He moves his finger again and slips it inside her. He slowly swirls his finger up, deeper with each second until he's feeling the depth of her wet need.
"Oh, Matteo..." she hisses.
He continues to swirl that finger and begins moving his thumb into another fold. Slowly, he explores with his thumb, the dark crevice of her ass cheeks and she begins rocking against the wall. He makes the journey slower, and slower, her delicious anticipation mounting, whimpers escaping her lips in soft frenzied bursts. Finally, he slips his thumb ever so gently into her most secret area of desire and he begins to move both thumb and fingers in and out of two of her most erotic places. She moves her body against his skilful hand. The tingling begins in her thighs and spreads upwards. Breath is trapped in her lungs as she nears her temporary ending. The sensation on the verge of complete loss of control is overwhelming for Morreen as her husband fondles her simultaneously in both her snatch and her ass.
Morreen throws her head back and screams brazenly as her orgasm overpowers her and overrides anything that makes sense in her mind.
Matteo steadies her so that she doesn't collapse as he stands up. He pins her with his body then uses his bound hands to unfasten his own jeans and expose his throbbing dick. Barely able to control himself, but knowing he must, he drops once more to his knees. This time, he spreads her cheeks wide and she squeals. Delicately, Matteo licks his wife's ass hole and rubs her clit. Morreen writhes violently against his moving tongue crying out wantonly. Neither of them cares at this point who may hear or what may happen. When he's made her moist and pliant he stands again.
"Trust me," Matteo whispers hotly against her ear. "I won't hurt you."
He moves the head of his prick against her ass hole and she groans. "Yes, baby. Yes. I'm not afraid," Morreen begs.
So he pushes it in.
Slowly, gently, Matteo slides himself into her ass. For a moment she is still as she considers this new sensation and accepts him. When he is so far inside her that his long cock fully disappears, he begins thrusting. Slowly at first then faster. He moves her away from the wall and bends her completely over as though she were doing toe touches so that she can fully offer him her ass. He throws his head back with reckless abandon as her tight ass takes his hard cock and rocks into her for what seems like a heavenly eternity until finally he comes deep inside her.
Matteo and Morreen no longer care about their predicament. All they know is each other. She is like he's never known her to be. After he has his way with her ass, she takes control. She sucks him; she rides him; she uses his cock as a toy to manipulate her own clit and make him drink her juices. All of this transpires in the dirt and the grime of the hard, cold floor. Their bodies both become filthy and abraded with sexual injuries and neither of them care. Perhaps this is how people fuck when they believe they will soon die. They fuck for hours. A couple of times, in the midst of oblivion, Matteo manages to grasp one thought and wonders why no one has come to see them; to tell them what's going on or what's expected of them. But again, he does not care.
Finally, Matteo is spent. He has nothing left to give for the time and he lays on the floor naked from the waist down. He expects Morreen to lie down with him and cuddle up against his chest, but instead she stands and walks off into the shadows.
She returns with a knife. Matteo's eyes open just a second too late and Morreen plunges the knife into his chest.
Matteo screams. Morreen rips the knife out of her husband's chest. Blood gurgles from the brutal opening she's made in him and pools onto the floor. She raises the knife again, even as Matteo attempts to turn over and scramble away from her.
"MORREEN, WAIT! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?" Matteo screams, falling back against the floor as she drops on top of him, straddling him. Her sex is still sticky and wet from their loving and he feels it hot against his stomach. Unbelievably, despite the agony, his cock hardens again and she feels it touch her back. She giggles as he husband weakens. Her hands are free now; she must have unlocked them in the shadows. The knife wielding hand falls, but still clutches the knife like it is her darling baby.
"You want to go again?" Morreen preens, gleefully.
It's Matteo's turn to writhe. Tears fall as he tries to squirm away again, but she lowers herself once more over his long shaft.
"You are such a stud!" Morreen declares. "A hard cock with a gaping chest wound, baby, that's fucking HOT! And you're over forty and everything! You should be proud of yourself!" Morreen gives him an at-a-boy pat directly on his wound.
