Insolent

Insolent By

Vita Anne Hoffman

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VITA ANNE HOFFMAN

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© copyright October 2009, Vita Anne Hoffman Cover art by Alex DeShanks, October 2009 ISBN 978-1-60394-372-2 New Concepts Publishing Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

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Chapter One The Jackal Demon of the Bellaclava

Like a ferocious untamed beast, Saracen Bellaclava paced the spacious confines of his suite, blind to all the surrounding magnificence. The enormous sleigh bed covered in plum satin. The dark lavender paper on the walls. The pair of eggplant divans. The sundry oak accent pieces, hand-crafted and intricately-carved, from the wide cheval mirror to the bookcase-lined wall, and even the intimate corner dining nook. Absolutely none of it registered. And, as he once again retraced that monotonous silvery-carpeted route, he was equally deaf to the profound quiet that his agitated passing disturbed. For nearly twenty-four hours, he had thus stalked his room and waited to pounce on a certain not-so-unsuspecting prey. Sprite Fer-de-lance. He came to one of the room’s three doorways, the one connecting to her chamber, where he, acting as lord of the Bellaclava Demesne during his brother Luc’s absence, had hastily installed--then abandoned--her. He had, in effect, imprisoned her next door to himself so, as her jailor, he could have access to her. So he could break her insolent nature. After all, Sprite’s blood was tainted, but she refused to act accordingly. She refused to bow to her betters. Especially to him. And now, through fortuitous circumstance, she came to be within his family’s secondary Demesne at a time when he was in charge, when he could reign and rule over her. The abrupt recollection of this unlooked-for-turn-of-events, when Sprite had so easily fallen into his clutches one short day ago, made him salivate. That lucky chain of events had begun when Lord Luciferno Bellaclava, Saracen’s elder brother, had very recently bartered sanctuary to--and then fallen for--a beautiful, mysterious mortal woman, Desta Chevalier. Ultimately, however, Luc had had to buy the right to keep Desta as, according to an old ElfFeyen tradition, Caemon Fer-de-lance, crown prince of the Northern Region of Aurora, in fact had a prior claim to her: therefore, Luc had traded a not unwilling Catya, their spoiled baby sister, the firstborn Bellaclava female, for Desta. And, to

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balance this trade of a mere mortal for an immortal princess, cunning Saracen had demanded a bit of recompense from the Fer-de-lance. He had insisted upon Sprite, to sweeten the deal. Thus she had also been made part of the trade, albeit a provisional one. She had been summarily handed over to the Bellaclava Demesne upon Luc’s pledge that she be well-treated and, if possible, bonded with an ElfFeyen willing to overlook her tainted bloodline. Then almost immediately Luc and Desta, newly joined, had traveled through a portal from the Twilight Realm of Earth to Aurora, leaving Saracen temporarily in charge of the secondary Bellaclava holding. Leaving Sprite in his tender care. Only she had not once stirred from her room. Insolent, as always, he silently snarled. But no more. With terrifying ease, Saracen kicked in their interconnecting door. Sprite, he instantly saw, sat in a deep armchair, knees drawn to her chest, arms locked around her legs, and her chin propped on her bent knees, like a crab drawn into its shell. When he stormed into her room, she immediately uncurled herself and stood, confronting him with her hands fisted on her hips, acting as if she were six feet tall instead of a slight, petite, but imposing five feet, two and-adebatable-quarter inches in height. He couldn’t stop his avid, wholly unsettling examination of her, a head-to-toe scrutiny that he justified as part of his natural disgust--or, more honestly, his lurid fascination--for a halfbreed. They were both of them ElfFeyen, of the lusty race from Aurora, the Realm of Magic and Light. However, Saracen was bred of one of the purest, truest bloodlines, that of the Bellaclava, rulers of Aurora’s prosperous temperate Southern Region. He was a royal, second in succession to the throne after Luciferno, the Bellaclava crown prince. All of this made Saracen Greater ElfFeyen, while she, Sprite, was Lesser ElfFeyen by way of an unsanctioned liaison between Dagher Fer-de-lance, a true blooded royal, and Sienna, a lower caste Sea Siren. And as Saracen scoured his glittering, silvery gaze down Sprite’s petite frame, he scornfully marked each trait of her fouled heritage. Her stature, tiny, compact, but definitely feminine, came from her mother. Most Greater ElfFeyen females were tall, statuesque, voluptuous. She, however, lacked a lusty bosom, a lush derriere. Saracen found himself idly wondering if any ElfFeyen male--certainly not he, although he had recently stolen the privilege of several intimate gropes and been surprisingly aroused-could be long satisfied by such meagerness, by little tits that could only partially fill the cup of a large hand? Doubtful, he uncharitably smirked. But would her nipples, he speculated, be a dusky coral? Or some abnormal shade, say crimson or maroon, in keeping with her parentage? Although disgusted at such ruminations over an unwholesome half-breed, he nevertheless continued with his unflattering assessment, mindful to be more detached, less lascivious.

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Sprite’s unusual coloring was also shamefully attributable to her mother, the Sea Siren. Her thick kinked-and-curled mass of unbound hair fell well below her shoulders and mimicked the waves of the sea in a beautiful shade of foam-and-sun-gilt sandy-brown. Her eyes, Saracen had witnessed on several occasions, were also as changeable as the sea. Different emotions altered them from sea-green, to blue-gray, to pewter. Calm bestowed them with a lovely clear Caribbean blue, while agitation--anger, irritation, fear--changed them to stormy shades of gray. And, now, as always in his presence, Sprite’s eyes darkened to the deep, dull, almost black-gray of the oceans in turmoil. He smiled, a mean tug of his lips, at this weakness of hers, nastily relishing that she could never keep her emotions hidden from him. In response to his twisted little smile, she scowled, the expression clearly articulating suspicion and annoyance. Her expressive frown drew Saracen’s attention to her face, and he purposely hardened his heart as he studied each feature, so delicate, so finely drawn that she appeared angelic. Aye, she was unearthly fair, he judged, with her high cheeks, sinful mouth, pretty faintly freckle-dusted nose, and thin dramatically arched eyebrows. And, not for the first time, he reminded himself to beware the lure of her siren’s blood. Though diluted, she could still enthrall. His resistance, however, wavered as he considered Sprite’s last, most damning attribute. Her dainty, graceful ears ... with their slender, tapered, fairy-like points, a fey trait if ever there was one! Saracen swallowed hard, not in disgust but in desire. It had been his own sick curiosity that had, during the tense meeting not more than twenty-four hours ago between her people, the Fer-de-lance, and his, the Bellaclava, driven him to force Sprite to reveal this genetic defect which had always before been hidden by scarves, or headbands, or hoods. What had once been Saracen’s secret, irrational craving to see her ears now had turned into a worse one: to touch them! To lick at them with his tongue! Mentally cursing, Saracen suppressed that awful urge. Instead, he snarled at her. After all, he had had a reason for busting into her quarters. “Until Luc’s return from Aurora, you, half-breed, are to serve me, not sulk. Accept that fact.” Sprite remained motionless, as she had ever since his violent entrance. She listened to his cold pronouncement with dread, but managed to conceal her fear behind an indifferent head tilt and an insolent quirk of one slender eyebrow. However, her brave heart quailed at his reminder that she was, in effect, in the hands of her worst enemy, an exalted ElfFeyen royal, as ugly in spirit as he was beautiful in face and form. Standing there, confronting Saracen, within mere feet of the tall muscled beast, she could easily remember the first time she had come--had, to her woe, accidentally brought herself--to his notice. Two years ago, she had entered this Demesne as the newly elevated personal bodyguard to her beloved half-brother, Caemon Fer-de-lance, when he had sought the ritualistic

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purchase of Catya Bellaclava, an undeniably pretty and utterly spoiled princess from the prosperous Southern Region of Aurora. Then, as now, Sprite had been bold with her intense, inquisitive stares. In the capacity of her brother’s figurative right-hand, the favored guardian and confidant of his entire life, now publicly proclaimed as such, her gaze had constantly roved the unfamiliar ring of Bellaclava for any hint of treachery. Instead, during that fateful assembly, she had found Saracen, had coolly measured the ElfFeyen royal--his estimable height, breadth, and honed muscularity, his cruelly handsome features, from sensuous lips to harsh cut cheekbones to amazing silver eyes, and, most striking of all, his waist-length feral-black hair, decorated with a single filament-thin silverbeaded braid at either temple. And, upon that brief but thorough scrutiny, she had concluded that his reputed ill nature, of being sexually wild, rapacious, and inexhaustible, must be accurate. This then was a strong castigation given that the ElfFeyen were a promiscuous, permissive society, if less so for the distaff side. Case in point, most Demesne held formal Ruts, orgies by invitation. Or, occasionally, by abduction. Unfortunately for Sprite, Saracen had detected then returned her fierce, fixed attention. Their strange, silent interchange had flustered her. Never before had she felt cowed by anyone, whether male or female, Greater or Lesser ElfFeyen, mortal or immortal. No one, she prided herself, had ever ... visibly ... shaken her outward calm. It was, had always been, a survival technique. Reviled from birth, even amongst her father’s holding, she had had to learn to be strong, to be tough, to be impervious to physical and verbal abuse. For she was half-breed, born of a Greater ElfFeyen father and a true Sea Siren mother, whose own strain of magic had possibly bequeathed a dangerous, but as yet unknown power to her daughter, the lure of enthrallment with face, body, and voice. But Saracen Bellaclava, with his keen silvery eyes, and devilish inhuman beauty, had very slowly perused her, had scanned that hot metallic gaze tellingly over her body as if he might possibly deign to consider her-her, the impure shameful child of the Fer-de-lance--for sex. He had made her shiver. He had made her vulnerable. In retaliation, she had disdainfully looked to his crotch, bulging, straining, lurching against the hand with which Saracen had provocatively rubbed himself in a salacious and common gesture of solicitation, and Sprite had yawned, looked away from him, and made sure to never again settle her gaze upon him during the rest of that short, tense, failed meeting. For, in the end, her brother Caemon’s overly generous offer to buy Catya had been refused, none too diplomatically. Sprite’s insolence toward Saracen had not, of course, endeared her to him. Luckily, there had been little contact between herself and the second eldest son of the Bellaclava, but those few encounters had always been brutal, vicious, and cruel. At every turn, he called her insolent, sought to humble her, to remind her of her impure blood. As if she could ever forget! Sprite’s cheeks flamed with humiliation as she fought not to recall the latest incident just two weeks ago when arrogant, conceited Saracen Bellaclava had drunkenly waylaid her on her

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home’s very doorstep, just outside the secondary Fer-de-lance Demesne, ruled over by her halfbrother Caemon. At first, he had been verbally abusive. Sprite, with a quick disdainful glance at him, had shrugged off the vitriol and moved away. Then, strangely, her muteness, followed by her obvious dismissal of him, had seemingly enraged, then emboldened him. Overtaking her with his enormous stride, Saracen had planted himself directly before her, menaced her with his nearness, then muttered more of his ugliness into her ear. “Fer-de-lance spawn. Impudent half-breed.” And he had leaned closer still, long strands of his feral-black hair brushing against her. “Dare you disregard a Bellaclava prince?” As usual, Sprite, eyes hooded, head averted, had silently absorbed the abuse. There hadn’t been, as he well knew, any way for her to respond except with violence, because she had literally been cursed with muteness from birth. Caught directly before him, forced to listen to Saracen’s tirade, Sprite had gritted her teeth and tucked her chin down to hide the fact that her eyes had filled with angry tears. “Where have you been this night, half-breed?” Saracen had lashed that ugly question at her, had more properly sneered. “I’ve wasted hours here in wait for your return. The evening wears thin and I’ve had no like satisfaction.” Of course, she had given no answer. “Have you come from the bed of some lower caste ElfFeyen? Have you enjoyed a rut this evening? While I’ve had none? No, indeed, I’ve not had so much as a taste or touch of pussy or ass.” His voice had gotten gruff, hate-filled. He had pressed his muscular body into hers to physically intimidate her. “Did you spread your legs for one? Or many? Did you get your fill, half-breed?” His rant had grown despicable and accusatory. Suddenly, unable to tolerate another spiteful word, Sprite had pulled back a step from him and had defiantly, unmistakably gestured with a double horizontal wave of both arms: Shut up. No more of this. Then she had brushed by him, not so accidentally knocking his muscled arm as she shouldered past. She had actually bumped him out of her way! Saracen had chuckled, darkly. “There’s a lot of strength in that little body. But exactly how much? I am in a mood to find out. Feel free to defend yourself. Or accept the consequences.” That was when he had spun her around, given her an almost unbalancing shove, then another, and another, sweeping her further away from the entrance to her familial Demesne. She recovered quickly from each, stumbling, regaining her feet, measuring the growing distance to her Demesne, but always facing the bully, who had discovered a new game.

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“I’ll not let you scamper away until I’m done. You’re overdue for a lesson.” His silvery eyes had gleamed. A grin, from jackal to prey, had tugged his lips, revealing his one physical imperfection, a chipped front tooth, gotten, no doubt, Sprite had insanely decided, from gnawing at steel. Instinctively understanding the rules of this “game”, Sprite had defended herself in a like manner, intentionally lessening the force of each blow or pummel, only resorting to her weapon much, much later. They had sparred, if not playfully, at least not truly savagely. Sprite had been ever mindful that he was a royal, while she was nothing but a half-breed. As for Saracen, he had batted at her like a lion would a cub, with claws sheathed, but force only partially blunted. With exaggerated pushes and shoves, not bruising but overpowering, Saracen had roughed her up, pressed her ever backward, then he had unexpectedly laid hands on her, pushed her--splayed her, in fact--against the shadowy side of the immense building. Sprite, not winded, nevertheless had breathed hard, her chest rising and falling underneath the iron-bar-like pressure of his forearm. She had stared into the bright metallic glow of his silvery eyes. They were so hypnotic that she had ceased to struggle in the prison of his arms, the cage of his tall muscled body. His allure had more than rivaled any ascribed to the Sea Sirens. She hadn’t been able to think, or move, or protest. In that moment, she had suffered the undiluted attention of a true pure ElfFeyen royal. Nothing save the weight of his body had kept her upright against the harsh brownstone wall. A weakness such as she had never experienced had entirely sapped her. When he had begun to caress a hand to her breasts, she had feebly squirmed to be free but only managed to aid his fevered groping. He was incredibly big as he pinned her there, the jackal with his hare. Roughly, rhythmically, he had fondled her with single-minded concentration, then began, after a moment of hesitation, to snake his other hand down into her fawn colored pants. That intention had so startled Sprite that she had ceased her weak struggling. Her soundless pants, of exertion … and of something else unfamiliar to her, had lifted her chest into the hard, eager gropes of his hand. The scrape of her stiffened nipple through the thin, crinkled linen of her shirt against his palm had given her a jolt straight from her clenched stomach to her groin! She had been sexually excited! Dumbly, she had watched his face while he had visibly shed his last bit of reluctance to actually touch her--there--and he very expertly, very capably slid his right hand between her legs. Saracen had worn a twisted grimace of concentration. He hadn’t returned her stare. No, he had focused his narrowed, glittery, silver eyes upon the dark valley between their bodies almost as if he could see where his hand was exploring. The rasp of his own lungs had soughed, had gotten ever more labored and loud. He had experimentally rubbed her pubic hair between his fingers, then smiled at the texture, tugged at a curl. “Good, good, just as prettily furred as any other pussy.”

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The low visceral thrum of his approbation had beat in Sprite’s sex. Erratically. The sensation had made her heart rate skyrocket. She’d had another amazing spasm of her inner muscles, stronger than any of the infrequent times she had ever masturbated! She had been aroused! By him! By the jackal demon of the Bellaclava! When Saracen had bestowed her a sudden flicker of a glance and a faint wicked chipped-tooth smile, Sprite hadn’t been sure if he knew of her body’s traitorous response. She’d prayed all the sea gods not! But he had then dropped his gaze back to where his fingers had paused in their licentious work. Abruptly, Saracen had cupped her with the full spread of his huge hot hand. Her breath had soundlessly hitched, while Saracen had grunted, approvingly. It had been a totally strange experience, that explicit handhold molding her, caressing her, possessing her. Sprite’s head had lolled weakly upon the wall, and a whimper, cursedly soundless, had slackened her mouth. Her vision had dulled behind languid, partially closed lids. In her naiveté, she’d curiously wondered: what did he intend to do next …? She shouldn’t have wallowed in the languor of his crude possession. She should’ve fought him off! She should’ve kicked and bit and scratched! Instead, humiliatingly, she had wished that she had a voice to beg him to go on. But Saracen Bellaclava, she’d learned, needed no encouragement to persevere, none whatsoever. “Oh, yes …. ” His low, unbroken groan had felt like a vibration in her sex. “I’ve got you right in the palm of my hand, haven’t I, insolent little Sprite? And you’re not any different from any other ElfFeyen female, are you? Just a soft, sinful slit for me to fill. Just another willing cunt. Just another piece of tail.” Unexpectedly, his taunting mutter had trailed off, had been peppered with a string of curses. There had been a hint of self loathing when he had continued. “Why, then, when I despise you, could I bring myself to bless all the gods of fornication for this chance to fuck you?” He had shook his head as if to clear it, gasped in a big breath, then cast her a malevolent, glittery-eyed glare. “Shall I? Shall I fuck you, Sprite?” Goaded by her muteness, he had further slanted his head to hers. His breathtaking demon’s face, beautifully masculine, framed with an amazing fall of pitch-black waist-length hair, was almost close enough for a kiss. Anger had dominated his expression, but desperation, or so Sprite hazily judged, had been there, too. “Shall I prove to us both who is stronger? Shall I demonstrate that I am your better? That you must bow to me, as is right and proper? I am a royal. What I will, you must obey.” Then his final cruelty had come. “Aye, I’ll do as I please. But I’ll only fuck you with my fingers. As an inferior mixed blood, you’re too far beneath me for my cock’s seed.” Sprite’s strange lassitude had begun to wane under the assault of Saracen’s contempt. She couldn’t allow him to disgrace her in this manner! He was going to digitally penetrate her not because of desire, or attraction, or a true and natural lust, but merely to hurt her. To humiliate and degrade her!

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Instantly, with a silent scream of rage, she had unsheathed her treasured knife, the one bequeathed her by her long dead mother, and she had poised it, steadily, closely, to his face. She had only meant to menace him with the blade, its shaft inlaid with mother-of-pearl and inscribed with the sigils of her mother’s Sea Siren tribe. The weapon had barely given him pause. “You don’t really want me to stop. And I certainly don’t want to stop.” He had simply stared into her eyes as he lasciviously inserted a finger into her slit. He stirred at her flesh, rolled his middle finger through her folds, thoroughly slicked himself with her lubrication. Little-bylittle a glaze had dulled the keenness of his silver eyes. A string of disjointed words had groaned from Saracen. “Wet--slippery--ready. All-mine.” Yet, as he played with her, the pleasure on his feature’s had slowly darkened. Anger sharpened his tone. “Yes, you’re dripping like a sieve. You’re sopping. Much too wet from simple anticipation. Even of me! You have lain with another this night!” Sprite’s mute denial had been a constant, frantic head shake: No! No! No! She was so weak with building pleasure that her knees shook, and her hand nearly dropped the blade still precariously menacing him. “Why deny it? I care not for how many others you’ve spread your legs.” He had more forcefully rubbed into her wetness. But a crazed gleam had burned in his silvery eyes, and his mouth had been stretched thin, as if in anger. “No, indeed, it’s exciting. I just might take my fill of you after all. I could add my cum to the mix. Use you as fiercely as your insolence deserves.” Sprite, frightened beyond her wits that he might take her by force and not seduction, had acted on instinct. Her knee had flown toward his groin, not contacting, only threatening. But Saracen, too, acting on instinct, anticipating excruciating pain, had shifted, a sharp full-body lurch that had raked Sprite’s knife across the bottom corner of his right eye. He had then flinched away from the sting of the blade, extending the small clean cut into a V-shape. “You’ve marked me, half-breed.” Saracen had snarled, drug his hand from her body, and backed away several steps in disgust. He had lifted a hand toward the dark red flow of blood that spilled down his sharp cheek, but, as Sprite had watched with fascinated fear, he hadn’t swiped at or tried to staunch the wound. No, instead he had scented his damp, glistening fingers, coated with her lubrication. He had actually laughed at her wide-eyed shock right before he had licked at his fingers. “Cut me will you? It’s your loss …” he had exaggeratedly made another lick to the side of his big hand with a very long, mobile, lascivious tongue, “… but this is far from over. Now I’ve more reason than ever to discipline you. Expect it when next we meet, little sea urchin.” He had paused, considered, then spat her one final insulting name. “Unnatural mixed-breed.” With the speed of a hand snuffing out a candle, he had vanished, leaving her with a threat unfulfilled until now when he, Saracen Bellaclava, who despised and reviled and tormented her,

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was her temporary lord. Sprite gathered her courage, the armor that had protected her from all forms of abuse in her harsh life, and returned Saracen’s every intense stare-for-stare. Her defiance, as ever, fueled his wrath. That same perverse, inexplicable urge to dominate and control her--to master Sprite Fer-de-lance--seethed inside him. Suddenly, he flicked a glance toward her bed. Her un-slept in bed. Upon that discovery, he scowled at her. It was then that Saracen noted the faintest of circles under her stormy sea-gray eyes. Had she sat in that damned chair ever since her arrival, unable to let down her guard and rest? Just as he, similarly, had spent the same period pacing? He cast a malevolent look to the chair she had so quickly vacated upon his violent entrance, and came to a realization, one that shamed him. “You’ve been locked in this room, in a strange Demesne, for the past twenty-four hours without food, or company, or welcome.” He radiated anger, but it was for himself. He had been so fixated on her, on the fact of her actual presence within the Bellaclava secondary holding, that he had mistreated her, horribly. He had, in fact, ordered that no servant near his apartments, so as to isolate her, to make her dependent on him. Therefore, none had come to her--with clean clothes, a hot meal, or a single word of kindness or welcome. She, Sprite Fer-de-lance, an impenitent, impudent half-breed, had turned him into an unthinking monster. And she had done so in the span of one day! That being the case, how, he vaguely wondered, would he behave in the course of a week?!

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Chapter Two A Growing Psychic Bond

“None shall have cause to say that a Bellaclava Demesne offered no hospitality to a newcomer, however lowly in status. First, I shall see to a meal, then a bath,” Saracen raked a critically hostile glance over her drab top and bottom, the soft spun cloth a washed-out driftwood color, one of the neutral shades of taupe, beige, tan, or brown that she always seemed to favor, “and some fresh clothing, which we shall liberate from Catya‘s vast closet.” Eyeing her coolly, he noted her tense stance, her small fisted hands, and the belligerent tilt of her chin which shifted her thick hair and further exposed the long delicate arch of one ear. Saracen crossed to a wall intercom and ordered that a meal for two--specified to be hamburgers loaded with the works, steak fries, chef salads, caramel cake, iced tea, milk, and soda--be delivered to Catya’s seventh floor apartments. As he negligently ticked off the items to be served, he covertly watched Sprite mask her hunger by lowering her eyes, tightening her pretty lips. Oh, yes, he inwardly chuckled, she definitely hungered. “Now,” he faced her fully, “we shall go raid Catya’s ample closets for something,” Saracen barely veiled his sneer as he scraped a cold, silvery-eyed glance over her, “appropriate for you to wear. Her suite is on the uppermost level of this Demesne.” Then Saracen, intrigued as ever by the energy and emotion that seemed to constantly fire, lightening-like, off of his dainty little Sprite, chose his next words carefully--just to provoke her. “As I have no wish to find your dagger in my back, you will precede me there, half-breed.” For a heartbeat, her fury did, indeed, swell. For that one fraction of a second, her eyes darkened to that of hurricane-stirred seas. The air felt still and heavy. Quiet and hushed. Thunderous. Saracen outwardly ignored her tempestuous glare; inwardly, he shivered in seductive reaction to it. Sprite’s anger, the curses and rants lodged deep in her mind, never to be given voice because of a curse cast by her own clan, stung at him! Perversely excited him! He could almost decipher the scramble of invective that she desperately wanted to scream! Now, as on

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past occasions, he found himself stunned by a comely Fer-de-lance pariah, who stood not at all in awe of him. As ever, Sprite was a force of nature. Next to his height and brawn, she was small and petite, yet somehow colossal and fierce. And, as ever, he had purposely agitated so that the tempest raged. He felt like a diver in a fathomless sea, cleaving down into crisp cold water, stroking into the rough depths, suffocating on his last lungful of air. But, as Sprite was the center of that watery vortex, he wanted to reach it, even if he drowned in the attempt. Although separated by several feet, he could a-l-m-o-s-t touch her in an eerie metaphysical connection. Sprite, startled by his intensity, backed up a step. Fear ricocheted in her mind in a protest against him: No, don’t! It was Saracen’s turn to be surprised. He had witnessed her retreat, but had he actually heard her mental challenge? Although he was a Bellaclava royal, Saracen wasn’t particularly gifted with, much less adept at, telepathy, or any of the other major ElfFeyen Magics. Mostly with psychic mind-magic he was a receptive but only a nominal transmitter. However, sex--and all its attendant arousal and power--boosted his meager sendings. Therefore he, like all his ElfFeyen brethren, was adept at erasing memories of the Rut from mortal women. Yet, ungifted as he was, this strong mental link to Sprite unnerved him. Perhaps, Saracen pondered, studying her through a lash-veiled gaze, he merely imagined her demand that he stay away? After all, the eloquence of her body language spoke volumes. Her stormy gray eyes had narrowed, and her headshake had been a sharp undeniable negative. Even now her stance was bellicose, ready to fend him off physically, should the need arise. “Do you intend on being disobedient throughout the length of your stay? If so, I shall treat you accordingly. Is that warning clear enough, Sprite?” She ground her pearly teeth, slanted him a venomous look, then very capably feigned docile acceptance by sketching a graceful half-bow, a tiny bob of head and shoulders, her left hand curled to her heart, her right settled almost upon the ornate, pearl-handled blade belted at her waist: As you wish, sire. Then she raised slightly, smiled angelically, and undeniably pressed that pretty little hand over that wicked little knife. Her second message came just as clearly to Saracen: Yes, it is best to not turn your back on me. His mouth twitched in a maliciously crooked grin, even as a mass of emotions at her audacity knotted his stomach, ire, annoyance ... and a burgeoning, disturbing smidgen of lust. “I am glad we understand one another. Now,” Saracen jerked his head toward the broken doorway, “lead the way. I am starving.”

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Sprite straightened, kept her eyes hooded as she passed by Saracen, and ignored his large presence even as she crossed into the main chamber. His bedchamber. Here, too, she soundlessly stalked through without a glance of interest, except that from the periphery of her vision. She caught an impression of colors, aluminum-silver on the floor, deep-hued plum on the magnificent sleigh bed, more purple on a pair of divans, light woodsy oak furnishings scattered throughout. The room, from that surreptitious scan, seemed surprisingly stylish and comfortable to quarter a jackal. Then, with a tiny hitch in her breath, Sprite Fer-de-lance, ignoble daughter of a royal ElfFeyen family of Aurora, stepped out onto the airy second floor balcony of the Bellaclava Demesne, a vast if unadorned seven story stronghold. Gleaming white marble balustrades ran the entire circumference of every level, and each looked down upon the magnificence of the rectangular central hall’s lustrous snowy white parquet floor emblazoned with a mythical black griffon, the symbol of the Bellaclava clan. The plain grandeur lured her to lean against that high cool rail and contemplate the vast, low lit Demesne, so different from her own. Whereas here, stone stairs and marble balusters comprised an open spacious fortress, that of the Fer-de-lance, while offering an equally grand main hall, vaulted and leafed in gold, colonnaded with serpentine figures, and tiled in glistening blood-red, had four warren-like stories of dim halls, small cells, secret tunnels, and dank priestholes. The cramped, intricate layout hearkened back to the earliest days of Aurora, when war raged between the four Regions of the Realm of Magic and Light. Even as recently as a thousand years ago, a short span for the nearly immortal ElfFeyen, Aurora had been steeped in bloodshed and betrayal, when loyalty and alliances shifted quicker than mist. To end the violence, the Accords had been written to codify the rule of the four Greater ElfFeyen Houses, Bellaclava in the South, Fer-de-lance in the North, Sirocco in the East, and Corsair, replacing the Mephistos, in the West. Yet, those times of lawlessness and war had left many feudal laws upon the current age, such as the tenet that allowed a female prisoner of one Demesne, of one family line, to become the conscripted member of another if not recovered within the span of four days--a barbarism that had its roots in the fact that in generation-after-generation far more males seemed to be born than females in Aurora. However, as in Sprite’s case, a pact could be struck between houses to amend this ancient custom. Otherwise, without that verbal agreement between Caemon, her half-brother, and Luciferno, the Bellaclava crown prince, after the course of a few short days, Sprite would have had to forever remain under the tender mercies of the jackal demon looming at her shoulder. But, until her release, whenever it should come and however long she must endure in the Bellaclava secondary Demesne, Sprite could--Sprite would--survive. She was strong. Her life-the ill facts of her birth--had made her so. Still, as Saracen pressed nearer, she struggled to subdue a strange shiver. Not flinching, but wanting to, Sprite quickly smothered that reaction, afraid that he might, indeed, be able to psychically read emotions as could many from Aurora. Only moments ago, he had seemed unsettlingly attuned to her.

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Sprite frowned over the stray thought that there was much, varied magic in the Bellaclava ascension, those first seven male heirs of Nila and Trillion. Luciferno, eldest, therefore the crown prince, was renowned for journey-magic, for finding, for controlling, possibly for even creating, portals within both Aurora, the Realm of Magic and Light, and Earth, the Twilight Realm; thus, his Demesne, unlike few others, contained its own dedicated “unkeyed” gate, meaning that almost anyone minutely gifted could select their own destination. Failing that, those wholly ungifted, and that was virtually unheard-of amongst the ElfFeyen, but much-moreso for the mortals, usually arrived at their own clan’s principal portal or, sometimes, at the gate of the primary Bellaclava Demesne, located in the town square of Aeyr-Sward near the Sylvan Citadel. And as Sprite lingered upon the second story balcony, studying her dangerous circumstances, she had to acknowledge the supremacy of this clan’s succession, because the crown prince wasn’t the only Bellaclava reputed to wield pure ElfFeyen magic. Even she, an outsider within her own holding, except for the close bond with her half-brother, Caemon, had heard scores of tales about the Bellaclava. Their third son, Hunter, had reportedly inherited some of Aurora’s finest transformationmagic. Story-upon-whispered-story attested his ability to shift into almost any creature of the air, land, or sea, whether real or mythic: one of the more salacious reports credited Hunter for being the basis of the earthly myth of Zeus visiting a maid in the form of a bull, begetting the terrible Minotaur. As for any limitations on this ability to transform, Sprite could only guess, as true shape-shifters were rare, unlike the prolific were-castes--lion, bear, fox, cheetah, wolf, ad infinitum--that were half ElfFeyen and half beast. Lower-caste weres could only summon one beast, not all, as with a real shape-shifter, and those of the were-castes were considered Lesser, inferior to the truest purest Greater ElfFeyen, those connected by blood to the four royal houses. The Sea Sirens, Sprite’s tragic maternal line, were even more detested than those of the werecastes. Sprite continued to assess her near legendary enemies, acutely aware that the worst of the lot menaced her from inches away. She randomly, distractedly sifted through all the myriad tantalizing alleged exploits of the Bellaclava scions, deciding that, by most accounts, Chael alone, the seventh son, pursued the eminence of mage, a master of disparate ElfFeyen magics. Of the others, Sprite had gleaned that Dominic was a rash and reckless lover, Jenji a warrior, and Shay a mystic. Whatever their rather more nebulous individual gifts, and Sprite doubted not that all seven brothers had inherited such, each one had prospered and been protected by the gods’ sent good fortune reserved for the Greater ElfFeyen, purest and truest of their splintered race. By contrast, the wily Fer-de-lance, Sprite’s own contentious people, were better known for spell-magic, using chants, incantations, charms, and hexes, all external rather than internal conduits of power. She scowled at the darkest example of such: her birth-curse, her muteness. Cast by the three crones, Chrimea, Optima, and Negra, it was the ultimate in a binding spell. Sprite’s innate magic as a Siren had been silenced. No voice meant no power, or so they had hoped. The curse had deprived Sprite of her birthright. She couldn’t enthrall or enslave, the crime that they, the royal Fer-de-lance, had ascribed to Sprite’s mother against her father ... only Sprite didn’t believe it.

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Every Sea Siren dreaded the day when fate twisted upon her, and allowed one male to forever conquer her heart. Sienna had loved Dagher Fer-de-lance, however undeserving the merciless king of his people! She had sacrificed everything, her own family, her independence, her beloved Cerulean Sea, to stay with him. Until, in the end, the slights, the sadness, the profound deprivations of living away from the Sea, had driven her mad. When Sprite was two years of age, Sienna had killed herself. And that end had come from the cruelest of means. Sienna had drowned herself. And that awful truth haunted Sprite. For she too had her racial line’s fascination, its genetic craving, for water. Yet, naturally, because of her poor doomed mother, she also carried a terror for that which nourished her. Daily, she fought the magnetic pull of the Cerulean Sea, a world away, yet as close as the nearest transit-portal. And there was one downstairs. In the Bellaclava Great Hall. If she ever gave in to that call, the one clamoring through her at that very instant, might she not lose herself entirely, choosing to fatally immerse herself in the calm warmth of beautiful blue waves? To seek absolute escape from hardship and woe? Tensing against that hard marble rail, she admitted to herself that there was naught to stop her, except love of self, and love of Caemon ... and one final, physical impediment: blacktempered Saracen, standing guard over her, like she was the most valuable prisoner in either world, Earth or Aurora. He was a wall of flame at her back, smothering and encompassing. Imperceptibly, she slanted her head to scrape a wary sideways glance over him, from his wild waist-length black hair, with two microscopically thin braids seeded with metallic beads at either temple, to his predatory silver eyes. Tall and brawny, seductively featured, overflowing with damnable erotic heat, Saracen had undoubtedly earned his reputation for having--and indulging--an enormously unparalleled and unquenchable sexual appetite, supposedly rutting from dusk-till-dawn, and often exercising that sexual energy, such as many similarly afflicted ElfFeyen, in the Twilight Realm in the guise of an incubus. But, narrowing her eyes, Sprite wondered exactly what kind and how much ElfFeyen magic he possessed? Was it, indeed, psychic? Must she ever be on guard of her thoughts, lest he find ways to better torment her? She deliberately blanked out her expression, turned her gaze back to the heights of the Demesne, and hoped that Saracen Bellaclava couldn’t read just how unconscionably handsome she found him, a jackal demon, and her own personal antagonist. In his role of jailor to her prisoner, he had followed hot-on-her heels from his inner chambers, allowing not so much as a foot, nay, of a spare inch, to separate them. He was far too close for Sprite’s comfort. When he spoke in a low sultry rumble, his very breath stirred her hair. “You’re right to be impressed. Luciferno’s Demesne, the secondary royal holding of the Bellaclava, merits admiration. And this, I realize,” he shifted another hairsbreadth closer, almost bumping his stomach to her spine, “is your first real vantage of our stronghold. You‘ve only ever been on the lower level, and then not for any appreciable time.”

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At that almost contact of his front to her back, Saracen went motionless, held his breath, endured the unexpected thickening of his cock, the pulse and rush of lust that contracted his balls and hardened his shaft. His erection should have disgusted him, since it was caused by her, the Fer-de-lance half-breed. He willed himself limp, and, instead, traitorously wanted to rub against her tight little rump. Their position reminded him of the incident those two weeks past, when he had waylaid her and forced her against the side of her own home so that he could feel her up, could finger her ... could have fucked her, if only she hadn’t, at the last, brandished her knife and denied him. And, now, if he were so inclined, he could explore her from this angle, from the rear. The possibility played out in his mind like a movie. His breath shifted, unsteady and ragged, as he pictured fisting a hand into the waves and kinks of all that glorious sandy-brown golden-gilt hair, imagined ordering her to drag down her soft washed-out bottoms, then using his free hand to fondle her--to trace the contours of Sprite’s small round ass, to lingeringly dabble there, to sexually caress her how and where he pleased, like her tight pink pucker. And, while he so pleasured her, he might just lick the outer edge of her fairy-tipped ear, kiss that graceful fey point. That fetish, which should have been abhorrent to him, made Saracen’s mouth water. The depravity of succumbing, yet again, to a Lesser ElfFeyen shocked him so thoroughly that Saracen stepped back from Sprite. Shame familiarly ripped through him at this ghastly attraction to her, at his need to dominate her, the genesis of which sprang from her contemptuous rejection of him at their first meeting. Females never refused him. Ever. But Sprite had. Her insolence during that first ever meeting--the dismissive glance, the disinterested expression, the unimpressed yawn--wielded against him as surely as the blade at her waist, had nicked him, had festered into a gangrenous wound, until he could barely think straight. No, Saracen averred, struggling with the violent impulse to once again crowd and paw her, it wasn’t truly Sprite that he wanted. He was simply horny for any woman, having done without for over a night and a day. Enforced abstinence caused his arousal, he rationalized, not Sprite Fer-de-lance, for all that her dainty finely-drawn features and scrumptious body appealed to him. He was ElfFeyen. He required sex. Often. And he meant to have plenty before the night was done. Just not with a half-breed, who happened to be a virgin. Sprite’s own brother Caemon had divulged that fact when negotiating the terms to trade Catya for both Desta and Sprite. Her chaste state, so novel for an ElfFeyen, was considered part of her dowry. A lure to gain her an avowed mate. Saracen’s lips twisted wickedly. Sprite, he scoffed, might yet be a virgin, but she was hardly untouched. He had had that honor, the recollection of which--her velvety plumped folds, her extraordinary wetness, her hard nub of a clit--should have curdled his blood but actually excited him! Although on that night two weeks ago he had accused her, purely as a vent for his anger, of having lain with others, in fact no male had ever stroked into her. None. He, Saracen Bellaclava, had been the first. Only, as he stared at the back of her mutinous head and suffered his evil grin to warp into a frown, he actually regretted that lost opportunity to have breached her maidenhead. Because now, after having stood amidst that small contingent of both Bellaclava and Fer-de-lance, where

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he had declared that Sprite’s virginity was safe with him, that, indeed, “I can tolerate her presence…And, never fear, her innocence is safe with me. My cock withers at the very thought,” he was bound by his own word to forgo sexual intimacy with her. And he couldn’t understand why that made him cranky. “Enough dawdling. Our meal awaits. Upstairs. You can goggle as we climb.” Saracen’s first inclination, to shove her into motion, felt supremely unwise in his current state, therefore he stayed back from Sprite, and allowed her to swing away from the balustrade and continue their ascent up the first set of steps to the small, interconnecting landing that let onto the second set of adjacent twin steps that ended at the next floor of the Demesne. This same progression held true for every level of the stronghold. They climbed in a very noxious silence, a petite but physically vibrant female trailed by a taller, broader male. She, skimming a hand up the rail, kept her stare riveted to the steps. He, balancing without a corresponding handhold, kept his silvery gaze upon her. Starting at the top of her head, his scrutiny coursed downward, traveling down her steely straight spine, the feminine narrowing of her waist, then stopping at her ass. The shift and sway of pretty muscle absorbed him. Her derriere was sculpted, tight, perfect, of a lush and sexy proportion for her five foot two-and-debatable-quarter-of-an-inch frame. Perfect just like her pert tits, which, by some overly critical standards, might be considered--surprisingly no longer by himself--too small. After all, hadn’t he that-once-upon-atime cupped them in his palms and been sufficiently undone to get an impressive hard-on even harder? But, he querulously amended, to be accurate such a judgment really necessitated a much longer trial, with mouth and tongue and teeth as well as hands and palms and fingers; to fairly rate her bosoms, he’d need to give them a proper naughty licking. Until then, he shouldn’t be so generous to the half-breed. Her breasts, belly, and butt were satisfactory, at best, came his additionally ungracious thought, notwithstanding that he ached to get better acquainted with each, by turns, slowly, thoroughly, repeatedly. Therefore, it took the staunchness of a monk to not think about her pussy. How slick, how wet, how tempting. But he failed. Even as he fought it, the need to rut heated his blood. And that passion flashed over Sprite like a beacon. The keenness of his interest faded in and out from one second to the next, as if he had no control of his charged psychic thoughts, or, perhaps he only exuded his normal oversexed libido? All Sprite knew was that these bursts of sexual intensity pulsed intermittently and ... they buzzed in her erogenous zones, excited the tips of her breasts into achy hard points, contracted the muscles of her stomach in a needy rush, tingled the damp hidden folds of her sex. She was as horny as that miserable night when he had forced himself upon her beside her very own Demesne! And, consciously or not, Saracen was to blame. Again. Dazed, swaying almost drunkenly, Sprite slanted a delirious gaze at him from over her shoulder. And wished that she hadn’t. Saracen, a beautiful black-haired jackal demon,

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impassive and forbidding as a graven image of himself, seemed to look through her, not at her. He didn’t see her. He didn’t suffer for her. He didn’t even like her. She might not have even been present for all the notice he gave her. Whatever rutting fever that gripped him had nothing to do with her. No, indeed, not one whit. Because when, of a sudden, he did meet her gaze--his eyes shining silvery, wrathfully, full of anger and revulsion--Sprite’s knees went weak. Even so she tried to move away from Saracen, who scowled to see her, a Sea Siren, usually so agile, usually so graceful, wobble and stub a foot against stone. Rocking unsteadily. “Are all virginal Sea Siren’s so ungainly?” His tone was chill, and ugly, and meant to strike at her, so to mask his self-loathing at being stirred almost beyond his senses by her. In answer, her features did not flinch, but one of her delicate hands fluttered up to her heart. Inexplicably, Sprite’s minute show of vulnerability made his own chest ache. Her pride was her strength, and it never failed her, never so much as buckled, not even when heaped upon with his animosity. Therefore, staring at her, the scowl between his brows deepening into a trough, he attributed her small lapse of hand-to-heart to privation--no food, no water, no rest, and absolutely no welcome. But, then, hadn’t that been his goal? To vengefully debase her? To grind the insolence from her? As his stare lingered, noting that she still appeared overcome, Saracen made an exasperated sound, swooped nearer, and, not only righted Sprite, he swung her into his arms. He expected her to glare at him, to scald him with one of her devastating black-as-a-stormy-sea looks, then poke his chest in a demand to be released. Instead, her face paled. Her teeth, although clenched, were chattering. She appeared shocked, disoriented. “Rest your head on my shoulder, little sea urchin,” he ordered, his throat sounding raw, “and I shall carry you the rest of the way.” Sprite complied, the mass of her sandy-brown gilt-with-gold hair a brush of gossamer against his neck and jaw. Within his arms, she felt like a cloud of sunshine, warm and buoyant and oh-so illusory. He had to smother the wave of pleasure that that soft caress gave him. And he next spoke in an unkind growl, so that there was no mistaking that he had any soft spot for her-whatsoever. “I’ll not dally here all night, while our meal grows cold, simply to give in to your weak disposition.” Yet Saracen’s hold as he toted her up the remaining four floors was much more gentle than had been the flinty tone of his words. Neither seemed to mind the contradiction.

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Chapter Three Food For Thought

By the time they reached Catya’s seventh-level apartments, Sprite had recovered enough to lift her head from off Saracen’s comfortable shoulder. How, she fumed, could she have demonstrated so much weakness? She needed to be free of the jackal demon. At once! To communicate her wish to be released, she stiffened like a poker, slanted her head away from him, and allowed her irritation to seep forth, relying on his seeming sensitivity to her emotions to convince him. Her message was unmistakable, even to a silvery-eyed beast such as Saracen Bellaclava. She wanted down. Now. Instead, Saracen, still nestling her within his arms, strode into the spacious chamber, decorated in tones of taupe and aquamarine. That striking shade of blue, bordered with a strip of neutral beige, colored the walls and also stretched across the floor. A frilled canopy shadowed the aqua-and-fawn bed, massed with any number of huge navy and taupe pillows. There was furniture, and bric-a-brac, and novelties everywhere within the room. To Sprite, the barely tolerated half-breed daughter of the Fer-de-lance king Dagher, who had seen much luxury but had only enjoyed the most Spartan of quarters, a cot, a peg for her clothes, and a shower, Catya’s suite was enchanting. She didn’t want to--yet couldn’t help but-gawk at the feminine accoutrements, the pedestals to either side of the bed overflowing with arrangements of eerily pale almost blue roses amidst falls of white lilac, an ornate curly-cued vanity littered with pots of rouge, trays full of eye shadows and eye liners, lipsticks and glosses, tiny perfume atomizers, and a nearby enormous jewelry armoire. Two televisions, one suspended from the ceiling for easy viewing from the bed, the other in a corner of the room before a plush loveseat, plus an imposing stereo system were the most obvious gadgets within the room. Yet Sprite wanted to see more … she wanted to explore. Once again, she wriggled in a demand to be set down. “Have your way, then,” Saracen grumbled as he finally swung her onto her feet, watching her tentative investigations, “just don’t expect me to pick you up if you fall flat upon your pretty face from hunger.”

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Irritably, he moved across the room to where their meal--two elegant bone-white china plates stacked with hamburgers, a basket of golden streak fries, another of onion rings, individual salad bowls steeped with ham, cheese, boiled eggs, greens and dressing, a whole gooey caramel cake, pitchers of milk, iced tea, and water, plus golden utensils and lavish cloth napkins--had already been laid out upon a long oval nearly legless table, scattered about with thick aqua cushions. Saracen settled himself in a relaxed half-reclined sprawl upon the cushioned floor, then flicked a gaze toward Sprite who still wandered the room. She seemed fascinated, and it miffed him because Sprite had never shown him such keen attention, save for when he demanded it with his brutal insults. Yet, disconcertingly, her silent prowls intrigued him. Saracen, his hooded silvery gaze trailing her every move, kept his patience while she puttered around the makeup table then eventually found her way to the three octagonal glass display cases full of Catya’s crystal figurines. Sprite halted by the first case and leaned close, the frothy mass of her hair rippling with the motion, as she gazed wonderingly at the brilliant pieces, the prancing unicorn, the twin wolves, the fearsome griffon, and, upon the bottommost platform, an entire array of jungle cats. Reluctant to leave that case, she nevertheless scuffed half-a-dozen steps toward the next one. When she took in the first figurine, she impulsively caressed a hand to the glass, smearing a small child-like print. It was a dolphin! Her blood sang, thrilled by the sight. Instinct gave her a vicarious memory of water, and sun, and sea. Of a freedom and happiness that stretched from horizon-to-horizon, such as she had never, nor was ever likely to, experience. In the Cerulean Sea, she knew, dolphins would answer her call. She stood there, transfixed, until Saracen’s sharp tone shattered that transitory moment of happiness. “Come, Sprite.” He’d had enough of being ignored in favor of crystal knickknacks! She’d actually effervesced with joy, the tingle of it traveling through him, taunting him. Her elation had never bubbled like champagne in response to him! “Heed me, now.” Trained throughout her lifetime to always, instantly react to any peremptory summons, Sprite jerked toward his direction. She took in the large repast upon the table, which Saracen hadn’t yet partaken of, and gave him a vague look of surprise. However, she automatically obeyed his command, although with a wary hesitance. As she drew nearer him, a puzzled frown etched itself between her thin prettily arched brows. Her gaze shifted from Saracen to the unaccustomed bounty on the table. The closer she came to him, indolently resting beside the banquet, the slower she moved, as in a somber march to the gallows. In fact, she stopped several feet short of the unusual but inviting dining table. By now her stare was fixed upon the ground, her head bowed, her shoulders almost hunched. “Sit down,” Saracen said, not disguising his annoyance. “Let’s eat.”

