Tuesday, 20 January 2009

Dark Enchantment- story 8: Scratch

Yesterday was Edgar Allen Poe's birthday. How appropriate! The 8th story in Dark Enchantment is set in America, before it became the US, and is a tale of deviltry and cuckolding.
Maarten Gansevoort is a prosperous farmer happily married to his second wife Mercy - until the day her past in Salem Village catches up with her and her old Master pays a visit. Maarten finds himself spying on them through the bedroom door:

He could see quite clearly. The chamber with its shuttered windows, lit by candlelight. The big bed that he had made himself for his first marriage, spread with the cream quilt that Mercy had brought as part of her trousseau. Mercy standing at the side of the bed, facing the door, the stranger’s bare arms about her from behind. He had evidently removed his clothes, though Maarten could see little of him. Mercy’s own clothes were in disarray, her bodice unlaced, her shift pulled down from her shoulders, her big freckled breasts bare and cupped in the stranger’s groping hands, her plump brown nipples being plucked and flicked and pinched. Her neck was twisted at an angle and there was a look on her face of such painful need that Maarten Gansevoort caught his breath. Her mouth formed a quivering ‘O’ as if she were moulding it about some virile member. She writhed her sumptuous hips, grinding her ass cheeks into the stranger’s crotch, and covered his hands with her own as he mauled at her.

Nicholas Scratch licked at her white throat, chuckling, then turned her in his hands and pushed her to her knees. Suddenly his body was visible; the unblemished body of a muscular young man, perfect in every way. His stiff stood up rampantly erect from a nest of black curls, dark with blood against the paler skin of his thighs and belly. He took himself in hand and laid the other hand on Mercy’s head as if in blasphemous blessing. But all he was doing was pressing her lower. She put her face to the fat pouch of his scrotum and kissed it fervently.

Maarten Gansevoort loosed the drawstring of his breeches and slipped his hand inside his clothes, ashamed beyond words, yet aroused so much he could no longer wait. His own member was hot and sticky and as hard as smoked meat. He stroked himself, feeling his balls clench, feeling the length in his hand grow thicker and longer with every beat of his heart. To see his wife kneeling obediently before a stranger, to see the plump out-thrust of her skirted behind, the eager caresses of her hands upon his hard thighs, the flash of her tongue as she licked all the way up his cock and then took it in her mouth, slipping it deep into her throat – it was unbearable. The slurping noise she made as she sucked him, the look of satisfaction on the stranger’s face, the way his hand twisted in her hair, the bob of her head as she rose and fell upon him with unholy appetite…

The stranger’s eyes lifted to the door. His expression slipped from pleasure to triumph. Then the door cracked its latch and slammed wide open, back against the wall, splintering its hinges. Maarten Gansevoort was revealed kneeling in the doorway with his breeches open and his stiff in his fist.

Mercy’s eyes opened wide, and for a moment she detached from the false idol to which she was giving worship, leaving it plum-dark but shining with her spittle. Maarten felt as if the floor must open up and plunge him into the fiery pit of Hell at that very moment.

‘I see you’ve come to lend us your blessing, friend,’ said the stranger, greatly amused. He gestured. ‘Enter.’ Then, when Maarten only gasped and goggled, his voice hardened to a silky command. ‘You must be half a witch already, Goodman Gansevoort: there is a broomstick between your legs and I see by your face you have been riding it hard. Join us now. On your knees.’

His dignity gone, without any other recourse, Maarten shuffled forward on his knees almost to Mercy’s side. His whole body was aflame with shame.

‘See now. Your wife was just about to take Communion,’ said the stranger, directing her back to the glistening plum of his cock. With deliberate showmanship he delved deep down her throat, pumping long and smooth, pulling out to show his full length all wet from her suckling, then plunging in once more, all the time Maarten watching, unable to tear his eyes away. He knew when the stranger came off because Mercy nearly choked, eyes watering, nostrils flaring, struggling for breath as her throat worked frantically to receive his outpourings. When Nicholas let her go her mouth came away as milky and sticky as a nurseling’s.

‘Kiss her,’ the stranger ordered.

Next excerpt on Thursday. Yes, it's the Minotaur story!


Charlotte Stein aka The Mighty Viper said...

I really loved the setting for this story- it's not one that immediatly makes you think of raunchiness, and yet once you're reading it, it's all oooooh, yeah!

That's realisation dawning, btw, rather than me having an orgasm in your blog.

Plus the heroine's fab. You keep expecting something horrid to happen to her, cos that's what them days were about. But nothing does, yeah!

Janine Ashbless said...

I really like the witchy heroine, Mercy. I think she deserved a happy life after what she'd been through!

And I rarely do irreparably horrible things to characters unless they deserve it. Not never, but rarely. I prefer to put my people through trials but give them a happy ending. I'm a serious softy at heart.