“I could make you bleed, so easily.” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer, just writhes her big sore ass against me, whimpering, and squeezes my shaft. Her nipple, though, responds to the tease of the cold metal by standing bullet-hard. I imagine pricking her tit with the point, just a little—enough to raise a scarlet bead, that’s all. Enough to remind her of what Appentak took from her, over and over again, as he fed.
I slam the knife, point-on, into the wooden support of the bar, and it sticks, quivering, just left of her hand. That gives me a hand free to grab that foolish nipple and roll it between thumb and finger, grinding it over my knuckles. I’m not gentle. She cries out.
“Yes!”
My other hand is still on her throat; I transfer my grip just slightly, to her jaw, and pull her face up and toward me. As I brutalize her willing nipple, my mouth searches out hers.
She hates that. I feel the change as her writhing turns to struggle. “No!” she squeals though her stretched throat, trying to avert her face. She doesn’t want to be kissed. But I want it, and I know which of us is the stronger. I let her fight me, though. I let her kick and push and thrash and try to climb up my body, and even get one leg up on the lower bars to push back at me. In fact, that plays right into my hands; it gives me the angle I need to abandon her tit (with one last twist) and shove my hand down her shorts, forcing my fingers into the slippery chaos of her pussy.
Jeez. She arches and heaves and cries out, but her mouth is muffled by mine and when she parts her soft lips to shriek, my tongue is in there at once. I don’t know what it is she has against kissing but I’m not taking No for an answer, and my hand knows exactly what it’s doing with her clit in that steamy wet darkness, and soon she is taut and spasming, and moments later she surrenders her orgasm with a cry that I swallow.
And in all that time she does not let go of my cock, or the bar.
Her face is wet with tears, her sobs hiccuping in her throat. For a moment I hold her quite gently, my mouth gazing over hers, enjoying the territory yielded to it. She even kisses me back.
“That’s better,” I murmur. “Now, let go.”
She goes limp, hands falling free. At last. Now I know I can do anything with her I want. Anything. I choose to turn her and set her back to the wall-bars, pinning her with barely any pressure, one hand holding her throat. She’s nearly naked but for the rags of her bra and those useless, sex-and-sweat-soaked shorts. I allow her time to get her strength back, entertaining myself by tugging at her nipples until they are both swollen equally erect, the way I like them.
At last she opens her eyes. It’s the first time we’re looked each other in the face since I sent her in here. My breath catches in my throat. Shattered, flushed, trembling; Shanna has never looked more lovely. And my lust is howling now.
“Look what you’ve done to me, bitch,” I tell her softly, searching out the most boorish, loaded words I can think of. I let go of her neck, drawing a finger down her slick breastbone. “Look.”
She lowers her gaze to where my cock is spearing out from my open leathers. Gratifyingly for me, her eyes widen.
“Well, it’s not going to blow itself,” I say, gravely. “Get down there and kiss it. Or am I going to have to hit you again?”
Her pupils dilate, but she falls to her knees. I take a step or two back across the mat, mostly because I like to see her crawl after me. When I let her catch up, she opens her mouth and tries to wrap it round my bobbing bell-end.
Shit, no. If I let her do that I’m going to come in seconds flat, and I haven’t finished with her yet. The possibilities are still too various. So I grab her hair and pull her off, shaking her head back and forth with some roughness. “No! Were you listening to me? I said kiss it. Kiss my big dick like it’s your boyfriend.”
She gets the message. I push my leathers down until they’re barely hanging from my hips, to give her proper access, and watch with satisfaction as she plants kisses upon me—my hairy ballsack practically blue now with compression; the thick underside of my shaft; all the way up to my glans and back down. She kisses with reverence and sincere enthusiasm, though she can’t quite restrain herself from using a little tongue as well as those pretty lips; there’s a viscid drip of pre-cum oozing from my cock-slit and she laps that up, nuzzling at the source. I let her get away with that; I’m not an unreasonable man. I put my hands behind my head and stretch my back as I revel in the feel of her mouth on my erect cock and her hot breath on my pubes. She makes the most charming little whimpers, almost below the threshold of hearing, and I’m half-conscious of the wiggle of her hips as she squirms her ass.