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That brought her head up to reveal shock, puzzlement, and, maybe, some fear. With one of her expressive hands, she waved a graceful gesture from herself to the table, then ended it with a quick, sharp jab at him. It seemed a question: am I to eat? With you? Her expression turned blank while she considered that this might be some sort of trap, and should she fall into it he would punish her. After all, why would he, an ElfFeyen Royal, arrogant and abusive through-and-through, allow her to dine at the same table … when her own Demesne, save for Caemon and his small enclave, would not? Her hands fisted at the remembrance, of how she had had to eat, alone, in a corner of the kitchens, banished to a place lower than even the servants. Worse yet, as a child, a puny and unwanted ragamuffin within the secondary Fer-de-lance Demesne, she had actually had to fight the hounds to save the bowl of scraps that were set upon the floor for her. Scars on her right elbow and pinky finger were testament to how hard fought was her survival. Saracen misread her body’s language, the clench of her fists, the compression of her mouth, the impossible stillness of her entire frame, as an insolent refusal, an insult to him. “Yes. Eat. Now. With me.” Anger made his words short and harsh. How dare she refuse to sit with him! Was he that unbearably brutish? That she couldn’t stomach the intimacy of sharing a meal with him? Reacting to that slight, he jeered at her. “Why do you hesitate? Are your table manners atrocious even by the graceless standards of the Fer-de-lance? Don’t they let you sit at table, half-breed?” His nasty jibe, accurate as an arrow, struck a raw nerve. Through narrowed glittering eyes, he caught Sprite’s guilty wounded start, which proved that, No, this ignominious Fer-delance daughter wasn’t allowed to sup with her own kin. To make matters worse, his vile taunt had doubled her humiliation by forcing her to admit to it, however fleetingly. Not only had he witnessed it, that quick flinch of soul-deep hurt, he had deciphered it, almost felt it, although his brave little sea urchin had instantly hidden her pain behind the belligerence of a raised chin, gritted teeth, and a stormy black-eyed stare. Saracen, tense with a corresponding anger towards her abusive clan, swallowed back a curse that burned down his gullet like acid. Those Fer-de-lance bastards had shunned her in her own home! And beautiful, spirited Sprite, who so rightly and so wholly despised him, Saracen Bellaclava, expected to receive like ill treatment within the Bellaclava Demesne. Who could blame her for such wariness? Hadn’t he berated and reviled her at every opportunity, in fact gone out of his way to do so? He had never considered--or, more precisely, he had never cared-about her status within the Fer-de-lance Demesne, a rambunctious combative all-but-outlawed clan. He well knew their quick tempers and untamed aggression, facets that made them staunch allies but diabolical enemies. And, as Saracen forced the tension from his body, resuming his lax, comfortable sprawl upon the cushions, his thoughts more than idly considered what her existence must have been, given that her people had cursed her with muteness at birth, given that she had been motherless, given that she, a taint to the Fer-de-lance line, had been suffered to live at all. Because,

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according to unwritten ElfFeyen law, children weren’t to be begat outside of mated couples, only between those who had exchanged binding vows. To do otherwise showed lack of self-control. Sprite’s mixed blood, then, wasn’t her real shame. It was that her father, Dagher, a royal, had not been bound as mate to Sienna, a lower-caste Sea Siren. Against tradition, he had gotten her pregnant and then brought her here to the Twilight Realm of Earth where, after several years, she had reputedly taken her own life--by drowning. Everyone said that the Siren, Sienna, had beguiled the Fer-de-lance king into having the child and settling them in the virtually lawless realm of Earth, in what had since become the Fer-de-lance secondary Demesne. Sprite, then, was a child who endangered the legitimate succession of the true Fer-de-lance heirs. That, Saracen admitted, was her true crime, not necessarily being half-breed. As she waited in her usual stoic silence, her inner vibrancy banked like a fire yet still tangible to his senses, Saracen marveled anew at the strength forged into so delicate a seeming creature, with her dainty stature, sun-on-sea-kissed sandy-brown hair, and her undeniably pretty, irrefutably fey features--especially her elegant fairy-tipped ears! No doubt Sprite had waged a war just to survive a hard-scrabble upbringing, not all that uncommon for any ElfFeyen Demesne, simply made worse for the ill circumstances of her birth. He knew some few of her Fer-de-lance half-brothers in a more than passing manner, particularly those who dwelled in the Twilight Realm under Caemon‘s, the Fer-de-lance crown prince‘s, oftentimes negligent rule. Rowdy Zeric, with his wildly shorn coppery-brown hair, whip-cord frame, and filmed-over right eye. Warrior Ratt, big and burly, with little comeliness in either face or character, except for unwavering loyalty to friends, cronies, and fellow whoremongers. Enigmatic Roman, a huge bruiser, dark in aspect and in complexion, his skin suntanned and swarthy, his sable hair commonly plaited, his eyes fierce and black … aye, all his features echoed his even more darkly crafted soul. This rough lot, then, tempered by Caemon, had been Sprite’s brethren, those closest in age. From rowdy childhood, into brawling adolescence, and through young adulthood, there would have been little sympathy, much less affection, for the odd child, the outcast, the lone female in their warring midst. They, the primary successors of the Fer-de-lance crown, the sons of Dagher and Brigid, were not a particularly easygoing bunch. Yet, occasionally, when Saracen was in a savage mood--such as had earned him the infrequently used (in his presence) appellation of the jackal-he had joined their pack, sharing their hearty lawlessness, indulging their--and his--most primal ElfFeyen hedonisms. Drinking, fighting … rutting. So he knew their rough, violent ways, that they played, fought, and fornicated very dangerously, but also honorably in a twisted fashion. Their crown prince, Caemon, would have it no other way. He kept his brothers in check, and he ever protected his vulnerable mixed-breed sister. In fact, in his nobility, Caemon, ruler of the secondary Fer-de-lance Demesne for some dozen earthly years, had openly elevated Sprite. He had made her his shadow, his shield, his second. Where one had traveled, so had the other … usually. But crafty Saracen, the silver-eyed jackal, having been stung by Sprite’s toxic rejection upon their first ill-fated meeting, had marked recent intervals when Caemon roamed the streets by himself. Saracen had also

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discovered why: Caemon had obsessively stalked Catya, ever since his bid to buy her had failed, and he had always done so without his half-breed bodyguard. Sprite, naturally, when shed of her responsibility to protect him, had prowled to her own heart’s content, a silent and unseen figure who liked to explore the exciting fringe of Summer Street, the decadent and mysterious place where mortal humans, unaware that they mingled with immortal ElfFeyens, gathered in bars, taverns, gaming houses, and brothels. Thus, more-and-more frequently, Saracen had been afforded the opportunity to likewise shadow--then ambush--Sprite. And those times, especially the last one when he had had her pinned to the Fer-de-lance Demesne and had groped, and touched, and slicked into her hot tight pussy, had been thrilling! And why should he not relish that stolen moment, that nasty bit of sex between them? The ElfFeyen were a randy lot, to a man. Sex was a necessity. Any partner would do, even those of far lower classes. Saracen, tracing a scant glance over Sprite, licked at his lips. He himself had dallied with many illicit inferior breeds, pixies, dryads, numerous feline and canine weres, and lots of earthly females. But, his dulled mind considered, he had never lain with a Sea Siren. He must be in dire need of a good lay, indeed, if the idea of bedding one--a lesser race who could magically corrupt their way into a man’s heart and bed--didn’t appall him! It must be novelty, he suspected, that stimulated this unhealthy fascination. That and possibly Sprite’s innate ability to enthrall. Yet, when his senses swept her more thoroughly, no power seemed to emanate from Sprite. Surely, as unexpectedly sensitive as he was to her, he would catch any beguilement … or perhaps not, he mused, if it were already deeply in place? Mightn’t she have ensnared him two years ago upon their first antagonistic meeting? Was that why he responded to her so strongly, even against his better judgment? And if she had done so, had it been a conscious, or an unconscious, act? Was he, even now, secretly enslaved to her? A strange trepidation kept him from further experimenting with his newfound mindmagic, that seemed to link him inextricably with her. He didn’t want to disturb this bond, whatever it proved to be, between them. For the time being, he wanted it intact. He wanted to suffer these odd pangs. He wanted the exhilaration of resisting Sprite‘s allure, and, sometimes, of giving in to it. Indeed, the urge was on him at that very moment, even as she patiently awaited his disposal, like a soldier at parade rest, paused for his next prompt. He gave it to her, smothering any betraying emotion. His voice carried no inflection of lust, or admiration, or attraction, but he keenly felt these. “I meant exactly as I spoke, little sea urchin, that, yes, we shall break bread together. Take a seat, for I am famished.” Sprite coolly nodded, came a step closer, then folded straight down with supple grace to rest upon her shins and feet in a very monastic pose. Her quiet dignity placed her in another purer realm, heightened by the fact that she made no eye contact with him. She was calm and

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serene, and had placed herself far beyond him. The span of a chasm might have separated them rather than a table. And Saracen loathed that distance, even more so her becalmed detachment. No, he required the sparkle, the electricity, of her fearless personality, whether expressed with anger, annoyance, disdain, or, his favorite, insolence. These emotions proved her not so very immune to him, after all. His intent to provoke her, then, was nearly unconscious. A coarse laugh escaped him, a touch of cruelty in it. “Oh, no, sea Sprite, do not sit there, so far from me. Move here. Move closer. Remember, you are more servant than guest, and therefore must graciously attend me. You must fulfill my slightest whim.” Saracen carefully needled at her, tweaking her pride. “Have a care to please, else I might grow surly. Get used to doing my bidding, half-breed. It will spare you much grief. The Fer-de-lance are assuredly used to serving their betters, particularly the Bellaclava.” Sprite’s tranquil demeanor imploded with jaw-clenching, eye-blazing, knuckles-grippingthe-tabletop intensity. Her condemnation, not voiced, but nevertheless shouted, broke over him: Betters, indeed, you swine! The Fer-de-lance blood is as royal as the Bellaclava. Leave off the insults. “Pardon my ill chosen words. I simply meant to remind you of your … place … and … your … duties.” Saracen, lolling on the cushions, his waist-length feral-black hair draping his broad shoulders, presented her a chip-toothed mocking smile, that was somehow eased by his next seductive, throaty command. “Do as I bid, Sprite. Come here.” He patted the cushion beside him. Actually rubbed it, sensuously. Gave her a predatory, glittery-eyed stare. As she carried out his demand, Sprite’s anger made her movements jerky. She stood, rounded the table, and re-seated herself closer to him--but not where he had directed. She kept her head tilted down, and her gaze glued to some imaginary spot just over their food. But the heaving of her chest evidenced her awareness of him. She felt imperiled by him, by silver-eyed handsome-faced Saracen Bellaclava, a jackal who deceptively lounged at her side and literally waited to prey on her. And when he did finally figuratively rend her, would he go for her tender belly, her unprotected throat, or her exposed heart? She gulped painfully because hadn’t he already torn into her embittered lonely existence? Hadn’t he opportunistically wounded her with his perverse attentions, culminating in those few heady moments when he had shoved her against a brick wall and had sexually stroked her. At that rough stimulating assault, Sprite had nearly climaxed with a searing, pulsing, desperate-formore ache in her pussy! She had lost all reason to the wet, needy throb of her sex! And he, this cruel jackal, had done that to her! And had done so effortlessly! And, if she wasn’t deluding herself, he had wanted to do more. But since that night, he had sworn before both his family and hers to keep her virginity intact. Much as she hated him, she doubted not his intrinsic ElfFeyen honor, however warped. He was bound by his own word to not touch her. That meant she was safe from him.

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Absolutely, positively safe. From importuning. From seduction. From out-and-out rape. So why then did the knot in her throat grow suddenly drier, harder, more painful? Why were her eyes moistening, surely not from frustration and disappointment? Her head tilted even more to hide this further evidence of how easily he could manipulate her feelings … as if there was really any doubt of Saracen’s powerful, dangerous pull upon her. Saracen stewed over her defiance in not sitting directly at his side, but he didn’t challenge her on it, particularly since her attention stubbornly fixed elsewhere: with this arrangement, he could look at her to his greedy fill. And he did, watching the tense lines of her petite but shapely body, noting her straight-shoulders, stiff-spine, yet downwardly canted chin which kept her features obscured by the heavy mass of her sandy, sun-gilt hair. When his interest wandered insubordinately to her breasts, he grew angry with self-loathing. Why, he berated himself, couldn’t he so much as look at her without thinking about sex? “Pour our drinks,” he spoke, severely. “I shall have iced tea.” Sprite carried out the order on the instant, with an economy of motion, and an admirable ease given that he stared at her like a cat tracking a mouse. She spilled not one drop of his tea or her milk. Then, stubbornly, she sat back on her heels once more, glaring at her plate, and awaited his pleasure. “Dig in. Eat.” Saracen, who had already started his meal, grumbled at her around big bites of his juicy, condiment-laden burger. “And don’t make me tell you twice.” He gobbled his hamburger, and instantly wolfed down another, all the while surreptitiously studying how unenthusiastically Sprite picked at her food. “Are you unaccustomed to mortal fare? It‘s very tasty.” He snagged up three onion rings and shoveled them into his mouth, partly in gluttony, partly to set her an example. “We Bellaclava tend to dine as the humans do. You will like it. Have you ever had pizza?” He watched her very closely, caught the merest smile at the corner of her mouth, and the tiny nod of her head. Oh, she liked pizza, all right! He had the odd desire to set a half-dozen pizza pies before her, all different crusts and toppings, so she could pig-out, and his unexpected emotions of generosity and hospitality seemed to transmit to her. The stiffness visibly drained from Sprite. He grinned, then gave over most of his attention to eating. Out-of-the-corner of his eye, he saw Sprite do the same. She unselfconsciously put away two hamburgers, half a basket of steak fries, the salad, and an enormous slab of caramel cake--imperiously cut and presented to her by Saracen, effectively commanding that she indulge in dessert, whether she wanted to or not. On her last bite of cake, she was so relaxed and replete that she unthinkingly licked the last sweet, gooey smear of caramel from the back of her spoon. Saracen saw. And Saracen flinched. The sight of her pretty pink tongue flicking out to caress the silver spoon gave him impure thoughts, uncomfortable and unfulfilled thoughts of her

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poised on her knees before him, grasping his stiff up thrust shaft, preparing to fellate him. His daydream continued. Sprite, after a coquettish glance up at his distressed features, would lave that tongue across his fat seeping crown, pause teasingly, then suck the tip into her mouth. Like an expert, she would roll her tongue over his head, tickle at his slit, then try to swallow him whole. Her dainty hand would explore, would rub and caress, his big balls. The vision made him suck in a hissing breath between his teeth, and his body trembled from head to foot. His cock struggled within the confines of his soft dark blue trousers. For one insane second, he considered making the vision come true. Sprite could give him a blow job. That wouldn’t be breaking his word. She would remain a damned virgin. Saracen, still half-reclined upon the cushions, cupped himself, rubbed slowly at his stiff painful erection. Then, when his odd manner coupled with the open palming of his shaft had not drawn her attention, he spoke to Sprite, harsh shocking blood-stirring words, a rasp that hung on the very air. “I need a woman.” Apart from dropping her silverware, Sprite’s only response was a blank, innocent, uncomprehending expression. Her eyes, a lovely light shade of gray, lighter than ever he had seen their usually stormy depths, slowly blinked her perplexity. Saracen’s dark laughter, he saw, confused her even more. She had not a single clue that he meant her! That he desired her! She couldn’t conceive that he did, indeed, ache for her! And why should she have such a suspicion after every debasing violent confrontation between them? Hadn’t he always called her halfbreed, intoned as if she were some slimy unappealing thing? Hadn’t he always mocked and jeered at her, aiming to teach her humility, trying to force her to admit his supremacy over her? No, her ignorance of this fact was not surprising. After all it was the first time since their disastrous initial meeting, when he had openly propositioned her and she had as openly refused him, that he had allowed himself to admit to this monstrous sexual attraction to her. Thus, given all the harshness and antagonism that had transpired between them, she hadn’t the least idea that at that excruciating moment, he in fact wanted none other than Sprite Fer-de-lance.

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Chapter Four A Carnal Meeting Place

“We’re going to Summer Street … where I can find exactly what I need … once you’ve freshened up,” Saracen growled, angry that Sprite, oblivious to her appeal, remained within arm’s reach but beyond his having. He doused his ardor under a blanket of discontent, while she literally beamed at his pronouncement that they were venturing to the exotically wild street that mixed the mortal and immortal realms. “Come,” he rose fluidly, offered her a hand, “let us select you some clothing.” Sprite’s questioning glance swept the dirty dishes upon the low table before she quirked her head up at him. Such chores, that gesture revealed, usually fell to her. “Leave it. The servants will clean up our dinner.” He yet held out his large, strong hand. There was no denying the command of that gesture. Feigning calm, she placed her own smaller, daintier, tanned-but-pearly tinged hand within Saracen’s without further hesitation--but also without looking at the intimacy of their fingers, their palms, their unfamiliar handclasp. That contact, which should have been so innocuous, tingled throughout her body. She tried to quash that response. Before he could feel it. Gingerly, Saracen tugged her up and toward the apartment’s, his absent sister Catya’s, enormous closet, a whole room with twin, round, motorized racks full of slacks, skirts, shirts, dresses, sweaters, jeans, jumpsuits, jackets. Using a control by the door, Saracen twirled the racks upon their silent ceiling mechanism. All the vivid colors smeared into a rainbow of lime, canary, scarlet, neon blue, light kiwi, shimmery apricot, bright grape. It dizzied Sprite, who was unused to such garish, outlandish fashion. She always wore colors of the sand and sea, such as her crinkled linen top and bottom, comfortably soft and faded as a piece of driftwood, formfitting and functional. Saracen stopped the carousel-like rack at the section crammed with jeans, then he cast a cool, silvery-eyed glance down Sprite’s body, ostensibly to gauge her size. His obvious indifference as he scanned her breasts, waist, hips, and legs made her stiffen. Indignation at his

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offensive casualness turned her muscles and bones to steel and clenched her fists at her sides. That he, Saracen, the jackal prince, notorious for an insatiable libido, didn’t find anything worth ogling in her petite frame rankled. When it, she upbraided herself, shouldn’t! Saracen Bellaclava was dangerous enough without courting his interest. Indeed, she thanked the fornicating gods that he found nothing to his liking! They were simply going to Summer Street so that he could scratch a sexual itch. And, no matter how hard she tried, Sprite couldn’t restrain her pleasure that he was taking her along! She patiently waited as he strolled around the racks, taking more pains over his choices than she would have credited. In fact, her intensity upon him, which usually would have been a warrior’s cold calculation of a dangerous opponent, stemmed from admiration of his own exquisitely navy clad body, from his soft loose trousers matched with a very masculine tailored shirt, casual but expensive. As he moved purposefully, his waist-length midnight-black hair shifted, some falling over his muscular shoulder, accentuating the honed height and breadth of him. Long hair was not uncommon among ElfFeyen males, but, seeing as this was Saracen, she smirked, she considered this more proof of his vanity. Although, she also admitted, his hair was gorgeous and should never be shorn. As she continued to watch him, Sprite silently laughed to assess him a bit of a peacock. That explained his deliberations on her behalf. He didn’t want to be ashamed--or, rather, even more ashamed, Sprite corrected herself with a scowl--to be seen with her. To that end, Saracen considered but discarded several styles of jeans before he prowled further down the line of clothes, picked out an overlarge ankle-length black-knit t-shirt dress, grabbed a pair of diamond-patterned tights as well as some black bikini underwear from out of a nearby lingerie cabinet, and finally added some non-descript flat-heeled charcoal step-ins for footwear, then pressed the articles into Sprite’s unenthusiastic arms. That she so obviously, through her mental wave of annoyance, didn‘t like his choices gave him an ungenerous thrill. “This should do you well enough. I want you to look feminine, for a change. Doubtlessly, since we will be out in public, you must contrive to hide your … disfigurement.” A sneer twisted his mouth, warped his voice, even as he traced a hooded gaze over the graceful edge of one of her pretty, elongated, fairy-tipped ears. He successfully smothered his desire to stroke there. Miffed by this continued compulsion, he grew surly with her. “Now, go and take a shower.” He jerked his head toward the opulent, lagoon-sized bathroom next door. “Don’t lollygag, or I will come fetch you out.” His grin, a quick feral flash of teeth, the small chip in the front no true blot upon his inhuman beauty, warned her to take him seriously. If he had to retrieve her, there would be consequences. Mutiny sizzled through Sprite, and, disturbingly, she noted Saracen’s sudden ramrod alertness, as if he saw the cracks in her feigned docility, saw how she chafed at his imperious commands. Even covert disobedience, she reckoned, given his “sensitivity” to her emotions, would amuse him, would give him leave to discipline her, or, worse, to punish her. Therefore, she didn’t vent her caustic response in her inimitable and silently vocal fashion--with a belligerent head toss, a mouthed curse, and a derisive flicker from her stormy eyes accompanied

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by a middle-finger salute. No, instead, like a coward, she tucked her chin down, grasped her bundle tightly to her chest, and fled to the next door bathroom, ignoring his soft laughter at her compliance. Oh, how she seethed. She wanted to about-face and smash in his gorgeous face! But Sprite wanted to taste the decadent freedoms of Summer Street. Even if she had to endure Saracen Balaclava’s presence to do so. Therefore, she contented herself with the pledge that there would doubtless be plenty of future opportunity--and reason--to pummel him into a bloody pulp! **** The alleys off of Summer Street were dark, close, and invariably full of illicit activity. They were places of cracked concrete, stagnant water, and weak echoes of magic. And Saracen, for some unaccountable reason, most probably the painful unabated ache of his enormous erection, had immediately steered Sprite with a controlling grip on her elbow into one of his favorites, a narrow barely garbage-truck-wide passage with dozens of murky doorways, shadowy recessed stairs, and unmarked rear exits from businesses that ranged from The Mandarin Dragon, Swills pool hall, The Blue Blazes Dance Club, and Isolda’s Candles and Perfumery--a tiny holein-the wall that continuously wafted the air with intermingled scents, from the pure and fruity aromas of sweet orange blossom, mouth-watering vanilla, tangy lemon, to those more abrasive and earthy, harsh pepper, burning ammonia, dirt, leaf, and loam. This heady thick mélange of perfumes, mixed by a mysterious ElfFeyen alchemist, renowned for both beauty and amorality, masked and augmented spell-magic, and often carried wayward hints of more elementary enchantments, for instance love spells, mild hexes, beauty potions, or tinctures for sexual prowess. Mortals, naturally, avoided these dank and dangerous labyrinthine alleyways, their murky thresholds seemingly barred with invisible gates, minor psychic barriers between the well-lit vibrant street and the mobile almost-living shadows and drugged atmosphere of the alleys. The immortal ElfFeyen held sway here. Saracen often dallied here, in this the amusingly named Lovers Lane. Here, within this particular haunt, he often hooked up with other ElfFeyen, both Lesser and Greater, but usually … no, preferably … the former as their appetites ran equally hot, wild, and unfettered as his. More often, however, he compelled mortals here. For them, the inexperienced, those of passionate but inhibited nature, the very air was an aphrodisiac. Once within the close confines of one of these seductive aisles, a mortal became ravenous, eager, fervent for any type of sexual congress. As Saracen propelled Sprite, his spiny but delicate sea urchin, closer to their goal, she reacted nearly as would a naive mortal: pulsing with vitality, radiating with sexual excitement, each ragged beat of her heart echoed in intimate places within her … and, whether she realized it or not, within Saracen as well! Her desire transmitted to him, exquisite and torturous. It was a

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hot molten river down his spine into his shaft, thickening it to burdensome proportions, pulsing it with heavy drumbeats of need. Wending further into the familiar tunnel, luxuriating in its muted magical air, adding soft footfalls to its oddly hollow non-sounds, but avoiding its charcoal hued viscous shadows, dubbed phlitts, near corporeal forms constructed from the loose magic, emotion, and yearning that accumulated within these alleys, Saracen deliberately tugged Sprite through a hazy red-tinted almost-cloud of musk. The claret color washed over her angelic face and her petite yet womanly form, clung like cobwebs, then dispersed. It was a slurry of diluted ElfFeyen pheromone, called Ruby Rider by some. This was a naturally occurring sex drug, but another, called red dust, which--if smoked, injected, or outright ingested--increased strength, speed, stamina, and sexual urgency, could also be had on these streets In the aftermath of that much Ruby Rider, Sprite swayed, just a tad, then slowed to motionlessness as the sex-and-sin-filled vapor penetrated. The muscles in her belly contracted, as if she’d been expertly stimulated, as if she‘d just been touched--or, given her intense reaction, been licked--by Saracen. A beat started inside her, in her sex. A prolonged booming of excitement. Her respiration went crazy, ragged, shallow and fast. Her thoughts as well. For instance, she wished that some one--just not him!--would again stir a long knowing finger into her pulsing slit, play with her, continuously stroke and compound that deep aching throb. She’d like to open her legs crudely wide, offer herself to him, let him, with all his experience, compared to her dearth, dictate what came next. That licentious thought frightened her. As best she could, Sprite tamped down her fiery lust, refused to cast a glance over her shoulder at wicked Saracen, her tormentor, and futilely fought to remain detached. She’d never before exposed herself to Ruby Rider fumes! Such arousal without an outlet was excruciating. Damn him. Saracen, privy to her suffering, chuckled at her vain efforts at control. Through their tenuous psychic connection, her denied pleasure splashed onto him, a rain-like spatter of explicit need that coursed through him and jerked at his cock, just as it did her damp pussy. Agonized, he inhaled between his chipped front tooth, long and low. His shaft, stuffed in his trousers for an unseemly period of time, thrummed in sublime frustration, demanded to be fisted, at the least. He needed some relief! Calculatingly, he traced his silvery-eyed gaze over the intricate coils of her hair, looped and pinned so as to hide the pretty fairy-tipped points of her ears. He dredged his psyche for every reason to loathe her. She was insolent. She was halfbreed. She was Lesser. Yet his hand upon her went rigid, perhaps in denial of the impulse to drag her closer to him, perhaps to hurt her … perhaps to partake of her. But Sprite was off limits, he grumblingly reminded himself. She must remain a virgin. He had given his word. Her purity was part of the lure to gain her an avowed mate.

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But, alas, repetition of these facts did not ease him: his temptation towards her, nearly undeniable, still remained. He gritted his teeth against a curse that would, if uttered, humiliatingly reveal his predicament. Herding her before him with that same rough grip upon her slim arm, Saracen couldn’t tear his gaze, a dazzling shimmer of silver that surely betrayed his un-sated needs, from her as he edged them closer to the erotic proceedings, a destination that should, hopefully, gain him some release. Voyeurs and exhibitionists frequented this particular spot, a unique squat circular stair of hand cut stone that slightly trespassed onto the gritty concrete street before its wide worn treads gradually ascended into the deepening well of a recessed arched doorway. Overhead, a yellowish, bug-encrusted street light shed a very dim circle upon the intimate place, a weak spot light for the erotic stage. As expected, one couple already claimed this prime bit of real estate. And, also in keeping with the place’s well-earned reputation, some few others gathered there. Saracen spared a dismissive flicker of attention to each in turn, a pair of tow-headed, turquoise-gowned sylphs, poised in a loose hug a few feet away, as well as a very tall, muscular, gingery whiskered male, possibly a Lupine Lycannis, who hovered a few feet behind the two females, observing from a slighter distance. And, not-so-surprisingly, the last onlooker was one of Saracen’s younger brothers, Jenji, his honed stature, forbidding features, and spiky razor blue-black hair practically obscured by shadows as he rested his back against a wall on the opposite side of the street, oddly apart from all the others gathered there. Tension radiated from him, glittered from out the wary, tight slits of his chocolaty-brown eyes, tautened his at-rest-slouch from relaxed to wary. Jenji acknowledged their approach with a sharp nod, although his eyes squinted disapprovingly as he glanced to Sprite, still being led by Saracen’s unbreakable grip. Jenji, turning his gaze back to Saracen, spoke, quiet and low, a bare disturbance of the intense murky space. “I would expect to find you here, brother --- but why bring her? Is it wise? She is under our Demesne’s protection. This alliance between our families is too new, too fragile, to be put at risk. And the streets seem unsettled, especially since that fracas the other night between Dominic and that flea-bitten Kestrel Cerberus.” When Jenji made a tiny scuffing change in his stance, a shift of hips and feet, the shadows deepened and flowed strangely on his left side, cast his face into further gloom, eerily smoothed at the harsh lines of his mouth and eyes. Small furrows of annoyance cut into his brow, evidence that he sensed this encroachment. Sprite, on the alert in this sexually charged arena, studied the odd shift of lightlessness about him, even as she cocked her head to catch the brothers’ ongoing conversation--tangentially about her.

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Saracen’s reply came gruff, muffled. “I very much needed an outing. I’m randier than an old goat. It’s been two torturous days since I got laid. I‘ll not deny myself another night, simply because there are changes in the balance of power.” The only outward indication that Saracen paid any heed to Sprite--as opposed to his unseen volcanic heat that totally focused upon her--was the sudden small spill of his long midnight dark hair over one shoulder, fluttering nearer to her. His younger brother’s criticism stung; he continued to defend his odd need to bring Sprite Fer-de-lance on such a foray, without revealing that, in truth, he couldn’t bear to be parted from her. “I’m on my best behavior, Jenji. She’s in no danger. Better to bring her, than desert her in a strange holding.” Saracen, his eyes coursing over Sprite in a flash of molten silver, unconsciously readjusted his grip upon her arm, as if forestalling any attempt at escape. He wasn’t about to let her go, not even when censured by one of his own kin. Jenji, curious--but not surprised--at the suppressed antagonism between the pair, canted his head for a better view. At the tiny movement, the thick shadows again lovingly pressed closer to him. He scowled, demonstrating anger at the cloying presence that suffocated his handsome profile. He more forcefully jerked his head. “This hole-in-the-wall has lost its charm for me.” “Little wonder,” Saracen saw the shade settle like thick syrup once more around his brother. “How long have you been here? You’ve attracted a phlitt.” “Yes. So I have.” Jenji’s jaw clenched. “It’s hung around me ever since I crossed back from Aurora using the portal Luciferno set in this alley. I only just arrived from checking on Nic, to make sure he’s recovering from his wounds. He’s still in very bad shape, Saracen. He’s feverish. Out of his wits, but surviving, thanks to Taya Mephistos. Else, I fear, we would have lost him to those septic belly wounds. Her spell-magic saved his life, even if she also stripped him of his illicit affections for his latest paramour. From what I gathered, he seems to have no fondness left for his Finneal Cerberus.” When Jenji pushed from the wall, the phlitt, its vague shape increasingly feminine, bestirred with him. He shrugged loose, as if from the unwanted embrace of a living woman. Irritation soured his voice. “If it weren’t impossible, I’d think this nuisance followed me through from Aurora. But they don’t have that much solidity, that much corporeal cohesiveness, to travel from one realm to another.” “Just the same, brother, it is best you leave here. I’ve never seen a phlitt sustain itself so long, or so strong. This one almost has form. They usually dissipate. They can be mischievous, if you‘re careless enough to stray too close to one.” “Uunnhh.” Jenji, pulling loose from the grasp of the shadow, growled his agreement. “It’s just as well that I intended to take myself elsewhere. There are other, livelier, haunts calling me. Enjoy yourself, Saracen, but have a care of our Fer-de-lance addition. She’s under our protection, tempting little thing that she is.”

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“Not to me,” Saracen insisted, sparing Sprite a side-long glance of distaste, shocking himself when his pulse skittered in reaction to her intricately coiled hair, angelic face, and feminine body, draped in the sexy folds of her ankle-length black t-shirt dress, the scooped neckline of loose elastic routinely dipping, slipping on one side or the other, baring her shoulders, threatening to expose ever more of her. His dry throat went gravelly. “She’s not appealing, in the least. I like ElfFeyen of my own rank and worth. Not half-breeds.” Sprite’s own expression--nose wrinkled, mouth puckered, eyes squinted--as she stabbed a scathing, stormy-gray glance at him equaled his nasty sentiment. Nothing about his intimidating height and breadth, nor his cruelly beautiful features and waist-length sinfully-black hair appealed to her, or so Sprite’s scalding gaze averred, very eloquently. Because he had hurt her feelings, she inadvertently directed her disdain his way: You’re no prize, either, ugly jackal. Her thoughts, inside his head, stung his pride. His hand closed on her arm a tad painfully. “Come along, you. We‘ve entertainments to pursue.” Saracen’s sensual lips curled back in a feral snarl, exposing the small chip in his front tooth, a reminder that his awesome beauty was flawed, if ever so minutely. It was the malevolence of that jackal‘s smile, however, that repulsed Sprite. Jenji, already stalking away down the alley, the murky dark phlitt flowing in his wake, paused one final moment. When he looked back at them, the shadows nearly swallowed his face, obscured the worried flicker of his chocolate-brown eyes. “Be mindful of my warning, Saracen. Our brethren are scattered … what with Luciferno, Dominic, and Hunter in Aurora, and Chael and Shay god-only-knows-where, and this night feels uneasy.” “Aye. I’ll have a care. You do the same.” And, with a mute exchange of solidarity, the brothers, fifth and second in the Bellaclava line of succession, parted ways, Jenji to his own devices, and Saracen to the delights of Lovers Lane … in the company of his favored enemy, Sprite Fer-de-lance.

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Chapter Five The Jackal and His Prey

As was his wont, Saracen aimed for the best vantage, front-and-slightly-off-center of the male-on-male couple, who were still engaging in the preliminaries there upon the makeshift stage underneath that mellow spotlight. Only, as intriguing as the performance before him, Saracen was uncomfortably--almost exclusively--conscious of Sprite, small and dainty as some powdered sugared sweet, as he settled her in front of him, corralling her with his body. His stance, sidled as close to Sprite as possible, was territorial--because Sprite, planted directly before him, also stood much too close for his comfort’s sake to the prodigiously endowed male before them. Very proprietarily, Saracen weighted her partially bared shoulders down with a heavy hand upon each, relishing that contact, craving more, to knead at her soft arms, to snake an arm around her for a long languorous exploration of her breasts, her tummy … her mound. Instead of indulging this unfortunate preoccupation, he forced himself to concentrate upon the handsome, tawny-haired, tremendously built male reclined upon one of the lower steps of the improvised dais, braced there in a languid sprawl upon his back and elbows, his massive legs wide, his fabulous-sized vein-gnarled cock throbbing high and free from where his mortal partner, a willowy youth with mid-length lackluster brown hair, translucent skin, and ultra-pretty features, had already peeled back the folds of his unzipped trousers. “Threlkeld.” Saracen, husky-voiced, greeted the other ElfFeyen, a son of the Drang clan, a minor Auroran house related to the aggressive Corsair, the ruling family of the Western Region of the Realm of Magic and Light. Saracen passed a lazily thorough glance over the superb male’s huge, jutting shaft, and got off on what he saw, gloried in the rush of sexual need that tautened the girth of his own phenomenal shaft. However, with a stab of annoyance, he realized that Sprite was getting horny as well, evidenced by her rapt mental focus, by the concentration and response of her curious mind and body--her utter stillness, her rough pants, her clenching belly--all of which traitorously filtered from her into Saracen. He relished this shared and intensified physical sensation, but cursed his emotional response.

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Jealousy, unaccustomed and bitter, coiled within his guts, made him wish that he, not Threlkeld Drang, was on display for Sprite, so that she could admire him, ogle him, visually explore and covet him. His shaft rivaled any ElfFeyen males, unquestionably. It was massive, potent, easily roused but not so easily sated. At the thought of exposing himself to her--nay, of actually fucking her!--his hips juddered, all but swiped against her ass. Thankfully, before he could embarrass himself with a true thrust at her, Threlkeld Drang, grimacing as his paramour stroked a fingertip up his pulsing length, spoke. “Welcome, Saracen,” Threlkeld murmured, exhaling shakily because his partner now smoothed a true curled-fingered caress quickly up his thick shaft, as if to demand his full attention. However, Threlkeld’s heavy-lidded gaze remained riveted upon Saracen, seeing no one else, caring for no one else. “It’s been far too long since last we--met--” the word popped from Threlkeld when his human slave briefly swiped a thumb across his pre-cum spotted crown. Threlkeld hitched another shaky, excited breath that expanded his massive chest before adding, “--I can dismiss my mortal, if you want to take over? His enthusiasm doesn’t match your experience, your skill. Come, then, Saracen. Wrap my cock in your big hands. Rub me. Suck me. You know you want to--while I,” he panted, “yearn for your mouth on me.” But the effete youth, already dropped to his knees, perfectly positioned to minister to Threlkeld, cast a resentful look at Saracen over his shoulder, none too happy at this offer. Without ending that belligerent stare at Saracen, he fisted the ElfFeyen’s ruddy fat root, squeezed firmly, claimed it for his own. Threlkeld hissed. “Gently, gently, manling. I am the one who dispenses pain. I am the one who dominates. Eh, Saracen? Just say the word, and I am yours. Or,” Threlkeld Drang’s amber eyes strayed from Saracen to Sprite, taking her measure, estimating her somewhere been a conquest and a rival, “as is more usual, you will be mine. My cock‘s almost been primed, and I’m in the mood to put it in some tight ass. Hard and fast. Why not oblige me, Saracen, yet again? Let me give you a good reaming. Then we can do the Fer-de-lance mute together, one at either hole.” Threlkeld’s monster cock, within the grip of the youth, jammed upward to entice Saracen, the tiny wet slit like a lecherous winking eye. Saracen, suffering with an embarrassment such as he had never experienced in his lusty life, tensed everywhere, his mouth, his hand’s on Sprite‘s beautifully bared shoulders, his entire six-foot-plus frame, and a false denial over ever having engaged in sex with Threlkeld snagged in his throat. Even though such was no stigma among their kind, he suddenly didn’t want to be branded a sodomite. Because of Sprite. Because she was naïve and inexperienced. Because, for one shamefully scalding moment, he dreaded her response to his raunchy uninhibited past. Oh, yes, he’d done it all, with nearly every species, sub-species, and sex--male, female, and even hermaphrodite--but mostly he engaged in, no he preferred, straight sex, and he had been exclusively heterosexual ever since he had become fixated on her, on an insolent infuriating

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Fer-de-lance half-breed. But, just as Threlkeld had openly proclaimed, they had been together. Here. More than once. And always with an avid, and active, audience. But it had been Saracen who had penetrated Threlkeld. Not the other way around, although he liked anal stimulation, just not the type of rough dominance meted out by this particular Drang scion, and others of his manipulative ilk. And it seemed important that Sprite accept that he had only dabbled, infrequently, and now forever in the past, with the more colorful, outside-the-norm sexual acts often engaged in by their race, the rapacious ElfFeyen. She certainly knew his well-earned reputation. Hadn’t he, after all, often given her own lusty brothers’ a run for their money? “We have come to watch. It offers its own rewards. Proceed, friend Threlkeld. Give us a good show. Help loosen my uptight sea urchin.” Saracen’s broad, lean muscled shoulders listed closer to Sprite, and he brushed his lips against her soft supple cheek, her skin lightly suntanned yet with a lustrous pearly hue. Underneath the shackle of his hands, she trembled, and whipped her head away from that kiss. An open defiance of him. Saracen, pricked at her rebuff, hissed a warning, for she required a reminder that he ruled her fate. “Have a care, my little half-breed. There is far more of an objectionable nature that I could do to you.” Threlkeld snickered, a sound that broke when his youthful lover wetly sucked at his crown. “Ummm. Yesss. More of that, manling.” Threlkeld threaded his hands into the youth’s limp hair and pushed him down a little further. His face contorted with pleasure, but he managed a bleary slanted glance to Saracen. “Whenever you want to join in--with or without your scornful little female--feel free. The rule here, as well you know, Saracen, is the more the merrier.” And, on a low exhaled groan, Threlkeld’s eyes flickered closed, while his hands pressed his partner still lower on his shaft. Like a well-oiled piston, the mortal began to work on the other’s shaft, a practiced dive down, a maddening drag up, perfectly timed sucks and slicks of his mouth up and down Threlkeld’s thick throbbing cock. From his close station at Sprite’s back, Saracen ostensibly observed the laboring males, but, in actuality, his keen interest remained on Sprite. Sensing her growing unrest, her need to flee her own growing sexual pique, he kept his heavy grasp on the tops of her delicate shoulders, pinned her to the spot. Allowed her the pretense that he forced her to watch. For, in fact, Sprite was transfixed by the act of fellatio before her. The swift bob of the young human male up and down Threlkeld’s long thick dick, smooth, fast, gratifying. The short, sharp grunts from Threlkeld’s thinned out lips. The obvious mounting tension as the tempo increased, as the human serviced the ElfFeyen with ever speedier pumps, and Threlkeld met his mouth with frenzied upward thrusts.

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“Suck it. Suck it harder. . .” Threlkeld ground out the words, jamming his hips in a mad rush, jittering closer to a climax. But the tension of that sexual act also proved a lure to the lone Lupine Lycannis who pushed away from the wall where he had been fisting his own cock, shiny with a goodly application of lube, and he moved to join Threlkeld and his youthful mortal lover. As Sprite and Saracen watched, he turned the main performance into a trio. “The proceedings,” Saracen murmured for Sprite’s benefit, “are about to get even more exciting. He’s going to fuck the mortal in the ass.” And, indeed, the gingery haired Lupine Lycannis stopped behind the feminine-looking mortal, grasped his hips and raised him until he was bent over at the waist, but still able to suck and lick and service Threlkeld. With a forceful yank, he tugged the effete male’s pants down to his ankles, then inserted his wide head into his ass crack, and roughly thrust inside. The mortal, his mouth busy on Threlkeld, gasped at the invasion, an exhalation of shock … and of pleasure. Immediately, however, he again encircled the Drang scion’s penis with his lips, sucking in a rhythm that matched the cock forcefully sliding in and out of his rectum. They were all three grunting, groaning, straining. Sprite’s heart hammered with intensity. With envy. She wished she could have a like encounter! With multiple partners! And, doubtless, have an equally nasty, equally powerful release! She was puffy and thick, her sex swollen, her pussy aching. The erotic scene cramped at her belly, roughened her breathing, made her agonizingly aware of Saracen, tall and broad and sexy, pressing at her from behind. Her fully ballooned labia pained her, imprinted with the one brutally quick time Saracen had laid claim to her. She craved more. From him. From Saracen. From her enemy, the silver-eyed jackal demon. She had become nothing but a hard, mind-numbing beat between her legs! She needed him to ease her! And Saracen, his own groin and heart forced to partake of that same tortured sexual pulsing through their fragile connection, vengefully vented unhappy emotions on her, for he wrongly thought her arousal solely due to Threlkeld’s potent antics. The animal instinct to take her, to mark her as his, to blot out the desire for any other male, seared through him like blazing lighter-fluid, making the jackal bare his teeth. His smile, then, as he tilted his head a scant inch closer, was dark, malevolent. “I know your secret, Sprite. You’ve skulked around Summer Street many nights. Alone. Careful. But very observant. And particularly here--Lovers Lane--standing in the shadows, taking vicarious pleasure, seeing but not participating. Extremely turned on, just as at this very moment. Until I learned you were a virgin,” he barely mouthed that loathed term, “I always wondered at that … at your seeming preference for voyeurism. Fortunately, I’ve learned--first hand--that you do enjoy being touched. Very much.”

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Saracen’s attention, now totally undisguised, riveted on her, the angelic line of her profile, the intricate loops of her skillfully tamed hair that hid her beautiful fairy-tipped ears, the seductive cling of her scoop-necked black-knit t-shirt dress. To be sure, the sharp points of her excited nipples snared his gaze. He reacted to the sight with a powerful jolt in his cock and an instant urge to fondle her. So he did. He cupped one perfect breast, molded it in his hand, harshly played with its distended bud. While he masterfully groped her, his ElfFeyen senses sharpened, and his magical connection to Sprite increased, thus Saracen knew that she creamed at his possessive touch. That knowledge caused his mouth to water, to salivate for a proper taste of her, the warm womanly juice of her slit. But to win such a reward, he needed her compliant. So he urged her on. “That’s it Sprite. Get off. Don’t hold back. I know how wet you are. How your pussy aches. Don‘t fight your true nature. There‘s no longer any need. I know what you want. I can give it to you.” As if on command, Sprite rubbed hard into his hand, scrubbed her taut diamond-tipped nipple against his calloused palm! His respiration sawed roughly, grew frenzied, as did his excitement. Sprite’s increasing arousal--as Threlkeld moaned and humped nearer to a tumultuous climax just inches away-fueled Saracen‘s. His proximity to her was too close, too dangerous. And he wouldn’t have it any other way. Sprite, frighteningly, felt the same, wrapped as she was in his molten aura, snared by his lust-shuttered silvery gaze while strands of his sinfully black hair slid against her back. Saracen’s intimate whispers warmed her cheek, but chilled her heart, made her fearful that he had, indeed, witnessed her past carnal lapses, those times when she had gone out of her way to ease that awful wholly ElfFeyen need to get laid--which she could never actually indulge without breaking faith with her elder brother Caemon, who sought to exchange her virginity for a vow of bonding. No, she couldn’t admit to such yearning, not to the jackal! It was a weakness he would surely exploit. Sprite began to shake her head, to deny his words. He gently stopped that motion by pinching at the back of her neck. “Don’t lie. I caught you at it. Several times. Indeed, I followed you. I stalked you when you lingered with curiosity for a trio of women, eating each other right there upon that dais. Or the time you watched a pair of were-lions mate. You have even dallied here to spy on a pack of drunken fumbling satyrs. Every one of your stolen moments brought me severe frustration, knowing how ready you were to be taken. Yet you never stayed whenever I came forth.” Anger made him punch a question at her, one that revealed more than he liked of insecurity. “Why, then, didn’t you ever watch me fuck here? You’ve had opportunity. Do you totally despise me? Am I, a prince of the Bellaclava, not impressive enough for the exotic likes of a Sea Siren? A half siren at that. Let’s test how disdainful you truly are of me.”

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His sneer burned her, but only less than the kiss he branded on Sprite’s throat, just under her ear, while his large right hand ominously encompassed her neck, a gesture of possession, a hold that demanded submission. As he folded his other arm around her belly, capturing her in a loose embrace, Saracen’s own careless murmurs against that delicate skin enflamed him. The more he touched her, the more fevered he became to have her. “Never mind that slight, little sea urchin. You will come to appreciate me with time. Haven’t I already thrilled you beyond anything you’ve ever seen here? Just by fingering your plumped up pussy? That got you off, well beyond being a voyeur, eh? Remember that moment? Beside your very own Demesne … You offered only token resistance. I cupped you in my palm. All hot woman. All ready. All mine.” He grew breathless, almost incoherent, thinking that he wanted to repeat that episode, only going much further this time. “Remember, Sprite?” His voice was so husky it surely buzzed into her body, like sound waves, stimulating her as it did him. “Remember how I pet you, diddled your tiny hard pearl, made you sopping wet, ready for more--” Sprite’s body thrummed from his words, from that shared lewd memory! In unconscious invitation, she jutted her pelvis toward him, gave a blissful shocked heartbreakingly soundless cry, a strangled mewl of desperation rendered silent by her birth curse, but Saracen felt it! He marveled at the orgasmic tremor that skittered down her spine and beat in her clit. In fact, his cock made an ecstatic lurch in counterpoint. She was dazed, weak-kneed, her mouth slack, her pulse ragged. She would welcome any liberty. He could do anything to her … anything he chose. Just not out in the open, he amended with a dose of clarity, darting a glance around the circle of ongoing sex--Threlkeld beginning to ejaculate into his partner’s mouth, the Lupine Lycannis jack hammering into the mortal’s asshole, and the two nearby sylphs taking turns kneeling and tonguing each other. Innocent virginal Sprite, he determined with a tight clench of his jaw, must be spared from the use and abuse of any who wandered into this particular notorious spot of Lovers Lane, where groups intermingled, where partners shared, where nothing or no one was off limits. Therefore they required a safe place, an intimate, undisturbed place. And Saracen, a true habitué of Summer Street, knew of such a hole-in-the-wall, perfect for two, out-of-the-way, mostly shielded from prying eyes, a discreet trysting spot that seldom saw use. “We’re both ready to pick up where we left off on that not-so-long-ago-night,” Saracen growled, and tugged Sprite in his wake as he stalked into the heavier shadows across the opposite side of the street, aiming for that nearby semblance of privacy. Sprite, far from unresisting, clung to his arm, stumbled drunkenly the few feet it took to reach Saracen’s goal, a cramped hollow between two buildings that offered a sturdy crate for a makeshift seat. With a satisfied grunt, Saracen sat upon the wooden box, his strong back propped against one building, his knees braced snugly against the other. His hold upon Sprite had never

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wavered, had never lessened, and now he used that unshakeable grip to sweep her close and hoist her astraddle the flat of his lap. His large hands dug into her hips, wadded the long heavy hem of her dress very high up on her thighs. “Oh, yes, I like this. You, me, and all the time in the world.” Saracen’s bass-toned gloat shone in his silvery eyes, made his ultimate intent very clear. Sprite quailed from that callousness, and she scrunched backward as far as possible … which wasn’t very far at all. His rough hands wouldn’t let her. The cramped space wouldn’t let her. Her own skittering weakness wouldn’t let her. So she dangled there upon his enormous legs and stared at him accusingly. The angry set of her mouth and the pewter-gray storminess of her eyes told him of her condemnation. She shaped the words that she could not speak. Not even the fluttering ill-lit darkness obscured her snarl: You promised. You can’t have me. “Damn you and that vow! I‘ve never yet been an oath-breaker!” Saracen’s curse heated the very air about them. His own gaze, hungered beyond measure for more than a chaste glimpse of her, for more than he could ever hope to have, drug over her face, coveted the sandybrown streaked-with-golden-sun of her demurely pinned hair, then caressed the dainty features of her mouth, nose, and dramatically tilted eyebrows. Sprite’s angelic beauty should have chastened him. Should have doused his ardor. But he wouldn’t let it. Instead his gaze of molten silver trespassed further, gliding down her throat, straying over her lovely collarbones, lowering to her heaving breasts, savoring their proportions, their firm outthrust roundness, their pebbled tips. But, of course, his attention wandered further. To her tiny waist. To her flat tummy. To her crotch nestled against him. To forestall him, she knotted her hands in the fabric of her disarranged dress, just above his fists, and denied him from raising the hem. Saracen gave a derisive snort. “That’s no deterrent for me, if I truly wanted to see you. Or touch you.” Their eyes suddenly met, hers suspicious, his resentful. “No, Sprite, much as you castigate me, I haven’t forgotten the vows. Nor have I forgotten how crucial it is to keep your virtue,” he paused, then spat out the foul tasting term, “intact.” Suddenly, Sprite could no longer meet his gaze. She looked away. Her fingers uncurled their painful hold on the fabric of her slinky garment. She slumped, and exhaled a weary, disappointed, silent sigh. She wasn’t, she realized, simply denying him. She was also denying herself. And she didn’t necessarily want to.

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But when Saracen next spoke, it made a terrible thrill course throughout her very core, the tone, the implication, the choice. “What’s to say that I don’t keep you a virgin. There are plenty of ways to pleasure a woman without penetration. Consider Sprite. You are ElfFeyen. Innocent, it’s true, of physical intimacy, but not ignorant of it. There are means for gratification without sacrificing your virginity. So, I put it to you. Can you suborn your insolent nature, and let me train you as befits an ElfFeyen female? There is a great deal you hunger to experience, and there is none better--” he hesitated, then concluded, using his secret nickname, “--than the jackal of the Bellaclava to feed that hunger.” Sprite’s head seemed very heavy as she incrementally raised her chin to look at him once again. She couldn’t accede to Saracen. To do so would debase her even further, heap shame and guilt on her. What he called insolence was her only weapon against him! From the first, his beauty, his virility, his aura had threatened to strip away her superficial strength, all the hard-won pride that protected her from the harsh words and sharp blows of the world. Dared she then admit, if only to herself, that she must have fallen in love with him at first sight? Else why did she fear giving anything of herself to him? And why, conversely, did she want to give all of herself to him, when to do so risked her fragile heart? She wouldn’t let the jackal hurt her. She wouldn’t! But, when she finally, fully faced him as he relaxed there against the cement building, his long black hair a glistening fall of midnight, his eyes half closed over smoldering silver irises, it was to find Saracen’s arrogant inhuman beauty tainted by a slight smug smile. Without so much as a word or sign from her, he knew her answer. By all the gods of the sea! He knew her better than she did her own self. Her capitulation was a foregone conclusion. Dimly she felt herself nod; she acquiesced with a slow, numb shake of her head, but there were tears in her eyes. Within her mind, thus reverberating within Saracen’s, her answer wasn’t rousing, more a weary surrender: I am defeated. And Saracen’s tiny smug smile widened into his signature broken-toothed smirk. The jackal was laughing at his prey. How long then, she wondered, before he devoured her whole?

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Chapter Six Sprite’s First Lesson

“Don’t look so wounded, sea urchin.” It was a mild rebuke, given that Saracen translated her dull, emotionless expression as loathing. For both of them. He was manipulating her unfulfilled needs to get what he wanted, while she was betraying her own deep-seated pride to appease those same unnaturally stifled appetites. So be it. He, deemed the jackal by many, took what--no, took who--he wanted. And he had desired Sprite Fer-de-lance for far too long. Anticipation sparkled the silver of his eyes, made them glint with avarice as he again traced an appraising gaze over her. His glance dropped to where she settled over him, warm, womanly, wet, but he postponed exploiting that pleasure, mostly because of the pitiful stiffness in her limbs. She was, after all, a virgin, fearful and anxious. Then, too, he was her hated nemesis. Why wouldn’t she dread being at his mercy? So reminded, he instead focused on the graceful delicate slope of her shoulders, exposed by the oh-so low drape of her black dress’s stretchy elastic neckline. “Show me,” Saracen ordered with a flicker of his hot silver gaze to her breasts. There was no mistaking what he wanted. “Display yourself for me.” Unbelievably, his stare grew even more intense, allowing him to catch the imperceptible tremor of Sprite’s hands as she listlessly reached for the scooped neck of her t-shirt dress, curled her fingers into the stretchy material, then hesitated. “Don’t be modest, Sprite. Let me see you. Now.” At his imperious tone, some of her old spirit rekindled. Sprite scalded him with a mutinous look. Yet her hands remained frozen between obeying him and refusing him. The action, coupled with an unexpected flash of insight into her mind, said: I’ll do as I please … when I damn well please.

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The wait--the maddening uncertainty--made Saracen’s heart race, a harsh broken gallop throughout his body, stirring his blood, stressing his lungs, throbbing his cock. He grimaced at the tightness in his loins. Such swollen hardness, for too long unappeased, nearly killed him. Here Sprite sat astride his lap for the taking, and, unless she obeyed, he had little recourse other than to pull out his prick and work himself. He could think of only one way to provoke her. He gritted out a taunt. “Which of us is now breaking their word?” Her pretty mouth formed a harsh straight line. Then, visibly gathering her courage with a sharp inhaled breath, she slowly pulled the dress down, down, and down until the capped sleeves easily shrugged off her arms. Sprite was now naked-to-the-waist, her delicate frame--skin tinged with a tan-yet-pearly-hue bestowed by her Sea Siren heritage, her bone structure dainty and enticing, her not exceptionally large breasts nevertheless full and high and tipped with big rosy excited nipples--was like a beauteous mirage conjured by Saracen’s dreams. Sprite, slim, elegantly muscled, and diminutively feminine, was proportioned magnificently. On the instant, he lecherously reached for her, and she flinched. That tiny show of panic daunted him, so that Saracen let his arm drop, decided another tack was required. “You are very lovely, Sprite.” Lust grated his voice into a low, ragged sound. “Your skin puts satin to shame. I want to stroke it, to trace all those delicious curves, from your shoulders, to your ribs, to your tummy. I want to measure the smallness of your waist betwixt the span of my hands. But more than anything else, I want to touch your breasts. I want to suck them into my mouth and taste their tips. They look like berries, sweet and ripe.” Surreptitiously, through the thick fan of his lowered lashes, Saracen watched the affect of his husky entreaty on Sprite, who had slightly averted her face. Pink faintly tinged her wide cheekbones. Her pretty mouth relaxed, at least slightly. Yet, above all else, Saracen noticed how erratic came her breathing, little puffs that provocatively rocked her chest. She wasn’t, he nearly crowed, unmoved by him. Thus he used his trump card, a husky command that shivered insidiously, seductively through him. “Offer them to me, Sprite. Let me lick you … there. Let me kiss you … there. On your beautiful breasts. Come, Sprite, offer yourself to me.” She raised her face to him, looking bemused. Her inexperience was writ upon her unusually pretty features. How, she beseeched? How?! But her body, her ElfFeyen nature, instinctively knew how to comply. With intrinsic sensuality, she cupped underneath each plump mound, one breast in either hand, and lifted, arching her back slightly to enhance that sexy offering. Her torso stretched with the motion, proffering him a glimpse of her lithe waist, trim tummy, and cute belly button. Minutely, she swayed, entrancing herself with the sultry almost dance, bringing her pert large nipples that much closer to him.

