re at a fork in the road. How metaphoric. What is that lying on the ground? Looks like a post with something attached at the end.”
“Maybe a street sign,” I said. “I’ll go check.”
“Nah, I’ll do it. The rain will feel good on my burn.”
He exited the car, picked up the white washed post, and watched as the sign broke free from its mooring where it clattered to the pavement with a muffled metallic bawang wang wang before coming to rest. I thought, nice ass, and then he straightened with a look of WTF! Jogging back to the car with the sign, Ian’s dripping wet clothes shedding water, he sat heavily in the passenger seat.
“Looks like we have a choice to make. There’s no way I can know which way is which. See here, at the bottom? There’s an arrow pointing us to the Dores Inn. It has got to be along one of these forks. We could stay there for the night. What d’ya say Theresa?”
“Sounds like a plan,” and that’s when shit started to go si
deways.
I turned the ignition key. Nothing happened. Nada. Zilch.
“Stop fucking around T. I’m tired and uncomfortable, babe.”
“Not fuckin’ with anything. The car won’t start. Seriously, Ian.”
“Okay, sorry. Just grumpy, that’s all. But hey, it was worth every ray of sunshine, my little boom master.”
I smiled at the memory and laid my hand on his crotch before saying, “So what are we going to do.”
“Not that, at least not right now. Let’s figure out how to get the hell out of Dodge, first. I could walk and get help.”
“You are not leaving me here alone, mister macho stud muffin. We both go or noone goes.”
I could hear the panic in my voice and it pissed me off. It was Ian’s turn to smile. After debating which fork to take, we chose the left. The light rain had become a deluge, and as we piled out of the worthless vehicle, I questioned the wisdom of our choice, just as I would question a strategy when practicing law, at the firm where I hope to be the youngest lawyer to make partner in a few years. But the car was getting cold as the dampness leeched in, and what else was there? Ahh, bonny Scotland!
The night was black as the pitched tar road on which we strode. Ian stumbled a bit at first because of the scotch, but the chill of the rain and the messed up circumstances soon sobered him.
“Well, T, it could be worse, it could be lightning and thun…”
The immense CRACK of thunder was preceded by a flash of electricity that forced me to close my eyes and then jump in alarm at the unexpected closeness of it. Ian’s hand reflexively squeezed mine in a gesture that told it me everything was alright. The man is a rock. As fast as it happened, it was gone, but an after image was imprinted on my brain. I glanced to my right at Ian; his shoulders hunched against the cold rain pelting everything into submission, and realized he’d seen it too. There was a structure ahead, and the reflection of a loch (that’s lake to you non-Scotties’-like Loch Ness monster? Duh.).
I said, “Did you see that? A big building up ahead; it might be the outskirts of Dores.”
“Don’t get too excited. Distance is screwy in the highlands like when you’re on the water. Five miles looks like one mile, but this is closer, I think.” A hopeful note rang through the last of his statement. “And I don’t care if it’s Dores at this point. It’s shelter and that’s enough for now.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t catch any lights on.
“Me neither. But dark and dry is better than dark and wet. C’mon.” Ian started down the road, me in tow, and that’s where this tale really begins…
Rosa Violente
Rosa Violente gazed into the pouring rain and inky darkness. She stood atop the parapet at the southwest corner of her grand abode. Sixty feet above the sodden earth, Rosa could “see” for miles. Loch Ashie stretched out below to the north, a view she continued to enjoy, but her attention was to the south. If she’d had a pulse, it would have quickened. Sliding her tongue around her mouth, she deliberately scored it against a lengthening fang to taste the blood. Her stomach tightened in a knot of hunger. It had been months since she slaked her thirst and satiated the lust that always accompanied her feeding.
Over the patter of the rain, Rosa could hear the lub-dub, lub-dub of a heart beat. No, two! It was hard to discern at first; the pair of pulsing hearts, what with the constant pelting of rain. But then the beats grew louder, as her newfound guests gained ground on the castle entrance. Yes, there were two hearts. Youthful too. She could hear the vitality in that rushing blood, as it flooded the heart chambers. Like a wolf, nose tilted slightly upward scenting prey, she breathed in the damp air deeply. A shudder of apprehension and delight passed through her. She recognized the scent of one of the approaching humans. All blood had it's own signature, and the tangy, heady scent that perfumed the air now, she realized, belonged to someone she knew and despised. But buried under hundreds of years of history. She struggled with the memory, not quite grasping it, but also being driven mad by it, as the scent became more intensely aromatic. A bolt of lightening snaked down in front of her, momentarily lighting up the heath, with cold white light. At the flash, it came to her ....…she was smelling a relative of McMasters!