Matteo sobs and chokes as blood begins spewing up his throat. Morreen moves in her magical rhythm, riding his throbbing cock. This hadn't been part of her plan, but she is going with it.
"Morreen, whhhhyy?" Matteo cries, wishing his erection would subside. Wishing he could keep his own hips from matching her rhythm. "Why are you doing this?"
"Well, Matteo, here's the thing," Morreen says. She traces the blade of the knife down Matteo's face, opening a small line of blood. "Let me be quick about it because I think you'll bleed out pretty soon," she continues as she grinds her hot pussy on his cock. "The thing is basically this. I do love you, but I do not forgive you. I lied a tad about planning to divorce you. My actual plan was to kill you!"
Matteo sobs pathetically as Morreen moves herself harder and harder against her husband and she feels his erection growing. "But, the thing of it is, you're a creative guy, and something you said earlier gave me an excellent idea!"
Knowing this man who'd been her lover for twenty years, Morreen can feel when he is on the verge of orgasm. She jerks herself off of him and brutally grabs his cock with her left hand. Before he has even a second to protest, to beg, or to pray, she slices his cock and balls off just as he comes.
He screams.
She comes.
In under three minutes he's dead.
****
"What kind is that?"
The voice snaps Morreen out of her reverie. She sits in the park next to a stranger on a bench.
"I beg your pardon? What kind is what?" Morreen replies.
The kindly old gentleman smiles. "What kind of bird feed is that? I've not seen anything like it. It looks like some kind of ground meat."
Morreen's eyes drop to the stuff in her hand. She takes another pinch and throws it to the birds who scramble to accept it. Morreen shrugs.
"I don't really recall. Got it from the pet shop," she says, non-committally.
Zofia's Secret
by Catrina Horsfield
Celestyn strode hopefully into the throne room, bearing the medal of distinction from the spell-craft competition. Celestyn, who had disguised himself to avoid any bit of favoritism, had won the national competition by a clear margin. The admiring eyes of the court followed him as he made his way to the king, to where the rest of his family sat waiting to give him an official royal welcome. It bolstered his confidence a bit, and he hoped that, for the hundredth time, his family could see him in the same favorable light.
"Congratulations, my lord," murmured a pretty lady-in-waiting. What was her name? Otylia? Oliwia? Celestyn thanked her, and she blushed and melted into giggles.
As the guards opened the doors and announced him, Celestyn was greeted by muted applause. The royal family nodded approvingly, while old Zofia, King Mirek's omnipresent advisor, clapped her hands heartily. Zofia had always been there to comfort him and to make excuses for them, and it did help in the smallest of ways.
Celestyn approached the throne and knelt before the king. He felt a light touch upon the top of his head, and Celestyn beamed up at his father. His stomach fell, though, finding the same melancholy eyes and apologetic smile etched upon the king's weary face.
"We are very proud of your achievements, Celestyn," King Mirek began. "That you have excelled while refusing any preferential treatment shows that you are truly..." The king paused to look away for a second, needing to collect himself. "Your mother would have been so proud. You bring honor to our family and
our kingdom. Thank you." He sank back into his throne.
So, not even this worked. Celestyn's gray eyes stung as he thanked his father and nodded to his brothers and sisters, who applauded wanly once more. He bowed to the king, who immediately engaged Celestyn's sister Agnieszka in conversation. Not wanting to burden the royal family with his presence any longer, Celestyn turned and left. Old Zofia followed, hobbling over and patting Celestyn's arm.
"I heard one of the judges wet his pants from one of your illusions," Zofia croaked, and Celestyn couldn't help but crack a smile.
"It wasn't that bad," he replied quietly.
"You've done so well," Zofia continued, pinning him with her still vibrant blue eyes. "They do appreciate it, and you, in their own way. It's just that..."
"I know," Celestyn interrupted quickly. He wasn't in the mood to discuss things. "Thank you, Zofia."