When I look down again from my pinnacle, it takes me a moment to realize what’s changed. First thing I see is that she’s got her hands behind her back, her wrists crossed as if bound. Second—her hands hide this for a moment—is that she’s not wearing those shorts any more. Her hips and ass are both equally bare; she’s wriggled the garment off as far as her thighs. So I’m looking down now at her big thrashed ass, and there’s nothing between me and her open pussy anymore except my hesitation.
I step back from her worshipful lips, trying to think straight. Shanna tips gently forward, her eyes closed, until her face is on the mat and she is pointing her burning blush at the roof.
Shit.
When I’d first released her from her chains, that was how she’d fallen. Face down, butt up, her hands bound with soft leather behind her, her eyes swathed in darkness. She’d had no idea it was me. I should have revealed myself then. I should have pulled off her blindfold and told her it was all going to be okay. But I’d hunkered there, close enough to touch any part of her, close enough to smell her skin, breathing the perfume of her open sex; my hands nerveless and my heart pounding and my cock swollen in my pants. Just staring. Wanting so much to touch.
Wanting, even in my rage and pity, to fuck her.
Jealous as all hell of Appentak.
I walk a semi-circle on the crash-mat, so that I’m standing behind her. I can see the moist pink pout of her pussy-split between her abused thighs. I can see the dark crinkle of her undefended ass hole.
“Are you giving me this?” I ask. I sound gruff. “Are you offering me this fine pussy as a gift, bitch? Because you know you can’t give a present and then take it back.”
There’d been something sticking out between her cheeks, that day. A silvery chrome-plated flare of metal, finely crafted in the shape of an elaborate artsy fish-tail. The fish head and body, as far as I could tell, must have been wedged deep in her ass; I could see the pink rim of her hole stretched about the metal. There was one hole in the decorative fin that looked designed to slip a finger into.
Jeez. Was this a trap? Or just him keeping her prepped and open for business?
Tenderly, with great caution, I’d eased a digit into the metalwork and tried a gentle tug. I was poised to stop if she showed any sign of pain, or any hint that I was damaging her. But behind a narrow neck the metal was smooth, and it had slid out of her easily, all the way. Not fish-shaped at all: a curved, chrome-plated cock, heavy in my hand. I’d looked back at her ass and it had gaped at me, the sphincter fluttering like a little mouth.
I’d wanted so much to feed my stiff cock into that pleading, hungry hole.
Instead, I’d untied Shanna’s wrists and wrapped her in a bed-sheet, and only when she was safely draped did I pull off her blindfold.
Now I’m standing in the gym and looking down on that same open cleft. On that same soft, splayed, juicy-wet pussy. She’s kneeling over like she did that day; wordless, everything on offer. Just like she had done when she thought I was Appentak come to fuck her.
I crouch down behind her. One hand descends in a slap on her left cheek—more noise than force, but she’s so tenderized she utters a breathy squeak. “So you’d better be sure,” I growl, and my next slap is underhand and right on her open pussy
. There’s a splat from her wetness, and muffled yelp from up front. She pushes back against my cupped palm, panting.
Oh, yes. This is where I claim it back for the living.
I’m pushing my cock into her before I draw another breath. Her slick hot sex is like a bull’s-eye, and I strike home in three firm strokes. Christ, she’s just perfect. So tight. So slippery. I grip her hips and I maul her hot ass and then I grab her wrists in my hands and uncross them, pulling them back toward her hips, like her arms are reins and I’m riding her hard. She squeals, her noise protest or pleasure—but how am I to know the difference, or even if there is a difference for her? Oh God, I’m going to come quickly. It’s just too good and I’ve been wanting for so long and I’ve hurt her and she’s let me she’s let me she’s given me everything because she wants my hurt and my force and my cock—
I feel the wave of my orgasm start to crest and I whip out, dropping her wrists. No matter how much I want to come inside her, that’s not something we’ve negotiated, and I don’t want to be a jerk. I grab my cock left handed and pump it in a slither of her pussy-juice, and the first convulsion of my nuts sends a great pale spurt up her back and over her red-hot ass. It’s like time has slowed to a crawl: I see everything in high-def and bullet-time. The splat of my jizz right up the crack of her ass as the second jet slops out, heavier but just as copious. The reach of her hands behind her, grabbing her ass-cheeks and sinking her fingers into the reddened flesh: pulling them wide. The glistening pool of cum I’ve somehow managed to target right on the dusky pucker of her ass-hole.