In the year 1369, in a small castle now burned and buried beneath the landscape, Rosa Violente had escaped true death by merit of being absent. A trick of fate, or blind luck, but she had somehow miraculously been "elsewhere", when the destruction of her family had gone down. Northern Scotland is and has always been sparsely populated, but the region is no stranger to war. The British Empire regularly sent its minions across the country side to collect taxes, rape and pillage, and commit wholesale murder. Rosa’s family loved this as it provided the carnage necessary to easily feed them. Acting as surgeons on the battlefield, always at night, they could feed on the fresh blood of the dying soldiers on both sides. On one of those food orgy nights, on a unnamed field in a nameless battle, Rosa had gorged, as she had never done previously, the dying bodies were so plentiful. She was joined by Father; her maker, and her four brothers and six sisters. For two hundred years they enjoyed a life of excess, relative anonymity, and seemingly never ending peace. However, all good things must come to an end. One of the family had been spotted suckling the open chest wound of a British officer, and the alarm blared across the Highlands. Father and his other acolytes fled taking refuge in a small castle, but Rosa was cut off and ran to a nearby barn where she was forced to spend the day in shadows. The alternative was a searing end to her undead physique. When night claimed the world once more Rosa, a creature of darkness, made her way back to the smoking and crumbled ruins, where she knew her family had taken shelter. There was nothing but the glow of embers emitting their warm, red light.
The one thing people of that time fared more than the threat of war and one another, was the supernatural. It was a dangerous time for lycan's, shifters, and Strigoi such as herself.
She approached slowly. Though the site had been purged and left, ostensibly forever. Only the dungeon remained but would soon cave in, swallowing the castle. The relentless sands of time would take care of the rest. Rosa descended the stone steps and felt sadness rip through her. Eleven piles of dust, in the unmistakable form of a humanoid, dotted the debris strewn, slate floor; a wooden cross visible in the ashes of each pile. Her family was gone, and she was alone. Emptiness invaded her core. But she was Rosa Violente, Lamia to the ancient Greeks, La Bruja Negra to both old and new Mexico, Lilith to the Hebrews of yore, Lansuyar to the people of Malaysia, and Vampress Fatale to humans in this region. She was young compared to Father (he was over 2,000 years old at the time of his demise) at 666 years, but he taught her well: she had experienced much and would survive. Thrive even, as long as she could feed regularly.
Among the ruins Rosa touched fire-warmed stone, with cool fingertips, and relived the scene. The British soldiers surrounded the castle, waited until daylight streaked the heavens, and then burned and destroyed it before finding the vampires hidden in the shadows of the lower levels. She jerked her hand away from the stone: the stake-crosses told the remainder of the event. The permeating smell of the lead soldier, whom she discovered to be McMasters, made a hunter out of Rosa. Her will was to track him down, slice his jugular, and drink from him painfully slowly. But she was to be cheated of her revenge. He was killed by Scottish rebels two days later, near the Callanish Stones; ancient monoliths left by ancient unknowns. Rosa planned to drink from him to within an inch of his life, then turn him and make him serve her every wanton desire. For eternity. McMasters’ pregnant wife had sailed days before for a new land across the Atlantic Ocean. Rosa did not pursue the bloodline. She should have, but she had enough cleaning up here to deal with. But as she stood looking down at McMasters’ disemboweled body, propped against a seven ton stone, gelatinous intestines spilling out like a mass of gray eels in the moonlit night, she vowed that some day, revenge on his kin would be hers.
Moths to a Flame
&n
bsp; The pair neared and Rosa determined they were a man and woman. ‘Which one is the McMasters descendant?’ She pondered. A familiar sensation radiated from the pit of her stomach and down through her vagina. The hunger was two-fold with Rosa. She lit a fire in the sunken grate used by guards of old to keep warm on cold nights when protecting their lord, but this was not for comfort; it was a beacon. ‘Come little moths; come to my flame, taste of the eternal fire.’
In past years, Rosa was loathe to add to her family by “turning” a human into one of the creatures of the night. 350 years dulled the pain of the loss of her family but she longed for company in the desolate environs she called home. She also craved blood and the pleasures that the body doth surely hold. It had been too long, too long…
At first, Rosa wanted to fly down from the balustrade to rip and rend McMasters, then watch as the life faded from his eyes. Yes, it was the male. She was sure of it now. Then she decided to go with the original plan of making him her slave as she would have done originally. That brought a smile to her ruby red lips, momentarily. Finally, the fem-fatale, Violente, chose a different course, that would satisfy all her desires. Passion arose within Rosa as she floated down the narrow spiral staircase built into the tower’s wall, and by the time she reached the small enclosure at the bottom a plan of action formed in her devious mind. Not the fine details, those would be at her whim and fancy as vampires are subject to the full range of human emotion. The big ones like love, hate, and ecstasy are expressed more intensely.
With a gesture of her delicate hand, the candles sprouting from sconces spread at even intervals and set high on the walls, burst into flame. Other than that there was no furniture save for a free standing, moldered coat rack. Bare stone walls echoed with the wailing of lost souls matching the gale outside. Rosa only maintained two areas of the castle; the bedroom where she never slept, and the dungeon area where she remained in repose during the sun’s reign, and where she liked to play with the prey. So very near now, the rush of viscous blood through veins and arteries was audible through the 12 foot high, five inch thick, oak double doors. A flick of Rosa’s chin, as if acknowledging a friend, slid the heavy iron bar locking the doors to the side, an invitation. Who could refuse hospitality on a night such as this?