Zofia clutched her staff and nodded her wrinkled head. Celestyn, shoulders almost as stooped as Zofia's, trudged back to his chambers.
Celestyn knew why, no matter how hard he tried, he could not make his family love him. He knew that they couldn't forgive him. They couldn't forgive him for killing his mother.
Celestyna Zagaworny had been kind, intelligent, beloved by all. The king and queen's marriage had been one of those rarest of gems, a marriage born from a true love match. They created their brood with a joy and closeness almost unheard of in royal families. They set the example from which all families in the Zagaworny borderland could draw inspiration. The family was happy, the kingdom was happy, everyone was happy. Until Celestyn had come along.
Celestyn, at this moment, shared the same sentiment of his kin - that it would be better had he never been born. The world had supposedly been butterflies and rainbows before that fateful day seventeen years before, his birthday; the day he first had emerged and seen sunlight while his sainted mother's life had drained from her so swiftly that the frantic healers (who had been jailed for a year after) could do nothing to stop it. King Mirek had once been known for his flashing white grin, but Celestyn had never seen it. After Celestyna's death, that grin was hidden from the world like the sun behind a cloud, only never to return.
Celestyn spent his life trying to coax out that smile, but to no avail. His presence only brought grief to the king and his siblings who, the youngest having been eleven at the time of Celestyn's birth, had adored the doting Celestyna and felt cheated by her exchange for this pale facsimile. It worked against Celestyn that he was, apparently, the mirror image of his beautiful mother and a constant reminder of their crushing loss. Celestyn was indeed handsome, though it was a pretty sort of handsome, with his tall slim frame, long chestnut hair and wide gray eyes. His beauty had earned him many female admirers at court, but only served to wound his father, who could never regard him for more than a few seconds. His deeds were likewise unwelcome, though Celestyn distinguished himself many times over in the discipline of enchantment (the same discipline in which his mother had excelled). Celestyn desperately wished that his kin could let go of their grief, or that he could give up this crushing need for their love. He knew, though, that both situations were as impossible as his mother returning to life.
Celestyn barely noticed the hallway dimming as the sun began to set. The wall sconces blinked to life, painting the walls a flickering blue. The corridor was deserted, and Celestyn's slow footsteps echoed in the darkness. Celestyn had almost reached his chambers when he caught a flicker of white out of the corner of his eye. He looked closer, and Celestyn's breath caught. It was a ghost, a transparent girl of about seven-years-old. Ghosts! He'd of course grown up with stories of these apparitions, but he'd never imagined that they'd actually existed. The girl glanced at Celestyn, then turned and walked down the corridor. Celestyn, awestruck, trailed behind her.
The girl glided almost aimlessly through the maze of darkened hallways, a small silent beacon. Finally, she paused at a slightly opened door. The light from the room behind sliced the gloom of the corridor. The ghost glanced once at the prince, then passed through the door. Celestyn crept as quietly as he could to the threshold and peeked inside. It was old Zofia's chambers and Zofia stood, her stooped form and countless wrinkles illuminated by a circle of candles. She was muttering something and staring into a large gilded mirror when she cackled suddenly and grasped her forehead. Celestyn clapped his hand to his mouth to stifle a gasp. Zofia straightened and cast off her old woman's skin like a cloak, revealing a lithe white form. The new Zofia appeared to be in her forties, with a glossy mane of ebony cascading to her slender waist. She preened for a moment when the ghost girl caught her attention. Zofia harkened to the girl then chuckled, grabbing a black silk robe and wrapping it around her. She cast a careless blue eye over to the doorway, and crooked a beckoning finger to Celestyn. As if led by strings, he entered the room and shut the door behind him.
"So, Celestyn," Zofia teased, her smile rushing through Celestyn like water through a burst dam. "You have found my secret." Her voice was low, deep and rich like his father's best bourbon. "Are you going to tell on me?"
He dully shook his head, unable to speak. A million questions crammed into Celestyn's throat, the first and foremost one being "Why?" Before he could find his voice, another ghost, this one a large military man, floated into the room to whisper in Zofia's ear. She nodded and sent him on his way.