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“Oh, yes, my lovely,” Saracen groaned, reflexively kneading his hands upon her hips, “that’s it, that’s perfect.” Admiring her high firm exquisite breasts with an unwavering gaze of molten silver, Saracen reproached himself for ever having maliciously speculated about her body in a subconscious attempt, he belatedly recognized, to kill his lust for her. Hadn’t he once-upona-time derided her as being too small? Hadn’t he conjectured that she would be malformed owing to her tainted parentage? Nothing could be further from the truth. She was perfection, and he could hold back no longer. Like the beast of his jackal persona, Saracen fell upon her. Intrepidly, Sprite met him. His ravenous mouth latched onto a sweet hard nipple, and, while one of his hands held her lushness still for the taking, he rooted, sucking at her, savoring her, pulling at her sharp bud. She feverishly rolled against him, demanding he take more, that he do more! So he lashed at her with his tongue, rough unchecked endless strokes. He longed to make her raw from his loving. He’d suck and lick and buff at that tasty little tit until she melted for him between her legs, until she was a puddle sopping both of them with her juices! Indeed, her frantic squirms against his lap demonstrated unfulfilled lust. Through their psychic link, Saracen shared the intensity of her excitement, learned how wet and plump she had grown. She creamed, more easily, more profusely than ten whores for him! And at that erotic thought, a jot of cum dripped from Saracen’s engorged cock, told him he was more than ready to breach her--what a torment for him, then, that that was not to be! None could break her hymen save the man who claimed her with an avowal of fidelity, an exchange of conjugal vows. Sprite, dazed, in actuality crazed, by the feel of him so viciously suckling at her, juddered against him. She tangled her hands in the dark waist-length strands of his hair, tying him to her, chaining him close, allowing him no respite. Every wet, cruel caress to that prominent receptive nub shot through her, stoked her desire like gasoline to an inferno! Her pulse reverberated in her sex, an anguished throbbing demand for stimulation. If anything could make her scream, could force a rapturous cry out of her entombed voice, it would be the awesome, incredible sensitivity of her nipples under the slick stroking barrage of Saracen’s mouth. In truth, moans of passion clotted her throat, unable as she was to vent them, cursed to silence from birth ‘til death. But she tried, desperately, to free a shout of ecstasy! Nothing came forth but strangled pants, broken and terrible, for she’d never before even uttered that much of a noise! She grimaced, tossed her head, grew faint with the powerful need roaring through her. Her tits felt big, heavy from Saracen’s assault, the tug, the pull, the strain as he gripped hard and constantly suckled one breast. That sensation, of him drawing so vigorously, so completely, reached straight down to her pussy. Sprite ached there, swelled and dripped there, needed to be soothed there! She didn’t quite realize that she grabbed his free hand and led it to her crotch. Right now she’d hump anything!

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Chuckling unkindly, Saracen abandoned her tit, leaving it with a wet ring of saliva, and he quirked a mocking look at her, spoke with a betraying rasp. “Are you in need of some relief, sea urchin? Join the club. Shall I give you some? Hmmm? But,” he paused, gazed into Sprite’s bleary face, and drawled, “before I do, it’s with the understanding that from now on you will sleep in my bed. If I can’t truly have you, I’ll at the least have you totally at my disposal. There’s no option here. You must agree.” Shock, pure and simple, showed on her face. Sprite’s mouth rounded on a breathless gasp, her oddly slanted brows lifted higher, and her eyes blinked several times. But, he realized, somehow reading her shifting conflicted thoughts, she did consider the proposition. Unfortunately, she seemed disinclined. His imperious tone irked her, that and his ceaseless attempts to belittle her, now enslave her. Resolve shown on her features. A refusal formed on her lips. Before she could mouth a negative, a resounding “no”, he muzzled it with his hand. “Don’t be too hasty, Sprite. There is no reason for you to object.” But her eyes overtop of his hand turned from a velvety blue to a deep near-black color. The sea of her emotions began to rage. “Listen,” Saracen urged, leaning closer to her, “just hear me out. Haven’t I already given my word that you will remain a virgin? This arrangement is the most that I can hope for given the circumstances. And I guarantee, you’ll like it. From the little you‘ve had of me, can you doubt it? Can you doubt this--” Saracen deliberately slicked both hands into the thick tamed mass of her hair, disturbing the many heavy metal pins, scattering them to the ground, loosing her sandy-brown goldentinged kinks and curls in a riotous wave. Revealing her ears. Inexorably, Saracen dipped in to find her tiny lobe, which he nibbled for several beats of her excited heart before his tongue swabbed the outer shell of her ear all the way to the slim pointed tip. She remained utterly still, hands braced on his chest, seemingly captivated, and he suddenly gleaned from their very imperfect bond, their vague connection through his unreliable mind-magic, the extreme intimacy of this gesture: a Sea Siren rarely allowed it. When he pulled away, fighting the unwholesome, unremitting need to stay and stroke and tongue her beautiful fairy-tipped ear, Saracen gave a terrible groan, an articulation of all his misery at not being able to claim every single bit of Sprite Fer-de-lance. She had to give in to this request. She simply had to. He meant to convince her so. His low compelling words urged her, his warm breath tantalized her skin. Hovering avariciously, Saracen’s lips all but seared her cheek, nearly brushed urgent kisses to her temple, her jaw line, the corner of her mouth. ”I can make you enjoy it, sea urchin. Every moment spent in my bed. There’s much more to experience. You’ll see. You‘ll climax from my fingers and tongue, just as surely as if I fucked your pussy.”

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Sprite, still bleary from a tempest of sensation, trembled in reaction to his pledge. Twice now, he had wickedly pleasured her to the brink of release. And with shamefully little effort! This time, again with the most brief, the most meager, of attentions, her pussy was plump, wet, and needy, her nipples pebbled, her common sense disrupted. All this sexual urgency was wrought by nothing more than the spell of his blunt, explicit speech, the suction of his velvety warm mouth at her breast, the licentious caress and swipe of his tongue on its hard point. From such scant foreplay, Sprite was wild for him. How then to combat his raspy, sexy coercion? How then to safeguard her fragile self? But, scanning his gorgeous face, so masculine, so arrogant, so gloatingly assured, Sprite despaired. It was already too late. The feral beauty of him--those avid silvery eyes, that extraordinary black-as-sin hair, each strikingly defined feature--poisoned her blood, made her thoughts feverish and self-destructive. Sprite’s armor-plated pride hadn’t withstood Saracen’s ElfFeyen allure, headier by far than the Ruby Rider fumes she had earlier inhaled. Against common sense, against every well-honed instinct for self-preservation, Sprite meant to accept his decree. Unquestionably, this choice would be to her everlasting regret. May the sea gods, she prayed, help her. Trepidation, so foreign to her hard-won steely nature, showed in the depths of her stormy brackish-colored eyes, in the uneven up-and-down nod of her head. Even with her reservations, and how could she not have them with Saracen being the jackal of the Bellaclava, famed debaucher, gorgeous heartbreaker, the ElfFeyen who had reputedly lured a dozen women to forever abandon the isle of Lesbos, she absolutely had to let him have his way. Her flagging pride wilted further. At her acceptance, Saracen relaxed slightly against the wall, drawing his first unrestrained breath since he had asked her--no, since he had humiliatingly begged her--for this unorthodox boon. “Good. You will have no regrets, sea urchin. None. And now,” Saracen paused, inhaled deeply, then continued with ill-concealed excitement shading his every syllable, “I must fulfill my part of our bargain. To offer you every bit of sensation possible, short of penetration.” Quickly, capably, he skimmed his hands upward under the bunched folds of her dress which pooled over them both like the petals of a giant flower to discover that Sprite wore nothing underneath but her finely-crafted, pearl-inlaid, sigil-inscribed knife strapped to the outside of her thigh! She had disdained the pantyhose and the underwear he had provided her! She’d sat astride him, pressed to his thighs, naked as an avowed jade, the whole damn time! The lewdness of it swelled Saracen’s cock bigger than a Grecian column, until his trousers nearly cut him in two. Desire throbbed his flesh, stretched him beyond endurance. He hissed, shifted his hips, tried to ease that terrible pain. Automatically, his legs spread, forcing hers to do likewise. Since this erotic discovery, Saracen’s addled thoughts, he realized with a clench of his jaw, traversed dangerous ground: he wanted to jam her cunt full of his cock. There

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was, after all, nothing to prevent him. She was entirely naked to him! Provocatively so, as she had intended. “Wicked … little … half-breed,” he huffed out angrily. “My shaft is strangling … quite a clever trick, going pantie-less.” His lungs drew ragged shaken breaths. He thought he saw a tiny smirk tilt the corners of Sprite‘s finely shaped lips. If she thought to torment him, she would be sorely disappointed. “There’s a remedy to hand, and you‘ve made it a necessity.” While his gaze locked on her shadowed face, his hands commenced at their hidden work beneath the folds and pleats of her dress. Saracen, physically stressed, fumbled his enormous cock from out of his constricting pants, caught its heavy thick weight, gave it a vicious punishing stroke, then canted it between their bodies. To test his control, he drew the fat mushroom-shaped head enticingly against her lips, stirring pubic hair, smearing himself with her lubrication, making her silent mouth gasp with astonished pleasure. “Like that, eh?” Saracen mocked, but his silvery eyes hooded, his voice conspiratorially lowered. “Me, too.” He waggled more forcefully through the damp tangle at her slit, enjoying his explorations, the feel of rubbing and pushing his crown against her eager pussy. He even gauged the spot over her clitoral hood, pressed at it, circled it. But, he reckoned correctly, he didn’t dare insert not even the tip of his member, else he’d break his word and ram all the way into her womb--and pump her so well and so full, semen would flood down her legs, in a deluge, boundless like the seas that nurtured her. Instead, tormenting them both, he continued to swipe his crown over her most sensitive spot, but never penetrated, never entered, never breached her. Sprite, her mouth twisted with silent pleasure, ground against him, began a quivering upand-down motion of her pelvis. “That’s right,” he hummed to her, “you need to get off. You need to grind your pussy against my cock. You need to rub against the length of me. Get accustomed to me. Learn how to move and gyrate.” And Saracen positioned his cock upward along his belly, thick, full, impressive. At his coaching, she awkwardly plopped down on him and slid along Saracen, wantonly slicking her outer labia against his rock hard penis. Her hips, inexperienced, skimmed riotously against him, until Saracen, denying how well she rode him, eventually grasped at her hips, helped her drag more surely, more accurately, up his big shaft. In fact, he tried to control her movements, to render them less maddening for his own self control. Sprite strove to fill her channel with each pass, pushing harder, going faster, feeling her pussy heat and pulse unbearably. She was creamy. Desire had melted her, softened and liquefied her. Her tip-toes braced her on the ground. Her back, spine, and hips caught a loose automatic rhythm, up-and-down, rub, rub, scrub, as she worked herself against his cock, stroking her clit, her lips, as much of her insides against his broad hot width as possible!

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Meanwhile, Saracen, trying to hold onto his sanity, clutched harder at her hips, fought the swollen ache of his shaft, used his every ounce of ElfFeyen restraint to not ejaculate! This little virginal half-breed, no matter how instinctively sensual, no matter how accidentally sexually aggressive, no matter how fortuitously erotic, couldn’t, he cursed under his breath, make him come from such simple contact--close from gliding her slick, warm, honeyed cunt against him, again-and-again, gloriously non-stop. He, a scion of one of Aurora’s truest, purest royal houses, wouldn’t allow it. It was humiliating, debasing. So, calculatingly, he dammed his lust within his throbbing loins, like lava in a caldera, simmering, explosive, but temporarily contained. And his smoldering gaze latched onto her, enjoying Sprite’s every luscious move as she strove for relief. Sprite definitely yet suffered. Her head whipped to-and-fro, tangling her face in the disarray of her sandy-brown golden-tinged hair. More incoherent cries, ever silent, ever unspoken, choked her empty throat. She was ready, but she needed something else, something more! She couldn’t quite reach the peak! Still, she frantically scraped her labia against the velvety girth of Saracen’s shaft, his hot thick length splitting through her, making her hornier. She humped along him madly, afraid of losing the buzz inside her pussy. From such strain, her heart tripped out thunderous, stuttering beats. Shuttling constantly against him, Sprite’s exhaustion soon stooped her spine until she rested her forehead against Saracen’s, an entreaty for his aid. Astoundingly, a pained unuttered whimper transmitted from her to him. “Enough of this frustration,” he growled, “let me finish you off. With little more than a single, simple touch. You‘ll be glad you acquiesced to me, Sprite. You‘ll like it in my bed. At my command.” And, still greedily watching her, Saracen lifted Sprite enough to insinuate his hand between them. Diabolically accurate, he located her clit, tapped and fluttered over it, then pressed more firmly, causing her to quiver in a writhing sexual tremor that proved he was no braggart: he could, if he chose, make her climax with a mere touch. Sprite gave a string of short, sharp spasms that shook her torso, provocatively jiggled her large-nippled breasts before his face. Indeed, he arrogantly gloated, he had nearly made her come! But he wanted to play just a little more, so he staved off her peak with a surge of mind-magic. Avariciously studying her movements, the quick jar of shoulder and breast, the stark needful grimace, the clench of her hands at his shirt, Saracen roughly fingered her, short dabs and caresses around her puffed up lips, then several intense back-and-forth frictions of her entire slit until she twisted and convulsed, once again so very close to climax that she would be screaming, if she only had a voice! For a moment, he rested his open hand against her, claiming her wet swollen mound, savoring her--the wonderful contour of her pussy, the creaminess of her seam, the plump slick feel as he snuck a digit inside. As frustrated as it made him, Saracen had to further explore her. He had to feel more of her.

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He swabbed around her velvety wet insides, very surely rubbed at her sex, made her jolt higher toward release. She was grinding against his touch, liking the hard invasion, the slick and slide of him within her swollen satiny folds. She squirmed, she rocked, she violently used him to get-off! Saracen’s own reactions--to the sight of her tits jouncing rhythmically to her every forceful pump, to the slippery feel of her against his eager fingers, to the arousing aroma of her copious lubrication--gave him such a rush that his balls tightened, his cock thrummed and lurched. He very nearly spewed, he almost came from the simple, furtive act of fingering Sprite! She was electrified with desire, nearly ready to overload, to climax. He’d given her bliss with a few strokes, a few nasty stimulating caresses. And the idea of doing more to her had his mouth flooding, salivating with greedy, lusty anticipation. Then Saracen, gratified by the agitated thrash of her shoulders and the strong heave of her lovely chest, deemed it time for her release. “I’m going to break you apart,” Saracen muttered, taking in the amazing sight of Sprite Fer-de-lance jerking, shaking, going wild atop his lap with sexual frenzy. Gone was the coldness, the contempt, that she had only ever before shown him. And he reveled at the transformation! None other could make her respond like this … from naught but a few deft strokes, a few crude words. Purposefully, diligently, he re-applied himself to the distended little knot of her clitoris, his tongue wetting his lips, imagining his mouth upon her. His unending stroke directly upon her clit, was circular, unforgiving, enflaming, and she passionately bucked her pelvis. Great stupendous spasms jutted her pretty breasts at him in a sequence of bounces and twitches that lasted a flatteringly long time. Saracen murmured encouragements to her, low and throaty. “That’s it. Peak. Now, Sprite. Let go. Give in to the madness. Go ahead, my sea urchin. Come for me.” She shuddered. Her head rolled backward, spilling her sand-n-sun colored hair over her shoulders. Instantly her true climax froze her, straightened her spine, further contorted her face, centered her entirety on the engorged pleasure betwixt her legs where Saracen still gently, intermittently petted. Her sex pulsed and throbbed for a little while longer, then lessened, gradually spiraling toward normal. Sprite collapsed onto him in graceful slow motion. She was truly spent. For all their enmity, Saracen had just masterfully fucked Sprite with his hand, and she had rode that crest with ease, with no hesitation, with an abandonment that matched any female he had ever had. Now, he hazily wondered, would she be as easily tutored in going down on him? Would she, he mused, while Sprite sprawled there against his chest, exhausted, as eagerly perform fellatio on him? And, upon finally attending to the increasing, noisy, no-longer-ignorable ruckus beyond their narrow shelter, he further wondered, how long would he be forced to wait in order to experience that ultimate sex act from his angelic-faced but not-so-entirely-innocent sea urchin,

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Sprite Fer-de-lance? After all, his shameless half-breed had brazenly braved him, the Bellaclava jackal, while not wearing panties!

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Chapter Seven A Nemesis Arrives

The second eldest son in the Bellaclava succession could no longer selfishly ignore the fact that there were now others, many unfriendly others, who had arrived at Lovers Lane. And that they assembled just shy of their tiny innocuous trysting spot. Saracen, one of his big hands pressing a boneless Sprite firmly to his chest, wanting nothing so much as to remain and dally with her more, to taste her, to touch her, to rip the rest of the clothes off of her, and then tutor her with his mouth, scowled at the mix of voices--the laughs, the jests, the curses, the banter--so very close at hand, in fact almost on the brink of their small out-of-the-way spot. Irritably, he recognized the gravel-rough, acid-ruined timbre of at least one speaker. Thus Saracen knew that they were in the midst of a pack of Lupine Lycannis, dangerous were-caste wolves. When he turned his head toward the din with autocratic slowness, his silvery gaze snagged on the translucent amber flash of Kestrel Cerberus’ malignant stare. Saracen peripherally noted Kestrel’s attractive masculine features, lightly blemished with pox-scarred skin, his short, bristly hair a brindled mix of brunette with black streaks. The Lupine’s lanky form, exceptionally tall, leanly muscled, but somewhat round-shouldered, towered in the entryway, his thin whipcord body vibrating with energy. His kind, like all those of the sundry were-castes, were inferior, of the Lesser ElfFeyen. But his pack, the Cerberus, concentrated in the northern mountains of Aurora, thus under the rule of the Fer-de-lance, were an especially rebellious lot. Here, in the earthly non-magical Twilight Realm, they bred indiscriminately, brawled relentlessly, and demonstrated bare deference, much less allegiance, to the Greater ElfFeyen Houses whose presence within the mortal world was slight. Therefore, all the Lesser ElfFeyen, not simply the were-castes--being gifted with supernatural abilities beyond humans--found a chaotic, lawless haven on earth, had, in fact, sloppily trespassed and traipsed within the Twilight Realm since well before recorded history and become the stuff of myth and legend … from

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predatory succubi, to seductive vampires, to shape-changers, and witches, and seers, and dragons, and mermaids, and fortunetellers, and alchemists, and on and on and on. So long as the Lesser and Greater ElfFeyen remained fairytales, Aurora remained safe. Thankfully to this end, most ElfFeyen, including the Bellaclava, could manipulate memories to one degree-or-another with mind-magic. Humans often were stripped, sometimes successfully, other times less so, of any remembrance of such encounters, for instance, of participation at an ElfFeyen Rut. However, too much indiscriminant mingling with mortals risked contamination, risked exposure. And, of late, the Cerberus broke with many ElfFeyen traditions, worryingly. They tried-no, they succeeded!--in extending the territory of their Sett. Their minor packs, in unchecked numbers, roved evermore boldly … and openly … in this Twilight Realm, inviting discovery, courting disaster. They increasingly flouted the treaties for peace. They often tested the terms of the ElfFeyen Accords: the Cerberus bullied and rampaged within neutral territories, such as Summer Street, flaunted disclosure of the ElfFeyen race to humanity, and used might over diplomacy in disputes. And, although more of an indiscretion than a true transgression, the Cerberus continuously defied the taboo against mating outside their own caste. Truth be told, this was not uncommon within the promiscuous ElfFeyen race, but most were more circumspect with such behavior, whereas the Cerberus gloried in such objectionable liaisons, the more outrageous the better. Kestrel Cerberus, a dominant but not yet an alpha within his pack, seemed key to much of this unruliness, although, Saracen, scrutinizing him like an entomologist with a venomous specimen of spider, admitted that proof of these semi-treasonous activities was scant. Although, there was the near-fatal attack on Dominic, just days earlier, over an ongoing--and, truth-be-told, forbidden--dalliance with a Cerberus female. Dominic, with his sun-gold hair, sky-blue eyes, and pretty-boy features, was usually seen as an effeminate weakling, to the woe of any would-be attackers. His preference was always as a lover, but he was also a tremendous fighter. Then, too, Hunter, the third eldest Bellaclava, and the line’s only true shape-shifter, had been present during the Cerberus attack as well. For both of them, each formidable in a fair fight and nearly unbeatable as a pair, to have come out bloodied meant that they had been vastly outnumbered, if not outright waylaid. Such an attack, against a royal, if proven, would be severely punished. The main Cerberus pack itself should exterminate any rogues. Or risk its own eradication. And, now, with Kestrel Cerberus’ untimely arrival, a palpable hostility filtered into the warm night air. Saracen, at a disadvantage in his lax, reposed state--basically caught by an enemy with his pants down--only marginally disguised his contempt for the lanky ElfFeyen male, who was a full-blooded Lupine Lycannis, a surly were-caste wolf. A so-called, by humans, werewolf.

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For one overly antagonistic moment, the Cerberus pack member returned Saracen’s baleful glare before he turned his own avid shimmering golden eyes to Saracen’s quiescent female. Grinning ferociously at her vulnerability, half-naked, befuddled, wantonly straddled over Saracen, Kestrel sketched a glance over her tired sprawl, saw a slim sexy back and a beautiful riot of sand-n-sun-colored hair, and rightly deemed her an armful of warm, soft, malleable female. Immediately, he puffed up with interest and loomed nearer. “Who’s the tasty little tidbit, second son? Such exquisite beauty--” Kestrel’s golden irises blazed, and his gravel-throated voice quavered “--surely cannot be mortal? That radiant skin glows more lustrous than pearl. Such magnificent hair, with strands of precious spun gold. Her exotic scent mixes the earth and water. It seems very familiar …? Again, I ask, who may she be, this little fey soul?” At the scratchy gruffness of his voice and the chilly touch of his shadow on her body, Sprite tensed. Her head whipped toward the menace of their intruder, although Saracen kept her tightly plastered to his chest, not wanting her nakedness exposed to the Lupine werewolf. Her anxious movement, however, had betrayed her identity. Kestrel recognized her angelic profile, where always before, with her ears and her beauty hidden by scarves, hoods, or cloaks, she had seemed plain, unattractive. His grin hideously spread over his faintly pox-marked face. “Well, well,” Kestrel’s Adam’s apple bobbed with a deep, lusty swallow, and his bathedin-acid voice grated worse than ever, “Saracen Bellaclava has, indeed, seized himself quite a delicacy, a Sea Siren.” There was calculation, and admiration, in his luminous amber eyes as he once again painstakingly raked a glance over the mass of kinks and curls of her hair to locate--to ogle--her delicately pointed ears. “Sprite Fer-de-lance. The bellicose, silent bodyguard of her half-brother, crown prince Caemon. Her people had it aright to curse her mute. When unmasked, as now, her siren’s allure is truly potent, even lacking a voice.” Kestrel inhaled, making a greedy, voracious snort. “Always before when our paths crossed, she was in the shadow of her brother. Or, occasionally, she skulked in the company of one of our own Cerberus females,” Kestrel’s distaste at such a friendship made his tone into a sneer as he named the transgressor, “recalcitrant Fin’neal, who refused to end such a twisted kinship even after repeated beatings.” An evil smile revealed that he had administered--and enjoyed--those floggings. “And to think, impure half-breed or not, she was there for the taking--all--this--time.” Covetousness oozed from him. “Would that I had long since recognized what lay hidden by all those cloaks and hoods, although, admittedly, I always had the curiosity, just not the temptation or opportunity, as now, to fuck her. Otherwise, I’d have caught her, and taught her, to like doggy dick.” Sprite, wedged up tight to Saracen’s brawny chest, trembled. Her skin literally crawled. Just as Kestrel said, she had been, long ago, befriended by mad Fin’neal Cerberus, and those rare times of freedom and camaraderie with her had been priceless. Yet, in hindsight, they had also been risky. Because they had, indeed, often crossed her path with vile Kestrel Cerberus. Could

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she have defended herself against such a vicious and sadistic creature? Would she have survived such an attack? Would she have wanted to? Because there were nightmarish stories--some even told to her by Fin’neal--about him and what he did to females. Sprite again shivered within the safety of Saracen’s embrace and felt grateful to be there. And Saracen, partaking of her fear and loathing of the Lupine wolf through their imprecise bond, found himself reacting to Kestrel’s vileness, to Kestrel’s articulation of implicit violence, with a strange fusion of emotions, protectiveness, jealousy, rage. Predominantly rage. “I think it highly possible that if you ever had touched her, you wouldn’t leave this alley,” Saracen’s upper lip curled in his trademark blood-curdling jackal’s grin, “in one piece.” He coolly eyed the tall, muscular, striking-if-not-handsome-visaged Lupine Lycannis, and he openly but subtly displayed a claim to Sprite by skimming his fingers up-and-down her delicate spine, from the curly ends of her hair to her partially exposed derriere where he traced into the top of her crack, an erotic gesture meant to not only draw Kestrel’s eyes there but to mock the were-caste wolf. The Sea Siren, the intimate touch proclaimed, belongs to me. That little possessive caress, so light, so pleasurable, so harmless, radioactively tingled throughout Saracen in a rush of sexual desire, reinforcing his primal connection to Sprite. His every fiber, his muscles, bones, tissues, and nerves, effervesced, as if carbonated with magic, heightening all his senses, his urges, his emotions. His powers. Above all, a fever-like craving for Sprite, warm and womanly, draped intimately over him, came upon Saracen. He ached for her body, to slam his big eager cock into her creamy pussy, to use her first, before any other, to make her his. If circumstances were different, he would give in to the almost overwhelming need boiling in him. But it was too risky to indulge himself, what with Kestrel Cerberus so obviously panting after Sprite. Kestrel’s posture, the harsh watchfulness of his expression, the increased curvature of his shoulders, the sudden even starker contrast of his short bristly black-on-brown streaked hair, echoed his wolfen nature, his very near-the-surface were-caste wolf. Plus, Saracen’s own vow to honor Sprite’s purity must, he inwardly cursed, be kept. Leisurely, his hand still stroked Sprite’s back. For Kestrel’s benefit, he stretched wider his jackal’s triumphant grin, and, prodded by his arrogant ElfFeyen nature, he taunted the Lupine Lycannis. “She is lovely,” Saracen paused, smugness mellowing his voice into an ultra-husky, deeply sensual range, “isn’t she?” Kestrel’s keen attention, firing his luminous amber eyes, eventually broke from the hypnotic caress of Saracen’s fingers on Sprite’s slim body to instead concentrate on her face, her hair, her oddly attractive ears, superbly pointed like all those of the fey who dwelt in the wind, water, or woods.

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“She can’t possibly be as good as she looks?” Kestrel Cerberus strangled on his own lust. Unable to stop himself, he began to reach for Sprite. “Keep your paws off, Kestrel,” Saracen warned, unconsciously imbuing the order with magic. “I’ve no intention of sharing. She is mine. Exclusively.” When Sprite stiffened against him in objection to his imperious tone, he more heavily smoothed his palm down her spine, communicated a thought to her: Hold your temper, sea urchin. I will say … or do … whatever is necessary to safeguard you. The look Sprite cast up at him, her chin tucked, her stormy eyes hooded, was suspicious. And defiant. With sudden ease, she mentally shot a thought back at him, using the abundant energy that swirled between them: I can take care of myself, jackal demon. Saracen scowled at her disrespect. Shifting an intimidating inch closer to her, so that some of his waist-length sinfully-black hair spilled onto Sprite, he gripped her shoulders, squeezed, then sent her a final, resounding order: Be respectful, Sea Siren. I won’t tolerate more of your insolence. Here is neither the time nor the place. Her reply was to avert her face--and to forcefully block her thoughts from him as with a concrete wall! Saracen seethed at her, only he had no means to mentally tell her so, short of punching a hole into her mind. To safely finesse his way into her thoughts would require time. Still, he might have tried to assert his power except that Kestrel’s harsh, acid-burned voice intruded. “It’s well known that there’s no love lost between you two,” Kestrel spoke sourly, only vaguely aware of the fact that Saracen had used mind-magic on him to forestall his advance. “Just days ago, when you were out scoping those two Asian females for your Rut, I saw Sprite spit at you in the street. You had called her a loathsome ill-favored half-breed. Given her true beauty, I’m not surprised you’d deign to fuck her if given the chance, but why not share? That‘s the rule here on Summer Street, share-and-share-alike. I, too, want to poach some of that illegal tail.” Kestrel, however, try-as-he-might, couldn’t make a move towards her due to the lingering power of Saracen’s mind-spell. His desire was getting the better of him, and he wheedled. “Don’t be stingy, Saracen. If you aren’t disposed to take turns with the Siren, we can do her together. I’ll even settle for her mouth on my cock and you can have her pussy. ” Kestrel paused, and an ugly cunning look crossed his face. “Or is it that you crave some cock in your ass. That would suit me just as well. I’d like to make you my bitch. Then, afterwards, you can watch me do your female. Does that not appeal to your royal tastes?” At the frightful imagery of Kestrel’s leering thoughts, Saracen’s anger flared, and it gave his psychic awareness a boost, not just of the immediate threat, but the wider one. Like radar, he

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had a strong impression of Kestrel’s retinue--their body heat, their respirations, their relative placement in the alley--and, in an instant, he numbered a near dozen of pack Cerberus, a few loitering in loose groups, most crowding very near to them. They were growing rowdier, moving closer, threatening to spill into their small aisle. Indeed, aiming to trap them. “There is nothing you offer that I want. So, prepare to be disappointed, for, as I’ve already said,” Saracen, never taking his shiny silver gaze from Kestrel’s nocturnally bright unblinking amber eyes, affectionately nipped at Sprite’s bare shoulder, unmistakably restating his ownership in the manner of a Lupine Lycannis, “she’s mine. And she is more than enough to keep me satisfied.” Then, calmly, Saracen kissed that same spot, and gave Sprite a command. “Redress, my Sea Siren. We’ve too much company coming,” he murmured, then mentally added, although he was unsure whether or not she heard, “never fear that we shall pursue this again--at our leisure-in my quarters.” And he solicitously assisted Sprite in pulling her stretchy dress up her torso, stuffing her arms back into the sleeves, and then, somehow, fluidly getting them both to their feet--and himself safely tucked back into his trousers! Then, with an ease born of instinct, Saracen blended his intimidating size with his newly potent magic to virtually muscle Kestrel out of the mouth of their small side alley … just as a commotion erupted.

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Chapter Eight Surrounded

Once Saracen had shunted Kestrel from out of the entrance to the cramped space with an intimidating combination of his size and his magic, several of the Cerberus, bright-eyed and sharp-faced as if amped up with adrenaline, swarmed around the crafty were-caste wolf, a dominant more so for amoral deviousness than for legitimate strength and leadership. Micah Cerberus came in the fore, cradling one bloodied hand in the other. Wrapped around his injured hand was a dog’s lead, a goodly length of fine hand-tooled leather. “She bit me, Kestrel! She drew blood! Take your pet over before she rips into me again! She‘s rabid and uncontrollable.” And, with a vengeful yank on the looped handle, Micah stuffed the bloodied leash into Kestrel’s grasp. The lanky, stoop-shouldered alpha pretender then violently reeled in that lead…thus drawing its unfortunate prisoner closer. Fin’neal Cerberus was on the other end of that leash, bound to it with a glittering collar of gold. Almost falling to her knees against another brutal tug from Kestrel, she stumbled forward amid catcalls and none-to-gentle swats and kicks from her own pack members. Fin’neal Cerberus, the illicit lover of Saracen’s younger brother Dominic, fourth son of the Bellaclava royal ascension, was being punished for her involvement with Nic in the most humiliating way possible for a Lupine Lycannis. She was being kept on a short leash … by ill-tempered Kestrel. As she agilely righted herself, Saracen clinically took in her appearance, the perfect sexy silhouette of her ultra-thin sleek-framed body, the short velvety blue-black hair slicked tightly to her scalp, the piercing bronze-flecked hazel eyes, the face belligerent yet beautiful--artistically chiseled brow, nose, cheek, and chin, lovely enough to steal your breath. She was special, this Cerberus female, more like a purebred greyhound than a rangy wild wolf, reputedly so strong in her were-caste lineage that she had mastered the rare, total transformation level of incorporation, meaning that items she wore or touched--even protective

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metals and weaponry--became part of her as a Lupine Lycannis. And, once she retransformed back into her mortal self, those articles also reverted to the original. Meticulously evaluating her incomparable beauty, her uniqueness, her untamed aura, Saracen, for the first time ever, understood his brother Dominic’s utter fascination for her, although his own heart remained unmoved by Fin’neal. Instead, he felt all his attention--his ferocious attraction--fully riveted on the smaller statured but no less gorgeous Sea Siren at his side, from the waves and curls of her soft sandy-gold hair, to her dainty angelic features, to the flirty feminine fit of her long-skirted black dress. And, just like that, he responded to her, randy and aroused. Saracen trembled, swallowed down that surge of desire, and tried to break his ill-timed distraction. This moment was far too dangerous to become spellbound. With effort, he sharpened his mental focus, and caught the spiking of Sprite’s emotions at this abusive treatment of a beloved friend. This fact, of Fin’neal’s kindness and loyalty to an outcast half-breed, elevated her beyond measure in Saracen’s eyes. At sight of Fin’neal, collared, humiliated, yet defiant, Sprite had tensed. She radiated sisterly concern and indignation. She wanted to free Fin’neal on the instant! Their eyes--stormy black and bronze-flecked hazel--locked. Simultaneously, each took a step to join the other, and each was prevented: Sprite by a hand on her arm from Saracen, Fin’neal by an agonizing pull on her leash by Kestrel. “Look who we have here, my pretty bitch, Fin’neal,” Kestrel chuckled under his breath at the way she thrashed against the painful dig of the collar into her throat, “a pairing such as I would never have dreamed possible, Saracen Bellaclava, the jackal demon, with the abomination of the Fer-de-lance, the half-breed Sea Siren Sprite. It‘s even more of an outrage than you and Dominic, carrying on for months against the will of the pack. Against my will.” Fin’neal, standing stock-still, chafing at the tight golden collar, stared--more aptly scowled-- between Saracen and Sprite, who was tucked in close to the second Bellaclava scion’s side within the shadowy recess between two buildings, and she wrestled with the merits of Kestrel’s mocking words. “The rumors are true then?” Fin’neal sought confirmation from Sprite. “That there have been major upheavals in the secondary Bellaclava Demesne? Luciferno, it is said, has taken a mortal for his crown princess … and you, Sprite, were part of a trade to gain Catya for the Ferde-lance? Is this really so …?” Sprite, her eyes shamefully downcast at her friend‘s question, gave a sharp nod: Yes. To outsiders, she knew, it would seem that Caemon had used her as nothing more than barter to claim his long sought prize, the Bellaclava princess. But, as Sprite could attest, he had put his own condition on the trade: Luciferno must try to acquire a willing male to exchange the sacrosanct mating bonds with her, with a shameful half-breed Sea Siren. And her virginity was to be her dowry. It was, she derided, a paltry enticement for any ElfFeyen to accept her.

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“Such things must be borne, I suppose,” Fin’neal imbued the remark with casual fatalism, one of the shared traits--along with stoicism, inner strength, and self-reliance--that was cement to their friendship. “As you are in a new Demesne, a royal holding with much pride and power, you therefore must be treated honorably. By each and every Bellaclava. Tell me, then, Sprite, has that silver-eyed jackal demon misused you?” Fin’neal pulled hard against the tautness of the leash as if charging Saracen, but was unable to gain any slack. “If he has, I’ll gut him! I’ll protect you, if none other will!” Kestrel’s laughter was now sneering. “You’ve got it all wrong, Fin’neal. There’s apparently a truce between the two, hard as it is to fathom. When I came upon them, they were quite cozy. Saracen, it seems, can finger a female--even a misbegotten one--into a frenzy. I wouldn‘t have guessed him so dexterous, as I‘ve never seen any sexual performance beyond mediocre from him--” and Kestrel shot an unkind glance to Fin’neal, as well as a barb toward her absent lover Nic, “--or any of his kin.” Saracen’s malevolent response flowed easily into the darkened main alley, a provocation to all the Cerberus gathered there, eyes aglow, expressions fevered, their wolves close to the surface. “You’re not much of a one to judge a female’s gratification,” Saracen’s perfect, sculpted upper lip curled, “most prefer more than being humped doggy-style without any foreplay.” Low growls from the Cerberus, still human but becoming less so, vibrated the brick and stone and mortar of the surrounding buildings. Their eyes glinted, gold, yellow, or saffron, a precursor to shifting. Napalm-like anger heated the air. Here and there, scrabbles of claws on concrete screeched. The were-caste Lupine Lycannis drew their circle tighter, thinking their prey trapped, aching to avenge such contempt. Their sexual prowess had been mightily insulted. Kestrel, however, speedily debated then rejected a second outright attack on a royal--and this one not a sure-fire ambush, as with Dominic. He checked their attack with an upraised palm, although his own inner wolf madly worried to be let loose. His amber eyes were rounder, brighter, and his canines flashed exceedingly white. Even in anger, however, he was cowardly, thus he vented his ire on another. “What say you, Fin’neal? Wasn‘t that how Dominic liked to take you? From behind? On all fours … to put you in your place. To fuck you like a mongrel in order to prove you a mongrel, a lesser being of the ElfFeyen race, inferior to him?” Spitefully, he pulled tight on her leash, coiling some of it around his fist, forcing her to stretch upward on her tiptoes or else choke. “Weren’t you debased by such treatment … from your Bellaclava lover, that weakling Dominic?” As the slim dark-haired beauty strained against the chokehold on her throat, she gritted a jubilant answer. “I loved everything he did to me! I gladly submitted to him, even humbled myself on my knees when he demanded. Dominic’s so good, I’d grovel for his touch over yours any day.”

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“You’ll not get the chance. Once I’ve broken you, properly,” Kestrel jerked harshly at the leather lead, nearly slavering at the mouth, “I will mate you, breed you, own you, my wayward Cerberus bitch. And if that Bellaclava princeling requires another lesson, without a doubt, he won’t survive it, eh, Saracen? Or has Dominic, as I’ve heard, not retreated to Aurora to lick his wounds but rather to expire from them?” In a loud whisper, slope-shouldered Kestrel Cerberus added, “The latter is to be hoped.” His glittering-amber pre-transition eyes slashed a glance over Saracen, marking the undeniable strength and breadth of the one oftentimes secretly called jackal, well over six feet, an elegant mix of muscle, brawn, and sheer male splendor. Saracen stood like an indestructible behemoth, and offered the Cerberus a savage chip-toothed grin, a menacing grimace of his sensual lips. That jackal’s half-snarl half-smirk, highlighting the feral beauty of his high-cheeks, molten silver eyes, and attractively over-long black-as-sin hair, boded ill for any enemy. Saracen was savagery incarnate, for Kestrel‘s taunts--not-to-mention the rampant avaricious thoughts from the Cerberus pack, to dispatch him and claim Sprite--had roused him. The jackal demon was now amongst them. Yet, even in his feverish state, the urge to protect Sprite was paramount, and he tried to sweep her behind himself … with no success. She wouldn’t budge from her place at his side. Therefore, Saracen tried, after a fashion, to forestall a Cerberus onslaught. “Fair warning, friend Kestrel, Dominic recovers apace. There will be a reckoning. Better to atone now. Release Fin’neal. That would go a long way in appeasing my younger brother. And in appeasing me. If you don’t let her go, I’ll take her away.” Saracen jabbed the words like body blows, sharp and punishing. Next came his much softer spoken insult, which, however rash, he could not restrain. “You, cur, are no fit master for her.” “Damned--arrogant--Royal!” Kestrel roared, his shoulders stooping, his mouth contorting. “I’ll break her neck before giving her over!” Spittle foamed his lips, the amber of his eyes turned darker, shaded with bloodlust. “We will pick you off one at a time. The Bellaclava will be exterminated here in the Twilight Realm. I shall rule here! Pack Cerberus, attack!” Immediately, Kestrel yanked Fin’neal’s leash, towing her those scant few inches nearer, aiming to strangle her once he could get his hands about her throat. She fought against that inexorable pull as would a tortured animal, with every twist, and flail, and thrash possible. Seeing her friend in danger, Sprite’s adrenaline shot through her … thus through Saracen, helping him to read her furious thoughts. She meant to act, she meant to protect Fin‘neal. Saracen tried to stay her. His bellow was hoarse, curt. “Remain here! Where I can protect you!”

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Sprite’s mental reply, punctuated by her outraged expression, and by a barrage of memories of her in similar battles at her brother Caemon’s side, getting bruised, beaten, battered, yet always victorious, shot at him: I, too, come from a line of warriors! I’ve got to help her! “I order you not to move from me.” No sooner had that command left him than he had to fend off a quick, low lunge from Micah Cerberus. Saracen’s booted kick met his face, cracked something with the dreadful snap of a chicken bone, and left Micah sprawled as an obstacle for Saracen’s next attacker, Paris Cerberus, who drove at him, snarling. A double-fisted strike to the side of his head careened Paris several yards away, giving Saracen a brief instant to scan around-to see Sprite draw the lethal blade girded at her thigh and then speed into the melee. Fear, consuming and unendurable, ripped her name from him. “Spriiiite!” Saracen saw, he felt, his bellow minutely shake the world with a spill of unchanneled magic, quaking the ground, the buildings, the Cerberus. But only for a second. The amazing phenomenon had been unfocused, imprecise, spread over a too large area, therefore his mind-magic had instantly dissipated. Balance had been restored. No one, it seemed, had been phased by--or even consciously aware of--the shiver in reality. And Sprite, he witnessed with tightness in his chest, still waded into danger, her movements as fast and fluid as a sea creature navigating the oceans. He followed in her wake, bashing heads, punching guts, jabbing throats. And still he couldn’t quite close the distance! A large ugly Cerberus with beady eyes, discolored teeth, and mangy dark hair swiped a claw-like hand at her. Very skillfully, Sprite slashed at his belly, forcing him back. With a fast shift and swerve, she evaded him, encountered another oncoming Cerberus, managed to swing out of his lumbering grapple, then cut at the back of his calf. That freed her to reach her goal of Fin’neal struggling to the last against Kestrel. Sprite, her angelic face shining with fervor, severed through the leather leash, slashing it with one perfectly aimed cut of her intricate, pearl-inlaid dagger. But she hadn‘t, as was her intent, won them their freedom. Saracen, a witness from only yards away, saw that the two females would go down underneath the heavy crush of half-a-dozen of the Cerberus. Kestrel, in fact, impotently holding a short remnant of the cut leather leash, readied to lash it across Sprite’s face. “I’ll flay you for your interference.” Again, Saracen instinctively drew on his dormant mind-magic, this time concentrating it on the Cerberus attackers. No one, he inwardly howled, was going to lay a finger on Sprite. “No … no … no.” He mouthed the silent chant, unleashing a cyclone of magic. An icy wind blew down the alley, froze their adversaries, everyone but Sprite, Fin’neal, and Saracen. “Hurry, Fin’neal, make good your escape.” His order was a hollow resonant knell within that frozen moment of time.

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Without hesitation, even in face of such an unexpected show of power, Fin’neal closed her eyes, willed the change, and, in one heart-stopping second, she became a wolf, transforming so effortlessly, so swiftly, so instantaneously as to be invisible to both the mind and eye. It was nearly unobservable, save for the awe of a human form blurring into that of an animal, a feat that few were-caste could likewise achieve, instead going through a longer, more painful, and all too visible process, a horrific breaking-and-morphing-and-mending of bones. Not so for Fin’neal, a master of her were-caste wolf-shift to the rare, ultimate level of incorporation. Every article of clothing she wore transferred with her. She was now gone, and a healthy blue-black coated, intelligent-eyed wolf took her place, gave a sharp bark of gratitude, then turned to run the narrow gauntlet of her unmoving Cerberus pack mates. Already the mind-spell of immobilization waned. Kestrel’s malevolent gaze, the only part of himself returned to his control, followed Saracen’s slightest movement, promised retribution. Ignoring his empty threat, Saracen caught Sprite up within his arms. “Don’t dare make a single twitch of protest,” he ignored her angry, silent huff as he carried her back into the tight confines of their trysting spot, “for I’ll not set you down, you churlish disobedient half-breed. Not until I‘m good and ready.” He took no more than three massive strides inside, faced the brick wall, crushed Sprite harder to his chest, and forcefully stepped into--and through--the unmarked familial travel portal which Luciferno had conjured there several years ago at Saracen‘s behest. It had always been, but never more so than now, an expedient means to secretly come and go from Summer Street. On the completion of that single momentous footfall into and through a wall, they were exiting the hearth of the huge green-flamed fireplace, the unkeyed Auroran travel gate within the Bellaclava Demesne, constructed as well by Luc’s ElfFeyen journey-magic. Their arrival was greeted by a grouchy Chael, the seventh brother in the Bellaclava succession, and the sole occupant of the Demesne’s enormous throne room. He was slouched in a comfortably padded recliner drawn up on the oddly fawn and black spotted fur rug before the fire, bleary-eyed as if he had been lost in contemplation. “Can’t a frustrated ElfFeyen sorcerer whack off with even the least bit of privacy?” Chael sniped, his pale blue eyes sweeping across the newcomers, and his sour tone increased. “What kind of mayhem are you instigating, Saracen, and ill advisedly including our new charge as well? Sprite is under our protection, need I remind you?” Chael, slim, almost gaunt, an oddly handsome goth-styled scholar of magic, slouched further into the plush chair and studied the possessive way that Saracen cradled Sprite in his arms. “Put her down, brother, and leave her be. You’re the last Bellaclava who should have custody of Sprite Fer-de-lance.”

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“Mind your own business, Chael, for I’ll not relinquish her. We‘ve reached a most amicable agreement. Besides,” Saracen slanted a sly glance from his brother to Sprite, who kept her outrage veiled behind lowered lashes, “you don’t hear her complaining, do you?” “Very amusing, as she’s mute. Although,” Chael caught her eye, gave her an encouraging nod, then affirmed, “she communicates exceedingly well, given that deficit. Doubtless, she will tell me if you should hurt her in any way, brother. So treat her tenderly.” Chael, shedding his idle pose for one instant, scalded Saracen with a flash of his suddenly intense blue eyes, no longer washed-out but a dark, blazing shade, like the heart of a sapphire. “Again, I warn you, Saracen, to not play with fire. Even you couldn‘t be cruel enough to ruin her chances for a vow of bonding? Sprite is off limits. No sex. Not with her. This Demesne has sworn so.” The line of Saracen’s jaw stiffened. “Yes, I know that edict only too well. I know that there’s a line I cannot cross … but I also know how far I can go. So, until Luciferno returns, I intend on taking complete advantage of my good fortune. What Luc doesn’t know, won’t hurt him. And no one here will tell him, eh?” “You’re crazy, Saracen. If you won’t listen to my sage counsel, be off with you, then! I‘ll get back to my solitary pursuits, namely easing my blue balls.” “That’s what comes of studying magic to the exclusion of all else. You need to get out more, Chael. Go find yourself a woman … or three. Best of luck to you, brother, if your cock is that hard up you have to stroke it yourself. As for me, I’m--,” Saracen corrected himself with a salacious leer, and a tightening of his arms on a rigid Sprite, “--we’re off to bed. Oh, and warn the others of Kestrel Cerberus. He’s definitely gone rogue. Part of his pack just made a strike at us. As you can see, there was no harm done. Kestrel’s only weapon is stealth. Take that from him, and his threat is severely reduced.” “Dominic’s attack, then, wasn’t necessarily a fair fight?” Chael thoughtfully stroked a finger under his finely shaped lip. “Kestrel’s intent was to murder him … and he nearly succeeded. Nic would have died without Taya Mephistos, if pure happenstance, or perhaps the fortuitous gods, hadn’t put them together at the Bellaclava travel portal near the Sylvan Citadel that disastrous night.” Chael’s face revealed nothing of his turmoil, but he added in a hoarse murmur an admission meant entirely for his own sake. “I owe her a debt, not the repayment she received.” After all, he recalled with a mental cringe, Taya had used magic to heal Nic, but she had also arrogantly used dangerous forbidden passion-magic to strip him of an obsessive fondness for a lesser were-caste wolf, for Fin’neal Cerberus. In angry retaliation, Chael had cursed her most cruelly, so that she would suffer with unrequited love, just as Fin’neal would suffer over Dominic, who would no longer have any feelings for her. His spell on Taya was unconscionable, and made worse by his uncertainty if he could break it. However, regardless of his pricked conscience, he refused to try and “unwork” the spell until Taya, his youthful rival from when both had been apprenticed to the Sorcerer Vedder, should come to him and beg for a cure. The wait for her to break down and humble herself before him was excruciating.

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Chael, watching Saracen’s retreating figure, still in possession of a strangely quiescent Sprite Fer-de-lance, grumped. “How am I expected to jack-off after hearing that kind of bad news? Kestrel Cerberus has gone rogue and may do any sort of mischief here in the Twilight Realm. Luciferno should be informed.” Saracen’s step barely faltered as he offered a sharp reply over his shoulder. “He is with his new lady. Leave him be. I will guard things here until his return.” Then, much more goodhumouredly, Saracen spoke for a final time, his jest floating back to his sibling, the only Bellaclava working to be a full-fledged mage. “As for your difficulties, you’re the sorcerer, Chael, try a little phallic magic … and apply it with lots of lube. Or take my other suggestion, and find yourself a female.”

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Chapter Nine In Saracen’s Bed

The climb up the imposing, marble staircase to Saracen’s second floor suite of rooms was deadly silent, yet rife with emotion. He still seethed over her disobedience. During their confrontation with the rogue Cerberus, Sprite had gone against his commands. She had charged into that fracas. She had jeopardized herself! Now, trying to come to terms with the uncharacteristic terror he had experienced then, he overlaid his residual fear for her with anger. His hold upon her was tight, nearly crushing. For her part, Sprite combated his psychic anger with her own. She scowled at him and ably transmitted resentment at all his high-handed treatment of her--for starters, ordering her to not engage in the battle, distrusting her fighting skills, carrying her like a helpless child, trying to squelch her independent nature. She never cowered from overwhelming odds. Or pain. Or anguish. She met them all with equal stoicism. She would never give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they had hurt her. Especially Saracen, the jackal, who had come closer to doing so than anyone … on several miserable occasions. She’d show him where to shove his chauvinistic dictates. She wasn’t his usual bit of useless fluff, unfit for anything other than a good, quick fuck. Arriving at the doorway to his personal bedchamber, Saracen kicked it open with a resounding boom and strode inside, toting Sprite like so much baggage. He marched across the room only to come to a slow halt as he contemplated the great sleigh bed, its satiny purple coverlet, its artistic frame, its very checkered, very well-used past. How eager he was to get Sprite upon it! To deny his ardor, he cavalierly tossed her onto the mattress. Once she had arrested her undignified bouncing, her eyes flashed at him, gray as a stormy sea. “Don’t make any belated protests about the sleeping arrangements. I have your oath, remember? You’re bedding down with me.” He gave her a querulous look, expecting her to renege.

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Sprite gritted her teeth at this reminder of her place in the Bellaclava holding. So long as Luciferno, the crown prince, remained absent, she was at Saracen’s disposal, and he’d already subconsciously discovered and exploited her weakness--her attraction to him! Thus, she had, in lust-hazed mindlessness, agreed to sleeping in his bed, if not outright having sex with him … although, she shivered, that would be an excruciating temptation. Whatever the consequences, she had to keep her word and sleep in his bed, for she was no oath breaker. Sprite hooded her gray-black eyes and nodded, affirmatively, yet Saracen also heard the faint echo of her thoughts: So I promised, and so I shall. He mistrusted the ease of her surrender. Where was her usual insolence, her scorn? She never, he ruminated, deferred to him so easily. “Do you require anything before we retire? Other than a postponed lecture on obedience? And an admonition that the next time I give you an order, you will carry it out--” He towered over her by the side of the bed, using his tall, broad figure to intimidate her small and petite one. Sprite doused a flash of irritation, but not before the jackal, she sensed, had caught her near outburst. Instead, she tugged at the neckline of her stretchy black dress and asked a question of him, faint as an echo, inside his head: What of a night shirt? His minutely chipped grin flashed, lasciviously. “Sleep in nothing at all … as shall I.” He crossed to the far side of the bed and began to undress. Knowing Sprite watched, gauging her keen interest, Saracen purposely worked at the buttons of his shirt, shrugged out of it with heavy-lidded sensual slowness, performing a bit of a striptease. Then he absentmindedly toed off his shoes, much more interested in the next move of his seductive strip. Thus, with that same deliberate pace, he shed his pants. Sprite, wriggling in discomfort, tucked her legs under herself. She remained, however, painfully uncomfortable. She grew increasingly more so as she gravely stared at Saracen, at the hungry perpendicular jut of his enormous thickened shaft, the mushroom-shaped crown a dusky blood-infused color slick with the merest drop of pre-cum. Underneath her intent gaze, it bestowed her an excited twitch. Her breathing grew rapid and out-of-rhythm. Her stomach clenched. Her pussy spasmed. She knew exactly what her body wanted--to be speared by the thick wide girth of Saracen’s gigantic shaft. Since his incomplete sexual tutelage of her, with nothing save his nimble fingers, she craved the sensation of him jamming that turgid hardness all the way home, straight and deep into her wet plumped-up pussy. She needed him to slick through her hot sex, to end this awful feeling of frustrated desire with a climax!