I’ve got another pulse on its way and I shouldn’t do it—I know I shouldn’t.
I don’t want to be a dick.
But I can’t resist. I cannot fucking resist.
I jam my cock to that winking iris and push inside, flooding her ass with everything I’ve got left. For me it’s bliss; a moment when I’m God Almighty. For her … We’re lubed a bit with her pussy-juice and my cum, and she’s tripping on endorphins, I know that—but I’ve done nothing to prepare her; no fingerplay, no waiting time. It must hurt.
And apparently that’s enough to send her crashing into another climax. As I bear down upon her she lets go one more time, howling like a demon, juddering and thrashing and humping her hips.
It’s just like impaling a vampire.
And afterwards she lies still. She even dozes off after a while, curled a little in the compass of my embrace. I hold her softly, and I stroke her hair and her flank and her thigh, trailing light fingers over the tender welts. I’m not scared to touch her, now.
I’ve claimed her back for the living. Not for me: for her.
At last she stirs and rolls over, rather gingerly, onto her back so that she can look up at me. Her eyes are calm. She smiles, just a bit.
I touch my finger to my lips, then brush the proxy kiss against her mouth. It’s too soon, I think, to push for more—and shit, I’m never sure where I stand with Shanna. But she doesn’t seem to object to the gesture; she only raises her eyebrows a little.
I sit up and reach for the bike jacket I dropped aside earlier. I’m a lefty, so I had to have my custom gun-holster sewn into the lining on my right side. Inside the original pocket is an object I’ve kept there over my heart for weeks. I draw it out now.
It’s Appentak’s chrome-plated ass dildo.
I put it into Shanna’s hand as she lies there. Her eyes widen.
“The next time your demons get out,” I tell her, touching the smooth silver tenderly, “you’re going to put that in your lovely tight asshole—so you’re good and open and ready—and then you’re going to come to me. And I will fuck the living hell out of your demons.”
“Will that hurt?” she whispers.
“It will. I promise.”
Shanna nods. “Good. That’s what I need.”
Sycorax
Oh welcome, welcome, sweetling! Do sit down and talk with me; I feel like a chitter-chatter tonight. You’re not afraid, are you? Is it the way I look that’s got you staring? Oh, little man, don’t be foolish … there are things out there in the dark that are far more likely than I to tear you limb from limb. Believe me!
There now. That’s better. Comfortable, are we? Let me build up the fire and get a look at you.
Hmm. You’re a funny-looking thing, for a sailor. I’ve seen a few of them over the years, washed up on the beaches. Leathery men, most of them. But you … you have such pale, soft hands …
Oh, not a sailor then? An actor? Well, that explains this book I found among the flotsam. It’s a script, is it not? Is it yours?
Ah.
Famous, is it? Truly?
Well, I should be flattered. Perhaps I would be, if it were such not a tissue of lies.
Hah! Make-believe, you say? Tell me—which island did you imagine you had been wrecked upon, little man? Malta? Corsica? No—you are further off your course than you knew! Hee hee. What an irony. You have been blown all this way to bring me … Well. This.
Heh. Did you imagine, looking at me, that I could read?
Prospero taught me, little man. Well, strictly speaking, he and his whelp taught Caliban … but Caliban is my son, and I can see through his eyes. By the by, he is watching this fire from the trees yonder even as we speak, sweetling. If you were to stray too far from the light of the flames …
Shush. Sit yourself down. Panic will not save you. Tell me about this play. I want to know. Have you acted in it yourself?
And which part did you play?