"There are so many," Zofia began, smiling again. "They tell me everything that goes on in the castle, in the city, in the whole realm if need be. Why else do you think your father keeps me around, this doddering old crone? I am indispensable." She brushed her raven hair behind her shoulder, approaching Celestyn. He was uncomfortably aware of how loosely her thin robe was tied, though looking up into those azure eyes was like being swept underwater. The scent of sandalwood and amber flooded his senses, making him giddy. She leaned in; her lips, moist and red like pomegranates, brushing his ear. "You can be indispensable too."
Celestyn tried to control his trembling. "D-does he know?" he managed to stammer, his heart thudding wildly.
"No one knows," she replied, "No one in the world, but you, my dear Celestyn. You can control them too. Would you like to learn? I would be glad to teach you."
"They tell you everything?" Celestyn breathed.
"Oh, yes. I know that General Pawlak is planning a surprise drill for his troops tomorrow morning. I know that your sister Agnieszka goes through an entire case of vodka every week. I know that innocent little Maja spent last night in your chambers, while her sister Anielka rested with you two nights before that." Zofia trailed her nails along his cheek as Celestyn flushed. "Busy boy."
"Do you control them by force? Do the ghosts serve you willingly? Can they do more than just bring information?" Celestyn's blood surged through him in a fury of curiosity and desire.
An elegant female apparition passed into the room and spoke inaudibly to Zofia, who nodded again and sent her on her way.
"So many questions! There is plenty of time for answers, if you are willing to listen and learn," Zofia purred, toying gently with a strand of Celestyn's hair. "Can I count on you? Can you promise me your discretion and devotion? I fear I would be a most demanding teacher, but the rewards this knowledge will bring are beyond measure."
Celestyn averted his eyes downward to try to escape that intense gaze once more, but instead found himself entranced by the creamy hollow between Zofia's taut, high breasts. His vision trailed from there to the pert little nubs poking against the wispy, almost transparent silk. Zofia slid a finger under his chin and brought his regard back to hers.
"Yes," Celestyn rasped.
"Excellent." Zofia drew his face close and met his mouth with hers. Celestyn moaned as she disengaged and kissed his throat softly, while guiding his hand under her robe to caress her smooth breast. He felt as if he would dissolve right there and, when Zofia stopped suddenly and pulled away, the separation was a shocking chill, and Celestyn was desperate to feel her pliant flesh against his once mo
re. He was amazed by this aching need, a rush of fiery longing so unusual in his drab existence. Zofia untied her robe and let it slide to the floor, her bare beauty on full display. Celestyn rushed over to her and grasped her roughly to him, his mouth burning and devouring, his hands exploring her waist, her hips, her supple buttocks. She pulled away once more, this time drawing him to her bed, heaped with satin and furs. Zofia deftly unbuttoned his richly embroidered shirt and breeches, trailing her pointed tongue lightly upon his skin as she slid them off, then, as she reached his waist, rose and firmly pushed Celestyn back onto the bed. She climbed atop the quivering prince, straddling his slim hips, teasing him with light kisses upon his chest and throat, poising herself slick and ready over his painfully stiff manhood, and savoring his cries with every little bit of contact. She tortured him gently for a few minutes before tiring of her game and plunging him inside her.
Celestyn wailed in ecstasy as Zofia undulated her hips upon his and flicked her tongue lightly over his nipples. He opened his eyes to behold her in her glory, head thrown back, sighing dreamily as she drew him deep inside. She bucked faster and his vision blurred, and Celestyn grasped her hips tightly as if hanging on for dear life. In the haze of carnal bliss, Celestyn started noticing strange wisps of pale smoke drifting over them, and a hum reverberating in the air. As he hurtled recklessly toward a shattering climax, the hum grew stronger and more defined and Celestyn could begin to make out voices and words. The haze overhead formed faces and bodies, insubstantial hands reaching for him. The graze of their smoky fingers seared like ice.
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