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She squirmed, shifted to her knees, almost crawled to him. But fear, possibly of rejection, kept her anchored where she was, nor did she break her steady, ravenous gaze from Saracen’s amazing attributes. There was much in him to admire, and her gaze trailed over the intriguing little slit at his tip, assessed the heaviness and length of his beautiful cock, lowered to the nest of curls at the base, then finally, appreciatively measured the size of his big tight balls. She’d seen many ElfFeyen males--and females--naked, performing acts from cunnilingus to anal rimming to straight intercourse, but Sprite had never so admired anyone … nor ever gotten so horny or turned on simply by looking! Always the decree that she remain a virgin had smothered her sexual instincts. To do otherwise would further shame her family. Plus, she smiled mirthlessly, it was easy to abstain when no one had ever propositioned her, the Fer-delance by-blow, a reviled half-breed whose fouled lineage included a low-caste, dangerous Sea Siren. At least, none ever had … until Saracen Bellaclava. And, now, for all his past spleen and malice towards her, he stood there motionless and offered himself up to her. Sprite savored this chance. She ran her gaze over every inch of his masculine display, tracing Saracen’s sculpted chest, loving his broad shoulders, muscled abdominals, and carved thighs. But, as she covertly considered the hard beauty of his features, the incredible length of his feral-black hair, the undeniable appeal of his body, Saracen’s perfection of face and form actually made her afraid. How could a Greater ElfFeyen, especially one disproportionately flawed with arrogance and ill temper as was the second eldest son of the Bellaclava, use her with anything other than callous expediency? Could he ever have, she swallowed with difficulty, any affection for her? Raising her troubled gray-black gaze to his, she decided to act with caution. She must remember that he was the jackal. That Saracen only sought what he had been rudely denied, sex with Sprite of the Fer-de-lance. In the meantime, however, she could take advantage of what he offered, to tutor her on foreplay. But, she swore, no more than that! She must, for her family’s honor, remain an innocent! When Sprite scrabbled forward on her knees in reaction to him, Saracen groaned. Automatically, she rocked an inch closer in an attempt to get a better look. Or, he hoped, to get a handful … or, better yet, to get a mouthful! The idea made his heavy shaft lurch, and Sprite‘s changeable eyes suddenly went purest sea-green and grew wider. “Yes, my pretty sea urchin, have a long …,” Saracen stroked the softest, barest of touches up his cock, from base to tip, as an enticement, “ … hard …,” he shifted his hips at her, “look. See just how much I suffer.” He paused one beat, then hoarsely admitted, “Because of you.” The mesmerized look on Sprite’s face wavered. Forcing her rapt gaze from the lusciousness of his cock, she gulped, and sent him a quizzical thought, mirrored in the arch of one thin high brow and the tilt of her head: I alone make you randy, Saracen? Nonsense. I understand ElfFeyen biology better than that. As he stood there, naked, feeling unusually vulnerable, he fought telling her the absolute truth. But he did. “As well you know, Sprite, I’ve…,” he again skimmed his hand along his

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shaft, this time on the underside up to the sensitive V-shaped spot under his crown, which he gently stimulated while she watched, and he raggedly exhaled his confession “… I’ve … wanted to lay with you since first I caught sight of you.” Stunned, Sprite cast her gaze downward, veiled her expressive eyes, then gave a nod of concession to his words. She did believe that Saracen desired her body, but that didn’t change the fact that he despised all else about her. Still, he had used her well so far, she conceded. Very well, indeed, memorably enough to make her blush, recalling the two times he had pleasured her. Oh, yes, ruthlessly handsome Saracen Bellaclava, with his waist-length feral-black hair, silvery eyes, and irresistible aura, had perfected his carnal touch, learning the techniques to drive a woman wild. Earlier that very night, he had caressed her clit with exact precision, had stirred her juices around her needy cunt with finesse, had fired her passions to a volcanic climax. He had made her come with only his fingers! Like iron filings to a magnet, her eyes, her thoughts, her libido all riveted on Saracen’s fabulous cock, the virile size, the enormous girth, the drop of cum at the tip, the visible pulse and throb of his excitement. Before she knew it Sprite had scooted forward on her knees, a supplicant to Saracen Bellaclava, the feral jackal who so tantalizingly presented his gorgeous phallus to her. A slow grin of triumph spread over his face, revealed his distinctively chipped front tooth. “There is absolutely no doubt that I crave you, Sprite. But what of you? Aren‘t you this very moment experiencing the same straits? You cream between your legs, do you not? Your pretty pussy is swollen and achy. Your slit hurts.” Saracen’s brilliant, silvery gaze bored into her, totally attuned to her responses. “And all that sexual craving makes you curious. You want to touch me. Hold me. Fondle me.” She nodded, the motion a distressed jerk. She couldn’t deny his arrogant claims. No, indeed, because he was right. The want of him clenched her belly. Fluttered her pussy. Made her slick. And hot. And unbearably puffed up. She did want to ease … and please … him. Then she wanted the same for herself! She slightly swayed forward on her hands and knees, face stricken with urgency, unsure whether or not to advance. “I’m going to enjoy this,” Saracen murmured, still smoothing the pads of his fingers up and down his shaft. “Make way for me on the bed.” Sprite slid toward the bottom, allowing Saracen to claim its center. He plumped the mass of violet-colored pillows behind his back and comfortably levered himself into a semi-upright position. He bent one muscular leg to the side, stretched the other out straight. His cock stood up, a steel-like girder. His eyes hooded, heavy with desire.

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“Take off your dress, Sprite, so that I can see you,” Saracen said, his voice rough with strain. His gaze traced from her collarbone to her hip, where, under her dress, she wore her knife. He huffed another order. “Then … take off your blade, so that nothing is between us …,” his whisper grew more agonized, “then … take care of me.” He wrapped his hand around himself, squeezing at his base and balls. Sprite’s heart thudded. If she did as he ordered, they would both be naked. Unlike her brothers, indeed, unlike her entire promiscuous race, she wasn’t used to being exposed. She had found a refuge in being tough, in being at her brother Caemon’s side as his favored sibling, and, more recently, as his bodyguard. Before, she had always had to suppress her sexual nature. Thus, Sprite’s hands shook as she obeyed Saracen, peeling the dress up her body and over her head, casting it away, pretending to shed her inhibitions with a bravado belied by her slight trembling. When she was bare, balanced on her knees near his feet, Saracen groaned at her loveliness, the hourglass curve of her breasts, waist, and hips, the sandy curls between her legs, the petite yet feminine lushness of her frame, the prominent jut of her large pink nipples, hardtipped and aroused. He could spew his load from that single glimpse. His balls threatened to shame him just so, and he had to steel himself against the lusty rush in his shaft. Sprite felt his eyes on her, everywhere, heard his labored breathing, saw the insistent twitch of his cock. His fervent reaction only fueled her awkwardness, and she smoothed an arm up in an attempt to cover her breasts. The opposite hand tried to cover her pubic bush. When she dropped her head, her mass of golden sandy-brown hair hid her delicate features. Once again, she had rendered herself vulnerable to him! First by following his order that she disrobe, then by revealing all her nervous apprehension. She, damnable virgin that she was, couldn’t even meet his eyes! “Since when,” Saracen gruffly challenged her, even as his throat tightened and quavered with suppressed emotions, lust, pride, admiration, “have you ever been ashamed in my presence? You have no reason to be cowed at this moment, not when you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. This is your opportunity to put me in my place, Sprite. Surely, you understand that--at this juncture--,” he gazed straight down at his heavy erection, “I am at your mercy.” Goaded, Sprite slowly raised her eyes and bravely ignored her nudity … to focus on his, all six-feet-plus of his bronzed skin, sculpted muscles, and engorged cock. Her scrutiny, she delightedly found, made him react. Saracen’s lungs huffed, his stomach contracted, his rigid shaft quivered. A-cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile tilted the corners of Sprite’s mouth. She liked this power over him and wondered just how far she could tantalize him? An idea came to her. She must, after all, carry out his other command that she remove her blade so that nothing was between them. Sprite made a particular show of obeying him. With an exaggerated languidness, she reached down her belly, grazed her pubic bone, and, widening her legs, so that he could clearly see her feminine triangle of hair--and, perhaps, some of her pussy‘s pink lips--she began to undo

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the tiny buckles of the elastic bands that held the sheath for her dagger. The rig came loose and she gently cast it from her, a casual toss that left her weaponless, and rather lewdly spread to Saracen’s avid perusal. Saracen, the color of his eyes shining brighter than the polished silver beads wound into the filament thin braid at either temple, sprawled before her on the sumptuous royal purple counterpane in obvious need of her services, her lack of experience notwithstanding. His teeth clenched in a pained grimace, tautly pulling at the small v-shaped scar under his right eye, turning the uneven small pucker to a chalky white. “What I wouldn’t give to watch you masturbate for me, just like that,” Saracen gritted, “but right now I need some hands-on attention, Sprite.” His erection, pulsing, rising to the sky, a gargantuan column of passion-flushed male flesh with a broad mushroom-shaped crown, was the biggest and thickest and largest Sprite had ever seen. She was well aware that his cock had been roused but not satisfied for most of this eventful evening, definitely well before she had so wantonly slicked and skimmed it at Lovers Lane, crazy for the length and hardness of him. Yet he hadn’t come. Not then: in fact, not at all. ElfFeyen royals prided themselves on their inhuman, immortal self-control. The longer the wait, the greater the release, she supposed. Would Saracen’s, with her tentative assistance, be stupendous? Unconsciously, she slicked her tongue across her upper lip. For one prurient moment longer, Sprite studied him, her breath bated, her brow furrowed, her imagination primed. She could hardly wait to get her hands on him! To stroke that thick meaty purple-hued shaft, jabbing upward, pulsing lustily, demanding lots of ministration. Saracen basked in the rush of her eagerness. To hasten her, he used his large hands, one at either hip, fingers splayed wide, as a frame for his impressive cock. He urged her with a rasp. “Come and get it, my sweet Sea Siren.” Sprite’s tiny smile widened, actually resembled one of Saracen’s patented wicked grins, just shy of feral. In the overlarge sleigh bed, she began to crawl towards him. She went almost upon her belly, low, like a predator, slicking her limbs--hands, chest, nipples, and thighs--against the satiny deep-purple bedspread. Gods, but the sensation of satin stroking skin was sublime! Would the feel of Saracen, the firm warm flesh of his bronze thighs, his ripped stomach, his massive chest, be even more exhilarating? Sprite’s heart thudded uncontrollably. This was her time to rule him. There was a great deal to savor, a sensual experience too long denied her. Her slink remained slow, sexy. Once situated just between his knees, Sprite gave him a hooded sultry glance, then took her sweet time in climbing--in claiming--the length of his amazing body. She went with extreme care, learning the cords of muscle in his calves, grazing the crisp hair on his shins with her nails, delighting in his sharp intake of breath. Under

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Saracen’s heavy stare, she crept upward a little further, skimmed her hands up his legs almost to his hipbones. “Do you--intend to--drive me--mad?” Saracen labored to speak. His hands bunched the coverlet, rather than jerk her up onto his body. For this one instance, he had to let her set their pace. Sprite inched closer, almost atop him. With a final exchange of glances, hers smug, his stricken, she caught him off guard when she dropped her head down to aggressively swipe his crown with her tongue. He groaned, managed to remain relatively still, and enjoyed her explorations, especially when her head and shoulders dipped lower still and her perfect ass popped up higher. This time Sprite repeated that wet lick, rather experimentally, much more gently, on his balls. Then she softly rubbed at them, sizing them up, flicking the tip of her tongue against the seam of his sack, apparently considering taking them into her mouth. She swirled them with lots of saliva. Saracen hissed in between the tiny crack in his front tooth, a protracted rattle of breath from too much sensation, too much pleasure. Almost overcome, his eyes very nearly shuttered, tried to roll back in his head. Every muscle bunched under his sweat-sleeked skin. No other female would--could--make him spew after a few long laps at his big, hard balls. No other female had ever made him yearn so unbearably. In fact, for two miserable years. “Mean you … to shame me? By making me come … from … nothing more than … licking my balls?” Saracen’s question was broken, ragged. His angelic-faced Sea Siren, he blearily realized, was a natural-born cocksucker. “Fist me … or suck me … but stop tormenting me.” At his agonized demand, Sprite shifted, she indeed lifted, her mouth almost now at a level with his hefty, throbbing cock. Panting, peering up at him, she wrapped a hand around his base, aligned him just so, then haltingly pressed his crown into her mouth. Her radiant expression bespoke ecstasy, as if his cock were the tastiest thing she had ever put in her mouth. She even curiously tickled at his slit before she drug her tongue all around his head in an audacious swirl. Then, of a sudden, she sucked, rather vigorously. Saracen’s groan was a brutal cry. One knee flexed, as his entire body fought not to bang Sprite with a force accumulated over the past two years of wanting her. Still, he palmed the back of her head and nudged her down, but he immediately allowed her to slide back up his quivering shaft. The warm, wet, velvety pressure nearly undid him. A full-throated grunt burst from Saracen. “I’m going to fuck your insolent little mouth, Sea Sprite, whether you like it or not. I’m sorry … I cannot help myself.” While he held her immobile with his fingers twisted in her hair, he thrust up, glorying in the rush of jamming into the tightness, the wetness, the heat of her mouth.

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Fast and hard, he thrust at her. Each short pump made his shaft feel impossibly stiff, painfully full. His testicles were like concrete! He was ready to blow after only three quick thrusts! Teeth gritted, neck corded, grimacing from effort, his hips shimmied and shunted upward for more of her soft lips, her laving tongue, her hot slurping mouth. His shaft throbbed, his balls ached, but he denied his release. He wanted to extend this years-long-denied pleasure! Only Sprite, his innocent-yet-knowledgeable-as-a-whore sea urchin, ruined his exalted, royal ElfFeyen restraint by lightly caressing his rock-hard, boulder-sized balls. Shouting wordlessly, ejaculate exploded from him in great spurts. Manically, his hips juddered a few times. He reveled in the endless tide that pumped from him into her, his thick semen overflowing from her moist mobile mouth. Bliss! Bliss! This was bliss! He was beyond mortal pleasure. All his muscles, pubic, abdominal, anal, clamped down on the perfect moment of physical release to heighten, to hold and extend his tsunami-like ejaculation. A hoarse roar tore from Saracen. His extremities shuddered, then locked on one final triumphantly spastic pump of cum into her mouth. When his eruption tapered off, he exhaustedly exhaled. And then softening, he withdrew. Sprite, taking short convulsive swallows, looked satisfactorily bemused. Wetness shimmered on her lips and chin. Unconsciously running her tongue around her lips, she glanced at Saracen, tentatively, then smiled with shy hesitance. As reassurance, he managed to return her a toothy, chipped grin. However, Sprite’s stomach fluttered because Saracen’s smile was tainted by sly mischief … and was anything but reassuring. No, indeed, not reassuring in the least, as that grin promised many more illicit acts to come.

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Chapter Ten A Very Special Kiss

“Extremely well … handled …,” Saracen complimented, as he stirred upon his nest of pillows, fascinated by the tip of her tongue still swiping at her lips, licking at his cum, “if a trifle too quick to suit me. I did not demonstrate my usual control.” Just under his breath, he added, “Thanks to you.” Sprite, who had witnessed many ElfFeyen males roll over and go to sleep upon completion of the sex act, had expected Saracen, especially given his drawn out weary sounding exhale, to do likewise--to grunt a surly good night, show her his back, and begin immediately to snore. Instead, before she could fathom his intent, Saracen lurched down at her, snatched at her slim wrist, and tugged her towards him. She slid up the satiny plum-hued coverlet as if it were greased. As he drew her along, Sprite’s pulse hammered a mad tune, fearful and anxious. What more could he want from her?! His bright silver-metallic gaze never left her mouth. “Incomprehensible as it may be, I want a kiss from those sweet, sassy, silent lips.” Saracen towed her upward until her hips straddled his waist. If she should hunker down, she would sit upon his cock, now soft but getting harder. She fought the urge to do just that and experience grinding herself, her plump, juicy, curlcovered mound, against him, his pubic bones, his half-erect shaft, his testicles. But she refused to behave like every other female with whom he had lain, and, to communicate such, she glared at him. But he seemed not to notice! “Yes,” he murmured his thoughts, so unaccustomed, so undeniable, aloud. “I want a kiss. And I most definitely want it now.” Arrogance shaded his every syllable, filtered through to Sprite in a smothering wave. His masterful aura, conceited princely nature, and extraordinary physique were overwhelmingly seductive. That was true of most ElfFeyen males, doubly so for a royal … and, to Sprite‘s misfortune, trebly so for Saracen because of his strange empathy with her that, should she not be

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careful, might reveal how irresistible she found him, however much her bruised soul might wish otherwise. She dare not succumb! Therefore, resentment seared through Sprite. A kiss? Saracen demanded a kiss of her? He meant to initiate her into another intimacy, one that threatened to further scramble her thoughts and emotions, to make her vulnerable to him. Why should she relinquish more of herself--her autonomy, her self-respect--to his base demands? She was becoming far too compliant. No, then, she decided, to hugs, or kisses, or any false gestures of affection. No, no, and no to them, she testily reaffirmed, while simultaneously eyeing the shape and texture of his cruelly beautiful mouth, the narrow chiseled upper lip, the full succulent lower lip. When, in fact, he quirked one corner in a musing half-smile, smirking as if he knew her dilemma--her weakness for him--Sprite, her own eyes turning an angry blue-black, was morethan-ever disinclined to oblige. So, when he loomed nearer to claim his kiss, she abruptly turned her head away. He grunted disapprovingly. “It’s only a kiss. You’re probably unskilled in that as well. I don‘t even know why I bother.” Yet he repeated another deft swoop at her, the waist-length strands of his unbound feral-black hair grazing Sprite’s skin, sifting silkily across her extremely sensitive budded nipples. She pretended no enjoyment, no sizzle, at that erotic touch. Indeed, contrarily, he read the flash of her irritation even before she again evaded him. Sighing with resignation at her mutiny, Saracen, trying a different--a more seductive-tactic, nuzzled at her throat. She was a downy soft armful and fragrant as a tropical sea breeze, pressed close, fleshy-breast-to-brawny-chest. Enticing. Erotic. Exciting. “Patience isn’t my strong suit, sweet sea Sprite.” Ignoring her uncooperative stiffness, he nipped a sensuous path downward, found and explored the hollow of her collarbones, then progressed up the opposite side, kissing and nibbling and tasting until she squirmed against him. Arrived at her pretty, elegantly fey-tipped ear, he whispered, rough and low, because he was extremely turned on from tracing the column of her throat. And, also, from her swift reaction to his gentle foreplay. “I should coax and persuade you, not overwhelm and demand ... yet … I cannot wait to experience every pleasure with you.” Anguish swept through him, and he incautiously voiced it, unable to do otherwise. “If Luciferno should return early, he will separate us ….” The spike of fear through his chest stabbed identically through Sprite’s. “Oh, Sprite,” he breathed her name, then captured her lips with tenderness, with sadness. Then, for one brief second, Saracen’s mouth crushed against Sprite’s, an expression of desperation. He tunneled his hands into the thick mass of her sandy-brown tinged-with-gold hair, expertly angled her head, and brushed his lips across hers, softly, tenderly, heartbreakingly.

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The gentleness of that reverent touch made Sprite’s pulse skip erratically. Needing more, she placed her fingertips on the sharp line of Saracen’s jaw, and she pressed her mouth more firmly to his, appreciating the masculinity of his barely stubbled skin, his natural unperfumed scent, his awesome size. Her sigh was silent, but her entire being relaxed upon its release. She languished in Saracen’s possession of her, his firm clasp that molded them together, his occasional loving caress down her spine, and his velvety warmth as he cradled her to him. It was an astonishing moment of peace and tranquility between them, a stillness that reverberated with their strange empathy. Sprite could feel Saracen’s contentment, how greatly he enjoyed joining his lips to hers, how much he longed to sustain this moment of communion, how deeply he savored holding her in his arms. But, she fuzzily worried, could he read her emotions, just then, just as clearly? Did he catch a glimpse of her frightening, soul-deep attraction to him? The one that revealed her to be impossibly, fatally in-love-from-first-sight with him? She couldn’t chance Saracen making this discovery so Sprite, disguising her alarm, traced the tip of her tongue along the seam of his lips. It was an open invitation. All calmness abandoned Saracen. He became instantly aggressive. One hand dropped to the middle of her back, plastered her tighter to his chest, then seductively smoothed down her spine to pet at the curves of her ass. However, not having yet reached his true destination, Saracen continued stroking downward to rub at her crack, and he changed their chaste kiss into a succession of quick, starved-for-more kisses. His breathing went madly ragged. Forcing her lips apart, he sealed her mouth open wide with his own, repeatedly slid his tongue over hers. Sometimes he twisted and swirled against her, other times he lapped or flicked at her. Saracen kissed her until she shook with suppressed whimpers, and, taking advantage of her building arousal, he then dipped the caress of his hand from the delectable globes of her ass to between her legs. He easily slicked through her. She sopped, warm and wet, where he cupped her. Her labia ballooned with excitement. She was swollen and ready--for some cock. His strokes made her damper. Her sex beat as hard and as raucous as a Caribbean steel drum. She jerked, crazily. That agonizing spasm would beget others, soon, if she judged rightly. Her body would hijack her brain and send her into a frantic, delicious bump-n-grind against Saracen’s hand. A croon of appreciation stopped short in her windpipe, for no sound, not a mutter, a laugh, a cry, let alone a shout, ever escaped her unnatural muteness: she was a Sea Siren doomed forever to silence. She struggled as never before to share that orgasmic sound with Saracen, but her curse, cast from birth-to-death, stifled her erotic little mewl. Instead, she used a different

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language, and she pressed her mound into his searching hand, revealing her needy state, lewdly demanding he attend her. She was primed. She was hot. She was horny. Her lusty response gave Saracen an immediate hard-on. When he spoke, he rasped. “You’re creamy, sea urchin.” He stroked Sprite’s pussy, diddled at her damp twat, kept the tempo frantic and forceful until she was writhing against his fingers. She wriggled at the intense pleasure of his big, strong, knowledgeable hand palming her from behind, caressing her plump lips, sifting occasionally into her slit. Saracen peppered her face with butterfly kisses, chanted her name. “Sprite, Sprite, Sprite …,” his tone dropped even huskier, “ … I … need … to kiss you here. On your pussy. Allow me to gift you the ultimate pleasure. Of cunnilingus.” He paused, and his eyes suddenly became rapacious glittering silver slits. “Your scent is heavenly. You smell good enough to eat. Let me, then, Sprite, let me eat you out.” She froze, her pulse skittering crazily. Her sharp intake of breath would have made a loud startled whoosh, but for her accursed birth-to-death silence. Almost enraptured by the husky tone of his voice, by the licentiousness of his entreaty, she considered his urgent plea. And felt herself being swayed. “We’re lovers now, Sprite. There’s no shame in what passes between us. None. This is for us and solely between us. Believe that I want this. I need this.” Saracen’s husky cajoling truly resonated with desire. He’d had this very wet dream countless times, always waking frustrated and unfulfilled. The possibility, of her squatting over him, her damp sex his to claim, sent a randy current from his taut belly to his big cock, stiffening his shaft until it pointed skyward in testament of his unquenchable lust for Sprite Fer-de-lance, his lovely Sea Siren. “Let me taste you. Right here. Right now. I’ll shift down underneath you. You’ll ride my face. Use the wall and headboard to help steady you.” And Saracen, knowing her sexstarved body couldn’t refuse such an offer, dumped his hillock of pillows to the floor in order to stretch out beneath her. “Help me slide under you.” His whisper was a mere breath of lascivious suggestion, not quite tinged with ElfFeyen mind-magic. Whether she could recognize it or not, she was obeying her own natural inclination. Sinuously, he eased himself down onto his back while Sprite weakly lifted onto her feet and widened her legs enough for him to scrunch into position: when she shakily knelt, his head was aligned with her sopping cunt.

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After one searing glance down at Saracen, piercing embarrassment made her shut her eyes to the sight of him, yet the vision--the savage delight shining in his silver eyes, the animalistic hunger tightening his features, the primal need grating his every breath--stayed with her, made Sprite’s sex clench with lewd anticipation. Because hadn’t he already driven her mindless with ecstasy earlier that night with just the barest brush and daub, swipe and caress of his fingers? How much more intense would the touch of his mouth be? Of a sudden, Saracen’s large hands wrapped around her thighs, gently encouraged her down upon him. He understood her virginal fears, but was far too revved up to go slower. “Come, Sprite, settle down upon me. I must be the first,” the only one, his mind shouted, “to lick at your pussy.” Tiny tremors skittered through her. Desire made her belly erotically spasm and her breath shred into labored pants. Yet, as much as her body ached--and her sex madly clenched-shame battled with her wantonness. Sprite’s face burned when she imagined Saracen’s vantage of her curl-covered mound--her delicate pinkness, her profuse wetness, her labia’s plumpness. She was straddled right over him! And Sprite was astonished that he--one of the fiercest, handsomest, most ravenous of the ElfFeyen--lay there and begged to put his mouth to her! There was nothing save pure lust radiating from Saracen’s thoughts, his feelings, his entire consciousness. His pleas made her swollen sex throb. Each pulse was her own body’s demand that she give herself to him. He’d lick her creamy insides until she went wild with orgasm. All she had to do was plop her aching slit down onto the jackal’s gorgeous face … and he would happily eat her out! He spoke, feverishly. “Give me a good ride, Sprite. Lower upon me … so that I can taste you on my tongue. Make you even wetter, then make you scream.” Only, he disappointedly knew, she couldn’t cry out her release, however well he should orally stimulate her, for, because of a shameful curse cast by her own family, she had no voice. But, he savagely smiled, he would feel her come through their escalating vicarious bond; he would experience it as well, right down to his very marrow. Once more, Saracen’s hold on her thighs urged her down, gently insistent. Sprite grasped the sturdy headboard for stability. Then, trembling, she lowered herself. Oh, yes, she indeed shook … with eagerness and anticipation … every brazen inch that she descended. And Saracen trembled, too. His breath sawed, unsteadily. He closed his eyes and settled in to bring her sublime pleasure, the delirious kind that made a woman shake and scream and grow faint from the ultimate exertion, an exhausting exhilarating climax. He was, he joyously vowed, going to shatter her!

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Instantly when she was atop him, Saracen rapaciously unleashed himself. He frantically wallowed and smeared against her, greedily suffusing himself with her lubrication, and then he pressed his mouth deeply into Sprite, using his tongue to pry into her swollen slit. Drilling like mad, he waggled further into her puffy labia, constantly wiping and flicking at her, tasting and touching her drenched insides. With more passion than artistry, he painted her with his tongue, thorough repetitive strokes, feline-like. He kept his head crammed betwixt her legs, lapped faster, panted and grunted as he slicked through her liquid folds. Sprite gripped harder at the headboard. She writhed against Saracen’s explicit tonguing. Her hips shimmied, short staccato jolts as her body set a rhythm, a series of bumps and pumps that increased her burgeoning orgasm. She wanted to scream with pleasure! He filled the juncture between her legs, with his breath, his heat, his licks! She pounded all through her cunt. Hard beats. Aching throbs. Nonstop sexual pulses. And Saracen, wild as some beast, continued to feverishly lap at her. He swirled around her wet feminine folds, fluttering and buzzing. He worked her expertly to bring every bit of sexual sensation possible. He tongued her nastily, wickedly, unabashedly. Sprite’s head bowed back, her spine flexed, her lips pulled into a grimace. As she enjoyed the first clenches of her pelvic muscles, the oncoming onslaught of the tremendous climax Saracen presided over with his ceaseless, forceful attentions, lapping and licking and sucking at her puffy sex, Sprite’s movements grew fewer, but fiercer. Spastic, sharp twitches of her belly and groin, pumps and humps of her hips and crotch. She needed to cry out. She needed to scream. But she couldn’t! She wanted to shout Saracen’s name. For more! For less! For release! She shuddered and jittered trying to escape him. It was too wonderful, too powerful. Especially when he erratically skirled the tip of his tongue around her throbbing clit! Saracen, his cock roused and angry at being deprived, sought to ease himself. He meant to fist himself using Sprite’s lubrication. He eased up on her, momentarily took his mouth from her. To keep her pulling away from him, he still kept one hand anchored over the top of her leg while he slipped the fingers of his other hand to her pussy, taking over where his mouth had been working with such avarice. He swiped his fingers around and around her swollen lips, wetting them, slicking her fluid on his hand, yet always stimulating Sprite with each explicit insertion, shimmy, or roll of his fingers into her. Then, with a salacious hungry growl, Saracen returned his mouth to its lusty pursuits of lapping at her pussy while he simultaneously reached down, grasped his big base, and pumped. Ecstasy poured through him, caused his licks to slow upon Sprite like he was carefully spreading molasses. He particularly attended to her clit, massaging it, circling it. She filled his every

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sense, her womanly scent, musky taste, silken texture. He relished them all, ravished at her wet sex until she couldn’t stave off her release. Caught in the throes of her climax, Sprite went rigid, hands tight on the headboard, spine like a ramrod. Her stomach and pelvic muscles contracted, clenched, and bore down upon an immense sexual peak. Her mouth twisted out a silent shout: Saracen! Sprite’s mental cry immediately pushed him over. Saracen’s own climax burst from his cock in abundant spurts of milky sperm. His ejaculate bubbled over his crown onto the circle of his fingers. A hoarse groan punctuated the great labors of his body, as he managed a last few uneven strokes of his shaft, smearing cum with each lessening pull until the last momentous tremor of sensation emptied him--of pent lust, of seed, of everything but a true profound unfulfilled longing for his Sea Siren, his Sprite. His momentary passions were spent, but his craving for her was not. Could he, the delirious thought pained him, ever get enough of her? Exhausted, Sprite’s hands were locked upon the headboard, and her cheek rested against the cool wall. Before she could recover, Saracen carefully extricated his head from beneath the straddle of her legs, rose, and swept her back down onto the bed with him. They lay face-to-face and ragged breath-to-breath. He thought she smiled, a faint quirk to her lips. Sprite’s eyes, he marveled, were a clear turquoise blue, like a placid tropical lagoon. Unfortunately, her lids fluttered closed with weariness. The past torturous twenty-four-plus hours had been fraught with upheaval. She’d been traded away from her own Demesne, spent an uneasy inhospitable first night within the secondary holding of the Bellaclava, and been seduced by her worst enemy … several times in as many hours. Brushing his mouth across her forehead, Saracen granted that she’d earned herself a good rest.

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Chapter Eleven The Mephistos Witch

Once Saracen and Sprite had departed the informal game area of the Great Hall, their dire warning--that the were-caste wolf Kestrel Cerberus, the mangy cur who had in fact nearly killed Dominic only days ago, had openly gone rogue--hung over Chael, giving him even more to fret over. Such dark musings were what had originally driven him to this spot for a few moments of respite. From work, from worries, from woes. The Bellaclava brothers’ communal game room, situated well underneath the first floor open air balcony that looked down upon the Demesne’s enormous rectangular throne room, was a much favored haunt. Its amenities offered many ways to unwind, including a pool table, large screen TV, pinball games, a farmhouse dining table, and half-a-dozen lounge chairs--plus each recliner’s nearby bucketful of sexual paraphernalia. Chael sprawled in one of the comfortably padded lounge chairs which he had drug nearer to the diffuse light and faux heat of the travel portal disguised as a stone fireplace and he ruminated about Kestrel Cerberus’ ambush of his elder brother Nic. That vicious attack had had many repercussions, thus Chael sat and brooded, staring at the shifting green flames of the enormous hearth that in actuality was a gate between places. Between worlds. Even, perhaps, as some believed, between times. Tiredly, Chael swiped a hand over his bleary eyes and continued to watch the green streamers of fire and once again sourly reviewed the recent tangle of problems plaguing the secondary Bellaclava Demesne. As usual, a woman--no, several women, Chael amended in distaste--precipitated the trouble. He laid the blame at Fin’neal Cerberus’s doorstep, although there was plenty to go around. She had, with her unique graceful beauty, captivated Dominic in a long-term, possibly exclusive, relationship, an almost taboo affair between a Lesser and a Greater ElfFeyen, she a were-caste, he a royal. Perhaps, Chael puzzled over the strange pairing, that very illicitness had appealed to Dominic? He couldn’t truly love her. Could he?

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In the end, Kestrel had ambushed Dominic out of a mixture of politics and jealousy, had ripped his belly open, and had nearly killed Nic, the prettily-featured golden-haired fourth Bellaclava brother, nearly putting an end to his impish smiles, his blue-eyed charm, his flirtatious spirit. Magic had been required to save Nic from his grievous wounds, because the ElfFeyen were so long lived that they were nigh--but not truly--immortal. Chael actually grimaced over the identity of Nic’s savior. Taya Mephistos. She had stood exactly here and triumphantly announced how else besides his physical injuries she had saved Dominic. By magically removing his unwholesome fascination for Fin’neal Cerberus, or so she had very nearly crowed! Chael, newly livid at her overconfidence, tensed. His hands closed on the rounded armrests of his chair, his fingers dug down into the plush cushioning. She had actually expected to be thanked for working proscribed passion-magic, outlawed because spells and emotions didn’t mix well. Damage to the individual’s psyche almost always ensued, sometimes warped personality, or expunged memory or … ravaged sanity. Instead of congratulating Taya, Chael had lashed out at her arrogant stupidity. There was no guarantee, he had railed at her, that Nic’s ability to love, to experience and express affection, hadn’t been destroyed by such an uncontrollable casting. Indeed, overwrought by her meddling, Chael had straightaway unthinkingly laid his own terrible curse upon her, done in anger and anguish and retribution: Taya Mephistos, he had decreed, should suffer from unrequited love just as her spell had so doomed Fin’neal Cerberus to a love unreturned by Nic. Further, Taya’s fleshly desires were also linked to a mysterious ElfFeyen--just some random, phantom male from her past who had worshiped her fruitlessly from afar. She would lust for this man; she would love him but he would not love her back. She would suffer sexual pangs without ease until that mysterious ElfFeyen should take pity on her. Ashamed, Chael’s chin slumped to his chest, obscuring his pale scholarly features with his wispy blue-black bangs. He had to acknowledge his horrendous deed--and the near certainty that he couldn’t break that awful curse, cast at the height of an irrational rage. Since the first moments of their apprenticeship to the sorcerer Vedder, Taya Mephistos had been Chael’s bane. Even as a coltish seven-year-old, her regal beauty--tawny-skinned, golden-eyed, long-limbed--coupled with an unbreakable poise and an ease in learning magic, had made her a foe for scrawny, taciturn Chael Bellaclava. They had always competed, not always civilly. She had usually won.

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And, now, to punish her not only for daring to use passion-magic but also, he shamefully realized, for constantly besting him as a child, Chael had thoughtlessly cast his own work of dark magic. Of the two of them, he had always been the one to decry dabbling in the forbidden, in spells--or curses--that warped personalities, lives, souls. Even the more benign mind-magic, the kind that influenced thoughts and actions, had strict prohibitions--do not search below the surface of another’s mind, do not entirely destroy a mind, and do not allow its use to become casual, habitual. In anger, in retribution, and, if he could own up to it, in childish revenge, Chael had placed a horrible fate on Taya Mephistos. Finding no comfort in his thoughts, Chael fidgeted. He slumped further in his chair, the wisps of his blue-black hair, cut just to his jaw line, cascaded around his pale face. He’d come here in search of … what? Some relief. Some ease. But his grief and worry tore at him, kept him from relaxing, from releasing some of his pent up emotions through sex. Truth be told, Chael had been almost as celibate as Luciferno who had abstained-excepting for masturbation--for an entire decade until, that is, his eldest brother had found his heart’s desire in Desta Chevalier, an incomparable mortal woman, a feisty flaxen-haired beauty who had stumbled into the secondary Bellaclava Demesne when she had been rendered an amnesiac by Caemon Fer-de-lance, a crown prince of another Great ElfFeyen House. Crafty Caemon, himself wanting Catya, the youngest and sole female of the royal Bellaclava, had gambled--and won his bet--that Luc would become infatuated by radiant mysterious Desta and necessarily need to parlay for her ownership. Because, as part of his scheme, Caemon, in accordance to an arcane ElfFeyen law, had prior rights to Desta. In accordance with Caemon Fer-de-lance’s schemes, Luc had sheltered, then loved, then bonded with Desta. And, in exchange for Desta, Caemon temporarily had custody of Catya. And Saracen, it would seem, had Sprite. While Chael, unfortunately, had no female to hand. And he was very much in need of one. The ElfFeyen, Chael grimaced, were a most oversexed race. For years, his own urges had been supplanted by his single-minded pursuit of magic. A pursuit, he was honest enough to admit, that stemmed from the same creature at the center of his family’s recent crisis. “Taya Mephistos.” Muttering her name like an obscenity, he broodingly stared into the mesmerizing wall of streaming green flames, and he let the past trespass on the present. At seven years of age, they had both been apprenticed to the Sorcerer Vedder, along with ten other children. At their first awkward meeting, Taya, with her reddish-gold waves of hair, tawny skin, and golden eyes, had left him, a pale-faced wraith, awestruck. Chael, his gaze unfocused yet seeing that vivid bit of his past, let the memory further unfold of how at that first introduction Taya had immediately asked in her softly cadenced voice his house and rank.

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"Bellaclava," he had proudly answered. His was one of the four Great Houses of Aurora, recognizable by one-and-all. Taya had smiled and her golden eyes had glinted. Chael, however, hadn’t understood what emotion lit her bright eyes. “What birth rank?” Her next demand had been even sharper. “The seventh.” His scrawny chest had puffed up. “I have six brothers ahead of me in the order of succession. One, Hunter, is a shape-changer.” “You’re … not the crown prince?” Taya’s rejection, or so Chael had deemed it, had been more easily deciphered than her other earlier emotion, for it dimmed her luminosity, banished her smile, made her pleasant modulated voice brittle. “What’s it matter?” Chael, thin as a rail, had knotted his hands. He had felt the need to impress her. “I’ll be a powerful Sorcerer some day. That is fitting to the station of a trueblooded ElfFeyen royal. Are you not impressed?” “That is one of my goals, also.” Taya had turned her back to him and had begun to move away. “I doubt you’re smart enough, or dedicated enough, or good enough.” Chael had sneered. “What’s your other goal?” Taya had paused, partially turned to him, and had gravely raised her chin. “To restore the House of Mephistos to the throne of the Western Region of Aurora. I must exchange bonding vows with a crown prince of one of the Royal Houses. A churlish, rude seventh son does me no good.” And that short exchange had forever poisoned their relationship. At their worst, they had been outright antagonists, at their infrequent best, they had been tough competitors. In fact, Taya had never deviated from either of her goals. Elementary magic, from the disciplines of conjuring fire, entrancing weaker minds, affecting the weather, mixing potions and tinctures, had been relatively easy for them both amidst the other ten students of Sorcerer Vedder. Mastering and refining the prime inborn ElfFeyen magics, such as transformationmagic, journey-magic, precognition-magic, or transmutation-magic, took years of study and practice beyond their basic apprenticeships. To be deemed a full Sorcerer, one had to face a tribunal of twelve and earn that title. Unfortunately, their scholarship had been sidetracked when Taya Mephistos, in her yearning to restore the Waybright throne of the Western monarchy of Aurora to her family, had, at seventeen, pursued the crown prince of the Corsairs, Sextus, the first-born son of Emmander Corsair, who had politically maneuvered the Western Throne of Waybright away from the Mephistos a thousand years ago. The Western throne had come to the Corsair family because of

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a broken promise by the Mephistos to marry off their princess to Emmander. Before the pair could be joined, Princess Liriel had mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again, thereby making the Mephistos in breach of an important compact. As reparations, the Corsair had demanded and received the Western Region of Aurora. Thus, Taya had given herself to Sextus and been abandoned by him only days later, and, as further humiliation for her, a wicked lie had been spread that Taya had slept with all nine of the Corsair succession, both male and female, in order to gain a vow of bonding with any Corsair. That lie, no more so than her seduction and abandonment, had infuriated Chael. He had cast a hex upon all the Corsair siblings, and they had turned into a herd of goats. He had refused Sorcerer Vedder’s command to return them to themselves. Instead, the curse, as indeed most of his magic, took an inordinate amount of time to wear off. The Corsair had been a randy herd of nanny and Billy goats for nearly a month. Fortunately, there had been no retaliation upon Chael as the victims, although the depraved Corsair hadn’t exactly despised the experience, had believed their randy time spent as goats had been brought about by one of their own disgruntled lower relations. Taya Mephistos had then departed from Sorcerer Vedder’s castle to pursue any royal connection, especially with the crown princes of Aurora, to further her dream of restoring the Mephistos to the Waybright Throne, while Chael had been summarily dismissed from Sorcerer Vedder’s tutelage. Years had separated the two magical rivals, until, that is, Taya had become one of Luciferno’s preferred lovers. That fact had irked Chael to no end, especially as Luc had seemed to be very seriously involved with Taya. After having wooed her for a short but torrid period, Luc had, in fact, come to the Twilight Realm of earth and established his own Demesne. And, more importantly, he had abstained from sex--but not from masturbation--for a decade as if to cleanse himself for a vow of bonding. Catya, their youngest sibling, had always surmised that he had done these feats to earn Taya. However, in the end, Luciferno had met, had loved, and had joined with Desta Chevalier, a mortal woman, now rendered almost immortal, as were the ElfFeyen, after having passed into Aurora through a travel portal. When Taya had visited the Balaclava’s secondary holding a mere three days ago to ostensibly renounce any old compact between herself and Luciferno only to hear that Luc did not want her, haughty Taya Mephistos had seemed less concerned with losing Luciferno, a crown prince of Aurora, than having been passed over in favor of a coarse, impure mortal. This preference, according to Taya’s castigations, proved her accusations that the Bellaclava were too lax. Their neglect, or so she had railed, as one of the Great Royal families in ruling properly over the Lesser ElfFeyen, who had run rampant in the Twilight Realm since well before humanity had acquired a written language, was a danger to Aurora, the Realm of Magic and Light.

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In her hurt, she had crowed out the rest of her news, mostly to Chael, about her great work of magic upon Nic, whom she had encountered at one of the Bellaclavas’ main travel portals in the town square of Aeyr-Sward: her great work had been the stripping away of his shameful fascination for a Lower ElfFeyen, the were-cast wolf Fin’neal Cerberus. Immediately--instinctively--Chael had, as when they were young competitive rivals, outdone her powerful but profane act of magic with one of his own. Thus he had bound her emotions, her lustful ElfFeyen nature, to some random unknown male who had in the past been beneath the notice of disdainful Taya Mephistos. For him, that unknown male who had once loved her in vain, and from afar, Taya would now know the pangs of unrequited love. And unfulfilled yearning. She would suffer thusly until the curse wore off, which was unlikely, or the male would recognize and pity her suffering, or if Chael should himself break the curse … and he had his doubts about “unworking” such a poorly constructed spell of notorious passion-magic. Perhaps, he mulled, his spell hadn’t really worked upon Taya? But, no, all those gathered at that terrible encounter had seen her stricken face, heard her stark intonation when she had told Chael that her heart already pained her. The curse had been cast impulsively. And well. Guilt made Chael try and banish Taya from his mind. After all, he had come to the Bellaclava brothers’ informal game room to unwind. The spacious area was tucked well underneath the Demesne’s first floor balcony and offered pinball games, a pool table, big screen TV, some half-dozen reclining lounge chairs, and a farmhouse style dining table. The place was presently deserted, quiet, as opposed to when it was more often than not used for quick trysts, or, occasionally, for full-blown orgies. For too long, Chael admitted, he had ignored his lusty ElfFeyen needs. To his growing mental and physical detriment, he hadn’t taken partners, nor masturbated, nearly enough. Instead, he spent his time expanding his magic. Only, tonight, as increasingly with many of his nights, he couldn’t concentrate. He lost focus. He brooded. He yearned. At such times, his cock ached. When he, being ElfFeyen, necessarily had to give in to its demands, he would jack off. As he would fist himself, the female that he invariably, unconsciously fantasized about disturbed him no end. He always pretended that he couldn’t recognize her statuesque height, her exotic coloring, the incomparable waves of red-gold hip-length hair, the shining golden eyes …. Suddenly Chael was caught in that same particular sexual reverie. His breath rasped. His heart thundered. His cock stiffened. He was fisting himself through his loose pajama-like flannel bottoms, the bottle of lube which he had stashed on the floor totally neglected! He was almost ready to pump himself into oblivion. However, using his abundant ElfFeyen self-control, he denied the searing delicious throb of his big prick, and Chael slightly relaxed, slumping comfortably against his plump lounge

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chair. He began a teasing measured stroke through the flannel, his palm now loosely curled about his shaft in a manner meant to stimulate yet prolong the-agony-that-was-pleasure until he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from reaching inside and jerking off properly. Feverishly dreaming, of her hands on him, of her mouth sucking him, of her hot cunt enveloping him, Chael varied the speed and grip of his caresses, slower to faster, lighter to tighter. Occasionally, when his arousal spiked, he hissed inwardly through his clenched teeth. Responding to those wonderful swipes of his hand, Chael’s hard as stone balls tucked up close to his body, sending an erotic shudder into his cock, thrumming it with need, tightening his sphincter with pleasure. Still playing with himself, Chael reached his other hand down and cupped his testicles, gently squeezed, pressed erotically at both his heavy cock and concrete balls. Chael’s eyes blearily hooded, almost unfocused as he pumped his shaft through his loose fitting bottoms. It was within his sexual daze that Chael could almost admit that he imagined Taya was greedily plying his cock. At thoughts of her, his fingers jerked and pulled with a wild tempo, trying to banish her with that sexual frenzy. But he realized that for a long time--forever!--he had subconsciously fixated on Taya Mephistos. How could it be otherwise, he grimaced, when she’d been an inescapable part of his life since age seven! Throughout puberty, she had grown more lovely and more aggravating. Then, when she’d been regularly bedded by Luciferno, Chael had felt--had feigned--indifference, and he had also grown increasingly withdrawn and less sexually active. His energies, he had decided, were better directed at attaining the ultimate level of Sorcerer, not in monitoring Taya’s conquests on her way to regaining a throne for the fallen Mephistos line. Since he couldn’t banish her, he continued to use the bright fantasy of her, pretending she stroked at his pulsing cock, that she caressed its length, rubbed its big head. At a particularly vigorous tug, Chael moaned. His head rolled against the lounge chair, and he blearily glimpsed the shivering green flames in the hearth. He grunted. He had reached the point where he needed to truly fist himself. If only, he wished, Taya were here … he’d make her suck him off. Chael began to snake a hand inside his loose flannel trousers. He touched his crown, gave a drawn out sigh, then heard another’s sharp cry, and recognized the voice. Chael saw Taya drunkenly step--she nearly stumbled--through the green shimmer of the portal! His imaginary temptress, always so cool, always so composed, was disheveled. As she paced a jagged unsteady path, her gorgeous gold n’ red hair lashed untidily about her. Her amazing golden eyes glinted with an eerie desperation. Her flowing satiny emerald robe hung askew, threatened to come loose at its barely knotted belt. In an instant, her mad gaze found and focused upon him, took in his comparatively relaxed pose, just an idle sprawl in a deeply cushioned recliner drawn near to the magical fireplace. Green tinged shadows seemed to make his fine wispy black hair appear longer, his

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gauntness more fleshed out, more masculine, more harshly handsome. All the while that she studied him, Taya paced back and forth, working her hands in agitation. There was no stillness about her. Her wild golden eyes remained upon Chael. Locked upon him. Their golden light burned like hot metal. Chael’s own narrowed gaze tracked her nervous progress. “Well, well, well … this is unlooked for, a visit from the iniquitous witch of the Mephistos. Are you going to alight somewhere soon, Taya? You look quite mad.” His unkind drawl was deliberate. “No. I intend to pace and pace and pace.” Taya furiously spat the words at him. “Are you, fiend, going to end my misery?” “No. I intend to watch and watch and watch.” Chael mockingly copied her, but without as much venom. “You’re an unadulterated pig!” She stomped around his chair, a glorious figure of wrath and rage. Her long wavy reddish-gold hair fanned around her, and her silky emerald robe skewed even more immodestly. Through the widening slit in her dressing gown, a gap from hem to knee, Chael caught glimpses of Taya’s legs, her shapely calves, her lithe thighs, but alas no higher. She came full circuit around his chair, while Chael indolently lolled in his comfy lounger … and intently watched that gap for a glimpse of more of Taya Mehpistos. She came to an aggressive halt. Her hands continued to curl and twist into fists at her sides. Her lungs rasped. But from exertion, or, Chael scowled, from something else? From the strains of her curse, perhaps? He too felt stifled, overheated. Warmth stole through him the more he regarded her high flushed cheekbones, her feverish golden eyes, her heaving chest. “Must I beg you, Chael Bellaclava, to undo this evil magic? It torments me day and night.” “Evil is it?” A malevolence came over him at her outburst. “Was it not you, Taya, who cast a much darker spell on my brother Dominic? To strip him of his affections, however unwise they were, for Fin’neal Cerberus? That was a working of outlawed passion-magic. That is what prompted my retribution.” Taya’s teeth clenched. She drew in a few ragged steadying breaths. “I meant no lasting harm to him, and well you know it. Until recently, the Bellaclava have been aligned with the Mephistos. Dominic needed my aid, and not, I judged, just with his physical hurts, those grievous belly wounds given him by Kestrel Cerberus. I made an error in trying to counteract Fin‘neal’s canine allure. But he does not overly suffer from my casting.” Chael straightened, on the alert. He leaned forward in his chair. “You speak with much certainty. How can you know?”

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“I …,” Taya shifted. Her fingers twined together. “I … have … visited with him at the Samovar Inn. His physical wounds are almost healed over ….” “Go on.” Chael’s gentle prompt was deceptive. He sat on the edge of his seat, and his gaze bored at Taya intensely. He’d rarely seen her other than elegant and controlled, even when she was in a furious rage. Her uncharacteristic disarray--this unusual hesitance to blurt her thoughts--was uncomfortably appealing. He, Chael Bellaclava, had shaken her from regal perfection to flustered femininity. “He thanked me for freeing him of Fin’neal Cerberus, a Lesser ElfFeyen were-cast wolf.” Taya swallowed with difficulty on an obvious lump of distaste. “He said that she had infected him with lust, nothing truer or stronger. That he didn’t care for her. Miss her. Or desire her. His one complaint was that the memories of lying with her had not also been wiped away. He has already begun to pursue other females. Lots of them.” Taya lifted her chin in a familiar mannerism, one of willfulness and victory, flicking the heavy sprawl of red and gold waves about her shoulders. But there was a hint of desperation in her vehemence. “That should be proof enough, even for you, that he is immune from Fin‘neal, but in no way suffers any other adverse consequence.” Chael repositioned himself within his plush lounger, sitting straight and stiff, like an inquisitor. “Did you find their coupling so offensive, Taya? All the Bellaclava have large sexual appetites. Nic not the least of us. I, too, have fucked many of the were-caste. You should avail yourself of the pleasure, if it ever arises.” Chael’s mild blue eyes contemptuously swept over her, revealing his doubt that she‘d ever attract any such exotic lover. “Perhaps I should heed your reassurances. Maybe your passion-magic hasn’t caused any long term damage. If Nic is truly himself again--” Yet, suddenly unable to meet Chael’s steady measuring gaze, Taya’s eyes shifted away from him. Her chin dipped minutely, cascading the red-gold of her mussed hair over the front of her shoulder. Chael, ignoring the beauty of those thick waves, hardening his heart to her turmoil, noted the fine lines around her compressed lips. “Is he the Nic of old, Taya? Charming. Carefree. Flirtatious.” Chael’s quiet question held undertones, of worry, of suspicion. “Or have you, in truth, harmed him? Which of us are you trying hardest to convince?” After one single anguished pause, Taya bravely returned her gaze to Chael’s. She resolutely stiffened her spine. “He is, as I have already claimed, the same as ever. Only … he seems very bitter.” Chael suddenly gave her a twisted, disturbing smile. “Oh, yes, I can easily understand that. Nic has had the privilege of being fucked over by Taya Mephistos, a mistress of

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condescension even in the midst of destruction. You, daughter of heirs to a lost throne, dole out pain or pleasure as suits your whim to the rest of us. If I’d had any doubts about my spell, they are gone. You, iniquitous witch, have earned your bit of suffering.” “No, Chael.” Taya’s soft whimper was tearful, wretched, as affecting as a wail. She fell to her knees at Chael’s feet. Beseechingly, she turned her incomparable face to him, and nothing diminished her loveliness, not even the red blotches on her tawny skin, the pinched tightness to her breathtaking features, the unshed tears in her golden eyes. “I meant only to be of service to your family. I acted rashly, but without malice. While you,” her shiny tear-filled eyes held accusation, “have cursed me out of revenge, and malice, and every mean-spiritedness possible.” She hiccupped like a child in the midst of a crying jag. “You’re powerful, Chael. Much more than I. Don’t be cruel with that power. Please release me. Remove your curse. The harshness of it is like to make me crazed!” Taya leaned against his knees, hugged at them. And Chael Bellaclava, seventh son in his family’s ascension order, tall, thin, and unprepossessingly pale-featured--once very recently called by Taya a soulless ascetic--felt a triumphant lightheadedness rush throughout his body. Taya Mephistos, his lifelong rival, oftentimes his better in magic, in poise, in self-assurance, groveled at his feet! Uncharitably, he liked having her there. Whether in the background or the forefront, Taya Mephistos had always preoccupied his mind. Her statuesque golden beauty reminded Chael of the sun, its heat, its permanence, its absolute necessity for life. She’d been his ultimate wet dream, yet he’d never dared to so much as wish he would actually have her at his mercy. Was he prepared to reveal his attraction to her, his adversary? Could he indulge his most precious, hidden fantasy? Chael took a rough clasp on her chin, studied her sternly, unsympathetically. A fat tear had marred a track down one flawless, tawny cheek. The impulse to lick that same salty path came over him, but he denied it, although he had loomed over her, very obviously, very intimately. Instead of giving in to that impulse, his fingers dug a tad deeper into her skin. Of course, Taya did not flinch. No, she unexpectedly slicked and plumped at her lips with the tip of her tongue, as if, she, too, were contemplating a kiss. A kiss that would be the prelude to sex. That reaction--his and hers--decided Chael: he would take this opportunity. He would take her.