Hah. How delicious a trick Fate has played upon you—wrecked upon these shores not once, but twice: first in make-believe, and then in the flesh. Tell me, did it irritate you to have to play out such a weak excuse for a story, night after night?
Magic and wonder indeed. That is some excuse, I suppose. Yet did it never occur to you to ask why, if Prospero was such a very great magus as he claimed, he did not haul his poor scrawny shanks off the island by magic? Or, indeed, why he let himself be exiled here in the first place? If he could raise the dead by his so potent command, and pluck up great trees by the roots—could he not conjure himself a boat and a fair wind? No? He must have told some of the tale when he returned to Milan, certainly—for the warp of this play is truthfully strung, even if the weft is lies. Yet there are holes in the cloth that even a sweetling fool such as you should have wondered at.
Well, listen now. Perhaps you will learn something. You know my name?
Yes, that’s right. And that is the very first lie in the play, for it names me dead before the curtain lifts. Yet as you can see, I am not dead. This is my Isle, and I am of its earth—not of Algeria! How I laughed when I read that!—and I cannot be slain. I have been here … many years. I forget how many. I am old, little man. I have mislaid many memories.
But Prospero I have not forgotten. No.
The Isle is mine. It is the Omphalos—the navel of the world. I rule from the earth, by night. The sky above and the day: they belong to Ariel. Belonged, I should say. I … I think we had other names once, long ago. I do not remember them. It does not matter. All stories are leaves on one tree, and the branches may be long but they are all fed by the same roots. Names come and go, like dead leaves. It is perhaps better to forget them, in the end.
Are you hungry, little man? I have a haunch of meat here that is well-cooked and only a little gnawed upon.
Yes, it is from the wreck of your vessel.
Do not ask that. You are hungry, or not. And the night is long, and my story only just started.
Ariel ruled the Isle by day, and I ruled by night. At dusk and dawn we met, as husband and wife, to act out our carnal dreams. At sunset I would ride astride his long beam, and at sunrise he would pin me flat and plow my deeps. His seed came forth in great quantities, I recall—like sea spume, or like the white fluff of poplar-trees blown upon the wind. When I dug my long nails
into his golden flesh, then the dawn would come up blood red.
I had many children by him. Have you not read that this Isle is full of noises? We are surrounded by legions; if you have not seen them yet, then it is because your mortal eyes are too dull. But this is the sorrow of it: Ariel let live only those babes I spawned that resembled him, that were of his delicate and airy nature. Those childer that bore my stamp—the dark and earthy, the heavy of flesh—those he hated, and devoured at first sight.
No. For years I bore this, until even I grew weary. And with age fewer and fewer babes were birthed at all. So when at last I whelped my youngest son Caliban, and saw that he favored me and not his father, I knew that I must hide him to preserve his life.
Oh, have you seen my boy then? Don’t look so green. Think you he is ugly? I do not. Are not his teeth strong and keen? Isn’t his skin, hued with all the shot-silk colors of oil upon water, soft and smooth? The eyes that he opened upon me that first night, in such perfect trust, were as golden and beautiful as the eyes of a toad—and if two eyes are deemed lovely, must not many be even more enchanting?
I gave to Ariel a stone wrapped in blood-stained birthing cloths, and watched as he swallowed it whole. The babe I hid anew within the caverns of my body. And inside me, Caliban grew. But at last the night came when I could carry his weight no longer, so huge of limb was my child; so I birthed him a second time, half-grown. Even then, we both knew he was not safe. We went under cover of darkness to Ariel’s crag, and as the first light of the sun touched the sky with gray, Caliban seized his sire and I split a great pine tree, and together we thrust Ariel into the cleft and closed it tight. It was over in moments: when it was done Ariel was entrapped and my child was safe.
You think I played my husband false? Don’t bother to answer: I see it in your eyes. Well, you may be reassured to know that I have suffered great pangs over the years for my part in the betrayal. I missed his cock within me and his hands upon me; the ache of my loss brought forth great groans of anguish from my innermost being every dawn and dusk. For twelve long years.
Fierce Enchantments Page 9