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Chapter Twelve His and Her Power Plays

Chael’s scrutiny of Taya, kneeling at his feet, begging for his clemency, never wavered, it simply sharpened as he held her trapped in that fierce controlling grip, then he began to offer his proposition. “I … might … consider … lifting my curse. With proper incentive.” “For sex, you mean.” His offer, Taya knew, was a purely ElfFeyen arrangement, and therefore didn’t startle her. His intensity, however, did. Chael’s firm hold on her cheek increased. His washed out blue eyes turned a deeper sapphire. His expression seemed brutal. “Well,” Chael throatily pronounced that ugly syllable. “What say you, Taya? Yea … or nay. Am I, unlike your many, many other conquests, too disgusting to consider?” Taya’s features changed to reflect an opportunistic slyness. Within his strong grip, she slightly slanted her head, shifting the drape of her reddish-gold hair. Her eyes hooded, concealing any spark of emotion within the depths of her golden eyes. Her lips curved in a smile. “I would not mind--overmuch--counting you among my partners, whose numbers we both know are not overlarge. To me, Chael, you are not unhandsome. But,” a thoughtfulness washed over her, “I am puzzled that you should strike such a bargain. With me. Haven’t you always considered me contemptible for chasing after an ignoble cause? By trying, fruitlessly, to regain the Western throne … even by such desperate means as to debase myself with Sextus Corsair?” “Never contemptible, Taya.” Chael stared at her for a fraction longer, then let go of his near bruising hold. “Wrong-headed and obstinate are closer to the mark to allow this obsession, fueled by some vague vision, to rule every inch of your life.”

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“Oh, yes,” Taya answered, some of her acrimony shading her tone, “you scorn my sight, as do most. Rightly so. Since losing the throne, the Mephistos line has also lost the gift of foresight. Except--” Taya’s voice, her very frame, vibrated, “--I know my vision, however young it came to me, however vague the details, will come to pass. The Mephistos shall rule again from Waybright!” “Just as you say.” Chael dismissively waved his hand, a gesture that he had long cultivated to irk her. “Blast you, Chael. You would act no differently if the Bellaclava had been cheated out of their pride, their wealth, their heritage as one of the Ruling Houses of Aurora.” “Assuredly, I would even bed a worthless piece of scum like Sextus Corsair in the vain hope of claiming him with a vow of bonding.” “That’s right, you would use fair means or foul to get what you needed. If you were in my position, you’d even fuck your oldest enemy to free yourself of an abominable curse!” Suddenly, the anger seeped from Taya to be replaced by a weary resignation. “Please, Chael, my childhood nemesis, give me ease from this terrible aching, from this accursed thwarted sexual need, from your diabolical passion-magic.” “Fine. Let us see,” Chael whispered low in his throat, “if the ignoble sacrifice of your body to me, your oldest enemy, has any more success than with the crown prince of the Corsair, who, as the entirety of Aurora knows, discarded you. Do your best to please me, witch.” Chael widened his legs, roughly pulled Taya between his thighs, and malevolently grinned at her. “Satisfy me well, Taya Mephistos, and I just might undo my bit of passion-magic. Start with my cock. Lavish it with tender loving care. Suck it and fuck it, until I can‘t move a muscle.” Chael was deliberately crude to rattle her calm, cool composure. He sunk further into the lounger, and he watched her with a brooding stare. Taya, her breaths now harsh, her cheeks and lips flushed, heard not the cruelty hidden within Chael’s tone. She was, alas, far too eager to carry out his orders. Beneath the veil of her thick lowered lashes, she greedily surveyed Chael Bellaclava, the tall slender elegance of his plainly clad frame, the suppressed anticipation underneath the indolent sprawl, the unprepossessing yet strangely attractive features--fine wispy blue-black hair against pale skin, keen blue eyes, sarcastically mobile lips. He was--had always been--to Taya’s eyes ascetically attractive, not classically handsome, not flamboyant, not gargantuan, but extremely sexy nonetheless. His usual disdain, however, gave her pause. But only momentarily. This hot tryst was a bargain about sex. Thus, she didn’t need to hide, or temper, her fervor. What would be the point, for hadn’t she consented instantly? Consented in order to be free of the frantic consuming

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continuous pangs, emotional and physical, that assailed her, that made her wonder if she could possibly die without some release. Yes, she shivered, trailing her gaze down his lazily reclined body, she would die if she didn’t get some relief … if she didn’t get to sate her eyes, her hands, her lips on Chael’s cock! A sexual surge excited her from head to toe. Especially in her belly! Her pelvic muscles contracted, sharp and hard, pulsed, steady and undeniable. Taya, still on her knees before Chael, shifted forward with slow intent. That movement made her even more aware of her slick, swollen pussy. Normally she would finger herself for some relief, but now, if she were patient, Chael would take care of her. And he would do so very skillfully, she had no doubts. Provocatively, she rubbed her hands up the top of his well-muscled thighs--towards her lascivious goal. When she then delicately grazed all ten fingertips across his privates, toyed with him through his loosely fitted flannel trousers, Chael’s mouth thinned into a grimace and he grunted, several guttural times. “Hurry,” he huffed, “and put--your mouth--to me, witch.” Chael’s demand cracked into distinct pain-filled stutters. He even tried to press her down on him, but Taya swished her head loose of his faulty aim, her unbound reddish-gold hair skirling around her shoulders. Laughing, she righted herself. “Have a little patience, Chael, and you will be well rewarded.” A sourness twisted his mouth. He was actually irked, for she already had the upper hand! Taya, leaning over his lap yet watching his expression, resumed her feather light caresses to his fat cock through his flannel bottoms. She groped at him, gingerly. “My, my,” she breathily expressed her approval, “I am indeed in awe.” A naughty quirk lifted one of her elegantly shaped eyebrows, and a cheeky smile crooked the edge of her lips, dimpled one corner of her mouth. Chael scowled. She was far too coquettish to suit him all thanks to her vast, past experience, some of which he knew was exaggerated. And some of which, such as her brief torrid interlude with his eldest brother, Luciferno, was well and truly earned. Anger boiled in him at the thought of her with others. However, a randy surge of lust soon overwhelmed his rage, because Taya had just experimentally gauged the size of his crown then the width of his shaft within a gentle throttle. She purred as she traversed his impressive clothed length, squeezing and teasing all the way to his root. “You’re hard as stone, Chael.” “And getting harder, witch.” He muttered unhappily, shifting his hips, futilely seeking some ease for his throbbing cock.

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“Perfect.” Taya’s smile up at him was sloe-eyed, promise-filled. His breath bated as she reached one fingernail, trimmed short, filed round, and painted taupe, up and down the placket of his baggy black flannel bottoms. Her clever fingers soon discovered a row of six metal snaps, and she cast a quick amused golden-eyed glance at him, enjoying his least show of discomfort, which he futilely tried to deny--the minute jerk of his hips, the hitch of his breath, and the death-like clench of his facial muscles. Methodically, she began to pop each of the six snaps open, one-by-exceedingly-slow-one. As each gave way with a loud click, she repeated that arch glance up at Chael. He still refused to show the effect her deliberate pace had on him, of how his belly clutched, how his balls tucked in hard and tight, how his already stiff cock turned into concrete. It was huge, hard, hurting. He ached to soothe it inside her wet slick cunt. Taya gave him one final measuring glance. She silently chuckled at Chael’s clenched jaw, ragged exhales, corded neck and shoulders. He just as obviously, she noted, gripped the plush wide padded arms of his recliner in order to restrain his hands. This proof of her power over Chael--of getting him so aroused by so little, made her eager creamy pussy spasm. And she hadn’t so much as seen his cock yet! She realized then that Chael had just as much power over her! And she didn’t care! There was no denying she wanted him. She ached to tongue and lick at Chael’s luscious shaft, to kiss and suck his sensitive length, to nibble and explore and fellate her scornful childhood comrade until he uncontrollably blasted cum into her mouth! With trembling hands, Taya unveiled him. Chael’s massive meaty length, seeping a drop of pre-cum, jutted at her, twitched with ecstasy, demanded service from her nearby mouth. Her swollen sex now wept. Indeed, it saturated her pubic curls, dampened her thighs. Taya was raptly bemused by Chael’s enormous perfect cock, a thick towering pillar, dark with passion, pulsing with want … for her! She woozily swayed closer. Her red-gold waves of hair draped them both, sifting over his lower belly and his throbbing shaft, spilling down her neck and shoulders. His eyes nearly rolled back in his head at that wickedly intense sensation. He managed to turn a harsh groan into a command. “Swallow me whole, my iniquitous dark witch. Swallow down to the root.” Since Chael had just demanded her mouth to him, Taya instantly obeyed. She anchored him with a fist at his thick base then, wearing a dreamy expression, she went down on Chael, lowering her head that last few inches, stretching her mouth extremely wide to fit around his big silken head, savoring that tasty dab of pre-cum. Then slowly, experimentally she rolled her tongue against him, explored his tip, even tickled his little pee hole.

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Eagerly, she gave a small suck to his crown, and Chael reacted with a fast upward hump of his groin. They groaned in unison. “That’s right, my iniquitous witch. Suck me off.” Chael’s hands itched to dig into her hair. He followed that impulse, but somehow managed to keep from forcing her down on him. Instead, in a display of extreme willpower worthy of the most exalted ElfFeyen royal, he merely luxuriated in her wet velvety mouth circling his cock’s head, in the warmth of her red-gold hair spread over him as she sunk a little deeper. He released an agonized sigh, strained to hold back the rising excitement that charged his body with electricity, pulsed through his cock, clutched at his balls. Through the blur of his lust, he stared down at Taya, positioned almost penitently on her knees betwixt his lewdly sprawled lap while she worked most impiously on his rampant cock. Her glorious hair and lush body blanketed him, suffused his groin in an erotic warmth such as he had never experienced. As his eyes drooped with an ever increasing, all-consuming climax, his vision--all the glorious colors of this beautiful ElfFeyen female--smeared before him, the redgold of Taya’s wavy hair, the jeweled green of her silky robe, the tawny shade of her briefly glimpsed cheek, chin, and hands. Chael exulted in how she draped him in sensation! She bombarded him with want, like a force ten hurricane, straining his heart, lungs, guts, and cock. He jerked inside her mouth. Although occupied with an enormous mouthful of his shaft, Taya managed to slant a glance up at him, saw Chael’s anguished expression, then she resumed her assault on his massive penis. She ceased laving at his crown to trail down Chael’s veined width, sure to leave as much saliva as possible. She licked at him, speedily, thoroughly, damply, up and down his quivering cock. Ever and again, Taya cast a measuring glance at him. Once when she did so, she incitingly tightened her fingers around his base, and dribbled a strand of saliva onto his crown. She chased after it, nibbling down his length to where her right hand firmly held his huge root. Her glance at him was accompanied by a crafty smile, just before she again descended on Chael’s cock with a vengeance. She quickly, carefully stuffed him into her eager mouth, slid much, much more of him inside, then hurriedly slurped upward, setting her rhythm. Her hot wet mouth immediately jacked back down. Taya coordinated her hands and lips in a sublime pump down, pull up, swallow down, slide up. All that spit greased him up like a pole so that she fucked him with furious, fast precision. The motion was non-stop. The pressure was perfect. The friction was exquisite! Taya aggressively sucked him, hand and mouth working him, sliding and gliding the swollen length of his dick.

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Chael’s entire body went rigid, except for his driving hips. One-handed, he clasped the top of her head and bumped up at her, began to harshly ram the ring of her sweet mouth. His groin forcefully hunched up and down, rubbing his shaft between her moist lips, stimulating his crown and the sensitive underside with every slick push into her. Taya braced herself against his thighs. She aided his strenuous efforts by accepting as much of him as possible. He battered his cock into her evermore frenziedly. At each stab, he grunted. And as his delicious pace increased, each grunt came faster, rougher, gruffer. His oversized cock slid in and out with furious motion, slippery and hot. His expression showed the distress of a male straining for the one ultimate pump that would shoot his load. Chael ground out three more glorious strokes, still holding off that final jolt of detonation for his climax. But his body protested. Suddenly Chael’s head slammed back against the recliner while his big, thick cock jarred hard into Taya’s mouth. His hips and ass were entirely off the cushioned seat. Taya marveled at how long he stayed on the verge, stretching out the finite shivering pleasure that preceded a climax. She would be the one to push him over! Taya managed to get one palm against his tight balls for a gentle but thorough squeeze, and she simultaneously gripped his huge shaft as if urging on his cum. She sucked him harder, then pulled his shaft in a long kneading stroke. Blinking, turning his glassy desire-darkened blue eyes upon her face, he changed a hoarse croak into words. “Here … taste … my cum, witch. You‘ve massaged …,” he huffed for air, “the seed from my balls, more surely than any whore ….” He exhaled those ugly words even as he spewed ejaculate. He closed his eyes and gave in to pleasure. He juddered, a sexual fission of every erogenous cell in his body and every licentious thought in his mind. Cum pulsed from his cock, overflowed Taya’s greedy sucks, dribbled out the corners of her avaricious mouth. Still covering him, she swirled her tongue against his crown to capture more semen, but Chael’s enormous size made it almost impossible to swallow. So she happily slurped at his head with her tongue, and used her fingers to smear him with the prodigious excess. As his body seized with lust, Chael’s hold roughly sifted deeper into Taya’s thick mane of hair, down to her scalp. He instantly pressed at her to suck him dry. Gritting out a low moan, his ejaculate still spurted, his cock still twitched. The muscles in his groin and ass clamped in extreme pleasure. Then, nearing the end of his peak, he strained one final forceful lurch up against the roof of Taya’s mouth, and he shuddered at the last pulsing releases from his shaft, softening him, depleting him, but not finishing him by any means.

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As Chael’s body slowly relaxed, Taya fastidiously licked at him, his head, his underside, his semi-soft shaft. A sound of supreme satisfaction rumbled in the back of Chael’s throat. As he watched Taya through a haze of lust, he savored every detail about her from the nimbleness of her pink tongue dabbing at his prick, to the heightened blush of her high cheeks, to the contrast between her long wavy red-gold hair and the vibrant gloss of her emerald robe. The satiny material drooped off one of her tawny, shapely shoulders. One strategic nudge would slide it completely off of her. Unable to contain the urge, Chael instantly swept the robe off Taya, using both his palms in a very slow, very erotic gesture, a possessive caress up her chest and over the lovely curve of her shoulders. As the garment slid off her, Taya brazenly sat back on her haunches, offering Chael a good look at her large dark-rose nippled breasts, her trim waist, and the shadowed pubic mound between her closed legs. Chael’s gaze roamed unhurriedly over her lush tits, big and ripe as melons, peaked and pebbled at the dark-rose tips, much more than a sufficient mouthful. They looked heavy enough to topple her slender weight, for she was tall and sleek and Amazonian, without an ounce of extra fat, except at her wonderfully bountiful hips. She had a perfect body for sex, with tits and ass to spare on a well-honed silkily-skinned frame. That admission made Chael’s limp cock twinge, instantly, interestedly. He slouched further in the recliner so that his wispy blue-black hair ruffled into his face, helped shield the appreciative glint in his cornflower-blue eyes, helped hide the hungry tilt to his lips. “Show me your pussy.” Taya casually tossed her head, gave him an arch, almost defiant, look. “I shall … once you’re likewise naked.” Chael’s mouth puckered around a refusal yet, staring down at Taya, lusting after her feminine lushness, he finally acquiesced with a surly grunt. As Taya raptly watched, Chael rose to his feet, rapidly tugged his roomy t-shirt up over his head, and slung it away. Chael, she mentally complimented, had an athletic torso with muscular arms and shoulders, a well-built chest, and rippled 4-pack abs. His loose flannel bottoms, already unfastened, slid to the floor to be kicked unceremoniously out of the way. Now it was Taya’s turn to fully ogle him! From his attractive but emotionally closed-off features to his toned muscles, his perfect male proportions of wide shoulders and narrow hips, and, last but not least, his exceptional cock, semi-hard between his sinewy thighs. Chael arrogantly repeated his demand. “Open your pussy lips. Let me see you.”

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Taya, seated on her haunches, knees drawn together, obligingly repositioned herself. Leaning her weight back on one arm, she sat flat upon her ass and splayed her legs wide. Intending to offer Chael some prime entertainment, she dipped her right hand down and softly combed through her reddish-brown pubic curls. She sifted through them for Chael’s benefit. And for her own arousal. Then, registering his avid intensity, Taya used her index and middle fingers to peel her plump labia open to show Chael her sex, the delicate pink folds glistening wetly, the plump distended flesh, the knot of her clit, just barely visible. She rolled her index finger into that wet cleft and sighed with the delicious sensation. Eyes half-closed, she smeared around in circles. Her cunt was pulsing from his keen interest and from her slippery negligent caress. Her hips pumped slightly. Suddenly, the youngest Bellaclava brother dropped to the floor, a large hot male coming to rest between her open thighs, his head directly above her dainty mound. Her reddish-brown curls beckoned. Her open slit, like pretty pink petals, tempted. Chael grasped Taya’s inner thighs high up, almost at her crotch. That firm touch staked a claim. His gaze darkened from faded blue to an impassioned sapphire, skimmed her, traced the folds of her plump labia, admired her swollen inner lips, her wetness, her fullness, her readiness. “So lovely, so ripe.” His murmur came out low, unconsciously. Then, still not looking at her face, just her dewy sex, he spoke a callous order. “Hold your cunt open.” Taya gasped. She was outraged, but she was more so excited. By his innate mastery, by his undeniable carnality, by his explicit intentions. Chael balanced upon his hipbones, elbows, and belly, his head and shoulders poised inches above her crotch. The glossy wisps of his blueblack hair fell forward, attractively dark against his pale skin. At that image of Chael caught in a rapacious lascivious hunger, Taya’s entire being tensed with sexual expectation, especially for the clenching muscles in her stomach and vagina. Her breath hitched on a cry for fear of breaking this intimate spell. If she brought his attention to her, she feared he would stop! Had she secretly expected such exquisite masculinity of him, this surly dark-haired lightblue-eyed seventh Bellaclava brother? Yes, she inwardly admitted. His whole frame and mass was revealed to be a honed, toned sleeker version of his eldest brother, Luciferno, for Chael wasn’t quite as tall or broad or mountainous. However, his cock was as enormously superb as Luc’s. Taya, having just fondled its impressive dimensions, having licked and lapped at him, nearly purred her approval at the vivid remembrance. And, now, he filled the juncture between her lewdly opened thighs! Devouring Taya with his gaze, Chael’s lungs huffed at ragged intervals. His mouth watered. He wanted a taste. He wanted several. Then, with sinuous grace, he lowered to her.

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The first lick was slow and deliberate, from anus to clit. They both groaned, avid sounds of gratification and satisfaction. Taya’s wide-splayed bent legs trembled. Her belly clenched. Her sex pulsed. Such thorough pleasuring would break her apart! “Oh, Chael,” she breathed his name in a long choppy exhale. “I don’t think … I can … hold out … long. This feels too good.” And her pelvis bumped against his mouth. With a veiled dark look up at her, he growled out a warning. “Just hold yourself open and available, Taya. I want to enjoy this too.” “Yes, Chael.” She stifled her own needy whimper. Obediently, she kept her pussy lips pried apart for him. This time Chael rubbed circles with his tongue while also dipping and swirling a finger a little lower. Then he changed tactics, moving on her with speedy flutters. Those fast flits drove her wild. Her hips performed a palsied bump ’n grind that joggled her big breasts. “Uuumm, ummm.” Taya bit her lower lip to muffle her high pitched whines. She wished her hands were free! She wanted to cram his face against her cunt, make him lap her firmer, fiercer, further! “My clit hurts, Chael. Please … won’t you … suck it? Please--please,” her head tossed straight back and she grimaced, “lick at my clit!” “Not … just … yet.” Chael’s refusal huffed from his lungs. He spared a dazed look up at her, seeing her chest juddering, her torso twisting, her mouth panting. The sight of her, the scent of her, the taste of her turned him to steel. His cock, erect against his stomach, throbbed massively. He’d never gotten such a splendid, instant hard on--nor been so in danger of coming-from eating out a woman! Her juicy pussy was a great temptation. He ached to have her as never before. And because of that need, that humiliating failing, he decided to punish her. Chael, drawing together the shreds of his ElfFeyen self-control, meant to make her suffer for causing him distress. He scooted a little way from her and issued an abrupt order. “Keep holding yourself open, witch.” To Taya’s dismay, Chael rose to his knees, then to his feet. His heavy cock jutted toward the ceiling, wobbled in a lewd genuflection at her rabid stare. As he stood over her, Taya’s glassy eyes covetously tracked from his cum-spotted crown to his thick root and on to his tight balls. A carnal moan drifted from her.

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“Give me some dick, Chael.” She shuttled her ass an inch or so, trying to bring them closer, to entice him to her. “Cram it in my aching pussy.” “Don’t move, witch, until I command it. Not a single muscle, especially not to ease yourself.” Chael’s smile down at her was ugly. “I’ve a fancy to fuck your great big tits, Taya.” And he quickly snatched up the bottle of lube from beside his padded arm chair--the lubrication he had intended to use on himself to masturbate! He swiveled back to her, flicked the top open, and strategically drizzled the clear viscous stuff into Taya’s exceptional cleavage. Her breasts, a tawny golden hue, were large, plump, and firm, with dark-rose half-dollar-sized succulent areola. Like a lewd colossus, he stood astride her and planted his feet well apart in a very sturdy stance. Taya’s statuesque height put her chin nearly on a level with his shaft. Her luscious boobs were right there in front of him. “Now, witch, push them together for me. Plump them high and firm. Make them easy for me to fuck.” She obeyed him on the instant, and as she did so the tip of her tongue slicked across her lips, revealing how turned on she was. Chael used both hands to grasp his shaft, positioned it, and slowly pushed against her. At the first glide between her lube saturated tits, a lusty sound grated from out his clenched teeth. He slicked back out, bunched his ass, and drove in once more. Covertly, through lust-lowered lashes, he watched her reaction as he worked into and out of the heavenly flesh of her swollen tits. He saw the strain of her privation because of his command that she not pleasure herself. Taya was wild-eyed. Her breaths came out ragged and loud. When she spoke, she more properly begged. “May I touch myself now, Chael?” “No …,” he hissed, enjoying the soft, slippery drag on his shaft as his hips repeatedly hunched at her, forcing his sensitive head in between the generous mounds that she pinched together for him. Heat and friction teased every nerve, swelled him to near-bursting. He plied her softness with force, jamming into that tight slippery crack with excruciating pressure. At each thrust, he bit out a low groan. “You have such … lovely… big … tits,” Chael deliriously stuttered, “I’ve … always … wanted to come on them ….” He slid out of her greased up curves, only to jab back once again. Faster and jerkier came his thrusts. Tension tautened his balls, thrummed into his pulsing shaft. He was close to coming! He rutted more and more inelegantly against her plumped breasts--scraping across a nipple, then unerringly returning to the crevice formed by her large pressed together breasts. His groin rammed at her, beat his hard hot flesh against her soft tender tits.

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Chael’s eyes shuttered with the ecstasy of such a long held dream-come-true. He concentrated on making long smooth strokes rather than the rapid drumming tempo which his body demanded. He was so dazed that he barely heard Taya speak. “Turn about is fair play, Chael,” she muttered. She smeared the fingers of one hand into the underside of her cleavage, sopping up some of the lubricant. Then, while he grunted and strained against her, rousing and rubbing and scraping against her fleshy bosom, she reached up to cup his tight testicles to give him a brief warning before she reached further back, squirmed her lubed middle finger into his ass crack, then gently inserted it into his rectum. Pleasure poured through Chael at that erotic caress of his anus. His sphincter instinctively clenched around her, tried to pull her deeper, triggered erotic shockwaves throughout him. Ungenerously, he muffled his blissful shout, capturing it deep within his throat, unwilling to reveal how well she serviced him. However, his body gave evidence to the extreme physical peak with which she had overwhelmed him. Chael came. Instantly. The muscles in his lean legs locked. His hips froze on a powerful lunge. His cock, fevered and throbbing, spewed gobs of cum, initially in spurts, then several unstoppable gushes. The force of his unexpected climax twisted his face into a maniacal mask, eyes scrunched, jaw tight, teeth bared. Matching that expression, he grunted like an animal, managed a few awkward jabs in between her big tits. Taya, however, wrung the concluding jerk and spill from Chael when she softly, expertly stroked at his prostate. Chael’s head bowed back and he howled. Through that last shuddering wave of release his senses blurred, turning the sight of her into a sun-like blaze of red and gold. One final immense pump emptied him. His cock grew less firm, yet his mind sharpened. She, he fumed, while his mind and body descended from the mad plateau of climax, had bested him. As ever. She had wickedly--and all too easily--made him come. He’d wanted to plunder and ravage and maul her superb breasts, those exquisitely large and darkly nippled mounds, until he had gotten his lascivious fill, until he had made her sore-and randy--from his use. Only, Taya had sabotaged him. Chael stared down upon her at his feet and plotted how best to repay Taya Mephistos, the bane of his existence.

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Chapter Thirteen Deception

Although Chael’s thoughts were dark and bitter, gouging an unhappy furrow between his brows, he couldn’t tear his gaze from Taya’s loveliness, the tawny skin, the lush figure, the long wavy reddish-gold hair soft and shimmery as earthbound sunbeams draping about her arms, shoulders, and back. When he spoke, displeasure roughened his voice. “You finished me too quickly, witch.” His accusation came out surly. “And since I’m too soft to do either of us any good, perhaps I’ll decide I’m done with you.” Taya, however, arched her slender golden eyebrow, slyly, infuriatingly. She followed that tiny gesture with a waggle of her middle finger, still lodged in his rectum. “I have faith in your stamina, Chael. You will be hard again … for me …,” she went suggestively breathy, “ … in no time at all. Then you can fuck me. Because I want some cock. I need some cock. Yours is perfect. Big, wide, thick, and long.” She purred. She slid her finger in and out of his rear just enough to give him a pleasurable jolt. Smiling at him, she used her other hand to play with his now semi-erect shaft. Rather vigorously, Taya pulled and tugged, milking him, stroking and choking him with a perfect grip. Each subtle caress to his ass sent shivers of pleasure through his sphincter, spiraling onward to his groin, his belly, his stiffening penis. And Taya’s sure steady tugs on his cock soon made him, a virile ElfFeyen royal, fully rigid so that she could no longer completely close him in her fist, nor could she continue to milk him on a downward stroke for his shaft had almost risen to his belly, a massive angry-hued phallus, twitching and throbbing for more attention. Much of Taya’s customary regal bearing had vanished, replaced by whorish abandon. She wanted him. Her pussy throbbed, wet and swollen. Just for him, for Chael Bellaclava. “Cover me now, Chael,” she whispered, lewdly sprawling her legs, reluctantly ending her stimulation of him. To entice him, she placed her hand on her mound, combed her fingers

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through her damp brown curls, then swirled her fingers inside. Her look up at him was seductive. “Here’s some hot pussy, Chael. See how I need you? I’m so swollen.” Using the whole flat of her hand, she smeared herself wide open, for both their pleasure. So that he could glimpse her glistening pink folds, and she could rub at her horny, hurting cunt. Her moans were low, unbroken, a desperate keen of lust. The gold of her eyes smoldered darkly. “I’m slick and ready. Come between my legs, Chael. Fuck me.” She diddled herself as she spoke, holding her lips apart, circling her middle finger around her wet plumpness. She lay on her back before him, spread wide in invitation, tempting him with her words and her deeds. Gone was her cool superiority. She was simply desperate. Chael, however, seemed immune. It unnerved Taya. How long, she worried, could he maintain such control? “Is this not how you wish me, Chael, upon my back?” she huskily asked, trying to read his silence, his tight-lipped narrow-eyed expression. Was he going to refuse her? Again she tried to entice him. “Shall I turn over onto my stomach? Would you prefer me on my belly? Tell me, Chael, for your desire is mine. Whatever you want, I shall do.” Chael witnessed her prurient show like a man turned to stone. Indeed, his cock was rock hard, a piece of randy granite. The ferocious veined column lurched drunkenly, lustily. Chael’s mind was awed by her feminine beauty, the huge joggling breasts with dark-rose nipples, her curvaceous waist and hips, her long lean legs. And she was so syrupy sweet, it hurt him to not drop down and lick it all up. “I’m-drenched …,” she gasped, barely able to speak, “… I’m--juicy--as a--peach.” She squelched into her wetness. “Just for you, Chael. Don‘t you want some pussy?” Taya suddenly hiked her ass up off the ground, bumping her groin at him, offering herself to him, pleading with her body. “Please,” her voice cracked, “come inside me.” She had long since ceased to be a temptress; she had become a woman in distress, sexual distress. And Chael, more animal than man, fell upon her. The urgency in his groin nearly drove him insane. Need sledge-hammered through his shaft, matched the erratic beat of his pulse, drummed a rhythm that demanded he join with Taya. She was his! As he draped himself over her, chest-to-chest and cock-to-belly, he luxuriated in the satin of her tawny skin, in the heavy weight of her generous breasts, in the feminine curve of her small waist. Very roughly he pressed himself between her legs, forcing her wider, shoving her knees to the side. When he reached down to grasp then position his shaft at her entrance, he couldn’t

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resist a detour to stroke inside her with his fingers. Taya groaned. And again--on impulse--he traced further into her creaminess. Tension built between them. Their breaths rasped in loud, exhilarated unison. Their gazes also locked, cornflower blue mesmerizing brilliant gold. “You said you’re ready for some cock. Here, take this, if you can--” Chael forcefully rocked his hips against her, a deep unrepentant plunge. He delightedly suffered at the first weak contraction of Taya’s inner muscles. He fit tighter than a nail driven into a plank! They were made for each other! And that delirious thought enraged him, because Taya didn‘t give herself to him for any other reason than to break a curse, not love, not attraction, not lust. “That‘s a perfect fit …,” his words were a partial ragged snarl, “ … a tight hot hole.” His cock throbbed inside her. He glanced down at Taya’s scrunched grimace, and his own body’s ecstasy quadrupled. Her hands were knotted, fingers dug into her palms. One vigorous thrust had almost sent her over the edge! He’d jammed her pussy to the hilt in one sure drive, reaching her womb, overfilling her tight passage, seating himself like he’d never move. She moaned a high broken cry. Motionless, still embedded within her, Chael echoed her passionate noise with a throatier hum. “You’re hanging on by a thread, Taya. I think I’ll make you come. Fast and hard. Or,” his mutter turned nasty, “then again, maybe I won’t.” He slipped his hand between them and managed to get his index finger on the perfect spot to accomplish the deed, the bud of her clit. Watching her reaction, he rolled--once, very stingily-across that aroused bead, while he shoved and undulated his hips against her, packing himself firmer into place, touching her as deeply and erotically as possible. At that single teasing parsimonious caress of her clit, he saw her every feature tighten, heard the quick hiss of her indrawn breath. Unable to hold himself back, Chael again feverishly humped, rocking her body, joggling her big breasts. “Chael!” Taya’s shout was smothered behind clenched teeth. She trembled, and her pelvic muscles rippled and squeezed him. His far-too-brief chafing of her clit hadn’t quite engulfed her in a cyclonic release, so she strained to get herself there. She wanted motion, she wanted friction, she wanted a good fucking! And surly Chael was too busy playing games of dominance to oblige her. Taya, eyes closed, hands fisted, writhed under Chael’s sleekly muscled but deceptively heavy body. His massive penetration had sparked her inner muscles with sexual electric. Another such glorious jolt and she would climax! As she pumped against him, her vagina clamped and clenched, a sensuous grip that satisfyingly buffed her sex along his firm fat dick.

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Almost at once, the flutter of pre-orgasm became undeniable. She moaned soft and low, a sound of building excitement. Having caught a frenzied rhythm, her hips continued to shimmy against Chael, speedily, mindlessly, rubbing and scraping and fusing flesh-against-flesh, pussy-against-cock. He was so massive, so rigid, that her least jostle smoothed him through her swollen, achy folds. She’d never been stuffed so completely full! Never! “Oh--oh--fuck--me--fuck--me,” she panted, head whipping side-to-side with effort, flinging her red-gold hair around her shoulders. “Uh--uh--Chael--oh, yeah!” She ground harder, tilted her pelvis, felt her clasp tighten. Her incoherent moans sang louder, pitched higher. As she struggled to attain those last few fabulous sensations that would fling her into a paroxysm of pleasure, her keen began to quaver. She was almost there! She was close! And Chael, his cock throbbing in strangled anguish, saw all of Taya’s frantic, fantastic push to climax. His lust dulled vision admired the heaving and writhing of her torso as she gripped at his fat cock, the bob and jiggle of those luscious darkly red nippled breasts, and the garbled sounds she uttered. “Another touch should do it,” he muttered, vigorously caressing her clit, circling it, swirling it, stimulating it. She screamed. Her back arched from the floor, and the wet slick muscles of her pussy grasped at him, milked him, almost forced him to come right along with her. Instead, marshaling every ounce of his superb ElfFeyen control, Chael leered down at her and waited some few interminable minutes for Taya’s peak to slightly fade. Then, only then, he moved … one slick, belly-quivering, purposeful withdrawal. Taya bucked, cried out, whipped her head in a flurry of red-gold hair. That exquisite backward stroke--and Taya’s wild heaving--nearly undid him. The heated friction of her pussy intensely gliding around him excited his cock and balls, stressed his heart. He wanted more! Instinct rammed him back inside, and he hissed in pained pleasure. She was the ultimate female, tight, hot, and wet around his engorged cock, a slick glove that compressed and contracted upon him trying to force a climax, trying to make him come. Her vagina gloriously fisted him like a vise. “Witch …,” he softly cursed her, but the whisper was tender, almost an endearment. “You’ve nearly unmanned me--yet again.” He looked down at her sweaty, passion-wracked face. She was nearing the crest of another orgasm. Her pearly teeth worried at her bottom lip, she panted, she moaned. She desperately heaved toward that plateau by bumping and brushing her groin in fierce unison with Chael’s thrusts. Their efforts were synchronized, cock into cunt, shaft into slit, in-and-out, bump’n grind.

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“Oh … ohh … ahhhh!” Her sharp little cries became crazed, incoherent. The glorious scrape of him in and out of her body, long, strong strokes into her spasming pussy, sent her mindless with pleasure! “More … Chael!” Taya’s cry lashed out, torn from her on a turbulent toss of her head. “Deeper!” With a guttural grunt of assent, he slid out of her creamy channel, grasped her ass to lift her higher and to change her angle then, on a final masterful skewer, jammed her full of cock. The muscles of her body--all save the furious clench and release of her sex--tensed, locked, went rigid with the commencement of another shattering orgasm. She was entirely bowed off the floor. Her mouth was a stark round soundless “O”. Her features were strained, grimacing with the prurient agony of such a mighty release. The tight clamp on his cock, plus the beautiful sheen of her face in the throes of extreme coitus, threw Chael into the same sexual onslaught: his nuts, so damnably hard, drawn close to his body, expelled their load out his gigantic shaft, filling Taya’s cunt like a geyser! Gritting his teeth, he ground against her as if to drive further into her womb. His copious seed, that of the seventh Bellaclava brother, steeped her depths. Given that she, haughty Taya Mephistos, the bane of his existence, was the vessel, how, he deliriously wondered, could his semen spew so boundlessly? Each jet within her gave him a malicious joy. He marked her, he used her, he possessed her. Underneath him, Taya roused. Her eyes opened to dazed slits, shining like polished gold. Her sigh was replete, a satisfied exhale as Chael still ejaculated, very lengthily, into her. Comfortably weary, she re-closed her eyes and relished his every warm liquid pulse inside her. But eventually he ran dry, softened, and withdrew on a muffled curse. “You’ve drained me, witch.” He eased her legs and hips to the floor, pausing there where he knelt between her thighs, seeing the well-used wetness of her sex, then gazing at her sated, sleepy expression. When, however, he had the sudden insane urge to lower himself upon her to bestow a kiss, an embrace, a soft word of tenderness, he twisted that unlooked for affection into scorn--which he directed at Taya. “Expect no more from me as I am far too limp and far too disgusted too fuck you again.” Taya’s afterglow chilled, ruining her pliant slumberous relaxation. Feeling his gaze rove over her nakedness, with anger, not desire, she struggled upward. She gained her feet, grabbed up her robe of emerald silk, and flung it on. Chael, still seated on his haunches, his fists curled atop his thighs, made no move to stop her. Indeed, his moody gaze continued to stray over Taya, although her voluptuousness was now covered. Nevertheless, he liked the silk draping over her big breasts, her indented waist, her lush hips.

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He silently castigated himself for craving her yet again. Taya responded to the coldness of his inspection by pinching the collar of her robe together just under her chin so that nothing of her chest or cleavage was showing. Derisively, Chael’s lips turned up in a slant. A strange glint showed within his cornflower eyes. Taya tried to ignore his vile manner, but it made her fearful. She spoke, hoarsely but not haltingly. “Since you have been satisfied, Chael, it is time to live up to your end of the bargain. Break your curse.” “Satisfied, eh?” At the reminder of why she had slept with him, out-of-necessity not attraction, Chael easily dredged up all his youthful, immature resentment of her innate hauteur, her exquisite beauty, her poise and self-possession, those qualities which he had always envied … and coveted ... and known to be unattainable. Taya Mephistos, who had always cloaked herself in aloof superiority, had only given herself to him through duplicitous machination. Even now, she emotionally withdrew from him, returned to her usual frosty mien. He’d thawed her with the fiery combustion of sex, but she’d quickly refrozen, solid and frigid as ice. But, if he was prepared to be honest--which he wasn’t--her emotional shutdown was a reaction to his ruthlessness when he couldn’t bring himself to express any gentleness towards her, for to do so was a weakness he could ill afford. She would only wield it as a weapon against him. Wouldn’t she? “I am not satisfied. Not by half, witch. Your penance is hardly met by that paltry offering. Your efforts wore out my dick, not my vengeance.” An odd pallor turned Taya’s skin chalky. But she tried, outwardly, at least, to disguise her shock at this betrayal by standing tall, shielding her dignity behind her closed robe as if she wore a queenly mantle. “Exactly what do you mean, Chael?” “I mean that you will have to do much better than this night’s performance to earn your reward. After all, I could do as much for myself ….” Chael, kneeling less than a foot from her, reached between his legs, grasped his dangling cock, and gently tugged its length. “Oh, I have no doubt of it,” Taya smiled evilly, “as practice makes perfect. You’ve probably handled yourself more often than any number of women combined.” “There,” Chael’s own smile mirrored hers, “that’s the Taya of old, bitter and contemptuous and insulting.”

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“Only when such tactics are called for. And you are behaving contemptibly. Be as good as your word, Chael, break your curse. I have abided by our terms. So must you.” “If you remember aright, I said that I would consider removing my curse. And, in time, I shall.” “No.” The word reverberated upon the air, sent chilblains down Chael’s spine. He narrowed his eyes and considered her, a tall, righteous, statuesque figure limned with eerie green shadows from the false flames blazing in the travel portal. “No, you say? Do not anger me so hastily, Taya. That would be most ill-advised.” “I shall not give myself to you again and again until it ceases to amuse you. I want your true word to end this awful work of passion-magic.” Chael frowned. Furrows etched his brow, telltale creases appearing underneath the fringe of his wispy black bangs. She’d caught on to his deception, wherein he could use her many times over. Now, he cursed, grinding his teeth, the best he could accomplish was to salvage what was left of his thwarted designs. “Come to me again,” he plainly emphasized the word, “six nights hence and I shall … remove my curse.” “Six … nights … hence?” Taya’s whispered misery showed on her face. “Do not make me suffer for so long, Chael.” He felt the same compulsion to be with her again as soon as possible, but his arrogant ElfFeyen disposition denied this truth. “Very well. Make it five nights.” Taya ducked her chin in an obeisance and mouthed a bit of wounded gratitude. “Thank you, Chael …. I shall endure the wait as best I can.” Chael nearly cringed at the abject way she bowed her head and spoke with such soft deference to him, not at all her normal regal self. She never raised her eyes from the floor as she spoke a final time. “Until then, my oldest comrade, I bid you take pity on me and undo this damage you have done.” Taya Mephistos, cowed and beaten like never before, turned toward the travel portal. Quickly, she stepped through. The bright emerald of her satiny robe melded into the green of the roiling fire, the reddish-gold of her hair faded into nothing. And she was gone.

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Chapter Fourteen A Tasty Morsel

For a surly Saracen, the delights of the previous night made the slow advance from midafternoon to evening excruciating … and lonely. He had drowsed in fits, always aware of the hot sensual female next to him who, by infuriating contrast, slept a sound solid slumber. Thoughts of him did not disturb her. His presence did not permeate her conscious--much less her unconscious--mind. Saracen Bellaclava fumed over the fact that he so obviously did not tease, did not torment, did not haunt her dreams with longing. Nothing at all troubled her rest. Not when his ill-tempered vigilance had him literally breathing down her neck, not when he arose to arrange for a meal, and not even when he had left the bed in order to make other, more intimate, preparations, such as filling the bedside pedestal table with various sex toys--including lubricant, butt plugs, a cock ring, and a vibrator. Then, on an afterthought, he rose a final time to hang a pair of identical his-and-her black silk robes over the sleigh bed’s decoratively scrolled headboard. Sprite didn’t even awaken upon the arrival of servants, Evannan and Tisane, a pair of always-eager-to-please females, who delivered and set out their meal, an aromatic banquet of roasted turkey, baked ham, cornbread dressing, yeast rolls, green beans, spinach casserole, cakebrownies, and a platter of fresh fruit--pineapple chunks, cantaloupe wedges, watermelon balls, kiwi slices, and strawberries in cream. Food, it would seem, tempted her as little as did Saracen. He vented his peevishness in a silent snarl, looming above her angelically passive form for the millionth time, measuring the passage of each precious moment by the slow beat of her heart, wishing that she would awaken. But, no, Sprite Fer-de-lance, his sexy little sea urchin, slept as innocently as any babe. He had had her for a single tumultuous night, and now, when they both should be resting, he was keyed up from desire … and from worry. Because Sprite belonged to him, he recalled with a grimace, only so long as Luciferno and Desta remained absent from the Demesne. When

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Luc returned from Aurora, they would doubtless be separated. Given that fact, how could Sprite waste so much as a minute on sleep? Right now she stretched out flat on her back. Her legs were draped with the purple coverlet, while her belly and breasts were bared to him. A magnetic fascination, for her lovely reposed features, her pearly skin, her sweetly parted lips, pulled him nearer until his breath sifted into the sandy-golden hair at her temple. One tendril ruffled against her high, perfectly cut cheekbone. She was exquisite! From her thinly arched expressive brows, to her softly freckled nose, to her raspberry-tinted mouth, and, most irresistible of all, her exotic, erotic fey-tipped ears! Saracen’s lust--as well as his cock--swelled to unbridled proportions. Through their imperfect psychic bond, that randy heat also engulfed Sprite, ending her dreams, bestirring her body with an equal fervor, rousing her no less than the prod and poke of Saracen’s needy engorged prick against her hip. To further gain her interest, he skimmed his thick shaft across her belly. With a stifled yawn, Sprite’s eyes fluttered open. Sleepily, she glanced from his face to his aroused cock, demandingly hard against her tummy, its gigantic girth blushed dark with passion in contrast to her fair pearly skin. Saracen grunted unhappily when he noticed a small telltale twitch of her fingers, as if she stopped the impulse to reach out and clasp him. “Don’t fight your lusty inclinations, Sprite,” he rasped, balancing beside her, almost leaning on her. “You are finally awake, and our meal awaits. The scents are enticing when you are famished, no? But,” Saracen’s silvery eyes swept over her exposed body, “before a single morsel passes through those lovely lips, I demand that you … suck--me--off.” A final agonized whisper escaped him. “I vow that it won’t take long to satisfy me, sweet Siren. I‘m fairly bursting, as it is.” His breath rasped with violent urgency. To emphasize his command, Saracen clutched his base in his own fist, rutted his groin up her soft stomach, pulled back, then suggestively readjusted his hand--curling, squeezing, then shifting--around his rigid width, just above his rock hard balls. His randy jab against Sprite’s feminine warmth had made him desperate, but he uttered no further insistence. Yet, he shamefully realized, should her usual rebelliousness prevail and she deny him, he would willingly beg! However, there was no need. Sprite made no demure, no least hesitation. With the supple spineless ease of a dolphin gliding through water, she rotated upon the enormous sleigh bed, reversed her position, and came to lie snugly on her side in line with

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Saracen. Then, to provocatively display herself, she raised--and bent--her uppermost leg, braced that foot flat upon the mattress, pointed that knee at the ceiling. Now that she was satisfactorily settled, her lips, tipped with a beguiling smile, were inches from Saracen’s penis … while his mouth was ravenously close to her mound! Saracen groaned at that wonderful proximity and all it afforded him--a peek at her damp, swollen genitals, a whiff of her heavenly scent, and, best of all, an opportunity to lick at her. Again, Sprite took the initiative by aggressively replacing his fist with her own around his big root. When she slowly slid her mouth over his dusky-hued crown, Saracen’s throaty moan deepened. Even before she sucked him down, the decadence, the shared lewdness, of lying mouth-to-crotch nearly shot the cum from his balls! And, amazingly, his virginal Sprite had instigated this naughty position! Yet, calling on his extraordinary ElfFeyen prowess, Saracen denied that potent rush to climax and set his mind to enjoying Sprite’s slick hot mouth swallowing more of his massive dick, greedily sucking it down, capably caressing his broad sensitive head with her tongue. As Sprite wiped back and forth over his crown, simultaneously pumping and fisting the rest of his shaft, Saracen crooned his pleasure, long loud indrawn breaths, and equally noisy groaning exhales. Her instinctive efforts to fellate him were stunning! He murmured a low repetitive chant of encouragement. “Yes … yes … yes …, my sweet siren.” One hand reached around to clasp the back of her head, enjoying the thick silken mass of her sandy-golden-brown hair even as he gently pressed her to her work. Sprite, after a brief exploration of the tender “v” shaped spot on the underside of his head, speedily slicked circles on his tip, rubbed and patted at him until his hips nudged at her in a gentle roll. To keep his slow humps from becoming a full blown rut, she put a hand to his belly and pushed. Her mind sent him a silent admonishment: Do not rush this, jackal! She wanted to suck and lick him to her heart’s content. She liked stroking his warm velvety girder-like hardness, fisting and squeezing at him, licking hungrily at his mushroom shaped cap. Never mind if the revelation of this particular kink made her vulnerable to Saracen, she didn’t bother to mentally deny or disguise it. Instead, she savored a drip of cum from his tiny slit, loosely ran her curled fingers up and down him, openly worshiped the enormous length of Saracen Bellaclava. By so wantonly gripping and clasping and possessing the superb maleness of Saracen’s rigid cock, Sprite let him feel how incredibly impressed she was.

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His width was too much for her delicate hand, even more so for her mouth. But, oh, how she persevered! Closing her eyes to better enjoy the sensation, Sprite sucked his broad cumspotted cap like a baby would a bottle, fast, greedy, non-stop, while she simultaneously jacked the loose ring of her fingers up and down his shaft. His reactions--his raspy respiration, flavorful jot of pre-cum, and tense muscles--excited her, ramped the steady beats in her pussy into painful throbs. Saracen, who had thus far managed to stifle his sexual madness as Sprite enthusiastically stroked and sucked his big dick, began to shudder. The ache of an oncoming climax cemented his balls to his body, thrummed up and down the length of his cock, moved his groin at her in a deep palsied thrust. He had all but reached his peak! He muttered a few broken words, unthinkingly expressing his annoyance at having been conquered so easily by a virgin. “I’ll not … be pushed … over … alone!” Blindly, he scooped her closer to him with an arm slung over her waist and a palm on her rump. He bowed his neck, eagerly plastered his face to her mound, then dug his tongue into her creamy cunt, wickedly lapping and slicking and buzzing at her, bringing her to a frighteningly quick orgasm. Overcome by him, Sprite’s mouth and hands went slack in their licentious deeds. However, her passionate response--she tautened like a bent bow, she crammed herself against his lips, she tried to scream her release--irrevocably ignited Saracen’s own delayed climax. A massive groan erupted from him. His ejaculate gushed like a broken dam, unstoppable, torrential, a force of nature. His arm kept her wrapped close to him. His seed spilled, soon overfilled, Sprite’s mouth. Weakly, she used her grip on his shaft to swipe those hot jets over her face, on her lips, her chin, anywhere she could rub him! She reveled in his profuse display, in the cum upon her skin. It proved he enjoyed her unskilled sex play! His throaty, ragged cries as she milked him for more proved it, too! His still hard cock, dribbling another few copious drams of semen, proved it as well! So did Saracen’s affectionate, approving squeeze to her ass, once he had finally begun to soften. “No one, male or female, has ever sucked me so gloriously well. You‘re savagely thorough, as if nothing could intrude on your efforts, not the end of the world itself. Not even my tongue licking at your pussy could do more than distract.” He kissed the inside of her thigh to deliberately muffle his voice, slurring an admission that he did not want to make. “You have, I fear, spoiled me for all others. In future, whose mouth could possibly ravish my cock so well?” As he had intended, Sprite couldn’t decipher his slurred words, nor interpret the disquiet within his psyche. He had spoken far too indistinctly. Plus, her mind couldn’t process much of

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anything in the aftermath of her quick climax. She practically glowed from their encounter, from her stirring, instinctive fellatio of him, and from his fast but intense cunnilingus of her. He had, she covertly smiled, tasted of her with an equally mindless abandon. Half-breed she might be, but Saracen Bellaclava had no difficulties eating out her pussy, in lapping at her insides, in licking and loving at her slick sex with his remarkable tongue. Very gently, Saracen rolled her onto her back where she silently panted and tried to regain her strength, to rally her ability to think clearly. Of a sudden, he lifted up so that he leaned over her, his waist-length sinfully black hair draped them both, his silver eyes hooded with a sated sensual laziness. “Now, sea Sprite, we may eat--our meal. Unless, that is,” Saracen trailed his gaze down her nakedness, pausing on her pert breasts, then smoothing to her tummy, and finally stopping at her pussy, “you would rather I first eat you more thoroughly.” Saracen’s heated shimmering gaze, never leaving the damp curls at her crotch, revealed his preference. He already hungered for more of her. During their swift interlude, he had been driven to bring them both to a simultaneously shared sexual cataclysm. In that blazing moment, he had risen above his customary selfishness: he had needed to reciprocate an equal pleasure to Sprite, heady and overwhelming and instinctive, an act done simply to bring her a sexual peak. And, now, he wanted to do it again--to start slow and, after driving her mad with his tongue and mouth, sipping and sucking, tasting and tickling, laving and loving at her pussy, only then finish fast. Sprite jerkily nodded a negative and pantomimed hunger by smoothing circles on her flat belly. Her expressive refusal flitted over her face in a regretful, chagrinned half-smile: I’m starving, Saracen! “Ahh, well,” he sighed, surprising them both when he dropped an affectionate kiss to her stomach, “you must, of course, be nourished … so as to keep up your strength for any number of strenuous pursuits. In my bed.” He hovered there, over that spot which he had just branded with a kiss, and stared up at her. His eyes, partially shuttered, glowed silver, bespoke that his salacious seeming jest was, in fact, totally earnest. Underneath his searing gaze, Sprite dropped her own and blushed, profusely, across her cheeks … and across her breasts! Saracen could have crowed his jubilance at Sprite’s reaction to his suggestive sentiments: from her erratic heart beats, to her infinitesimal shift of her hips, and, most of all, her womanly heat! Desire smoldered in her. Tinted her tits with a deep coral pink, made their nipples bud and bloom for the picking, lifted them in the wake of her harsh labored breathing. Indeed, her scent wafted to his sensitive nose. She smelled femininely wet, ready for him, needful of him.

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He saw each agonized sign, felt it, shared it. Saracen smugly congratulated himself, because he’d nearly tamed the insolence and fight from his half-breed, using his body, using his cock. And since her eyes were still timidly averted, Saracen allowed himself a smile, brutal, bestial, a thin twitch of his lips, a quick exposure of sharp white teeth. A growl almost scratched out from his throat. The animal within Saracen, his jackal, panted to take Sprite. To cover her, and fuck her, and breed her! Yet, somehow, he leashed that rabid instinct, suppressing it with the reminder that he could already, honorably, have her in-all-ways-but-one without resorting to violence, for hadn’t she agreed to lie in his bed and do his bidding? Hadn’t she been thus far supremely receptive to his tutelage? So what if, because of that damned vow to keep her intact, he couldn’t actually penetrate her …? A pained constriction in his balls, known as thwarted desire, served as his answer. One that goaded his jackal. And, for one frightening instant, that cunning animal side of Saracen realized that he could have Sprite. If he dared. If he broke faith with Caemon Fer-de-lance. If he broke faith with his Demesne, and with his own word. If he broke all trust and honor with Sprite herself. Then he could have her, pin her beneath him, force her legs apart, then jam inside. Desiring her this fiercely, how much longer could he abstain? He wanted her … like no other. Ever. Those ravenous thoughts took a tremendous effort to snuff out, but he did, in the end, manage to muzzle his berserk emotions. That, in turn, made his voice brusque. “Come along. Our food is getting cold.” He tugged her up from the bed, seeing her reach for the bedclothes in an effort to find something with which to cover herself. Scowling, he grabbed one of the robes which he had earlier draped over the head of the bed. He irritably tossed it at her. “Go ahead and cover yourself, my modest little maiden.” He sneered, then added, “I should properly keep you in my bed, never let you out. Then you wouldn’t need to hide from me--in clothes.” With elegant grace, Sprite shrugged into the robe, tied it at the waist, and surreptitiously watched Saracen, who seemed completely out-of-sorts. Still, the cool swish of the beautiful black silk, embroidered with a silver griffon, against her shoulders, breasts, and legs, was a tactile thrill to her skin. She admiringly smoothed a hand down her sleeve, smiled at the glossy texture under her fingers. Saracen, shouldering into his own identical robe, glowered at her, none too pleased at how innocently provocative she looked wrapped in her dramatic raiment, the silvery griffon standing guard upon one shoulder.

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Like a child, she actually gave a silent breath of happy laughter. Saracen immediately turned from her to block out the sight of how deeply so simple a gift had touched her. He was, he guiltily admitted, treating her little better than her callous family. In fact, wasn’t he plotting her very downfall? Wasn’t he, even now, somewhere in the back of his mind, beginning to scheme to take her virginity? Didn’t he constantly ache to lie with her? To be the one who loved her for the first time? Wasn’t he seducing her body, and manipulating her emotions, for that purpose …? If he succeeded, she would be ruined. That part of her dowry, her maidenhead, would be broken. And Sprite, he knew for a certainty, wouldn’t deceive any prospective mate, not even to better her circumstances. She had too much loyalty for her brother, Caemon, and too much honor in her own right. So, he bitterly reaffirmed, he must not despoil her. Instead, he must be content with his other kinky plans. Without turning to look at her, he gave a frosty order. “Go and wash your face, then join me at table.” Behind him, Sprite hesitated for one microscopic second. She scanned the rumpled bed which they had just vacated--and which Saracen had threatened to never let her leave--and then she happened to notice the nearby table, with its strategic placement of sex toys, lubes, dildos, butt plugs, and nipple rings. The items made her heart pitter-patter, like the frightened virgin she was, and she fled toward the bathroom. But not before the jackal of the Bellaclava received an echo of her mental turmoil at that titillating discovery. His sea urchin, he contemplated with a leering, hidden twist of his lips, was extremely flustered--but also gratifyingly curious. Nothing could have pleased him more.

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Chapter Fifteen Saracen’s Favored Toy

Very promptly, Sprite returned, her face and hands scrubbed clean. Beneath Saracen’s watchful gaze, she meekly re-crossed the luxurious suite to the tiny breakfast nook, containing a narrow trestle table and two short padded benches. She halted … and uneasily anticipated Saracen‘s next command. He was comfortably slouched upon one of the benches, unable to shield the star-like silvery brilliance of his eyes as he tracked her progress across the room to join him. That intensity did not dim as she stood and awaited his pleasure, docile as a servant before her master. Saracen flicked a glance to the seat opposite himself, and Sprite gracefully tucked herself upon the padded bench. A veritable feast, such as the mortals called Thanksgiving, overloaded the small rectangular table. She swallowed, silently smacking her lips in appreciation of the scrumptious buffet. “Here,” Saracen speared a slab of ham with a silver-plated meat fork and he placed it, plus a smaller portion of turkey, onto her plate, “take whatever you fancy. Fill up. Enjoy.” Pampering her, he discovered, was gratifying. Bemused at his extreme hospitality, Sprite watched as he heaped mashed potatoes, cornbread dressing, green beans, and sweet potato casserole onto her bone-white china plate. Then he placed the basket of golden-topped yeast rolls next to her, clearly in temptation. With a greedy smile, she helped herself to one and bit into it, closed her eyes in nirvana, then gave a silent buzz of appreciation in the back of her throat. “Good, eh?” Saracen chuckled. Sprite replied with a slow exaggerated nod. She attacked the bounty with gusto, as did Saracen, who managed to study her without being too obvious. Often, he smiled at her relish of the hearty fare. Once he had to stop himself from dabbing a crumb away from the corner of her

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mouth before she capably did so with a flick of her tongue. In that instant, a rush of sexual excitement had jerked him upright from his idle slouch--stiffening and straightening both his posture and his randy cock--and he had awkwardly banged his knee against the underside of the table. After that, Saracen had attended his own meal more closely. The only sounds were the occasional rattle and clatter of knives and forks, the ring and scrape of cutlery in furious use, the ping of water glasses. Saracen deemed the quiet very companionable, but every so often he wanted to ask a question of her, to assure himself that the food was to her liking, to converse with her in reality and not just intermittently with his mindmagic. He loved her expressive nature, the detailed language of her face, hands, and body … yet the yearning to hear her speak, doubtless sweet and musical, had begun to nag at him. Staring at her, the mass of her beautiful sandy-gold curls and waves of hair, the angelic cast of her dainty features, the fey-tipped tapered elegance of her shell-pink ears, Saracen fleetingly wished that his little sea urchin had her voice. Then, remembering the power of a Siren to enthrall, he inwardly recanted that half-formed thought, only to feel like a cur for condemning her--as had her family--to endless, voiceless silence. At the meal’s end, Saracen presented her with a huge walnut laden brownie on a linen napkin. Sprite accepted the treat with a gracious nod of thanks. In order to savor every chewy, chocolaty bite, she closed her eyes to sharpen the experience. Her expression glowed. It sharply reminded Saracen of that first time she had swallowed down his cock. Therefore, Saracen’s own dessert went to waste, for he couldn’t do aught else than stare raptly at her, so beautiful, so innocent, so vulnerable. “Sprite …,” Saracen croaked, his throat and mouth dry. She blinked as if awoken from a light sleep, and she found Saracen upon his feet, leaning toward her across the table, holding out his hand. “Return with me… to bed.” There was hesitation in his soft voice, and a bit of uncertainty in his eyes. With an unmatched fluid grace, Sprite rose, stepped around the table, and placed her hand in his. Instantly she experienced a sexual jolt, an excitement tingling in several erogenous zones, tits, pussy, and ass. Saracen’s mix of emotions--attraction, affection, lust--boiled through her hotter than molten lead. Her sex felt creamy and swollen. Left weak in the knees, Sprite swayed nearer him, and Saracen took advantage of how off-balance she was. Swiftly, easily, he swung her into his arms, carried her to the side of the bed, then eased her once more onto her feet.

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In the next instant, Saracen rapidly stripped her out of the slinky black robe with its silver embroidered griffin. Then, before her next ragged breath, he had removed and discarded his own robe, heaping them into a neglected pile on the floor. From the jumble of his heated erotic thoughts, Sprite expected him to shove her down onto the bed, crush her with his weight, caress bare-body-to-bare-body, then widely part her legs and plunge his cock into her aching pussy! Instead, he reverently encircled her waist with his arms; he encompassed her with the intoxicating warmth and scent of his large male body. The intensity of his need turned his eyes into blazing silver stars. Then, as a predator overtaking prey, he swooped downward to dominate her with a kiss. He claimed her ferociously, his tongue urgently parting her lips and plunging inside. They traded maddening sweeps and sucks. Their tongues tussled, lapped and licked at each other, made each other hornier than satyrs. Whimpering silently, Sprite pressed even harder to Saracen, tits-to-torso, belly-to-balls, leg-to-entangled-leg. The length of Saracen’s enormous cock seared her tummy like an up thrust spear. She provocatively rubbed herself against it, undulated and rolled against it. Saracen’s sharp agonized grunt burst from him close to her ear. His long sinfully black hair, decorated with those two filament-thin silver-beaded braids at either temple, sifted silkily around her, brushed at her shoulders, caressed at her breasts, teased her skin. “Can one kiss,” he softly mused, “be so powerful? Make one yearn for so much more?” Sprite blinked up at him. She was dazed. Her thoughts weren’t coherent. Yet she tried to comprehend his words, their import. If Saracen wanted--needed--more from her, she had to provide it! So, Sprite insinuated her hand between their bodies, fisted him, gently jerked up his length. Saracen hissed between his teeth. “That’s good, Sea Siren, oh--so-good… only,” he paused, glanced markedly to the table near the head of his glorious sleigh bed at the display of the half-dozen or so sex toys---lube, vibrators, a cock ring, butt plug, dildos--before be returned his metallic-silver gaze to hers, finishing his train of thought, “ … would you as readily try something more exotic? Will you indulge me in some sex play with toys?” In her silent but eloquent fashion, Sprite swallowed with exaggeration, showing some trepidation. She then clutched at his brawny arms and kept her eyes shyly upon his, searching for reassurance. Sprite was fearful, but she wasn’t outright refusing him. Saracen, tightening his clasp about her waist, lowered closer to her ear, murmured to her. “I love your hands on me, touching and stroking. I love your mouth on me, sucking and licking

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… but, my Sea Siren, right now I crave a more potent stimulation. I’ve made preparations, if you will consent?” Again his gaze streaked to the tabletop. Sprite couldn’t bring herself to follow that glance. Instead she bobbed her head in the affirmative. She gave him permission to do as he would. There was less and less, she acknowledged with dread, that she would deny him. Triumph pleasurably sizzled through Saracen. His chest, his cock--even his ego-expanded with an electric rush of testosterone. She was his! She was now as biddable, if not as eager or experienced, as any female he’d bedded. He’d given her a sampling of love play, and she craved more. From him. And, Saracen grinned thinly, he relished every bit of this sexual tutelage, to shape her, to train her, to use her as he saw fit. Sprite, however, read and reacted to his twisted feral smile, his smug belief that he thoroughly controlled her. She gave him an arch expression and sent him a mental message, proving that he didn‘t completely have the upper hand: Let’s get started, Lord Saracen. She flicked her head toward the table and then made an even more forceful nod to the bed. Then, splaying her fingers on his brawny chest, she pushed an unresisting Saracen into a seated position on the edge of the bed. In the very next instant, she scrambled onto his lap, assisted by Saracen’s large hands at her waist. He planted her on the tops of his widely spread thighs, her own legs bent, her knees on the mattress. She was lushly splayed across him, her ass and pussy exposed to the air. Sprite recognized the glint in Saracen’s eyes, and realized that this position, far from being of her own design, was his. Saracen’s erotic fantasy had seeped into her thoughts, and she had seized upon it! Had actually acted upon it! Thus she was straddled over Saracen--her body more-off-than-on the bed--firmly supported, lewdly displayed, and totally accessible. “Don’t be angry, Sprite,” he murmured, “that you accidentally read my mind. It attests to how alike we are, and also to how much we enjoy the same things. I‘ve something special in store … after we‘ve gotten each other off a little bit.” Sprite, listening to Saracen’s husky tone, feeling his legs under her and his shaft rising between them, didn’t need any foreplay! Her breaths came rough and uneven, her pulse thudded in her chest and in her pussy. Suspended there, lewdly astride his thighs, Sprite’s insides--from her lips, to her folds, to her clit--felt swollen, achy, horny! Their loose embrace was a prelude to further intimacy. And she could hardly wait!

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“Let one touch the other …,” Saracen’s quiet whisper quavered, betraying his need. He bent his head and flicked his tongue against a distended nipple, then the other. However, before he irrationally lost himself to suckling at her, Saracen forced himself to pull back and admire those pebbled peaks from a distance, else he would slurp them into his mouth, deliriously suck at them, and lose all semblance of his control. And thus ruin his plans for this special interlude. Sprite, however, not inclined to go slow, especially with Saracen’s huge cock stabbing up at her, greedily wrapped his big root in her fist. Saracen swallowed back most of his anguished, croaking groan. “Don’t--pump me--,” he rasped through gritted teeth, “or you’ll--make me--come.” Sprite only partially obeyed. She lightly traced her fingers up his erection, as if measuring all nine plus inches. “I am a royal,” he muttered, “with ample experience to overcome a virgin, even if she possesses the sexual instincts and inclinations of a Greater ElfFeyen. Thus I shall demonstrate-.” And Saracen cupped her crotch, swirled a finger into her creamy slit, rubbed at her puffy sex, then began to pet her, in l-o-n-g enflaming sweeps. He commenced at her damp curls, traced the feminine contour between her legs, and all the way back and up the crack of her ass. Back and forth he sawed, his large hand working her, stimulating her, dragging and smearing through her wet pussy, the hot valley between her thighs, and always exploring up through her sensitive crack. Sprite’s hips jittered. She immediately released his cock to support herself against the width of his chest. Frenziedly, she wriggled and pumped, began an intuitive jarring rhythm that simulated intercourse. When Saracen suddenly altered his tempo and his pressure, swiping slower and a tad firmer against her genitals, Sprite’s back arched, locked, thrust her firm perky little breasts--the pearly pink tips tight and knotted--straight at Saracen’s mouth. The temptation was, as ever, too much for Saracen to resist. He sucked one aroused tit into his mouth and drew forcefully, hollowing his cheeks with quick voracious pulls, while also rasping his tongue against the excited bud. Sprite dug her hands into Saracen’s sinfully dark, lustrously long hair, and she convulsed. With his mouth chafing and licking at her breast, and his hand sensuously, aggressively caressing at her pussy, she writhed madly. Her insides thudded with need. Her mind had short-circuited, overloaded with the wicked glide and slide of his hand over her. Her body--and little of her mind--was in control, jerking and humping against his commanding touch. However, within that haze of desire, she still realized that Saracen had reached his free hand to the nearby tabletop and retrieved something: he had grabbed up the

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lubricant, poured it down onto her pubic mound, then slickly wiped it everywhere--through her already damp curls, into her plump slit, and … further still … up through the curve of her ass crack! After dousing still more lube onto her and onto his hands, Saracen repeated that same silken, oily stroke, caressing through her labial folds, delighting her clit, saturating her entire length from cunt to crack. She gyrated and ground against him, then bore down to lasciviously widen herself for him. All the while that Saracen greased her up, his big hand smoothing between her legs and sweeping all the way back, he was cleverly tormenting Sprite with his thorough possession of every inch of her pussy, her ass, her clenched sphincter. She swelled, she throbbed, she creamed! If she had a voice, she would have been panting and grunting like a beast. She would have been crying his name for release. “You’re good to go, my Sea Siren.” Saracen, still generously rubbing that slick hot path from her sex back to her pink pucker, judged her sufficiently worked up to easily, to eagerly, accept the next level of his seduction. “You’re more than ready for the next lesson.” And Saracen reached yet again to the table, and plucked up a toy--a small aluminum butt plug--which he had previously prepared with lots of lubrication. Sprite wasn’t, he knew, quite aware of his furtive movements. Nor of his outrageous intentions. His warm voice caressed at her, used a smidgen of mind-magic to keep her lustful, rapacious, uninhibited. His whisper was a smoky intoxicant. Spellbinding. Enticing. Inciting. The bit of power in his words was coaxing, but not outright coercive. “I mean to anally penetrate you. Just relax. I’ll be very careful, very gentle. You’ll like it--the slick glide into you, the stimulation, the hardness.” Sprite was so dazed, so frantic to be fucked, that she didn’t care what he did so long as he ended the demanding needful throbs in her pussy. He must fulfill her. He must fuck her! Even if in the ass! As his dexterous left hand pet at her pussy, his right reached around and gingerly aligned the plug with her rosebud, slowly breached her, pressed gently, steadily, fully into her anus, even as she trembled, tensed, then took the entire toy with almost no resistance! Once inside her, an unexpected spasm of her sphincter brought Sprite enormous pleasure. Ripples of excitement made her ass clench tighter on the plug, increased the delicious pounding and throbbing in her swollen pussy. Gods, but that plug, stuffing her, filling her, stimulating her, felt glorious! The only thing that could make her feel even better would be Saracen’s cock in her cunt!

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Her head fell back on her shoulders, mouth drawn tight, eyes gritted closed. She was beginning to climax! “Ahhh …,” Saracen groaned a pure note of approval. He firmly clasped her waist to secure her as she shuddered and bucked, then jaggedly pumped her hips a few times before she froze at the peak of her release. Her fingers were dug into the tops of his shoulders. Her every muscle contracted, especially in her rear--her sphincter gripped at the plug, rivaling the flutter inside her pussy! That slow, thorough insertion had thrilled some highly sensitive nerves, set off a chain reaction that spiked insane pleasure in her ass and her pussy! The taboo fullness added an exquisite naughty dimension to her body’s quest to sexually explode! To come! To shudder and quake in orgasm … to know ultimate physical sensation simply because Saracen willed it so! Her groin humped. Each frenzied repeated jack and bump was ecstasy, but, soon, because they were so massive, so draining, they culminated in one final, forceful spasm of incredible orgasm, an indescribable buzz of bliss centered in her clenched sex. Her pubic muscles gripped at that sexual pleasure, never wanting to lose it. But, little-by-little, the lust, physically impossible to maintain, dwindled within Sprite, leaving her limp, drained. Saracen lovingly scooped her close to his chest for an embrace. As she rested her head upon his shoulder, he stroked her hair, crooned soft assurances, and gave her one final skirl of pleasure as he removed and discarded the butt plug from her rectum. “Rest, my sea urchin. You’re tired. Wrung out.” Locked together as they were, he maneuvered them down onto the middle of the bed, upon their sides, face-to-face, breath-tobreath. Sprite studied his handsome face. Unexpectedly, she traced a touch over one of his gorgeously carved cheeks, traveled the line of his jaw, ran a fingertip across his lower lip. There was concern in her pure Caribbean blue eyes--and a question, as well: What of you? You cannot be satisfied? He kissed her finger, which still hovered at his mouth. “I am not in particularly sad straits. None that I can’t take care of myself. A good fisting will do me for present. Because, you see,” the smile he bestowed Sprite was sexy, naughty, almost boyish, owing to that small chip in his front tooth, “I enjoyed making you come, immensely.” And so saying Saracen rolled onto his back, reached down his belly to palm his engorged shaft, and oh … so … slowly … began to stroke his own length, a very leisurely, very precise masturbation. His silvery gaze, shuttered but intense, never broke from Sprite’s as he methodically pulled at his thickened shaft. Each languorous caress was oiled by the lube still on his hands. Never before had such simple steady pressure--a hand job, no less--built such rapture in him! His pre-cum-spotted prick swelled. His balls ached. His anus clenched.

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Sprite, entranced by the spectacle of Saracen fisting himself, pulling and pumping his darkly blushed hard-as-steel cock through his expert grip, unhurriedly working at his meaty shaft, while his focus riveted on her, enjoyed his lewd performance. Often, her gaze briefly broke from his and wandered to the tanned, firm planes of his wide chest, the six-pack of his abdomen, but mostly his huge randy cock, thrusting and shoving through the circle of his palm. Watching him, admiring him, Sprite’s blissful lethargy waned, somewhat, although her muscles still felt loose, her strength sapped. Yet her tired body responded to Saracen’s every easy drag up, then smooth down of his monstrous cock--every loose pull up, then soft jack down. Sprite’s lungs drew raggedly, shallowly. Her pulse sped up. Desire spasmed through her belly, clenched in her pussy. They were attuned so perfectly, one-to-the-other, that Saracen groaned with the heightened level of stimulation she provided. His hips began to gently roll. He savored each and every upward drive through the rigid ring formed by his hand. And all the while that he stroked, agonizingly slow, tantalizingly perfect, he stared at Sprite and realized that having her near, snuggled next to him, soft and warm and enticing, wrought most of his voracious reaction. She roused his cock. She made it gigantic, pillar-sized, rock-hard, not his own touch, not his own clasp beating his enormously wide length. Sprite gave him this fabulous, straining hard-on! However, that joyous certainty clashed with another darker emotion, that of despair: Saracen could never douse his fiery passion within Sprite’s wet cunt. Ever. Far worse was the fact that their time together was precarious. Almost doomed. That dark shadow ruined his concentration. His sexy rhythm faltered. His next heaves reminded him of a fish vainly flopping on dry land. If he couldn’t ever have his Sprite, must he forever be content with stroking himself? For no other woman, he inwardly bemoaned, could ever entice him. Sprite, sensing but not entirely understanding the break in his focus, tried to help restore his passion. She rested a palm upon his flat midsection and raised herself over him, then, wickedly, she swiped her tongue across the hard knot of his coppery nipple. Crouching over him, looking up into his glassy eyes, Sprite cheekily tasted of it, ringing rapturously around the nub with her mouth, gently sucking on him, then drawing harder. Saracen’s groin lurched upward, driving his shaft through his curled fingers, while Sprite continued to playfully tug and swipe at his nipple. He tried to calm the lust boiling through his veins, rasping his breath, thrumming his cock. He wanted to prolong this seductive interlude-Sprite partially covering him, rubbing and slicking at his nipple, staring at him hungrily. Then, purely on instinct, she drug her instep up-and-down his shin, making him tremble. His control failed, just like some callow youth, when she began to slither her hand down his belly straight for his dick! Another wrenching pump jacked his groin from the bed, drove his

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stiff hurting prick through the circle of his fist, made him come with rocket propulsion force! Ejaculate shot from him, an intermittent froth of thick semen that dribbled down his shaft, slicked over his hand. He gritted his teeth to muffle the deep groan of satisfaction that reverberated endlessly from his chest into his throat. Eventually his climax turned to lessening spurts and then a softening cock … and an unparalleled satiation, a welcome physical depletion wrought by his very own virginal Sea Siren, who had overwhelmed him with nothing save a few licks at his nipples, a seductive stare, and a hand skimming towards--not even reaching--his randy, fisted cock! That fact, that Sprite could incite him so easily and so powerfully, would have normally bruised his ElfFeyen ego, but not this time. There would, he promised himself, be another chance to avenge himself against her, because right now she had wrung every drop of cum and every bit of sexual energy from his prick. Soon, he vowed, once he had recovered, he would drive her mad with lust. But when Sprite propped her chin on his chest, yawned sleepily, and gave him a tiny lopsided smile, he drew an edge of the glossy plum coverlet over them and once again urged her to sleep. A strange tenderness compelled him to drop a kiss on the top of her head, revealing some of his affection. But it also masked his depraved intentions for her … upon their waking.

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Chapter Sixteen Physical Surrender…Emotional Withdrawal

For a long while, Saracen had slumbered lightly, peacefully, but hyper aware of his lovely bed partner. However, Sprite, as always, slept that same deep untroubled sleep of the innocent. Even now she curled into a ball; her rounded spine and derriere snuggled against his chest and belly. Therefore, simply to bask in this tranquility for another several pleasantly drowsy hours, Saracen had lain and watched her, occasionally glimpsing Sprite’s angelic profile--her cute nose dusted with light nearly-invisible freckles, her high attractively arched eyebrow, her daintily curved and fairy tipped shell-pink ear. Occasionally, she nestled her rear that much closer to him. The motion teased his cock. Yet, for the longest most agonizing time, he remained still and quiet … and secretly hopeful that she would awaken. Soon. Sprite continued to doze. Sometimes her lips tilted in a dreamy smile. At others, she slightly readjusted her position, unbending her legs a mite, cradling a cheek upon the back of one hand, or burrowing her rump against his stomach and groin. Not even Saracen’s unsuccessfully stifled groans of desire disturbed her. After a time, however, Saracen, studying the riot and kink of sandy-brown golden-gilt waves and curls falling about her shoulders, finally succumbed to temptation. With the barest caress of the pads of his fingers, he glided down Sprite’s arm. He savored that infinitesimal touch of fingers-to-skin and craved more. So he gently placed his calloused palm on her curved mid back, marveling at how tiny she seemed next to himself. She was soft, and warm, and delicate, although the ridges of her spine, he knew all too well, could turn to steel. He leaned in and caught a trace of Sprite’s unique perfume, the sweetness of her skin like a breeze over the ocean, the healthy scent of clean strawberry-shampooed hair, the underlying hint of surf, sand, and sun.

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Soon, however, his other lustier senses demanded their turn. On a sigh of longing, he pressed his lips to a spot at the nape of her neck underneath the heavy fall of all her kinks, curls, and waves. She was silken softness to his lips, his fingers, his emotions. Desperate, unable to control himself, he kissed and caressed her everywhere in a frenzy--the perfection of her neck, shoulders, back, and arms--presses and smears of his lips, strokes and traces of his hands, a mad exploration of her sweet body. Need began to coil his guts, harden his cock, constrict his balls. Sprite, more asleep than awake, shifted. She sinuously stretched and rolled partially on to her left hip, partially onto her belly. Immediately Saracen took advantage of that small repositioning: he splayed his hand against the flat of Sprite’s back and nudged her entirely onto her belly. Then, after a swift appreciative glance of his shimmering silver eyes down the delicate sweep of her back to her scrumptious derriere, arrogant Saracen Bellaclava renewed his conquest of a drowsy, and thus uninhibited, Sprite Fer-de-lance, his newly beloved enemy. Passionately, he placed his mouth to the topmost ridge of her spine, and, like a bloodhound, he feverishly trailed that dainty line of vertebrae to his ultimate goal … her ass, her pussy, her delicious cunt. Saracen, his unbound feral-black hair caressing her as surely as his mouth and hands, sucked and slicked lower and lower until he reached Sprite’s round, superbly curved bottom. In his jaded opinion, she had a perfect ass, lush, supple, succulent. He kissed at the base of her spine rather innocuously. However, at the same time, he reached in to smooth his hand between her legs in a long deep inciting sweep that skimmed through her pussy lips then lewdly followed the crack of her ass. Sprite, he gloated at the tensing of her muscles, had come fully alert. Her aura vibrated with awareness, and she twisted the comforter into agitated fistfuls. “Very good, my Sea Siren,” Saracen breathed against her backside, “you’ve awoken … just in time, too. Raise yourself a tad, so that I can fondle you.” And, when she instantly complied, levering her hips up a few inches, he drug that same hand, damp from his first foray into her slit, through her pubic curls, into her plumped folds, and found her clit. He rubbed a circle over it, seeing her hips instantly jack upward even higher, her thighs try to widen. “Yes, yes, yes, that’s it,” he purred at her eagerness, at how ripe and ready his initial strokes had made her. He slicked through her well-lubricated folds, thoroughly wiping and swiping her juices around, enjoying her creamy swollen sex.

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As he absentmindedly caressed at her, Saracen nipped, licked, then kissed at the sleek curve of her behind. After a few more languorous kisses, he spoke a gruff demand. “Up onto your knees.” Sprite, weak and disoriented, obeyed him. With a boost from his strong hands upon her hips, she managed to prop herself onto her knees, but her face was pressed into the mattress. In this pose, face down with her ass pointed at him, Sprite felt vulnerable … and wicked. She knew that Saracen was directly behind her, seeing her most intimate self--the crack of her ass, the cleft of her pussy--and that fact made her sex ache with anticipation. His few touches had already crazed her body with want. Never before had she experienced such a sensual barrage, his hands and mouth on her skin, his breath heating her flesh, his desire alighting her every nerve. Then, as her heart’s quavering beat made her giddy, his big hand massaged at her pussy. Her lungs huffed out a large silent breath of intense pleasure. He cupped her possessively, skimmed two fingers inside, and rubbed, rubbed, rubbed! Ecstatic shudders coursed down her spine, made her forcefully press her face and fists into the mattress. She waggled herself at Saracen, an invitation to more explicit intimacy. With that erotic tail wriggle, she actually, humiliatingly, solicited him to put his mouth to her! Her mind, wild with passion, begged that he please, please, lick at her! Saracen chuckled at the wanton shimmying of Sprite’s hips in an instinctive demand for him to taste of her, to tongue her. “Never worry, my sweet Siren, I will give you more,” his mutter rasped husky and dry. He continued to palm and pet her, relishing the slick wetness under his hand, the slow waggle of her rump to entice him. Sprite’s fists clenched and unclenched at the bedding. She continued to shimmy her pelvis, a frantic jerk and shift that amplified the erotic caress of his warm hand. Everything about Sprite drew Saracen closer to her--the lure of her satiny skin, the heat of her delicate body, the scent of her arousal. He loomed over her kneeling form, covered her with the weight and warmth of his own large masculine frame, conformed his body to hers, encompassed her daintiness with his massiveness. Never once, however, did his explicit strokes between her legs cease. Very incitingly he varied the speed, the pressure, the placement of his touch … slicking through her swollen folds, circling her clit, fingering her slit in various patterns, swirls, circles, and zig-zags. And Saracen, while breathing endearments against her neck, wickedly used his other hand to tease at her nipples. With very little finesse, he chafed his palm across their excited nubs. He pinched one peak, tugged at the other.

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Sprite, shakily kneeling beneath him, was shuddering with a sexual delirium. Under his exploring hand, her pussy ached and throbbed in an erratic demand for more--for him! He was driving her mad with lust! The velvety pressure of his body smoothing against her back, the glorious hardness of his hand dragging through her slit, the masterful pluck and pull of his fingers at her tits were pleasurable beyond words. Her insides felt heavy, achy, horny, especially when his huge cock prodded at her, brushed her ass, or bumped at her thigh. He was so big and hot, a velvety steel shaft that she wanted to ride. She could, she knew, communicate mind-to-mind with him. She could beg him to fuck her … she could let him take her! She could gift him her innocence! But, no. Panic suddenly jolted Sprite. Her body might yearn for Saracen, but her duty must deny him. She couldn’t disgrace her family, the nobility of the Royal house of Fer-de-lance. She must keep her virginity. She must! It was the inducement, the promised dowry, for a vow of bonding. Otherwise, who would take a tainted half-breed? Saracen mentally glimpsed this turmoil, took advantage of it. As, indeed, he had more than halfway planned. “You want me…” he crooned into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, his breath tantalizingly seductive, “and I want you. More importantly,” his huff grew huskier, “there is a way to satisfy us both. Without breaking any vows. Without breaking your hymen.” His erotic caress skimmed against her privates, an erogenous enflaming sweep. He reversed that thorough stroke, lewdly scrubbing at her wet swollen lips with his knuckles, feeling her tense when he removed that hand from its lusty pursuits. “Don’t worry, my Sprite. And don‘t,” he murmured with a smidgen of mind-magic, “deny me.” And through bleary eyes, Sprite, positioned on all-fours, her head still bowed to the mattress, unsteadily tracked Saracen’s quick reach to the nearby pedestal table for some lubricant. Blinking to clear her vision, she had no time--nor functioning brain cells--to consider the import of that action. Not even when she felt Saracen strategically, liberally drizzle some into her crack then smear it everywhere with a connoisseur’s thoroughness down her ass crack, around to her plump labia, and up into her pubic curls. And still his intent never dawned upon Sprite. Saracen’s low murmurs only made her hotter, more desperate. “I’d give anything to fuck your pussy, but we both know that’s not to be.” And Saracen smeared more lube through her, then he paused to grease up his cock and discard the bottle of lubricant. “So, I suffer. I ache.” His voice was a faint pain-filled grate. “I hurt over the thwarted need to have you, Aurora’s foremost virgin.” At this admission, Sprite psychically shared the pangs of his body that demanded sexual release--the brutal swell of his cock, the tightness of his balls, the lust in his belly.

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His gruff confession continued. “My fantasies grow bolder, dirtier.” Saracen swept another avaricious glance over Sprite, whose submissive pose--down on all fours, head and hands planted against the mattress, her hips and derriere invitingly tilted toward him--tormented him with unquenched need. “You know one of my favored predilections, Sprite. I like to give it--and sometimes get it--in the ass.” To offer her one more lecherous rush and a second of opportunity to stop him, he glided a finger through her plump nether lips. But, sensing nothing but excitement--and consent--from her, he drug that caress back and up her ass to slowly, digitally penetrate her well oiled, slippery butt hole with his large-knuckled middle finger. Sprite’s mind had short-circuited, because her body was wracked with sexual sensation from the erotic insertion of that long finger into her tightness. She shuddered, a tiny quake down the line of her back, a delirious shiver of excitement that gripped her sphincter around him. When he gently pulled out, giving her a wicked jolt against those clasped muscles, those tingling nerves, she tried to moan aloud her bliss, but her birth-curse made it a silent sound of pleasure. Then Saracen gave her a second taste of his specialty by gently entering her with two fingers, slightly corkscrewing them, wickedly caressing her eager, sensitive asshole, before he smoothed them out of her. For another protracted second, Saracen consciously admired her, the loveliness of her pearly-hued skin, the womanly curve of her waist, the equally feminine lushness of her perfect ass. As his gaze lingered there, his shaft lurched to breach her! Saracen grasped her hips to steady her, whispering softly, coaxingly to her. “I need this, my Sea Siren. I need you. Just stay still, stay relaxed.” Then, aligning his broad mushroomcapped head with her well-lubed glistening rosebud, he fractionally painstakingly penetrated her anus. Soon he’d fed enough of his cock inside to make him moan, feverishly, ecstatically. Instinct caused Sprite to clench on him, not in rejection, more so in fearful inexperience. Saracen paused long enough to slither one hand around to her pussy, to finger her clit, to stimulate and excite her enough to help her more easily accept him in her bum. As he expertly diddled her, Sprite’s body convulsed, began to judder with pleasure. She actually pushed back on him, swallowing most of his thick shaft, quivering around him, contracting and releasing in a pre-orgasmic flutter. Suddenly, more than sufficiently lubed to ease his passage, Saracen slid almost all the way inside! He held still, motionless. Sprite continued to thrust and bump back and forth in a wild paroxysm of building climax. Those ripples and constrictions upon his cock elicited harsh groans from Saracen as he savored her wonderful grip on him. Carefully, he eased … all … the way … in. It was a gentle, deep push against those stimulated muscles.

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Sprite shuddered, her hands knotted in the bedding. She felt all her sexual muscles--those in her belly, her pussy, her ass--flutter, twitch, grip and release in a chain reaction of pleasure. She loved clamping on his hardness! Feeling stuffed, full, anally penetrated by a huge cock. She reveled in Saracen’s width being plunged in her ass! Her pulse went into a crazy rhythm. Her breath rasped stressfully. She’d almost peaked from the illicit fullness, the amazing stimulation! Then, when Saracen choked out a low murmur of warning, she experienced the ultimate fulfillment: he slowly slid out, and just as gently eased back in. Like very slow clockwork, his hips again pulled back out, and pushed back in. He very conservatively fucked her in the ass! He used her with great care, no violence, no roughness, no mindless battering, just measured movements, but Sprite still enjoyed each controlled stroke, the sexual slide into her, and the kinky glide out. The motion of a big hefty cock surging in and slicking out, primitively arousing and enflaming the small passage of her sensitive sphincter, made her neglected pussy ache for some of Saracen’s cock as well. Even more thrilling was the fact that he too was nearing his climax! Saracen, she sensed, barely held on by a frayed thread. His pace altered, quickened, although he remained careful and controlled. His hold on her hips became even more possessive. His grunts and growls sounded mindless, little more than incoherent slurred bits of praise and affection. “Such a sweet, sweet ass. Lovely… little … bum. You’re mine … you’re my … Siren … you are my--sea--Sprite.” He gloried in the rush of penetrating her! Shivered at the intensity of his thick cock pressing into--crowding and squeezing and packing--her tight tiny bung hole, dragging back out, bringing them both delight, building a crescendo of sexual sensation. The muscles of her ass stroked him better than any fist. He strained to complete a marathon reaming of her pink pucker, but shuddered from head-to-toe when he realized he was going to fail. He was already close to shooting his hot cum inside her. Underneath him, responding to his marvelous rhythmic heaving, Sprite thrashed back against him a few frantic times. Her rear banged against his groin, deeply sucking him down, grasping his width inside her, rippling and gripping around his huge shaft. The final pleasure came when she clamped on him, and he began to pull out. The feel of his enormous shaft slicking out of her constricted sphincter triggered her climax. On a silent shout, she trembled, shuttled her rear in a staccato frenzy, then went rigid, caught in an explosive release.

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Saracen, seeing the commencement of her palsied orgasm, then blissfully feeling the clasp of her rosebud, went over the brink with her on a low unbroken roar. His eyes shuttered. His mouth thinned. His cum spewed in warm intermittent spurts into her. He remained locked to her, groin-to-ass, shooting semen, hoarsely crying aloud his completion, enjoying each lessening gush of seed from his cock and striving to prolong them. Eventually, even his reservoir of royal ElfFeyen ejaculate dried up. Beginning to soften, he withdrew from her body. Little-by-little, Sprite drooped down upon the bed, flat upon her belly. Saracen came to rest there beside her, balancing upon his side. Her face was turned away from him. Saracen, craving her attention, wanting emotional intimacy, smoothed a hand across her back, softly spoke her name. She tensed, then slowly rolled her head towards him. Yet, oddly, her eyes, always so expressive, always so changeable, were closed. Was she, Saracen fretted, now afraid of him? Should he have progressed more slowly in their lovemaking? Had he hurt her? Had the act shamed her? He studied her paleness, her lassitude. “Are you all right?” Although her eyes were shut, Sprite felt his scrutiny. Many emotions radiated from him into her, concern, possessiveness, lust, and insecurity. Her own emotions were equally strong. They had engaged in anal sex, stupendous and satisfying. She wanted more. With him! Again and again. But this craving meant that she was even more ensnared by Saracen, by his arrogant silver-eyed beauty, his massive physique, his voracious sexual appetite, his unexpected tenderness towards her. And, because she feared him learning how deeply he owned her, she could not safely communicate with him. She dared not allow him to psychically discover her secret: she had loved him from first sight. Whereas, he had only lusted from first sight. Therefore she strove to keep her mind blank, not thinking, not receiving, not sharing. When she made no effort to answer him--no flicker of expression, or mental reassurance, not so much as a flutter of her sleepy eyes--Saracen impulsively leaned in and brushed his mouth to hers. Startled, Sprite jerked away. She blinked in bewilderment. “You don’t feel yourself ill used, do you?” Saracen was stung that Sprite hadn’t returned his kiss. Indeed, she’d seemed perplexed by it, almost wary. Had he been wrong about her enthusiasm, about her fulfillment? Had she not liked their coupling? Was she so disgusted with him that their tenuous mental bond had broken? His tone held more than a note of gruffness.

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“Anal sex has always been one of my predilections. Given the circumstances, that I can’t have you any other way, I thought it would become a favored practice of yours as well.” His voice went flat. “If you didn’t enjoy yourself, I’m sorry.” Cross with her, he rolled to a sitting position and propped himself against the headboard. “Go. Draw me a bath.” His arrogant tone was a slap. Dismissively, his gaze flicked toward the door of the adjoining bathroom. He caught himself before he tacked on that despised nickname--half-breed--although he wanted to hurt her. He immaturely wanted to retaliate. As Sprite painstakingly crawled from the bed, smarting from his abruptness, from his callous dismissal, she tried to feign calm. She kept her pain from leaking to him. The jackal! Only, as she padded across the room, without wearing so much as a stitch of clothing, she knew that he watched her, and she tried not to cringe. The tactile weight of his covetous gaze trailed her to the doorway. However, before she safely escaped into the huge blue and white tiled bath, his voice paused her for one moment, suspending her upon the threshold. “Make sure the temperature is warm, not hot.” He commanded her like a Greater ElfFeyen Royal to the lowliest of servants, then brusquely added, “And be prepared to join me there.” No king could have made a more insufferably imperious decree, Sprite decided, gritting her teeth. However, she hid her reaction, kept her face averted, and crossed over into the next room before her contradictory mix of emotions--infuriation, eagerness, rebelliousness--could be revealed to him. Better that he see nothing more than the obstinate set of her shoulders and the steel in her spine rather than her pain and confusion, her utter weakness to his black moods! Inside the temporary refuge of the luxurious bathroom, tiled in crisp summer-sky-blue and pristine winter-snow-white, Sprite allowed a single fat tear to scald a path down her cheek. She swiped it away with a horrible silent curse. Saracen had actually made her cry! She stormed to the massive sapphire-colored sunken tub, knelt down, and furiously turned the platinum faucets on, full force. Water boiled and bubbled into the tub. She tested the warmth on her wrist, then adjusted the taps accordingly. Soon the roar of water rushing into water resounded in the steamy room like loud raucous music that nevertheless lulled Sprite, a misplaced daughter of the sea. There was danger for her near water, given the disquiet in her mind and soul over Saracen. Yet she needed the calm of water, her true element. In her young life, she had often grieved from the ill treatment of her family and the general scorn of the ElfFeyen. At those all too frequent times, she had gone to the small indoor fountain which Caemon, her affectionate brother, had installed for her in an antechamber of his own personal rooms. That had been her solace.

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Now she hurt with the ache of love, for Saracen, the second son of the Bellaclava, a silver-eyed feral-black-haired jackal, who had somehow pierced her armored heart. Saracen didn’t know or care--nor would Sprite ever reveal--that he already owned her body and soul. May the gods of the sea forbid that he ever choose to claim her in every respect, for she would not be able to stop him. Snuffling back more of her non-existent tears, Sprite lingered on the verge of that glorious sunken tub, kneeling for long minutes, then sitting, and finally fully lolling on the edge where she dreamily trailed her fingers in the deepening water. The torrent from the spigots rushed, loud and powerful. Just like the sea … Sprite mused? It was a sound which she had been denied her whole life. Would it feel, she swirled her hand into the bath water, as wonderful as this upon her skin? Were the bubbles under the spouts also like the white-capped foamy waves of the sea …? The warm moist air made her drowsy. The water’s murmur called to her. Its temperate caress promised to soothe her wretchedness. Its ebb and flow vowed to wash all anguish away. As she lounged on the edge of the tub, twirling her fingers on the surface of the bath, her eyelids drooped. She was growing lethargic, entranced by the sound and the scent and the sensation of her most basic elemental self … water … water … water. She was so relaxed. She was so free. She was, she unworriedly decided, drowning in comfort.

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Chapter Seventeen Menage-a-trois

After Sprite had left to carry out his order of drawing them a bath, Saracen stayed in bed, his arms crossed over his chest, his back against the headboard, his blazing silver gaze trained on the door through which she had disappeared. He had to force himself to remain indolently reclined there. Because every muscle screamed that he follow her! How, he inwardly raged, had she infiltrated his thoughts, his emotions, his unassailable heart, so thoroughly, to the point that he couldn’t bear to be parted from her? He’d sent her away to punish her as a reminder of her station. Technically, she was captive, servant, prisoner, to the Bellaclava. To him. So why, his teeth ground with irritation, did he feel bereft? Why did he feel such yearning to be reunited with Sprite, when she hadn’t even returned his kiss? When she had revealed naught but bafflement at his show of affection? When she had deliberately kept from telepathically sharing her feelings? She had blocked him out! Did she hold him in disgust? Had she, perhaps, been repulsed by his preferred perversion? No, he truthfully answered his inner tirade. He was absolutely certain that Sprite had enjoyed their coupling, their first tumultuous act of anal sex, of having his huge cock crammed into her ass. She hadn’t faked her response. She’d writhed, quaked, come, and collapsed like a woman totally satisfied. It was her coolness in the aftermath that confused Saracen. He’d wanted to cuddle her with hugs and kisses and endearments such as he had never, ever lavished on any of his innumerable conquests. While she, his petite aggravating sea urchin, had essentially spurned him! Saracen’s rage boiled anew. “What’s keeping her?” He querulously muttered, squinting at the closed connecting door, as if to see through it. With his acute ElfFeyen hearing, he caught

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the faint rush of the tub filling. She should have returned. Unless, that is, she was avoiding him in an act of contrariness? “I could always exile her to the servants’ quarters.” But the casually spoken threat disturbed Saracen more than it likely would her. “No, I think that would be too much to her liking. She stays with me.” But still she did not return. Interminable minutes, filled with resentment and irritation, crept by. Impatiently he waited, hearing nothing but the muted flow of the water, imagining the depth to be well advanced, then envisioning going to join her, of taking a bath with Sprite, his beautiful Siren, his lusty little half-breed, a long lost daughter of the sea. That thought steadily began to plague Saracen. Sea Sirens, it was well known, were prone to fall into either madness or melancholia in times of privation and duress. The sea’s lure became deadly if too long denied, and Sprite, like her tragic mother before her, had never been allowed to return to the vastness of the Cerulean Sea, no, nor to any of Aurora’s several other oceans, not the Atlantean, the Mer-du-mal, or even the GreyReefs. Sirens, unlike their direct kin, the merfolk, had no gills. They breathed air and lived upon the shore under the sun, not under the waves of the sea. Thus … they drowned. They d-r-o-w-n-e-d. They d-r-o-w-n-e-d! Crazed, Saracen bolted across the room, flung open the connecting door, and barreled inside to find Sprite lying, boneless as an eel, upon her side, a listless arm draggled into the gurgling, nearly overflowing water of the enormous sunken sapphire tub. He made a grab for her at the same instant she began to slip over that edge … into the water. He caught her to him, trying to force her onto her feet, but mostly supporting her dead weight. There was an absolute vacancy in her unblinking gaze. She saw nothing of the world. She saw nothing of him. He jostled her by the arms, rough commanding shakes. “Wake up, Sprite.” And when she made no response, no jot of recognition or show of protest at his violent treatment, he rattled her some more in fearful attempts to rouse her. “Damn it. Wake up. The sea hasn’t so strong a pull as do I. Hear me, sea urchin, and awaken. I demand you to me. I demand you attend me, as is your duty.” And still that awful lassitude gripped her. She remained limp, unresponsive … gone. Despair, such as he had never endured, assailed his heart. He fought it with anger, lashed her with it.

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“Do as I bid you, half-breed.” Sure as any weapon, he hurled that reviled name--which he, himself, had long since learned to despise--at her. He snarled it into her catatonic face. Her glassy unseeing eyes blinked. Once. “That’s my Sea Siren. That’s the way. Fight! Fight me!” His lips twisted into a grim grin, a jackal’s wary smile. And he gave her another rough jerk that suddenly--possibly--met resistance. Was there, he prayed, strength in her muscles? Steel returning to her spine? Some awareness in her eyes? As he searched for some further reassurance, uncertainty bred fear in him, and Saracen roared more abuse. “Half-breed, mind me! Do not think to escape.” He punctuated his next harsh words with teeth- rattling shakes of her shoulders. “You--are--mine!” That possessive claim landed like a blow inside Sprite’s mesmerized consciousness. It brought her around with a furious abruptness that allowed her to wrench from his grip. Just inches from Saracen, she righted her unbalanced retreat, and confronted him, her chest heaving, her no longer dead eyes a stormy gray-black. The renewed defiance in Sprite, so vigorous and palpable, relieved Saracen to the point of lightheadedness! Why was he trembling? Why had he been left so weak? He couldn’t show her this weakness, so foreign to him. So he masked his reactions behind a stern, frozen expression. His voice, also, turned raspy, resembling anger, hiding fear. “Henceforth you shall not go near water. Ever.” Irritation marked Sprite’s features in the raised arch of her brows, the compression of her lips, the pugnacious tilt of her chin. She had had enough of orders. And, as if to demonstrate how preposterous was Saracen’s command, the tub overflowed onto their bare feet. Sprite turned toward the shiny platinum taps to turn them off, only to be restrained by Saracen’s big, strong hand upon her arm. “Leave it.” He bit out the order. “From now on, you will heed me in whatever I may charge, reasonable or no.” His blazing silvery eyes boded ill for any disobedience. However, with mutinous deliberation, Sprite bent, stretched as far as his hold on her permitted, and rotated the knobs of the spigots off. Sprite straightened with the same deliberateness and met his heated gaze, exchanging glare-for-glare. Tension built between them until Saracen’s teeth nearly cracked from the pressure of so much unspent wrath. How dare she! Her defiance could cost Sprite her life! She was foolish! Ungrateful! She was, as ever, insolent!

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“That disobedience will cost you, dearly.” Sprite didn’t reveal a flicker of fear. Instead, steadied by his handhold upon her forearm, she stepped into the tub! And somehow, even with Saracen in a rage, she tugged him in after her. He was muttering a string of curses on her lack of intelligence just under his breath. “Stupid … foolish … insolent … reckless.” Sprite smothered his unflattering invective by twining her hands into his long glossy hair, pulling his head down, and forcing a kiss upon him. As soon as their lips met, Saracen crushed her to him in a long shuddering hug. Not only was she engulfed by the velvety brawn of his glorious body, his arms wrapped about her waist to press her fully to him, his torso plastered to her chest, his rigid cock stabbed into her belly, Sprite was also psychically immersed in the residual terror he had felt for her. Like a heightened echo of memory, she experienced his panic at seeing her still and unmoving, about to roll into the water and leave him behind. She revisited his awful pang, an actual twist of his heart, at her unresponsiveness. After saving her from the water, he had feared losing her to that catatonia. At this revelation, she smiled against his lips, because Saracen, whether he could admit it or not, cared about her. To sooth him, she massaged and rubbed at his shoulders. The tense knots of his male body, however, did not loosen. Nor had all of Saracen’s anger, she tremulously realized, been diverted. He, in fact, began to roughly run his mouth across her jaw, speaking and kissing in a jagged pattern, part passion, part fury. “You … think … to coax me … from my anger. But,” he abruptly halted, pulled back, looked her straight in the eye, “I won’t soon forget this incident. Yes, I may have overreacted when I demanded that you stay away from water. Forever. Because you are of the sea. Water is your essence. I cannot deny you that, but I can keep you from the danger of it. Thus, you must learn to obey me. You must learn to give over to me … in all things.” And he resumed his path of kisses across her cheeks, her eyes, her nose. His palms had sought out the curves of her ass, kneading and massaging, gently pushing and pulling her against his groin. The manic glitter in his eyes hadn’t abated. His feral instincts--Sprite recognized through their connection--were close to the surface. His voice was sandpaper rough. “You must accept my will, in all ways, in all matters. But how best to instill this lesson? How to demonstrate that your will is subordinate to mine? How best to gain your obedience?” Just then, slight noises, emanating faintly from the bedroom--a pitcher tinkling against drinking glasses, cutlery thudding upon a table, platters and plates bumping hollowly as they were set down--alerted them to servants laying out a meal.

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Saracen’s chip-toothed grin underscored his sly expression. And Sprite, still channeling his emotions, knew his outrageous plan. Suddenly, due to their bond, their psychic fusion, Saracen’s mind-magic was energized, enhanced. He used it to mentally summon the two females from the next room. And Sprite, wrestling with frustration, outrage, refusal, and exhilaration, also knew why he called them here. For sex. With her! Demonstrating his greater strength and size, Saracen forced her to sit on the edge of the extravagantly large sunken tub. The two women entered. Evannan was short with masses of dark pin curls, bright green eyes, and a vividly red cupid’s bow mouth, while Tisane was a tall mousy brunette, hazel-eyed, and plainly featured. Both radiated with Chernobyl-like eagerness and with remembrances of past encounters with Saracen. That fact sent jealousy striking through Sprite like javelins, piercing and painful. He’d known them, had fucked them, several times, in various ways, and in different places, not an uncommon practice amongst the promiscuous ElfFeyen, especially royals. Sprite slammed shut that rush of memories swirling around the women, and which she could easily read because her connection with Saracen ramped up her own mind powers. They magnified one another. Saracen chucked Sprite under her chin. “There’s no need to be jealous,” he laughingly chided, then, when her eyes showed a menacing shade of gray and her head tilted mutinously away from him, he added, “nor is there any point in denying that jealousy. We share our thoughts and emotions, imprecisely it is true. And it is because of this bond that I know you have always had a mild curiosity for a lesbian tryst.” The agitated silvery brilliance of Saracen’s eyes flared like a rocket, betraying his own excitement for such entertainment. “And you also know that I do this to mend your recalcitrance. From now on, you will not ignore my wishes. You are ever to serve at my whim. You are to do my bidding.” Sprite’s rebelliousness, however, rekindled enough that she fluttered a hand toward the women, who waited nearby, gathered in a loose embrace. There was hurt and accusation in her gaze. Indeed, her mind confronted Saracen with a question: Will you make me into the lowliest kind of servant? His usual feral grin turned into a leer. “A servant to me alone, and no other. Now, Evannan, Tisane,” he paused, encompassing the two women within a powerful but shuttered gaze, “proceed. Give my pretty little sea urchin some feminine affection. You have my permission to touch her … to taste her.”

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As the pair sinuously moved to obey him, Sprite cast a final angry glance at Saracen, now lounging in a half-sprawl just inches away, pretending to be an impartial voyeur--whose cock just happened to be jutting to the sky! If she didn’t submit, she might lose him, for this was more than a mere test of wills. She needed to surrender to allay his turmoil. He wanted to feel in control of her, even to the point of irrationally demanding she stay away from water, the nurturing element of all Sea Sirens. For temperamental Saracen, it was imperative that she accede to him. She must, difficult as it was to her independent nature, bend her will to his and perform this illicitness. The manic glitter hadn’t abated from his eyes. His overwrought emotions, anger, fear, frustration, needed to be exorcised from him. Sex, she reasoned, was a good way to channel all that dangerous energy. Ceding to Saracen, at least in this one arena, gave him dominance over her. Gave him sway over her. Gave him ownership of her. And, to be truthful, she ached to give him this small obedience, as opposed to her usual contrariness, her usual defiance. Her customary insolence. She had to follow his orders, to be subservient to him … at least, she grimaced, for awhile, because this submission was an act of appeasement. She truly did not want to always fight him. However, such intimacy as he proposed was difficult for Sprite. She had witnessed plenty of sexual acts, but never participated. And now, at Saracen’s direction, she sat--naked-and nervously watched the two servants, Evannan and Tisane, draw near. Soon she would be at the disposal of two very experienced ElfFeyen women. Her heart sped up. Tisane, the taller of the two, knelt behind Sprite, placed her hands on the tops of Sprite’s shoulders, and urged her to shuttle to the very edge of the pool-sized tub. Meanwhile, curlyhaired pouty-lipped Evannan paused long enough to pull her loose shirt up over her head and fling it away, then, topless, her big breasts bobbing, she stepped into the water. From behind, Tisane crooned softly and smoothed her hands around Sprite’s ribcage then palmed her breasts, tweaked their distended nipples. “Such lovely skin,” Tisane cupped and joggled Sprite’s tits, pulled on the hard pink tips, “and such a lovely little bush.” Equally bold, Evannan insinuated herself between Sprite’s legs, parting the way with her hands, caressing the insides of Sprite’s thighs with her nails, skimming almost to her crotch then tracing back down, intending to move much further with the next pass of that seductive touch. “Indeed, she is a savory little thing. My mouth’s watering.”

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“Then, here,” Tisane bawdily suggested, “suckle these perky nubs.” She played with one nipple, rolled it between her fingers, repeatedly pressed at the other like a “start” button. Evannan smirked, then gave a mere few breathless words. “Oh, yes …,” and she crowded against Sprite to lean upward and suck the point of one tit into her mouth. As she tongued at Sprite, Evannan deliberately rubbed her own big lush breasts against Sprite’s petite body, her torso, her ribs, anywhere she could reach. Tisane continued to prop up Sprite’s breasts, holding them out for Evannan to lave and lick, by turns lovingly wetting the areola or fiercely tugging at a pebbled nipple. While she suckled, she made lots of satisfied noises, dirty thrilling sounds. Sprite, tapping into Saracen’s growing excitement, using it to get into the sex play, leaned her weight against Tisane at her back while Evannan wantonly lay between her legs, sucking hard at her breast, lapping at the diamond-tipped point. At her side, watching them with intensity, Saracen’s rasping breath loudly proclaimed his approval and made Sprite’s sex clench, intensely. She writhed. Her hips shifted, questing for some relief. Evannan, feeling that wriggle, smiled, kissed the ends of Sprite’s breasts, then pulled back. Her green eyes were bright, her pouty red lips swollen, her face flushed. “Umm-umm,” the green-eyed curly-haired ElfFeyen woman’s appreciative hum was sultry. “Lord Saracen’s little Sea Siren can hardly sit still she’s so horny.” Tisane suggestively swept a hand up and down Sprite’s flat belly, rubbing her tummy but not quite into her pubic hair. “Shall I finger her, then, Evannan? Stir all that sweet hot honey . . . until it’s ready to be eaten?” Evannan nodded slowly in agreement, then greedily watched--as did Saracen--Tisane’s first provocative swipe between Sprite’s open legs, a methodical drag down her curls, then a true vigorous churning into her glistening pink folds. She wedged Sprite wide open with the spread of her fingers even as she smeared through her inner lips in a circular whorl. She skimmed and swished around, her hand occasionally squelching in a flood of lubrication. “She’s sopping wet! My hand’s drenched,” Tisane huffed out on a groan. “She’s ready, all right. She could easily take a cock or two. And so could I.” Sprite’s eyes scrunched shut. She inelegantly pumped against that extraordinary invasion, driven blissfully wild, instantly seeking more. Her pussy throbbed demandingly for further stimulation. Her clit felt huge. If only she could cry aloud for a sucking or a fucking!

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Trapped between the two women, Sprite had little room to heave against Tisane’s dexterous touches, those sleek caresses delving sensuously into her plump slit. She squirmed and made silent open-mouthed pants. Psychically her mind entreated Saracen, begged him for some ease. As she made another awkward hump against Tisane’s plundering hand, Evannan stooped nearer, insisted on a turn. “Share and share alike, Tisane. It’s my turn. I want a dollop of all that cream.” Tisane’s soft laugh was wicked. She continued to gently churn her fingers in Sprite’s pussy. “She’s plenty wet. Lick her good, but leave some for me. It’s not many ElfFeyen that get to eat out a Sea Siren.” Evannan wedged herself closer between Sprite’s spread legs, rested her hands atop Sprite’s thighs. As Evannan bent towards her crotch, the woman cocked her darkly curled head for a salacious look up at Sprite--then included Saracen in that glance--and offered a teasing glimpse of her long pink tongue. She then exaggeratedly fluttered it in a lewd pantomime of what was to come. “Have you done her a lot, Lord Saracen? Does she like to have her pussy licked?” “She likes it exceedingly--by me.” Evannan broke from him to fully ogle Sprite’s plump damp slit. Her pouty red mouth curled into a leer, and her green eyes reflected that avariciousness. “Have no doubts, my lord, she will like this, too.” For one quick second, Evannan flicked her attention to her cohort. “Lean her back some, Tisane. I want to go in deep.” And, refocusing on Sprite, maintaining eye contact as long as possible, Evannan descended and lustily ground her mouth to Sprite’s privates. She rooted her face into the Sea Siren’s drenched bush, then tongued her open, lapped vigorously at her swollen insides. Evannan promptly moaned, a deep buzzing note of satisfaction. She began to swish her head, flicking and fluttering at Sprite’s hot sex. Saracen witnessed Sprite’s convulsive jerk, felt his own engorged cock judder in response. Through the narrowed slits of his eyes, he watched the erotic scene--two experienced ElfFeyen women engaged in a tryst with Sprite at his behest, one crudely slurping and slicking at Sprite’s tasty pussy, the other wringing and tugging at her excited nipples--but, amazingly, his awareness was all for Sprite. Her lungs silently huffed with exertion, erratically lifted her breasts: unrelenting Tisane dutifully chafed and caressed them, oftentimes tweaking the budded points with soft pinches.

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The muscles of Sprite’s flat stomach undulated. As Evannan industriously ate her, Sprite’s knees tried to lock her in place. Her moans, unvoiced because of her birth curse, echoed inside Saracen. He heard how close she was to a climax. Never before had he cared so intensely about a female, to the exclusion of all others. She mattered. She fascinated him. The picture before him--especially the sight of Evannan’s glossy tight pin curls between Sprite’s spread legs, overtop her little mound--was excruciatingly exciting, a tease to his rigid cock. Only … frustratingly … a foreign emotion tempered his excitement. He, after having chastened Sprite for the same thing, discovered jealousy. He barely stayed the urge to rip Tisane and Evannan away from Sprite. But Saracen had enough pride to hold himself still. Voyeurism had always appealed to him, greatly. And orchestrating Sprite’s arousal by others definitely turned him on … but it also beset him with the undeniable need to be with her himself, to replace those others, and, even more overwhelmingly, to keep her for himself, always and forever. None could have her. None could own her. None could fuck her other than himself. Through the fortuitous intervention of the gods, he, Saracen Bellaclava, had her. And he meant to keep her. Yet, infuriatingly, a montage of males paraded through his mind--from the unsavory likes of Threlkeld Drang, Kestrel Cerberus, or Sextus Corsair to truly honorable males, such as Dydik Sirocco, Allex Teran, or even his own younger brothers Jenji and Shay--any of whom could rightfully stake a claim to his Sea Siren with a vow of bonding. Any ElfFeyen male who was willing to offer her a sacred vow could have his Sprite. Never. Never! Saracen was nearly blind with fury. Trembling from head to foot, chuffing harsh breaths between his clenched teeth, he contained that rage, or most of it, and forced his attention to the women beside him, the two capable servants working Sprite into a frenzy. Once again the idea of others touching and caressing his Sprite, his Sea Siren, galled Saracen. His hands fisted. He wanted to end this tryst. He wanted to pull them away from her! Then Sprite, caught between the two women, Tisane and Evannan, growing more agitated at their carnal onslaught, one delving into her pussy to lap at her wet folds, the other squeezing and chafing at her tits, turned her face towards him. Towards Saracen!

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Like an electric current, she connected with him. He leaned nearer to her. He smashed his mouth to hers, jousted his tongue with hers, mingled their saliva, their moans, and their raging desire. Smearing a last kiss across her lips, Saracen found enough control to dismiss the two servants, although his voice cracked into hoarse pieces. “Go--from here. Both of you. Leave us.” His silver eyes raked over Tisane, who hurriedly backed away, bowing and scraping. Evannan, however, barely paused, and Saracen roughly displaced her with a grip in her curls and a tug upon that handful of tousled hair. “Your--services--are no longer required. You are excused. Go. Now.” At the lethal gleam in his bright silvery eyes, Evannan quickly splashed her way out of the sunken tub. Instantly, the pair fled. Neither Sprite nor Saracen noticed.

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Chapter Eighteen An Act of Calculation

As if unleashed, Saracen immediately flowed down into the warm water. There he paused, grabbed up a bar of soap, and, as Sprite watched, mesmerized, he deftly washed his stiff cock, hands soaping and swabbing his engorged length, thoroughly cleansing himself, thoroughly fondling himself. And, for Sprite’s benefit, displaying himself. With a cavalier flourish, he tossed the soap away. Then, with the stalking gait of an animal on the prowl, he came between Sprite’s legs, draped down over the edge of the tub, lolling lasciviously wide as she leaned her weight back upon her hands. She followed his fluid movements with dulled eyes, their color that of a deep blue lagoon, yet she saw and appreciated only too well his intense beauty. Saracen’s animalistic nature, no longer subdued, heightened his physical attractiveness, from the sweeping cascade of his unbound sinfully dark hair, to the leanly carved ultra-masculine lines of his torso, belly, and legs, and even his flatteringly covetous features. The air pulsed with his want--of her. With that same sinuous animal’s grace, Saracen’s body molded into hers, his thighs pushing at the inside of her legs, his cock skimming low up her belly, his hands kneading at her waist. She was dazed, therefore Saracen anticipated she would also be very pliant. He gave her no chance to recover. Indeed, he further ensnared her senses by leaning in to voraciously encircle one of her taut pink-flushed nipples with his mouth. While he suckled, his tongue swiped roughly over that pebbled knot, deliciously grating up and down the protruded tip. Those first strong pulls tingled in her nipples and zinged straight down to her throbbing pussy. She was wild for Saracen, his mouth on her, his hands on her, his body on her. His strong sucks at her breast made the ache between her legs almost unbearable. It made her cunt hurt for some cock. She wanted more of that demanding sexual pain! And so Sprite’s hands burrowed into the silkiness of his feral-black hair, pulling him nearer, binding him there. In an instinctive petition for more, she arched her spine and

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aggressively jutted that tit at him. The more he suckled at her, the more brutally licentious--and pleasurable--came the beats in her sex. Saracen obligingly widened his mouth and swallowed her down nearly whole. He groaned at her plumpness, flicked his tongue across her nipple. But soon he slicked backward to concentrate on a more manageable-sized mouthful, and he greedily sucked and swiped at her areola. He knew that every caress and lick at her increased the desire in her belly, in her pussy, in her clit. As it, indeed, aroused his own shaft, stiffening it to steel in mammoth proportions. Time and again, Saracen shifted from breast-to-breast where he slurped and lapped, fiend-like. His hands, also, took part. While he drew on one, he tweaked or pinched the hard distended point of the other. He joggled at one plump palm-full of breast, toyed with the knotted tip, even as he still voraciously suckled at the other. Playing with her tits, so thoroughly, so possessively, excited Saracen until his heart thudded, his breath shredded, his cock pounded. Underneath him, Sprite’s dainty body wriggled in a building frustration, and, trying to hasten Saracen’s foreplay, she cocked her hips to more fully nestle her crotch against the heated weight of his pulsing erection. The sensation of her slickness pressed to his hardness--a cock of such dimensions, length, girth, and weight like a giant’s, thus guaranteed to please any woman-clutched at her belly, clenched her sex. Her body began to dictate her actions. Frustrated and horny, she drug herself, her wet engorged inner lips, against his velvety shaft of steel. Repeatedly. As she jacked her swollen pussy against him, Sprite’s little gasps-huffs puffs and ooohs and ahhhs--were silent. If not for her curse, she would have been wailing like a banshee. Naturally, at her insistent dry-humping, Saracen decided to explore her mound. But, to first tease her, his large hands suggestively toured every inch of Sprite from just under her pert breasts down her stomach to her bellybutton and then, finally, neared her crotch. Thanks to Sprite’s eagerness, they were firmly linked together, her heels almost hooked behind his back. Saracen industriously screwed a finger between the heated press of their bodies, found her slit, and glided inside. He slicked up and down, smearing through her syrupy folds, dragging over her clit. He erotically diddled at her, fingered and caressed her pussy, until she squirmed. His long fingers fucked at her slowly, deliberately, stimulated every inch of her puffy inner lips, caressed at her wet insides. While he stroked her, he whispered dirty words, confessing his need for her. “This sweet untried pussy belongs to me. You’ve creamed enough to accept my big dick. That’s what you need, a hot fucking. My thick cock thrusting in your tight hole. Jacking away. Screwing you hard. Filling you up. And I ache,” he ground out the truth, “to penetrate your little pussy.”

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Sprite, deaf to his words but thrilled by his impassioned tone, throbbed harder at each creamy, slippery, pleasurable stroke. She grew so frantic that her hips rocked at him, rubbed fervently at his hand and his cock, for more stimulation! If she had the power of speech, she would have been gibbering, begging him to ease her, not tease her! She would have cried for him to fuck her!! Madly, with quick uninhibited bumps, she brushed and scrubbed against him. Seeking some relief, she humped and hunched her insides against him. Her sex was swollen, slippery, ready to take him! Oh, gods, how she wanted him! Saracen, his silvery eyes riveted upon her with glittering calculation, also rode that same mounting crest of desire, but he controlled his responses with the prowess of a true-blooded ElfFeyen royal. He attuned himself to Sprite’s reactions--noted her ragged breathing, her plumped up labia, her trembling belly and legs--but he dampened his psychic tie to her. He didn’t want her to learn his intent. Treachery, he admitted, was best committed without any warnings. He deemed her ready. She was horny and frenzied from being licked and sucked by Evannan then masturbated by him. She was turned on enough for him to do whatever he wished. “You’re slick and smooth as whipped cream.” Saracen‘s voice coarsened, raw and grating. His every feature showed the strain of his denial, furrows at his brow, lines around his compressed lips, hollows of stress under his shimmering silver eyes. “You’re frantic to be used.” Yes, he persuaded himself again that she was ready. However, for one punishing second of rationality, he loathed himself over the calculation of this act. It was irrevocable. Yet, his selfish heart had learned that he couldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t--he couldn’t--let another have her! She deserved to be won with tenderness, with professions of love, with rose petals strewn on silken sheets, with slow-building desire. But, instead, the hunger of the jackal drove him to claim her, by fair means or foul. To that end, he channeled all his passion into Sprite. Panting, grimacing, nearly shouting, she writhed with it. Saracen slid a hand under her rear, used that grip to further tilt her pelvis, to position her, to hold her steady … as he grasped his shaft in the other hand, aligned himself at her entrance, and shoved like a piston--all--the--way--inside. Even as her innocence was torn away, Sprite’s birth-curse utterly stifled her agonized cry. Yet it saturated the very air. Tension clenched Sprite’s every muscle, her every joint, ligament and tendon. Tautened every sinew and fiber of her being.

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And, in the next infinitesimal instant, Sprite’s pain became Saracen‘s. To ease her, Saracen engulfed her in a smothering embrace, hugging her, rocking her, shushing away her shock. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me, Sprite.” His voice faltered. Grief clogged his throat. “There is no way to spare you this pain.” Saracen’s whispers issued in ragged breaths. His eyes stung, felt moist and achy. He tucked her closer still, her head beneath his chin, her heart pressed to his chest, their bodies linked together, sharing his warmth, his strength. “This makes you--mine.” The word, in fact the deed, was defiant. “None other can claim you. And I hereby offer a partial vow, not an empty promise of love, but one of fidelity and faithfulness, so long as we remain as one.” He stroked at her thick unruly hair. “This is a vow to care for your wants and your needs now and in the future. To ever provide you protection, and shelter, and affection, in such a manner as an ill-tempered selfish jackal has to offer. And, should you ever choose to leave, all these vows for your welfare will remain. The one caveat is: you shall have my faithfulness so long as I have you.” Each utterance croaked out from his agonized throat, knotted with pain and guilt. When he spoke again, the words were brittle but clear. “Tell me you forgive me. Tell me you understand. Tell me you don’t hate this detestable Bellaclava beast.” His words drifted from him incoherently. He was desperate for her forgiveness! His words, his emotions, his need to comfort her swamped Sprite, helped ease her through the shock and unexpected pain. He truly grieved in his heart for hurting her: the depth of it resonated within Sprite. In turn, his raw pleas made her want to comfort him, because, secretly, she loved him. Secretly, she wanted him to return that love. The deed, growing less and less painful in the warmth of his embrace, was done. He had taken her. He had made a vow to her. He had promised, if not love, to protect and provide for her. And, for now, that was enough. For now, she would grab as much happiness as she was able, but hold fast to her secret--that he was her beloved. There was always time, she philosophized, for heartbreak and recriminations. But later, not now. And suddenly Saracen realized that Sprite had raised her head, had begun to brush her mouth on the underside of his chin, had begun to kiss a haphazard path to his mouth. Hungrily, he met her lips, tasted salt from tears which he persuaded himself were hers. They had to be hers! After all, he was an ElfFeyen royal. He never cried. Their kiss fused, their tongues twined. Saracen’s large hand grasped the nape of her neck, burrowed into the thick mass of her sun-highlighted sandy-brown hair. He slanted his mouth, pressed harder, deeper, into hers. While their tongues mingled, soft strokes that grew fast

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and agitated, Saracen palmed one of her perfect breasts, massaged the little mound in vigorous circles. He pinched at the nipple, rolled it between his fingers. Sprite, breaking from their kiss on a silent cry, heaved everywhere at that erotic assault, jamming her tit against his hand, jacking her pelvis against his groin. Her ankles locked behind his back, and she humped wildly. She clutched at his shoulders, held on tight. Saracen responded to her feverish thrashing by gripping her under the ass, angling her a little, then slowly gliding from her, and returning just as deliberately. And, as he set this careful rhythm, he studied her face, saw her features distort with elevating tension. After his second, then his third cautious thrust, his fourth stroke into her creamy sex became faster, firmer. With each satisfyingly slick push in and blissfully tight pull out, his control shredded. He had almost none. Urgency turned him into a sexual jackhammer. Grunting, he crammed into her, pumped her full of big thick cock, actually jounced her with every lust-fueled lunge. Sprite rode these massive strokes with innate precision. She fervently met them--rocked and jostled against them, driven by instinct, rewarded by shivery pleasure as Saracen skewered through her swollen folds. Her slick insides gripped and squeezed Saracen’s huge dick, milked it for cum. Then, sensually battered, a cataclysm violently shook her. Sprite’s body crested. Her spine arched, her neck bowed, her lungs seized on a mute shout. Saracen! In his mind he heard her broken scream. For one short second, no more than a heartbeat, he exhilaratingly endured her vagina’s strong orgasmic clamp, a demand for his semen. And, much as he tried to stave off his release, to prolong his own pleasure, he couldn’t deny her for more than a final fierce thrust that corded the muscles of his neck, chest, and arms, bunched those in his belly and sphincter. He penetrated deeply within her, stilled, then exploded warm torrents of ejaculate, blasting into her womb, seeding her, but not, he knew, breeding her. Alas, she wasn’t in her fertile cycle. Not this time, anyway. Yet his cock industriously, joyously, spewed enough cum to impregnate a hundred women. Each spurt, even when diminishing, gave him intense pleasure, blasting from his constricted balls, shooting up his rigid shaft, pumping from his tip. His groan was a gruff hum of contentment. He jittered a few times, dried up, then gradually softened.

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Sprite exhaustedly curled closer to him. She wrapped her arms around his back and laid her head on his shoulder. When Saracen lifted her into his arms, he saw the smatter of blood between her legs … and on his cock. Holding her, cradling her, he sunk them both into the warm tub where he gently tended her. As he bathed her, he soothed her with feathery kisses, light caresses, and loving words. And, swaddling her in a fleece caftan, Saracen returned with her into the bedroom to pamper her for many days afterward. Yet over the course of those precious days when his passion for Sprite only increased, a presentiment of unease also grew within him. Because, the more that his affection for her strengthened, the more that his ability to psychically connect with Sprite weakened. And Saracen, unable to read her emotions, almost as if she denied him, worried that she did not love him in return. By taking Sprite, he feared that he had actually lost her. Insecurity was a real bitch.

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Chapter Nineteen The Samovar

From the dimness of a shadowy corner of the Samovar, Dominic Bellaclava, the fourth eldest brother in his family’s line of royal succession, loitered in one of the tavern’s heavy, wooden, barrel-backed chairs. He was comfortably straddled backwards as he squinted at the scattering of patrons about the large tavern, which also connected to a rambling three-story inn. Soft dappling light came from the giant fireside spit at the far side of the room and from candles in several rickety round chandeliers that swayed over the tavern’s tables, chairs, and intricately carved bar. Dominic sat alone, his tankard just within reach, his bowl of stew now a greasy empty mess at his elbow. Occasionally, he tore a chunk from off a decently baked loaf of bread, chewed broodingly, and scratched at the healing wounds--long pink gashes, claw and bite marks to be exact--upon his belly. The Samovar Inn and Tavern, known for hearty fare and extremely solicitous service, of the sexually illicit kind, had served as Nic’s place of convalescence while he, a virtually immortal ElfFeyen in terms of longevity, had recovered from an almost fatal ambush by a rogue group of the Cerberus, a powerful pack of Lupine Lycannis, a lower were-caste clan of wolves. Nic, who owed his survival from the attack to a sorceress’s magic, to Taya Mephistos, scuffed a palm over the puckered skin of those fast healing mystical stitches, and begrudged a mental thank you to his savior. On that fateful night over a week ago, she had healed his savage wounds when their paths had accidentally crossed on the Auroran side of one of the Balaclava’s primary travel portals, a magical gate that looked like a fountain in the central plaza of the township of Aeyar-Sward, the closest and most prominent village to the Sylvan Citadel, the ruling seat of the Southern Region of the Realm of Magic and Light. Taya Mephistos, or rather her magic, had saved him from death. But that hadn’t been the end of her intervention. She had also cured him, admittedly with outlawed passion-magic, of a

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far worse ravage: Nic, or so he had since become persuaded, had been ensorcelled by the canine bitch Fin’neal Cerberus. Now that her enchantment was broken, Nic hadn’t the least fondness for her. Indeed, his memories of Fin’neal--and there were a ghastly number, all explicit, all lascivious--sickened him. Many had even occurred here, at the Samovar Inn, in a snug pine-scented attic room with a gigantic fur-covered bed. In particular, he recalled tying her slender wrists to the bed posts, then leisurely and lengthily licking between her legs. She’d relentlessly hunched her hips at him like a mad beast, like a bitch in heat. Only after she’d begged him enough to grate her throat raw had he hooked her ankles at his shoulders, and given her cunt a rough, mindless pounding. And then he had repeated that same vigorous ritual--twice more. Nic’s heart stuttered at another unwanted remembrance, this one of when she had straddled him backwards for a wicked ride, she the jockey, he the steed. She’d established an agonizingly slow pace, gliding her pussy up and down his cock with the speed and consistency of molasses. When, eventually, he could take no more, he had reached around and caressed at her firm little tits then tickled at her clit until she’d uncontrollably jittered, shuttled, and finally come in a frantic rush. Directly afterward, because he had so impolitely hurried her, he had performed a thorough anal rimming of Fin’neal by way of apology. Disgusted with himself at such unwanted recollections, Nic abruptly gulped from his tankard and dismissed all such visions. He was no longer fixated on Fin’neal Cerberus but rather repulsed by her. Yet, he brooded, still swilling ale to try and drown his unsettling ruminations, if she truly meant less than nothing to him, why had he insisted on recuperating here at the Samovar, their favored trysting spot, comfortable though it was? Perhaps, an irritating inner voice nagged at him, it was because of a suspicion that she was likely to come here … in search of him, although that likelihood lessened with every passing day and still no sight of her. Nic snorted at the absurdity of that idea and absently soothed his hand at a spot far above his belly wounds--nearer his heart--and he scanned the murky Samovar once again. His glance roamed to the wide main entry of the tavern, an open portal that connected to the Inn proper. A second heavy oak door, on the far left side of the room from Nic, also allowed entrée to the tavern’s food, drink, and other sought after fare--its bar maids, some dozen slatternly females, and its exotic drug trade, from deadly screed to the all-purpose and just as dangerous red-dust, which could be smoked, ingested, or burned. Both commodities, sex and drugs, were well known to be reasonably had at the Samovar. Nic, upon his earliest signs of recovery, had availed himself of all dozen or so--he’d lost track of the monotonous count--of the barmaids. He’d so little enjoyed tossing the skirts of any that he’d not gone back for seconds. In fact, they had only made him yearn for something … or someone … else. Which meant that he was currently randy as a satyr.

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Nic had been on the mend for over a week. For that entire time, he had roosted at the Samovar, initially nursed by Hunter around the clock for the first few days. Early on, even in Nic’s delirium, there had been numerous visits by his other brothers, Jenji, Chael, Shay, and even Luc in company with his new mate, Desta. But as Nic had steadily recovered, he had dispatched his nursemaid, shape-shifting Hunter, the Balaclava’s best tracker, to continuously reconnoiter the length and breadth of Aurora to gather any word about the rogue Cerberus. Having finished his meal, Nic now impatiently awaited Hunter’s return from one of his constant scouting missions, using the sundry travel portals, some naturally occurring, others created by Luciferno and known only to the Bellaclava, to criss-cross Aurora for news about the rogue pack of clan Cerberus. As for Fin’neal, he cared not if he had any word of her, one way or the other. However, to distract himself, he again surveyed the familiar layout of the Samovar and those gathered within. The evening was well advanced. The place, not overly crowded, was nonetheless rowdy. Soldiers, most clad in the gray and black of the Royal House of Corsair, others in the blue and white of a lesser line of the Drang clan, grouped at several tables. Randomly scattered around the rest of the huge tavern were locals, farmers, peddlers, and other regular idlers, plus some few travelers thrown into the mix. One notable exception was a solitary figure, tucked in a corner with a barely touched meal upon his table, wrapped in a black hooded cloak, unmoving as a proverbial statue. He had paid in advance with a large gold coin, and now, Nic surmised, the stranger briefly slept before departing into the dead of night. Such a sight, too, was common at this tavern. Thus, Nic assessed, the Samovar was much as ever, boisterous, busy, and atmospheric, a warm smoky hall reeking of sweat, grease, and spilled ale. A mild din accompanied all the eating, drinking, and gaming. The barkeep, Jessop Fallows, brusquely attended his patrons, filling tankards, mopping up the bar, keeping the peace, and in between these duties, he barked orders at his slatternly barmaids, who threaded about the huge stuffy room. As this small cadre of females served beer, ale, wine, and hearty but simple food, they also made assignations for later. For sex. Nic, however, still disenchanted with their favors, hadn’t the least inclination to partake of any one of them again, even if he was keyed up and horny. He fidgeted, in part to lack of sex but also because of his mending wounds upon his stomach and how they itched. Troubling him now, however, was an even subtler itch, an emotional one, that he couldn’t scratch. The next best thing he could manage was to rub at a nebulous spot on his chest, over his heart. Suddenly his hand stopped scratching. An uncomfortable psychic prickle at the back of his neck, like icy fingers on his nape, alerted Nic that his boring wait was over. Magnetically, his gaze was drawn to the wide connecting entryway from the inn into the tavern. A figure halted on the threshold, half-in and half-out of the shadows, regally tall, athletically thin, strikingly featured. Undoubtedly female.

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She advanced one graceful step, and more of the Samovar’s flickering candlelight cascaded over her, revealing stark beauty. The canine in her was obvious, conferring her with lean lithe muscles, short sleek blue-black hair, features beautifully chiseled on a narrow prominently cheek-boned face. Her slender loveliness evoked a sleek racing hound. As she assessed the room, flecks of gold shimmered within her hazel eyes, and seemed to give her gaze a far-seeing, nocturnal quality. Until, that is, she infinitesimally canted her head and the candlelight glinted off red within the depths of her irises, a quick revelation of danger to only the most observant. As for Fin’neal Cerberus, after completing that thorough, hooded scrutiny of the Samovar for potential threats, she entered, her stride lithe and easy, her aura vigilant and hostile. Tension--bred of lust and fear--accompanied her into the Samovar, momentarily deadening conversation as she stalked a few paces into the tavern. Although all eyes riveted on her, coveted her, none waylaid Fin’neal by so much as a word, not even those small groups of rough drunken soldiers. For she had the look of a mad dog who could … who would … gouge an eye, bash a skull, or rip out a throat in the blink of an eye. Mad. She was a mad dog. Like wildfire, that unspoken caution rippled throughout the room. Her contagion was palpable. Oh, yes, this was indeed a rabid creature, a canine were, a distempered wolf in human form. And, yet, another in the Samovar radiated a similar taint which kept him safely isolated: golden-haired sky-blue-eyed Dominic Bellaclava, a Greater ElfFeyen, a nearly immortal royal who had had a recent brush with death. And who had survived through the use of magic. And who, some at the Samovar whispered, had been changed because of it. That stifling, thunderstorm-like tension increased because Fin’neal Cerberus ignored everyone within the Samovar … except for Dominic, the fourth Bellaclava brother, with hair a pure gold reminiscent of the sun, eyes the blue of a summer sky, and a face far prettier than many a sweet, young maid. Nic lounged at the farthest corner of the tavern, seated backwards in his heavy chair, arms indolently folded across its round, spindled back. The mildness of his blue eyes belied the taut expression on his face as he watched her approach. A current of antagonism, swifter and more unpredictable than a river, poured between the two, sun-gilt male and black-limned female. Cautiously graceful, Fin’neal padded through the hushed gathering, navigated around and between the tables, and halted before Nic. They exchanged stares--more properly glares, slashing and raking sharp as rapiers.

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Nic’s mouth twisted disdainfully, for her eyes, as he had glimpsed upon her entrance, showed a faint blood-red rim around the irises, the first sign of a frequent red-dust user. His greeting came out a taunt. “Well met, addict.” His scrutiny scraped over her fiercely, and he tallied her faults. “Red rimmed eyes, unnatural pallor, you’re unkempt, smudged … and even more gaunt than usual.” She’d definitely been on the run; it showed in the sweat, dust, and scratches she bore, in the dirt and stains upon her sleeveless, thigh-length tunic of coarsely spun black cloth, as well as a tear upon one knee of the matching trousers. Fin’neal’s answering laugh was curt. “Such truly great transgressions by comparison to Lord Dominic Bellaclava, the saintliest of the ElfFeyen. Pedicured and pampered here in relative luxury. Of course, I cannot pass muster. In fact … I suspect … that I never did.” She grasped a nearby chair, flipped it around, and copied his backward sprawl, down to her arms overlapped across the chair’s high curved back. She canted her head, returned his jaundiced gaze, then sighed, resignedly. “You’ve recovered from Kestrel’s handiwork, I see.” Her tone was casual, impersonal, yet it somehow betrayed concern. So, giving Nic a flinty glare, she tacked on her true sentiments. “You’re not fucked up enough by half to suit me.” Nic’s reply was a small derisive sound, almost a snort. Unconsciously, he laid a palm to his chest, measuring a strangely hollow heartbeat. “Does my recovery disappoint? It must be galling that I am good as new. In fact, I’m better than ever--my fine--Cerberus--bitch.” Rage further paled Fin’neal, made the feverishness in her red-rimmed pupil-dilated eyes obvious, underscored the gnash of her teeth with a canine snarl. Words failed her. Instead, she scraped back her chair, readying to abandon it … and Nic. For some reason unknown even to himself, Nic stalled her. “You, Fin’neal, are the one in pathetic shape, dusty, dirt-smeared,” he paused a cruel second, “and strung-out.” “Saint Dominic, the divine,” Fin’neal’s lips curled, “still haranguing me about red-dust.” She poised on the edge of her seat, hands gripped on the round back as if prepared to shove herself onto her feet--or reach across the table and throttle Nic. “I quit for you … once. Now,” her anger showed on her face, in her narrowed eyes, her tight jaw, “it’s all I’m surviving on. So--do--not--preach--at--me, Bellaclava princeling.”

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Her eyes went vacant. She looked back on the past days of running. Her voice, too, was faraway. “There’s no respite, no aid or comfort. I’m running for my life.” She turned a sidelong keen gaze upon Nic. “When Kestrel’s rogue pack catches me, they’ll rend me to pieces. All I have to fuel my race is red-dust. It gives me power, strength, speed, and stamina. So what if it burns me out?” She paused, swiveled a glance around the room, then finished her thought. “And now, according to your brother Hunter,” and her eyes again darted to a blurry, man-shaped shadow that had entered the Samovar only moments after her own arrival, “there’s a bounty on me. I’m being tracked by assassins. So, you see, red-dust is my one consolation. My one salvation.” “Hence the red rimmed eyes, the hollowed cheeks, the shadowy ravages on your face.” Nic nonchalantly recited his observations, truly unmoved by the signs of physical duress. Yet, as if becoming habitual, he absently scuffed a palm at his chest, not quite over his heart. He couldn‘t resist another spiteful probe at her failing. “I suppose it’s all you’ve consumed for the past few days? It’ll kill you before long.” He shocked himself when he posed his next question, for its inquisitiveness betrayed concern. “How much red-dust have you used?” “Enough.” Giving him a heedless reply, Fin’neal let her attention wander the room, scoping the groups of soldiers, the farmers, the several individuals at the carved bar. “Answer me, you disobedient cur.” Fin’neal’s head whipped back around towards him. Her gold-flecked red-stained hazel eyes gleamed, the scarlet ring around the irises sharpened. Her chest rose and fell with explosive anger, and her hold on the chair’s barreled back turned into a white-knuckled clench. “Do not think to order me, Lord Dominic Bellaclava, patron saint of useless impotent panderers. I never answered your call, nor did your bidding. We were equals. Remember?” “Oh, aye, the memories all remain, more’s the pity. I survived Kestrel’s ambush by the grace of the gods, and by the intervention of Taya Mephistos. She healed my wounds.” Nic, whose sun-gold wavy hair and sky-blue eyes were deceptively mild, his pretty countenance that of an effete nobleman, displayed some of his dark temper. “All--of--them. Even the depraved sickness in my soul which craved the likes of a Cerberus bitch, a low were-caste dog.” His voice started to grate with emotion. “I can’t be rid of those visions, of our vile couplings, but, they don’t move me. I do not want you any longer.” Nic bared his teeth in a grimace, showing contempt, distaste, anger--yet it was a lie. Even as he spoke, his body responded to the rush of erotic remembrance, his cock jerked to renew some of their kinkier positions, his tongue wanted a taste of her sweet pussy, his fingers itched to play with the jut of her exquisite tits.

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Most of all he remembered whispering in the throes of passion ’I love you’. He remembered it, and he denied that a Lower ElfFeyen could have moved him in any measure. That was before Taya’s passion magic had freed him. Now he had no feelings for Fin’neal. But he did, Nic chuckled nastily, have a use for her. “Good,” she concurred with a quick nod, “for I do not want you, either. I came here in search of something else altogether.” Fin’neal flung herself to her feet with a loud scrape of her chair. “I’ll waste no fare thee well on Saint Dominic Bellaclava. You’ve all the luxury and security of wealth, rank, and privilege. Take advantage of the comforts of the Samovar, if you like.” She eyed the blowsy barmaid with long brown hair, big tits, and even bigger hips, serving drinks at the far side of the room yet who still occasionally, invitingly stole glances at Nic. When next she spoke, her voice, her eyes, her aura, all seemed to fade away, as if she were a specter, no longer flesh and blood. Foreboding shaded her words. “Would that the gods had spared me knowing you. This will be our final goodbye. We shall not likely meet again.” “Hold.” Nic’s hateful tone slapped her back to reality. Fin’neal sneered at his demand, but made no other response. She simply began to pivot away from him. Lightening fast, Nic made a grab for her across the table. He caught her by the wrist. She reacted equally fast, snarling, snapping at his fingers, growling like a canine, nearly transforming on the instant. But, in the end, she didn’t change into her wolfen self, because Nic had dropped his hold. He lapsed heavily into his seat, rubbed at his knuckles as if she had, in fact, bitten him. He was stunned because in their tumultuous past neither of them had ever done the least violence to the other. For another drawn out moment, their gazes battled. Fin’neal’s gold-speckled hazel eyes-damningly rimmed with red--made a sudden derisive flicker up and down Nic. At that dismissive glance, an apoplectic knot choked Nic’s throat because, he realized, she couldn’t be brought to heel. Fin’neal Cerberus utterly loathed him. Yet, arrogantly, he sought to dominate her as was his right as a royal. “Sit--back--down.” Anger, not desperation, he insisted, imbued that order with a trace of mind-magic. To no avail. Again, he used his meager psychic power on her. “I am not through with you, disobedient Cerberus bitch.” Fin’neal, however, had already turned away. And, without so much as a quiver, she ignored his scornful command, as if he had not spoken, as if she had not heard, indeed, as if they inhabited different worlds.

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She stalked from him through the labyrinth of tables, tall, proud, predatory, a thin figure of uncommonly graceful carriage. His gaze, usually such a mild blue, blazed after her, tracking her, refusing the urge to follow … but wanting to. Nic’s line of vision was suddenly interrupted when his husky, well-built brother, Hunter, deserting the shadowy fringes of the Samovar where he had blended in chameleon-like, commandeered the chair which Fin’neal had just vacated. Hunter, third in his family’s royal ascension, and the only Bellaclava born as an innate shape-shifter--although he suspected Luciferno’s latent shifting powers had been recently triggered by bonding with mortal Desta Chevalier--deliberately used his bulk to distract Nic from Fin’neal. The strategy failed. “Move your ass,” Nic snarled. Hunter, shaggy and craggy as a mountain bear, obligingly slanted his chair. “Look your fill, Nic.” Hunter also glanced over his hunched shoulder to watch her methodical progress between the crowded tables. “What care you about Fin’neal Cerberus? You’ve sworn off her, any number of times during your convalescence here. Haven‘t you?” Hunter straightened. He studied his handsome brother. “Now is the time to decide her fate, Nic. Either give her shelter, or leave her to die. The noose is closing tighter about her even as we speak.” Nic, still holding at his hand as if she had truly bitten a chunk from him, spared a glance at Hunter. “She told me about the bounty on her head. She also told me that it was you, Hunter, who had given her the warning. She’s clever enough,” he said grudgingly. “She’ll survive. She‘ll outrun any threat.” Hunter wearily shook his head, ruffling his haphazardly shorn thick brown hair. “Not this time, Nic. She has no Sett, no pack, no refuge, because Kestrel has openly broken with the Cerberus. He has decreed her death, laughably over your despoiling her. But, in truth, mostly to end her defiance. There is so much confusion and desertion in the Cerberus Sett that he may not even have to challenge to become alpha.” “And,” Hunter leaned closer to his beautiful brother, subtly altered since Taya Mephistos had cured him of any affection for Fin’neal with forbidden passion-magic, and he gravely finished his prophecy, “if he kills Fin’neal, the niece of the Cerberus pack’s alpha, and beloved in her own right, without anyone lifting a finger to protect her or avenge her death, then Kestrel will easily claim that Sett.”

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“How dire it all sounds.” Mockery tinged Nic’s words. His smile was heartless, unsympathetic. “Once, not so long ago, Nic, you would have thought so.” Hunter peered across at his beloved brother and sought some glimmer of fun-loving boyish Nic, the charmer who had loved and left countless females … until Fin’neal. But, dismayingly, there was now an absent spark--that of kindness, of affection--from Nic. Instead a streak of cruelty ran through him. Hunter shivered. Nic, his gaze dispassionately trailing Fin’neal, spoke with antagonism. “What’s changed your tune on the subject of Fin’neal Cerberus? Didn’t you always counsel me--badger me--to give her up? Since when has her welfare been of any concern to you?” A shame-fueled blush darkened Hunter’s swarthy cheeks. His voice turned husky. “I never disliked her, as well you know. Besides her loveliness, she’s loyal, if pig-headed. She’s intelligent. She’s frank. But--,” he raked his blunt callused hands through his shaggy mane, “-how was I to know the true depth of your attachment? She’s a Lesser ElfFeyen, a canine were, a she-wolf from an unruly pack.” He raised his head, stared at Nic, hissed his next words. “By the precepts of our race, she is forbidden to you. Such a dalliance can have consequences. And you, dearest brother of mine, seemed smitten--but not, I judged, in love! Should I have not cautioned you to reason? For both your sakes?” For an unguarded instant, Hunter’s anguish played over his craggy features. “Look at what has come of this taboo alliance.” “All this sympathy must be for her,” Nic drawled, “for I am almost fully recovered. In fact, I am better than before because my unnatural,” his sensuous lip curled in an ugly sneer, “fascination for a Cerberus cur is gone. The intimacies that we shared are vague. Their power to move me dwindles, second by second. I cannot fathom what about her held attraction enough that I returned to her above once.” Nic frowned and stared at Fin’neal, who had halted not too distant beside a trio of blue and white clad Drang soldiers, rough-looking hulks, one inebriated, the others sober enough to make trouble. As he watched her bend closer to the men, smile mysteriously, and exchange some words, Nic had to admit to a small lie. His memories of their time together were fading, but more slowly than he liked. Nor did they, as he had just pronounced, emotionally affect him, much. But the disturbing part of these recollections was how often he had spoken of love! Grinning unsettlingly, he dismissed those declarations. They had been as empty then as they left him now. Hunter had risen silently, fluidly, unconsciously using one of the predatory traits that he possessed as a true shape-changer. Few ElfFeyen were born with this ability, with

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transformation-magic. There were, of course, myriad were-creatures, but those of the lesser castes could only summon one beast--such as bear, panther, stag, or hawk. Hunter could change to any beast, real or mythical. And, since he harbored these animals within, his natural senses were sharpened with some of their acuity, their sense of smell, their exceptional sight, their strength, speed, and agility. That made him a formidable tracker. He paused for a fraction, splitting a glance between Nic and Fin’neal. Intensity kept his voice a low whisper. “Whatever you do … or do not … feel for Fin’neal, consider this. She deserves better of you. She is an outcast now, with a bounty on her head. She is being hunted. And one of her assassins, I feel certain, is present.” Hunter’s keen glance scoured around the dim fire lit tavern. “She needs aid, she needs protection. So … make a choice, Nic. Either turn your back on her, here and now and forever, or gather her to you, take her from the Samovar, and place her under the protection of the Bellaclava.” “I forbade her to walk away. Did you not witness her defiance? She is not a spot on my conscience. I haven’t a single use for her …,” Nic’s voice, however, had slowed with consideration and he shifted his head, making his eyes sparkle malevolently, “ … except, perhaps, one.” “Have a care, Nic. There is danger close at hand.” Hunter slipped away towards the concealment of the shadows, but his last words of caution lingered. “If things go awry, I will meet you at the usual hideaway. You know the one.” “Yes, my strapping rawboned nursemaid. I shall be careful.” And Nic, now that Hunter was off haunting the perimeters of the Samovar, fully focused upon her. Indeed, he’d had half his senses attuned to her ever since her disobedient departure. The distance separating them wasn’t great, therefore he could see and hear all between his ex-lover and the three brawny soldiers. Uniformed in the colors of the Drang clan, they looked dangerous. Watching them, Nic’s frown morphed into a harsh scowl that gouged furrows on his brow and compressed his lips into a thin line. They were, he realized with ire burning in his craw like brimstone, striking a bargain that displeased him. Very much.

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Chapter Twenty Fin’neal’s Offer

Fin’neal had a mission. She needed red-dust, and the men before her, tough coarse soldiers of the Drang, most likely could supply it. So, with supple grace, she slightly canted her tall lithe body toward the obvious leader, a bruiser with a smatter of salt ’n pepper through his short dark hair, crafty features, and yellowed teeth. She performed a polite bow of her glossy blue-black-haired head and dazzled with the merest of smiles. Fin’neal then spoke, bluntly. “I’m interested in some red-dust.” The salt ’n pepper haired male appraised her with a searching glance. He tried to conceal his avaricious lust, but it drove him to wet at his lips, hungrily. “Yes, Captain Ivar Strasski can accommodate you, little she-beast.” And he pulled a small corded pouch from inside his jerkin and tossed it on the table near Fin’neal. Drawn to it, her fine-boned hand automatically reached for the pouch, but the Drang soldier snatched her wrist even faster. “First things first. What have you to barter? Captain Strasski,” he proudly thumped a fist against his own broad chest, “does not give anything away for free.” Fin’neal’s smile turned brittle, her voice cool. “I have only myself to trade.” Strasski’s greedy grin showed more yellow, both rows of his crooked teeth, in his crafty face. “In exchange for my red-dust, you’ll do us all three.” He swept a sidelong look at his comrades and spoke their names. “These are my men, Proctor and Reardon.” Fin’neal, controlling her disgust, studied them, especially the porcine Proctor, with his rounded gut, squinty eyes, oily hair, and slobbery drunkenness, then she answered. “I’ll do you and Reardon--with my mouth--but I’ll not touch him, no Proctor. Even I have standards.”

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Offended, Procter staggeringly began to rise, but Captain Strasski shoved him back into his seat. “Since you’ve hurt my armsman ’s feelings, I don’t think we can do business.” Strasski retrieved the pouch, but he closely watched her reaction. “Wait.” “Well?” “Here’s my counter offer.” Fin’neal couldn’t take her eyes, tellingly rimmed with red, from the non-descript drawstring bag. She dabbed the tip of her tongue at her dry, cracked lips. “I’ll not take your entire stash of red-dust… only just as much as I can suck off your cock.” “Done.” Strasski shoved his chair clear of the table. Immediately he undid the buttons of his tight blue trousers, eased the edges open, then drug out his monstrous cock. The fat slightly curved length was blushed with desire. His hard-on pulsed at her, an instant erection of goodly proportions. “On your knees, she-beast.” Fin’neal quickly dropped to the worn plank floor in between his spread legs on a direct level with Strasski’s bulbous, slightly crooked cock. “Don’t be stingy with the red-dust,” she warned, gravel-voiced. “Not to worry, bitch, I’ll sprinkle to the root. That’s more than enough to buzz you for a week. Repay my generosity with a good cock-sucking.” And Strasski, the center of the entire tavern’s avid attention, including Dominic Bellaclava, loosened the drawstring bag and shook some of the fine-grained brilliant-red powder onto his head, and tapped some excess down along his veined shaft. He then carelessly threw the pouch onto the table. “Take your fill, bitch. Lick me clean.” His green eyes shone glassy, his sexual excitement no doubt enhanced by the red-dust coating his large phallus, entering his pores, running through his blood. One of its many variable side effects was as an aphrodisiac. Ivar Strasski was particularly susceptible, and he hoped that Fin’neal was too. If so, she’d willingly fuck the entire Samovar. He scooted comfortably lower in his chair, let his cock throb in her face, and croaked some encouragement. “Give me such a blow job as these unlucky bastards who must sit and watch and fondle themselves will never forget.” “Maybe this,” Fin’neal shot him an irritated look, “will shut you up, you parsimonious bastard.” Like a sex-starved nymphomaniac, she went down on Strasski, stretching her mouth wide, sucking him inside, accommodating his size with a decided cracking of her jaw.

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Industriously she screwed her tongue around his broad crown to get every scintillating particle of the drug. With her eyes mere slits of concentration, she set about sucking and swiping at him like she loved nothing better than cramming thick, wide cock meat into her drooling mouth. Strasski moaned, as did an envious chorus of enthralled onlookers. He cupped Fin’neal’s head, sifting into the short soft strands of blue-black hair that slicked over her scalp, and he tried to force her downward. Instead, she let his wet, saliva coated crown pop from her mouth and she began to lick down and around the sides of his curved shaft, pursuing the red powder dusting his thick stalk, lapping at the mixture of her own drool and any stray particles, vacuuming him with strong sucking pulls. The red-dust made her tingle. She buzzed in her mind, her heart, her pussy. After she had slicked her tongue up and down his hot, satisfying length, she made a narrow circle with her thumb and fingers and fucked him with it, methodical pulls up and down his wide curved girth. When Strasski gurgled in his throat, Fin’neal, poised on her knees, stroking him with her hand, looked into his flushed face. “Good?” she purred. “Uhhh,” his eyes blinked dazedly, “… suck me some more.” “Give me more red-dust. I want my cunt to ache for every cock in this place, two-at-atime.” After a hesitation to consider her demand--red-dust, it was universally known, could cause fatal seizures--Strasski shakily complied, used a trembling hand to gather the pouch. Her dangerous request had hushed the room. Red-dust, when ingested in large quantities, could kill. There were several loud mutters of disapproval. His unsteadiness caused him to dump a lethal-looking dose over his enormous, spittlecoated cock. On the instant, Fin’neal swallowed his big silky crown, tried to take him all the way down to his testicles, inhaled the dangerous amount of red-dust with a deep, long pull upon him. She was growing so horny she wanted to suck the seed from his balls. Make him spew. Feel warm spunk shoot into her mouth. Then in her cunt. As she capably polished at his knob, tongue swirling around his cap, she lifted a bleary gaze to the faces grouped around them: Fin’neal Cerberus no longer had any whites to her eyes. She was over drugged, enough to fuel several days race to escape her enemies. She wouldn’t want--or need--food or drink or sleep. She’d be able to run herself into the ground … then she’d find more red-dust. Somewhere. From someone. For any price.

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But right now the potent uncut ElfFeyen stimulant shifted her thought processes to those of her wolfen side. Thus, Fin’neal, with thick cock stuffed in her mouth, but none in her pussy, began to suck Strasski with a ravenous rhythm. Strasski’s legs went rigid. His incessant raw groan drew the ring of nearby spectators closer to see her work his shaft so diligently, to hear her mouth slurp and shuck at his erection, to envy the ferocious grimace on Strasski’s face, lips thinned, jaw clenched, eyes shut. More than a few men sat handling their own pricks, stroking and pulling and caressing while they watched. Some, grunting, spilled cum very fast, adding another scent to the stuffy tavern. The ElfFeyen males had long since smelled Fin’neal’s cream. Dutifully, she continued to lick and pleasure Strasski, but she also began to rub at herself through her loose trousers. Her pussy throbbed. The sooner she finished off Strasski, the sooner she could pick a cock to fuck. At that thought, her strokes to her mound grew firmer. She rocked in time with the beats in her sex. Any minute she might just get herself off! However, a voice eerily sifted into the air, sounding disembodied. “Make her take turns. She’s more than ready. She needs some cock. Look how she touches herself.” “Aye!” “Yes--!” “Have her take us all--” Gruff dull shouts came from everywhere, demanding to partake of the lower-caste female wolf. One of Strasski’s men, Reardon, stood next to his Captain and whipped out his undersized cock. “I’m next,” he grated, aiming the shaft towards Fin’neal. “Then me,” blatted an unsavory fellow. Fin’neal ignored the din as a ragged circle enclosed her. She’d nearly gotten Strasski off. He grabbed the back of her head, rammed between her pursed lips, then froze. Grunting and groaning like a boar, his sour ejaculate sputtered into Fin’neal’s mouth. The irregular bursts of seminal fluid oozed from the corners, and Fin’neal convulsively swallowed, rather than choke. He’d barely emptied his cock before Reardon, tugging her by the shoulders, swung her around to position her at his feet. Awkwardly, he pushed his small cock at her.

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Fin’neal took him fast and deep, pumping down his skinny shaft, cupping at his scrawny balls. She wanted to make him come then move on to the next. Because of the red-dust and the fact that she knelt in a ring of ready and waiting cocks, most thick, straight and mouth-watering, she was insatiable. Through her sultry half-lidded eyes, she admired a few of the men’s luscious pricks, took stock of which she wanted to fuck, viewed them as nothing more than cock for her cunt. Still tending to Reardon, she nevertheless absently reached out and stroked one extremely fine fellow, finding his perfection irresistible. She smoothed her palm up and down the enormous pecker, a perfect shaft that bounced excitedly ceiling-ward, a piece of living steel that would give a female a blissful humping. It pulsed and quivered in her grip. “Pay attention to my dick.” Reardon slapped her wandering hand loose from the other ElfFeyen male. “Suck me harder, bitch.” He lunged his shortcomings at her. Almost insensate from lust, Fin’neal mewled, wanting to exchange Reardon for the other male. However, with a jolt in her sex, she realized that he, the one with the beautiful, enormous shaft, whom she had been forced to unclasp, had moved behind her. He now stood at her back. She felt his presence, but continued her blow job of Reardon, sucking in unison with the firm tug and sweep of her fingers up and down his little dick. Yet all the while her senses riveted on the man behind her, wary of his movements, of his aggression. And still she bobbed rapidly over Reardon, her saliva aiding her to fist him smooth and tight. He began to grunt in a repeated garble of groans and growls. Soon he convulsed, but when he started to ejaculate, Fin’neal’s mouth abandoned him, although she still cranked at his cock with her fist, letting the cum spurt for all to see. Just as she released Reardon’s flaccid shaft, that same eerie voice, raspy and low, issued a command from behind her. “Lean across the table, bitch. I for one will not be satisfied with your hand or mouth. I intend to fuck your juicy pussy.” Even before he had uttered that vulgar demand, she had tingled with awareness, with certainty: this was the male, the big hot cock, she needed, even if he was an imperious insulting asshole! Impatiently he grasped the back of her shirt, snatched her up from her knees and sprawled her belly-first across the nearest vacant table. Faster than Fin’neal--or anyone--could voice a protest, he roughly hiked up the hem of her tunic, simultaneously skimmed down her trousers, and lewdly groped between Fin’neal’s legs, smoothing around her curly thick thatch, dipping into her pussy‘s swollen lips. When he took his hand away, her nakedness was bared for one and all, the crack of her ass, the plumpness of her cheeks, the damp cleft of her sex. The air on her skin made her cold, while the touch of their salacious gazes made her hot. Fin’neal, at the center of a prurient circle

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of men, who collectively held their breaths and rabidly enjoyed him ravishing a wild beautiful she-wolf, whimpered her pleasure. “Should I ease you some more with my fingers or just ram my big cock straight in?” His tone held venom, but his touch, idly fondling just between her opened legs, although forceful, wasn’t truly violent. She responded by awkwardly widening her stance, exposing as much of herself to him as possible--for him to see, to touch, to take. By doing so, she wantonly offered herself--she debased herself-- to Dominic Bellaclava. Yet, Nic, smirking, making a mocking grunt of rejection, passed on that invitation. He randomly picked a bystander, a swarthy youth with the build and intellect of an ox, and he called to him. “What say you, my fine yeoman? D’ye think she’s ready? Or does she need some diddling to make her ripe and ready?” Nic paused. “Come here and rub her up for me. Play with her pussy. Finger her till she’s soaked.” The oversized youth shuffled over and eagerly applied himself, palming her mound, vigorously smearing his sausage-sized fingers into her plumped up hole. His leering grin confirmed his enjoyment of this task, no less so than his loud, lewd sniggers. His thoroughness was rewarded by Fin’neal’s low panting moans. Getting excited himself, the beefy youth slicked and fondled at her twat--rubbed and stroked her folds, then circled her clit--until Fin’neal was frantically humping at his hand. At that, Nic halted him with a curt word. The rustic youth, his face ruddy, his lungs huffing like bellows, pulled his nicely wet hand from her pussy. He grinned around at his slobbering audience. “She’s thick and slick as warmed honey.” The young ox, barely able to articulate his excitement, waved his hand like a trophy, washed it over his face as he returned to his spot in the uneven line of ElfFeyen men. “You there.” Nic spied another man, a bald soldier with tattoos on his skull, and invited him to a similar chore. “Use your tongue on her. Lick her, lash her, love her with your mouth. Insure that she’s suitably swollen and drenched. For, you see, my cock requires lots of feminine lubrication to penetrate comfortably.” With a bemused murmur of gratitude to Nic, the bald soldier scrambled onto his knees behind Fin’neal, and, spreading her with his hands, hesitating only enough to admire her bush, her lips, her clit, he drove his tongue into her pussy, hurriedly lapped at her cream, then even took the trouble to probe at her rosebud. Finally, he set about lazily licking her in long, sensuous strokes.

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Fin’neal groaned with every monumental throb and beat of her sex. She loved that thorough, deep swipe inside her puffy pounding pussy! When he unexpectedly tickled at her clit, she squealed a warning. She’d almost reached her peak! “That’s enough,” Nic said gruffly, shaking the man by the shoulder. The soldier came out from between her legs, and his face was shiny with lubrication. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you, my lord Bellaclava.” While he stammered, he strangled his own dick in his palm, fisting his fat shaft, ready to beat it to a quick release. “She has the sweetest, wettest pussy I’ve ever tasted.” Still clutching himself, he ungainly bowed his way back into the ragged circle of ElfFeyen males. As the men hopefully waited for a possible chance to next stimulate Fin’neal, Nic caressed her ass, speaking in a thoughtful tone. “She’s had a fingering, and a tonguing, and, soon, a fucking. Watch closely, my friends, as I intend to demonstrate how to mount a nasty bit of Cerberus tail. But first I want to see if my skilled predecessors’ efforts have been sufficient? Is my disobedient bitch ready to take a giant cock?” Chuckling sinisterly, he scrubbed at her pussy lips, then gentled his touch when he sunk deeper, sopping his fingers in her wetness. When he deftly drew his big hand through the folds of her sex and imperceptibly diddled at her clit, she repaid his efforts with gusto, her face grimacing, her ass twitching, her groin gyrating. She moaned with wanton fervor, and hoarsely stuttered pleas for him to take her. “Oh, Nic, Nic! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fill me. I hurt for you. Please, fuck me!” Her cries came fast, ran together in her mindless incoherence. “Fuck me, fuck, fuck, fuck me.” “You always were a noisy little cunt,” he mildly rebuked, “but I suppose most canine werewolves yip and yap when they need to be fucked. Is that it, Cerberus bitch? Are you begging? Are you begging … for me? Should I pump my royal cock into your nasty Cerberus slit?” “Bellaclava bastard!” she huffed. The ugly belligerence in Nic’s tone enraged Fin’neal. She made as if to rise, pushing against the table, lifting her torso, but Nic splayed a heavy hand across her back and pinned her down. “Not so fast, she-wolf.” He roughly aligned his hips to her doubled over form, onehandedly waggled his cock--which she had so admired, and so eagerly stroked mere moments ago--against her. He traced her pubic curls, drug up and down her outer lips, then shallowly burrowed into her plump slit. Then he centered himself … and ferociously plunged in like a beast. Firmly embedded in her tight creamy hole, Nic released a great exhale, and his eyes grew hazy. Almost immediately, however, his hips rolled with automatic precision in and out in a

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slick thorough rhythm. His breath hissed sibilantly through his gritted teeth. Passion soon dictated that his movements be fast sharp rams. Each inward thrust jarred Fin’neal, and she groaned. As he battered her, she tried to latch onto the tabletop, rather than painfully scuff across its pitted wooden surface. Nic himself grasped her shoulders to steady her, but his pace didn’t slacken. He lunged madly into her, massive drives of his huge hurting cock through her moist narrow passage. He skewered her rapaciously, feeling his dick pulse and strain, his balls ache and constrict. And, then, concentrating on each stroke of his shaft into her slick slit, his eyes shuttered. Yet, through the veil of his lashes, he admired the female beneath him, the short velvet cap of her blue-black hair, the elegance of her slim but feminine body, the stark beauty of her profile. Such past admiration had led to all those professions of love, which he now regretted, which he indeed recanted. The thud of his heart--and thus in his cock--suddenly turned brutal. He hadn’t, he insisted, a single iota of feeling for her. All he craved was a good fucking, and her pussy, unlike those he’d recently sampled here at the Samovar, was hot, sweet, and juicy. And he fit Fin’neal tighter than a steel girder embedded in concrete! His vision quavered, and his breath came raspy. He was extremely close to coming! His humps became palsied jerks, strong pumps into her body. Another few thrusts would finish him. He was almost there. He exalted in filling her velvety slick sex with his big shaft. “Hurry and cum,” Fin’neal sneered, “I’ve got better things to do.” Nic’s ejaculate exploded into her, even as her contemptuous words stung at him. The bitch hadn’t gotten off! While his spunk poured into her, he realized her revenge: she’d lain there, stiff and uncooperative, silent but for a few stray moans, and let him rut her without participating, without climaxing! He’d never failed to satisfy a woman. Ever. And here, at the Samovar, she’d publicly shamed him. That he hadn’t satisfied her was obvious! She hadn’t shook, or cried, or begged for more! She hadn’t screamed his name! She hadn’t had an orgasm! As a further humiliation, most of the witnesses shuffled away from his disgrace, as if such a failing were contagious. Nic’s erection seemed to fizzle out. As he pulled loose, he felt withered by her scorn. Faster than a thought, she shimmied out-from-under him and righted her clothing. “I’m not done with you yet,” Nic snarled.

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“Oh, no, Saint Dominic,” she sarcastically chided, “we are both done with the other. And not fondly it would seem. I came to the Samovar for one purpose--red-dust--and I’ve bought and paid for it.” She disgustedly looked at his flaccid member. “Dearly.” “Disobedient Cerberus cur.” Nic’s usual beauty, his classic prettiness, from his features to his loose golden hair and his sky-blue eyes, vanished behind a red-faced angry expression. He stuffed his limp but still impressive cock inside his trousers, knowing that he wasn’t up for another screw. But neither was he going to dismiss her. She needed to be better trained. “A Bellaclava royal has ordered you to stay. Even a mangy outcast mongrel must know she cannot disobey. You need to be brought to heel, like all your renegade kin.” Fin’neal’s lip curled, but she didn’t utter her ridicule. Instead she took a step away. Wild beyond thinking, Nic lunged for her. His awkward pull threw her off-center, just as a shout of warning came from Hunter. “Nic, Fin’neal! There’s treachery here!” As one, the pair sensed the danger--an assassin, the mysterious black-cloaked blackhooded figure from the shadowy corner, had neared enough to throw a tiny dart. Fin’neal, alerted by her sixth sense, transformed in the blink of an eye, blurring from flesh to fur, from two-legged to four-legged, from woman to wolf, nearly faster than the mind could comprehend. She was sleekly dark, sinewy, and delicate as a greyhound more so than a wolf. However, the dart did not completely miss its target. It grazed her haunch. She yipped, twisted madly, and scrabbled away from Nic. When he reached for her, she snarled in fullthroated fangs-bared rejection of him, indeed, of any who tried to touch her. Growling and snapping, evading all who would restrain her, be he soldier, farmer, or tinker, she raced in and around the tables, easily escaping the tavern through the door left ajar by a tipsy patron who had re-entered from taking a piss outside. Nic gave a ferocious roar and pointed a shaking finger to the spot where Hunter had subdued the assassin. Their struggle had been brief. Hunter, taller by half a foot, as well as broader and bulkier, twisted the assassin’s arm further up behind his back and sadistically wrenched at it. “If that dart was poisoned,” Nic’s shout brought dust from the rafters and made the chandeliers sway, “I will snap your neck in two! And I will find each and every misbegotten blood kin, clan member, or guild mate of yours and do the same to them!” “It had no deadly poison, simply a sleep draught. With that in her veins, she’ll not run far or fast even in her were-shape of wolf.” The answer came muffled. Hunter, still unmercifully twisting the assassin’s arm up between his shoulder blades, swept the cloak back to reveal … a female. Dark coppery braids looped around her head. Anger marred her pale luminescent skin, flushed her cheeks, flashed in her wide russet eyes.

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“Are you not the legendary DyAnna Saint-Lyon, member of a family closely connected to the Royal House of Sirocco?” Hunter’s keen bronze-tinged brown eyes raked over her. His jaw suddenly clenched. “My reputation precedes me, as yours does you, Hunter Bellaclava.” DyAnna attempted to pull free, only to be rewarded by a fearsome teeth-rattling shake from Hunter. “Brutal dolt. The whole Southern Region of Aurora knows that I accepted the bounty on Fin’neal Cerberus. I pledged to catch her… and I never fail.” DyAnna stabbed a glance at Hunter, who boldly manhandled her with his large frame and undeniable strength. Trying mind-magic on him, DyAnna issued a command. “Let me go, Hunter. My quarry is getting away.” Her gaze seemed to follow the invisible trail of Fin’neal’s escape. He snorted derisively. Either she had no such power to call upon, or he was extremely immune. Nic, however, unleashed his own psychic power. His voice rang out with a layer of magical influence beneath it. None of his rage had dissipated. “Hold on to her, Hunter! I shall be the one to catch Fin’neal Cerberus. Her disobedience to me cannot go unchallenged. She needs to learn to obey a master,” the predatory gleam in his sky-blue eyes, coupled with his harsh expression, was frightening, even before he concluded his threat, “And, by all the gods of fornication, I, Dominic Solsticious Bellaclava, shall be the one to break her.” Nic paused for another millisecond, then gave a last reminder to his favored brother Hunter and his captive, DyAnna Saint-Lyon. “She mustn’t be allowed to interfere, no, nor any here within the Samovar. Meet me at our designated rendezvous. Only,” Nic’s visage transformed into an ugly leer, “don’t interrupt us there too soon.” Nic, moving in a blur that would have done credit to Hunter in his panther form, tore from the Samovar and out into the night. The chase was on, and his prey, dosed with a sedative, had not one single solitary hope of eluding him. Nic, his eyes nearly as crimson as Fin’neal’s, only with fury, not red-dust, bayed at the beautiful half-moon, for the Cerberus bitch had yet to be caught. And he could hardly wait. He howled again and sprinted after his quarry. This chase, he vowed, would be short, but her training would be lengthy.

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Chapter Twenty-One Saracen’s Wish

After five blissful days and nights, Saracen still couldn’t get enough of Sprite. By turns, they constantly waylaid each other, sometimes for stolen gropes--she often fondled his package while he favored using his mouth on her--but most times it was for out-and-out coitus. She usually initiated sex in bed or their suite’s sturdy settee. Once, however, and much out-of-character for Sprite, she had shepherded him into a dim unused guest room which, Saracen smiled to remember, had held the interesting challenge of a hammock. Her methods for initiating foreplay were generally shy, relying on unexpected touches that turned to massages then into hot dirty sex. Or she would smother his face and chest with kisses before she straddled his hips and seated herself on him like a long wide pole. Only once, so far, had she presented herself in a truly brazen fashion: Sprite, settling naked upon the very chair in which she had spent her first night in the Bellaclava secondary Demesne, had made him watch her masturbate with a giant dildo. Arranging him at her feet, she’d given him an up close and personal view of that huge toy going in and out, coated with more and more of her lubrication, pumping into her ever slicker, ever faster, making her hips grind, her ass bump, and her pussy hump. He’d gripped his own lusty erection in a chokehold for the entirety of her erotic performance. And, after her amazing climax, he’d repaid her well, several times, for the privilege, riding her till her legs visibly trembled and she’d nearly fainted. For his part, Saracen wasn’t anywhere near as traditional in terms of place or opportunity. On one vivid occasion, he’d tackled her to the floor, rubbed her up with a judicious amount of butterscotch topping on her tits--and a jot between her legs--and he’d enjoyed licking her clean. Then there was the time he’d bent her over a bench from the dining nook and nailed her to the spot for a satisfactory period. Later that same evening, he’d taken her to his private screening room where they had watched some porn. Truthfully, they hadn’t paid much attention to the movie past the first five minutes. He’d been unable to contain his libido and had pulled Sprite onto his lap. He’d fingered her for a goodly while to the graphic soundtrack--his own harsh breathing had added texture to the erotic noise--then, controlling her motion with his hands

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at her slim waist, he’d screwed her in a languid, slow-building tempo, pushing and slicking through her velvety wetness, thrusting and shoving until they both had come, simultaneously. And so the days had passed, with plenty of leisurely interludes, punctuated by many spontaneous hot ’n dirty quickies. Saracen’s lust for Sprite was insatiable. As was Sprite’s for him … or so he believed. Yet the silence of her birth curse gnawed at him. He yearned to hear, to learn, to experience the timbre of her voice--in anger, in passion, in rebuke. He actually pined for the warmth of her laughter, the gentleness of her weary sighs, the frantic cries of her climax. Mostly, though, he needed her profession of love, for its solace, and for its reassurance. Even now as he admired her upon the bed, where she had spent over an hour painting and drying her toe-nails then flipping through a magazine, he battled with uncertainty, born from his recently diminished mind-magic. Did she, he agonized, care for him? Did she love him, just a little? Or would she someday abandon him, destroying him in the process? Was sex, at least on her side, all that bound them? Saracen spoke, abruptly calling for Sprite’s attention. “I had planned an evening downstairs in the game room … but,” he began strolling across the silver-carpeted floor, “Chael’s schemes against Taya Mephistos are coming to fruition. She has just arrived through the portal and has come, according to him, to petition to be released from his work of or passionmagic. Therefore, my plans for this evening have changed.” He had arrived at the bedroom’s full-length free-standing cheval mirror, and he purposely positioned it very near to the side of the bed. Sprite’s curious gaze instantly riveted on him--and also took in her own reflection in the nearby mirror. Surprised, her magazine slid from her hands onto the floor. She actually saw herself drop it, and therefore had an inkling of Saracen’s intent, even before he voiced it. “We are going to watch ourselves having sex.” Saracen’s eyes glittered hotter than smelted silver. As he paced--actually stalked--around the foot of the huge sleigh bed, obviously intending to come at Sprite from behind, his beautiful waist-length feral-black hair stirred around his shoulders, ruffled with his measured strides. When he stood at the farthest side of the bed, he began to disrobe, unbuttoning his cambric shirt, shucking his loose gray trousers. All-the-while Sprite returned his avid gaze in the reflection of the mirror. At the appearance of his hefty fully erect cock, she fascinatingly measured it with her gaze. Then, dampening and plumping in her pussy, she blushed and

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redirected her reflection’s glance to Saracen’s face. The mirror’s image of him plainly revealed his arrogant, chip-toothed grin. He caressed the pads of his fingers up and down his prodigious shaft. “I’m ready to give it to you, my sweet sea Sprite. Now it’s your turn. Get naked for me.” Sprite eagerly took her cue and yanked the only clothing that she wore--one of Saracen’s old comfortably threadbare shirts--up over her head and tossed it away. Naked, Sprite scuttled to the center of the bed so that she balanced on her slightly parted knees crosswise upon it. She was now exactly aligned with the mirror, while Saracen stood directly at her back. Their coupled image shown like an explicit projection. Her nudity was fully on view, small pretty breasts, indented waist, feminine hips, brown-gold thatch, while his was only partially visible over her shoulder, chiseled chest, tanned skin, sinful black hair draped around him. Sprite, turned-on by her own nakedness, blushed from the points of her dainty-shaped fairy-tipped ears to her angelic face to her aroused, jutted breasts. Meanwhile, Saracen, who had promptly joined her upon the bed, positioning himself closely at her back, languorously perused her reflection with his intense silvery gaze. His calloused hands then trailed that same course over Sprite’s petite frame. He impulsively touched the edge of her ear, the curve of her cheek, the bud of her nipple. Enfolding her from behind, he nuzzled at the side of her neck, traced a feathery caress of his fingertips over her throat then down the center of her chest to more thoroughly skim over her nipples, to pluck and pinch the excited pink peaks. At intervals, he cocked his head for a prurient look at them in the mirror. When he fully palmed her tit, he watched, fascinated, as his glorious image also fondled Sprite‘s perfect mound. He swirled over the excited nipple, then repeatedly thumbed at it. “You’re exquisite,” he murmured, offering her other breast the same treatment, groping, chafing, and massaging it. Then, holding her breasts in both hands, he gently squeezed. Sprite’s own tiny hands fluttered to his, pressing them firmly to her chest, rolling their joined hands in rough stimulating circles over her nipples. The heat of desire from his erotic foreplay weakened Sprite so that she languidly melted against him, snuggled her smaller body against his broad muscular brawn. From underneath her hooded lashes, she too enjoyed their sexy mirrored reflection. She was a warm welcome weight against Saracen, her soft sensuous form responding to his least touch. When she felt his cock bump between her legs, her head tossed, her mouth formed a silent, panted “O”. He watched himself whisper at her ear. “Touch yourself for me, Sprite. Play with your pussy. Let me see you.”

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Obediently, she brushed her fingers into her golden-brown pubic curls, even as Saracen absently rubbed at her sensitive areola. “Finger fuck yourself,” Saracen suggested, his throat harshly grating over the words like sandpaper. Sprite pressed three fingers inside her slit and slathered around her drenched, swollen folds. She grimaced, eyes scrunching closed, as she freely explored herself, leaning on Saracen, splaying her knees, swiping into her slick engorged flesh. “Ohh, yeaaaahhhh!” Saracen breathed out a low moan that shivered across the top of Sprite’s shoulders. He wasn’t, she knew for a certainty, watching the mirror. No, he ogled straight down the naked line of her body--past the hard protruded knots of her nipples, the soft flatness of her belly, the feminine flare of her hips--and he stared at her hand busily working at her crotch. The erotic sight of Sprite’s fingers rubbing purposefully at her own cream-slicked folds made him shudder. She swirled and plied at the entire pink length of her labia, swift, maddening, forceful strokes. “Beautiful,” he croaked out the heartfelt compliment. It doubled Sprite’s excitement to have his intense focus on her. So she swiped at herself until her hand was coated and her pelvis began to pump in shallow upward tilts. Pleasurably, she scrubbed down as her hips bumped up. Her pace quickened. She pressed and cupped herself vigorously, ground herself against her own questing hand. Crazed, her fingers slicked through her folds, each successive sweep ever wilder, ever wetter. “I … need … to touch you, Sprite. I… need … to finish you.” Saracen’s voice thrummed. His hands fell to her thighs, and one, his dexterous right, overtook her efforts with one enormous deep sensuous glide down through her well lubricated sex. His one thorough, powerful stroke ignited Sprite’s orgasm. Her muscles clenched, her pussy shoved at him. She jerked sharply three times, then froze, silently panting for breath while pulse-pounding pleasure beat in her clit. Saracen tenderly held her for many moments until the tension of climax subsided. “You’re up for more, I hope?” He kissed at her temple. In the mirror, she gave him a sloe-eyed grin. “Completely kneel for me, then.”

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And Sprite did, bending forward so that her hands braced on the mattress, and she now faced the mirror from another vantage. Her plump breasts, slightly elongated from her downward kneeling position, bobbed and swayed. She felt wonderfully tired, yet relished the idea of Saracen taking her. He snugged up close to her, pet at her pussy’s coarse mat of curls from between her legs, began dragging through her labia to stimulate her again, to make her slick and swollen, to help her cream anew. “Is your pussy getting hot, Sprite? Are you aching for my cock?” His silvery eyes caught hers in the mirror, fever-bright and dazed. “Or, if not, I could… lick you some?” At his suggestion, she shakily inhaled, momentarily closing her eyes as lust erupted where he caressed--her throbbing full lips, her aroused clit. He correctly interpreted her desperate expression: Fuck me now! Preparing to meet her strangely vociferous mental demand, Saracen shallowly waggled his crown through her lips, wetting his tip, confirming that she was, indeed, ready for him, that she was suitably lubricated to accept his massive quivering cock. And by all the fornicating gods, she was! He pressed into her, slowly, restrainedly. She stretched around him, and he focused on their reflected image as he incrementally penetrated her. She was so incredibly sexy! Kneeling on all fours, her mouth slack, her expression dazed, her sandy-golden kinks and curls spilling down over her shoulders, not quite obscuring a view of her dangling breasts. He stared at their prominent, protruded nipples, wishing for a suck. Later, he promised himself, grinning wickedly into the mirror. Later he would have a prolonged suckle. Using her very gently, Saracen’s hips continued to carefully push, push, push him deeper inside Sprite’s warm, wet walls. She was tight around him, a feminine sheath that blissfully smoothed and squeezed over his tip, his head, and progressively more and more of his lengthy, hefty shaft. His pulse--both the beat in his chest and the pound in his dick--insisted that he breach her in a fulfilling to-the-womb thrust. Mindlessly, on a barbaric guttural cry, his loins lurched forward. His immense drive crammed his girth completely into her tight sex. Saracen hummed in his throat, a purr of gratification. Sprite, he saw in the mirror, had nearly been overcome. Her face was drawn taut, and her arms supporting her on the bed trembled. He gripped her hips and withdrew, gliding out, then sinking back in, skimming out, shoving in. Each drive and retreat made him crazy. The pressure for release came agonizingly swift.

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His balls ached to bursting! But he maintained his controlled pace for several more long erotic pumps. Several times he glanced down to where he methodically plowed her from behind. This view was also thrilling, revealing a peek at her ass. Plus he could watch his shaft, glistening with her syrup, slide almost completely out before he would shove his thick, meaty, passionblushed cock back inside. His hips soon pounded at her with more vigor, more speed. When he glanced up, their image in the nearby cheval mirror--of him hammering her from behind and her petite body welcoming his savage thrusts--served to make him hotter Through his lowered lids, he saw Sprite’s angelic face contort, her hands claw and dig at the bedding, her torso shudder as a tremendous orgasm hit. Her sexual muscles clamped and released in a series of amazing contractions. She shivered everywhere, down her shoulders, her back, her legs. Her pussy clenched at him, trying to milk him for cum. When she grimaced, it revealed a manic smile of ecstasy. She’d be screaming, if she had a voice! And Saracen, for a second, mourned that unnatural silence. He wanted to hear her cries of passion. Therefore, he took some comfort in his own great roar of release which reverberated loudly enough for them both. His last massive piston slammed him deeply within Sprite, and he ground against her to pack himself firmly inside. His sac felt unbelievably tight and his balls never felt bigger. Then, as his cum exploded up and out his shaft, his cock pulsed with a frantic abandon. Those throbbing spurts were rapturous as he flooded her with semen. He steadied Sprite on her knees when her own climax began to wane. For several satisfying moments, his ejaculate surged into her womb, hot jets of seed. He grunted and shot one last lengthy spume into her, followed by several lesser but pleasurable concluding spurts. Now soft, he pulled out, eased Sprite down on the bed and onto her side where he collapsed as well. Sprite, her hair a thick cascade of sunlight-on-sea sandy-brown waves, bestowed him a tiny, tired, endearing smile. Her flushed face radiated satisfaction, contentment, yet Saracen, suffering from the recent lack of their tenuous psychic bond, cupped the side of her face in one palm, stroked the outer edge of her slender fey-tipped ear, and searched her beloved features for reassurance. As she returned his intimate regard, her brow furrowed. She sensed his turmoil. Comfortingly, she traced a fingertip over the tiny v-shaped scar under his right eye which she had accidentally given him. She leaned up and kissed that spot, as if to ease him … and herself. The gentleness of that touch tried to convey affection and comfort.

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Saracen felt a traitorous moisture dampen his closed eyes, and a knot of pain in his throat. His resonant voice, therefore, came out husky. “This is an odd impasse, my sweet sea Sprite. I have not spoken to you of love--true, profound, and abiding--while you,” he exhaled heavily, “cannot ever speak of it to me.” Underneath the continued soft press of Sprite’s kisses to his small scar, to his cheek, to his brow, Saracen’s eyes remained closed, their silvery depths shielded from her. “Our bond--my enhanced powers of mind-magic--seems to have weakened.” What, he agonized, had disrupted that connection? With it his accomplishments had been astonishing. He’d had a tentative empathetic bond with Sprite, even to the point of subconsciously implanting his fantasies within her. And, too, during the confrontation with the rogue Cerberus, he’d actually affected the laws of nature--he’d frozen the Cerberus in a moment of time! But now he was bereft of those abilities, and that loss pained him because it made him feel vulnerable, it made him fear losing Sprite. Was she locking him out? Did she not return an ounce of his affection? “I no longer hear any of your thoughts, or glean any of your emotions.” His voice thickened, almost as with a sob. He pulled back from Sprite, and opened his eyes. They shimmered with the brilliance of a molten silver pool. “My royal ElfFeyen ego fears the vulnerability of proclaiming that … I love you, Sprite, and at the same time it craves to hear you admit it to me.” He hovered just above her, almost breath-to-breath and kiss-to-kiss. He swept an unruly tendril from off her forehead. “I do love you Sprite of the Fer-de-lance.” Sprite pressed her mouth to his, and formed silent words. I--love--you--too. However, rather than bask in that wondrous admission, harshness flowed from Saracen. “I am selfish, Sea Siren. I need to hear those words. I need to hear you call my name when I claim you, when I take you, when I make you come.” The silver of his eyes shown frighteningly hotter, brighter, boiling with power. “I need to hear your laughter, your voice, your sighs, your cries.” Saracen’s eyes suddenly blazed. His recently stifled power gathered within his heart, readying to grant his fondest wish. Without conscious thought, or cautious hesitation, he crafted a spell, then he spoke it in a mad rush, bending the universe to his will.

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“I wish nothing in this world so much as for you to regain your voice, my mute Sea Siren, and to vow that you will love me forever.” The terrible alarm in Sprite’s clear lagoon-blue eyes, expressive even in this instant, alerted Saracen to his error. That look of shock, however, held no condemnation. Absolutely none. She inhaled very loudly, a rusty rattling draw of breath. And, raising her delicate little hand to his cheek, she tried his name--for the first time. “Sa--ra--cen.” Each agonized syllable was accompanied by a lather of shiny red bubbles, blood burbling from her wounded throat. Then her eyes rolled back in her head, and her hand, with the strange grace of slow motion, fell to the bed. Like a stab to the heart, Saracen realized his mistake. He had broken a horrendous curse meant to last from birth-to-death. In doing so, he’d killed his angelic Sea Siren. He’d killed his Sprite.

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Chapter Twenty-Two The Solace of the Sea

“Nooooooo!” Saracen’s bellow of grief shook the foundations of the secondary Bellaclava Demesne. It also shook the pillars of the Earth, and even those in Aurora, the Realm of Magic and Light. The land quaked, the skies darkened, and the oceans boiled there. For several stunned moments, Saracen cradled Sprite in his arms. Then, denying the truth, he tried to rouse her. He wiped the blood from her lips, from her chin, and he urged her to rise. “Awaken, my Sprite. Awaken for me.” But the awesome power which had wrought this tragedy had deserted him. In defiance, he raved. “A broken curse can be mended. A life undone by magic can be restored in the same manner.” Using the purple comforter as a covering for her, he lifted Sprite from the bed. “A strong sorcerer can heal you, my beloved Sprite. This is not your destiny. This is not your time. This is not your fate.” He stalked from the suite with Sprite in his arms, the edges of the comforter fluttering behind them like banners of mourning. His gait down the flights of stone stairs was sure and swift, as was his approach to the travel portal. Chael and Taya, obviously confronting one another, stood before the giant hearth’s swirling green flames. His advance upon them actually fraught the air with anguish. They turned toward him--and his precious burden. Taya made a compassionate stricken sound. “What has happened?” “I… made an arrogant mistake.” Saracen’s admission, leavened by grief, fear, and desperation, came out as a croak. “To reverse Sprite’s muteness, I meddled with her birth curse. This is the result.”

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Chael apprehensively glanced from Saracen to Taya. “’Tis rumored that this heinous casting of the three Fer-de-lance witches, Chrimea, Optima, and Negra, was from birth-to-death. And if Saracen tampered with it …,” Chael’s thoughts trailed off, and his glance gently touched upon the fallen Sea Siren held so securely, so lovingly, in his elder brother’s arms. “Can neither of you help her? Is there no sorcery within your power to restore her?” “She needs a true experienced healer or a seasoned mage,” Taya gently explained, “not our imperfect efforts. Take her to her own people, Saracen. They may be able to save her. Return her to the Cerulean Sea.” “Yes,” Chael forcefully seconded Taya. “Aurora offers Sprite a chance. Go to Aurora. Now. To the main island of the Granite Archipelago. Some help may be found for her there.” Numb, Saracen nevertheless resolutely nodded his understanding, and he strode toward the gigantic hearth that wasn’t a hearth, but a gate to most places in Aurora. He didn’t pause but he threw a parting plea to Chael and Taya. “Wish me--us--well.” And, pushing into the swirl of green streamers of the unkeyed travel portal, Saracen mentally selected their destination: the Monolith Coast, location of the fabled court of the Sea Sirens. For a sensory-overloaded second, the gate’s hue, its mild heat, its infinite solitude surrounded them, and then Saracen concluded that single step beyond its margins and, with that footfall, he trod onto white-crystalline gem-flecked sand. He felt the golden sun drenching the beach, heard the surf pounding at the shore, and smelled salt and sea upon the wind. And … he saw a waiting congregation of a hundred or more Sea Sirens, their unearthly beauty akin to Sprite’s, all with delicate ethereal features, all having wild wind-tousled manes of rich-brown, sandy-gold, or amber-blonde, and all having lovely tapered fey-tipped ears. They gathered on an open swath of sandy beach that bisected the Coast of Monolith. Rocky crags rose on either side, tall twisted shards and finger-like towers, a stretch of inaccessible coastline that concealed the fortress-like Meridian court of the Sea Sirens. Saracen blinked, his eyes smarting from the perpetual glints of sunlight from off the glittery sand, and off the surging sea, and, occasionally, off the Sea Sirens. Their beauty was unrivalled; their skin, hair, and eyes seemed to shine and glisten with gem-like facets. All the brilliant elements of the sea and the sun radiated from them. At the fore of that procession were several elders, one, in particular, had the carriage and aura of a Queen, her hair, wild as the waves of the ocean, was the white of foamy breakers, her skin was tanned by the sun, her magnificence undiminished by the great number of her years. Her simple gauzy white robes did not disguise her.

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This was Sabrah, Monarch of the Sea Sirens. And, reputedly, in some derided versions of the notorious tale of the Fer-de-lance half-breed, Sprite’s maternal grandmother. For the first time, Saracen knew it for truth. Sprite had a royal lineage from both her parents. As majestic Sabrah approached, her sea-green gaze riveted on Sprite, carried within Saracen’s arms, still, unmoving, seemingly lifeless Sabrah, heartbreakingly regal, appeared stoic as she neared them, trailing some dozen retainers in her wake. However, as she advanced, one of her hands tellingly stretched towards Sprite. “Oh, lost grandchild of mine. The signs in the heavens, however brief, were not wrong. Disaster has befallen a daughter of the sea.” Almost stricken, wavering with grief, she halted within reach of them, and the Queen finally shifted her gaze from Sprite to Saracen. “What evil has assailed my poor, long lost Sprite? Upon the death of her mother, Sienna, the seas boiled and the skies darkened. Those same portents, although more transitory, occurred but moments ago, and now you, whom I reckon as the Bellaclava Prince Saracen, bring Sprite to me, the granddaughter cursed with muteness from birth, kept separated from her mother’s people, kept in virtual slavery--although we continually petitioned for her custody from Dagher Fer-de-lance, a father who selfishly kept the child he cruelly refused to love. Not even a Monarch of the Sea Sirens can oppose an ElfFeyen King.” “And now,” Queen Sabrah’s exhale came like a death rattle, “she is returned in this broken state. Are you to blame Bellaclava princeling?” “I tried--to end her birth curse--,” Saracen’s voice cracked on every word, a torrent of grief attempting to escape him, “--not realizing the consequence. So, I brought her here, to the Cerulean Sea, and to you, Queen Sabrah, for healing. Sprite’s essence is of this place and of this race. Please, can you not save her? Is there no magic of the Sea Sirens’ to be wielded?” Queen Sabrah grasped Sprite’s hand, wrapped it in both her own, then pressed it to her heart, as if searching for a sign of life. For a time, Saracen believed that she had discovered one, so prolonged and peaceful was Sabrah’s expression. But, after that hopeful pause, the Queen released Sprite’s hand with a kiss. To Saracen, she offered nothing but a cryptic dismissal. “You have done what you have done, prince Saracen. I will heap you with neither thanks nor condemnation. Pass her into my care, and depart. Give her to those of the sea--give her back to the sea--then leave. This will right things as best they may be righted, after the passage of all these sad, sad years without her.” “No.” His hoarse answer nevertheless carried to the entire gathering of Sea Sirens. “Give her to the Sea, then go.” Queen Sabrah repeated, this time in the sing-song fashion of a siren. Using the enchantment of her voice, she could--she would--bend him to her will.

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“I’ll--not--leave--her.” “Give her to the sea.” The Queen intoned again. “I’ll--not--be--separated--from--my--Sprite.” The words of refusal broke from him, one after the other. “We--will--be--together, always.” Relief that he could defy Sabrah quivered through him. But alas the Queen’s chant soon issued from her court, a low dirge that demanded he abandon Sprite. “Give her to the sea.” “Give her to the sea.” “Give her to the sea, then go.” That murmured verse continued, tore at his resolve, urged him to desert Sprite to the depths of the Cerulean Sea. Saracen mumbled a reply. “To the sea, then, for us both.” He forced his legs to march forward, one lurching step, then another. The cavalcade of Sirens made a narrow avenue for him, but their chant perpetually beat at him, sought to enforce their command. “Give her to the sea.” “Give her to the sea.” “Give her to the sea, then go.” The repetition soon flowed like a round, the words overlapping, seeping into his mind non-stop. Saracen’s stride turned to a slow stagger. He faltered but did not halt. “I will not leave her,” he gritted his avowal. “I will accompany her on this final journey. To the sea, for us both.” He managed to drag them down the gentle slope of the white beach towards the pounding surf. The rough breakers rolled in at intervals, then frothed up onto the shore. He was going to carry them far beyond the breakers, into the vast blue calm. He knew not if the Sirens still chanted or whether he was simply deaf to their ceaseless command. He reached the cool sandy edge of the sea, his footfalls sinking into the crusty surface, filling with water as the next wave poured onto the shore. He tucked Sprite more firmly against

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his body and pressed on, pacing into the fast swirl, first at his ankles, then his knees, then his thighs. He timed the next breaker and rushed up and over it, hanging onto Sprite as they rode over the swell. They bobbed into deeper water, and Saracen clutched her to his chest, even as an oncoming curl of water tried to tear them apart. Saracen struggled another few feet before the tide ripped her from him. “Sprite!” He caught at the purple coverlet that floated on the water. She, however, was nowhere in sight. For long desperate minutes, he swam, calling her name, diving under the waves to search, flailing to the surface for a gasp of air, then continuing to battle against the wind, the water, and the waves. He’d wanted to hold her until the last, not be parted, not lose her to the sea! But eventually fatigue ended his struggles. His fight was over. Exhausted, Saracen decided to drift down. He closed his eyes so that he no longer saw anything, not the gray-green water, nor the pale blue sky. And as he comfortably began to sink, he imagined that she called his name. Saracen smiled and went completely under. **** Water, tinkling and splashing and dripping, woke Saracen. He stretched out, naked as a babe, on a soft bower of white, a cocoon of downy soft bedding. Curious, he propped himself up on an elbow to discover he was within a dim, shimmering grotto. The cavernous place was carved from rock. Water dampened the walls, the floor, the ceiling, but not his cozy roughhewn bedchamber. As he swung his feet over the comfortable height of the alcove, sitting on the edge to better study his surroundings, he noticed that the air was warm and moist on his skin, and that diffused sunlight shifted over the dim interior, like a pretty prism. When the faint echo and splash of water again painfully intruded into Saracen’s awareness, he nearly went mad as he recalled their hopeless journey to the Coast of Monolith. His heart twisted with sorrow, and he cried her name aloud, not understanding why or how he had awakened in this lonely, alien grotto. “Sprite.” It was a broken rasp.

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The strange acoustics muffled his anguished croak, mixed it with the brighter sounds of frothy, lapping water. “Yes, my love.” He hallucinated an answer, from her. The cruelty of it--of hearing that smoky, sultry, much-longed-for voice--drove him to his feet, and he staggered forward. He didn’t want this insanity. He didn’t want this torture. He wanted oblivion. His Sprite was gone and he meant to follow. But that same madness now conjured more than her voice. Like an apparition, she glided from around the curving bend of the grotto’s entrance. “Sprite.” He spoke with despondency. Her beauty radiated with an internal celestial shimmer. Her petite body, naked as was Saracen‘s, seemed to be sprinkled with stardust. Her Caribbean-blue eyes sparkled. The usual sheen of the kinks and waves of her sandy-brown hair, those highlights of sea-breaker white and of sunlit gold, appeared as a faint halo. Saracen put out a quavering hand to dispel this dream. “This can’t be real,” his voice cracked. “Am I still drowning?” “No, Saracen, no! I am real. I am here.” She flung herself into his listless arms. “Neither of us drowned! My people rescued us. We are together and we live! Please, Saracen, hear me. Feel me. Know me!” Emotionally deadened, bereft of hope, he warily hugged at her, running his hands up and down the silkiness of her spine. This, he tried to persuade himself, was a dream. “But, I broke your birth curse.” “So you did,” she agreed on a puff of somber laughter. “But you also replaced it with another, one cast out of passion, not out of hate or fear. Did you not?” By now Saracen’s body recognized what his dazed mind was slower to grasp and he molded them together, hugging her to him, skimming his hands and arms over her back, hips, and derriere, ferociously kissing at her face, then finding and indulging in a sensual lick at the lobe of her ear and a salacious stroke of his tongue up the delicate fairy-tipped edge. He couldn’t think straight because of his euphoria, but he attempted an answer. “I… I only selfishly demanded that you regain your voice and vow to love me always.” “Exactly.” Sprite stood on tiptoe, and dragging his face down to hers, she planted a sloppy exuberant kiss on his mouth. “So great was your magic that I must swear you that vow

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and honor it. Only believe me, Saracen, that it is heartfelt and easily offered. I have loved you since first I saw you.” Saracen clasped her head between his large hands, stared at her intently, and grinned an ever-widening chip-toothed grin of relief … and belief. But a sliver of fear passed through him. “I held you in the aftermath of that awful magic. I thought you … gone.” Sprite’s vibrancy, that outward shimmer of her inner soul, momentarily dimmed. “In a sense, I did leave you. The return of my voice was very traumatic. It’s effect might have been permanent if not for the curative power of the Cerulean Sea. Thank you, my Lord Saracen, for brining me here. For brining me home. For giving me back so much to cherish.” “Here, amid the fabled Meridian Court, is where you truly belong. The Sea Sirens are most fair of all the ElfFeyen. And you are its rarest gem.” Saracen lovingly imprisoned her about the waist with his brawny arms, and he locked his hands behind her back. “But, for all that, I do not entirely relinquish you to them--as your grandmother, Queen Sabrah, so obviously schemed. No, the majority of our time will be spent in the secondary Bellaclava Demesne in the Twilight Realm. The remainder will be spent here.” “Please forgive her, Saracen. My grandmother only meant to win my freedom. She wanted me with her. She believed that you would bend to the power of her voice and leave me behind.” Then Sprite added in an awe steeped voice, “Not even a chorus of Sirens could sway you!” Sprite’s eyes lowered shyly, her voice grew breathy. “How could she have known that I love you, and that I am bound to you?” But her glance proudly lifted to Saracen‘s. “And nothing or no one can part us, so long as we both shall live.” Saracen, grinning like a lovesick fool, drew Sprite closer in the circle of his embrace, almost lifted her off her feet. “So,” he drawled arrogantly, “you swear your love to prince Saracen of the Bellaclava?” “Well … yes,” she proceeded to tease him, amusement shading her every word, “I am fond of Saracen.” His hold upon her tensed. “But, my beloved Bellaclava lord, I think that I love the ill-tempered jackal demon best of all, notwithstanding all his flaws, his arrogance, his machismo, his unyielding dominance.” She smiled at him boldly.

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“Prove it.” Saracen, his huge cock rearing up his belly like a randy beast, could barely force out his dare. Releasing Sprite from the circle of his arms, he propped his back against the grotto’s wall. His tremendous body was lit by the flickering, fitful light that shimmered around the damp cavern. He towered before her, a broad, muscular male, exquisite in face and form. And his arousal pulsed at her, insistently. “The jackal wants no more words, however prettily spoken, however much pined for. Close your mouth--around my cock.” Kneeling before him, Sprite rested her palms on his thighs, flagrantly leaned in to his groin, and lazily began to lick at him, his constricted balls, his thick root, then up his long throbbing shaft. She occasionally glanced to his face, taut with desire, but she also gauged Saracen’s pleasure by his harsh groans, the way he clutched at her shoulders, and the erratic pumps of his hips at her, all physical demands that she suck him down, deep and hard. So she graciously did. She fisted his base, tipped him toward her, and slurped his crown into her eager mouth. All the air rushed from his lungs in an agonized keening, and his eyes almost rolled back into his head, like an inexperienced stripling. But, after that lapse, Saracen exerted monumental self-control, and he swept a glance down upon Sprite as she knelt at his feet and sucked his cock. He enjoyed the bob of her head as she vigorously pumped up and down on him. Her rhythm was smooth and steady, a tight wet ring that worked in exquisite unison with her stroking hand. “That’s so good, Sprite. Suck me, fuck me with your hot little mouth. Make me as hard as possible before I shove my dick in your pussy.” Sprite faltered, halted, then popped his crown from her mouth to gape upward at Saracen, whose message was startlingly clear: he expected to cum inside her and he wanted--he demanded--to be extremely hard when he took her. Unconsciously, she swiped drool from her chin, a tribute to how laboriously, how uninhibitedly well she had been fellating him. “Go down on me again,” he commanded, “turn me into granite so that I can fuck you into oblivion. Don’t worry, Sprite. I’ll not come, except inside you.” With a dazed nod of understanding, she once again widened her mouth and swallowed down several thick inches. She wrapped the flat of her tongue against his crown, slicked him like a giant tasty sucker. While she laved at his head, her curled fingers softly slipped up and down his shaft in a gentle sexual tug. However, when she went to snug his balls in her idle hand,

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Saracen hissed through his chipped front tooth, reached down and pulled Sprite from off her knees. “That’s more than sufficient,” he growled, “anymore and I’ll blast before I intend to. Even a royal has his limits.” His glance swept toward the tiny bedchamber in which he had revived, remembering its comfort. “We’ll be much better served by the bed.” And he gingerly swept her to the tiny cozy alcove with its bed-like cocoon and, once there, he sprawled fully upon his back on the cushy mattress and invitingly held out his hand to her. “Come to me, Sprite Fer-de-lance,” his voice was gravel, “climb on top of me. Ride me. Straddle me. Fuck me hard.” She glowed at his illicit order, heated from desire. Carefully, she crawled up Saracen’s sprawled length and she licked at him as she went--at his left shin, his right kneecap, and, finally, a cat-like lap at his twitching cock. She hovered there for a moment, then spoke her own shocking demand in her newly acquired sin-and-smoke-filled voice. “I want to mount you backwards,” she purred, her eyelids drooping with lust as she covetously studied Saracen’s gorgeous body--the sculpted perfection of his arms and chest, the washboard of his toned abdominal muscles, and the mighty heft of his huge, up-thrust shaft. Saracen smiled smugly at her open admiration, and he chuckled silently. “Take me that way, then, just as pleases my adventurous little Sea Siren.” With her innate fluid grace, Sprite turned around and straddled him backwards, her mound strategically aligned with his massive skyscraper of a cock. Her position afforded him a great view of her lush ass and her pretty pussy, the golden-brown curls, the slightly gaped slit, the hint of glistening pink labia. The temptation to finger her was irresistible. “Hold still for just a moment,” Saracen muttered, “I want to make sure you’re plenty wet.” And he speedily slicked his fingers into her quim, swiped around, teasingly skimmed a time or two over her clit. At Saracen’s unexpected plundering, blissful sensation quivered down Sprite’s spine and tingled into her aching pussy. Reacting with a head-to-toe shiver, she gave a tiny cry and had to brace herself against Saracen’s sinewy legs, thus further angling her slit towards him. All the while, he continued to swirl and daub at her swollen sex. He smeared at her insides, exuberantly smoothing through them like lubricated velvet, knowing that this thorough ravishment delighted Sprite, made her hotter, made her hornier. “I like this position,” his labored breathing made his words husky, “very much.” And he rolled his knuckles against her, circled inside for a final stimulating caress, then withdrew his

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hand, sensuously stroking from the front of her mound and following the delicious crack of her ass. “You’re--plenty-- wet.” Sprite again shivered at his licentious approval, and the fact that his fondling had nearly made her come! “Now it’s your turn, jackal.” And she firmly grasped his shaft, guided it into her damp entrance, and sunk down upon him--a mere few broad inches! Saracen’s chest thumped, his pulse thundered, and his poor cock throbbed with lust. The urge to jam up into Sprite--to stuff his meaty width into her soft creamy cunt, to drive swift and deep into her womb, to douse his maddening heat within her wet pussy--was overwhelming, but he checked it, relishing the erotic view of Sprite ever-so-slowly sliding down his fearsome girth. Lying immobile--except for the raging of his blood and the straining of his cock--he watched Sprite gradually take more of his enormous shaft inside her damp swollen pussy, inchby-sweet-inch. As he speared into her, Sprite made long high-pitched moans of pleasure. She was marvelously vocal, as he’d always fantasized, with her husky whimpers, groans of pleasure, and breathless aroused pants. “Uuummmmm, ohhhh, uuummmm.” As her clit pounded crazily, she huffed out a cry. “Gods, you--feel--so--good--in--my--pussy! And you‘re not but halfway inside!” “Yes, yes,” he groaned, managing to partially lift up, reach around, and graze his index finger over her budded clitoris, “let me stuff you completely full of cock. Slide all the way down! Ride me, Sprite, like a stallion.” Saracen, once more dutifully prone beneath Sprite, watched through a feverish haze as she descended. The line of her back arched. She undulated and twisted just enough to give him a peek at the side of one breast, jouncing and bouncing with her sharp movements. Maniacally, her head tossed. She took him deeply, completely, accepted him down to his enormous root. She remained still, impaled on his big pulsing cock. Then, experimentally, she circled her hips a fraction, a small stir of her tight wetness around his shaft. “You’ve got to really move on me, sweet Sprite. Give me more.” Saracen begged through clenched teeth. “Let me help.” And, gripping at her hips, he lifted Sprite, eased her up his length. They both reacted to the silken glide of his cock out of her snug passage, she mewling, he grunting, before he slicked her back down his thick stalk.

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Saracen repeated that same maddening lift up and drag down until they established a rhythm. He smoothly stroked in and out of her, his enormous size skimming through Sprite, stimulating her--and himself. He soon felt the pre-orgasmic clench of her vagina, heard her soft pants and sobs for release, saw her slim shoulders tremble. His body began to hasten their tempo, and he pumped up to meet her every downward push, intensifying the friction, rubbing against her swollen constricted walls, cramming home for both their pleasures. As she bumped steadily harder, the pitch of her cries rose, turned into short sharp shouts, and mindless entreaties. “Saracen--oh--” she huffed, swaying weakly, accepting each battering thrust into her with an ecstatic sound. He jammed his hips ever more forcefully, plumbing her wet depths with his hard shaft. His sure firm strokes stimulated his crown, pleasured every inch of his big pulsing dick. When her climax exploded, so, too, did Saracen’s. Her pussy clamped on him in an unmerciful ripple of demanding spasms, actually milked cum from his balls in a shuddering erratic rush. A hoarse yell punctuated his final furious plunge, and, for several prolonged blissful moments, Saracen’s ejaculate spurted, dwindled, then stopped. In the aftermath, they both lay in stunned exhaustion. Because Sprite tiredly, awkwardly covered Saracen’s legs, he gently eased her upright upon the bed, propped himself upon one arm, and nestled close to her with the entire length of his body, linking them, joining them, luxuriating in the physical contact of skin-on-skin. Impulsively, he rested his palm on her ribcage, felt the easy rise and fall of her breathing. Fascinated, he couldn’t resist laying his head there, to listen to her heart, to feel her relaxed breaths, and, finally, to murmur against her satiny stomach. “Do you have any idea how much I love you, Sprite?” She gently tangled her fingers in the lengthy strands of his feral-black hair. “Yes. As terrifyingly much as I love you.” “Good.” He grinned, then kissed her belly with fierce passion. He drug his mouth suggestively around her navel and tickled at her bellybutton with his tongue. Huskily, he continued. “And do you also know that I want to… eventually, give you many children?” Her exhale was a long, drawn-out sigh of contentment. “Very many, indeed, my tamed jackal demon-- in due course. When we are ready, and not before.” She shivered as Saracen nipped lower down her flat tummy, showing signs that he meant to travel further down her body. Aiming, in fact, for the spot between her legs.

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“Just so,” he whispered throatily, “not until we have had enough time to get properly settled. And properly sated. In the meantime,” the sly glance he slanted up at her glowed with the luminescence of liquid silver, “we can practice the begetting of our babes.” “Oh, yes,” she stuttered, watching Saracen position himself between her thighs, lower his head toward her mound, and hesitate to make one final comment. “I think I might need to practice this all night. Until I get it absolutely right.” Under the onslaught of his avaricious mouth, Sprite’s only response was a helpless whimper of pleasure, and a quick mental flash to Saracen that begged him to indeed practice on her all night. And every single night thereafter.

The End