This is the start of a very special Blue Monday series! Between now (because it's out in e-format) and December (when it hits the stands as a paperback) I will be running excerpts from the ten short stories in Fierce Enchantments, my brand-new collection published by Sweetmeats.
We start with the opening fairytale Too Much of Water, which - as my foreword states - "is based on Ivan the Terrible, Russian folklore and the fairy-story The Frog Prince, told in the coldest voice I could muster."
He put his hand on her head and pulled away the sheer white veil that covered her hair. “Well, you owe me now.” His hand brushed the stiff head-dress from off her scalp; the strings of pearls that had hung from it and framed her face fell suddenly apart. Pearls pattered and bounced upon the floor like hailstones. “My mercy is limited, as I’m sure you understand.”
Zorya shivered, as he drew his finger down the tiny buttons that closed the front of her thickly embroidered robe. The loops broke and the dress split open, revealing the low-cut lawn shift beneath. “What will you do?”
“Will you drown me?”
His smile was cruel. “What do you think?” He took the front of her shift in both hands and it rotted at his touch like cloth that had been immersed in a pond for years, falling apart to grey shreds and then to nothing. The great weight of her robe fell from her as the warp and weft disintegrated; Zorya took a sharp breath and could not help looking down. Only the golden threads embroidered into the fabric were left, quite uncorroded; a fragile net that lay now against her goose-fleshed skin. The Vodyanoi chuckled. Then he stooped to kiss her throat, and his long wet hair hung upon the orbs of her breasts and clung to her puckering nipples, dragging at her when he raised his head. Zorya stifled a gasp.
“Please … What good will I be to you dead?” she asked.
“Oh, I think you will look very fair, down among the pebbles and the rippling half-light.” His tongue lapped at her ear, his voice low and husky as his fingers explored her exposed breasts, playing amid the softness with the tightening halos of her pinkly-pale nipples. “Your hair will wave with the long weed, and minnows will chase around your pretty bones, and your soul will shine in the palace of my green dreams.”
Zorya was unable to stop herself arching her spine, lifting herself to his hands.
“Just think how peaceful it will be,” he murmured. “And how beautiful.”
“But,” she said, reaching down to the gap in his skirt and sliding her hand beneath the slimy leather, “while I’m alive, I can do this.” She found his member. Substantial in girth and length, it was already all but erect, only the weight of his garment keeping it from standing—and though it was cold when she first grasped it, beneath the skin a warmth burned. She ran her fingers up its rippled length, and it jerked in response.
“Ah,” said he.
|Frog Prince by P J Lynch|
Zorya raised her gaze to look him in the face. She read appetite there and a kind of twisted grudging fascination, and wondered if he could read the emotion in her own face. Wordlessly she sank to her knees and kissed his pale skin, the bruised flesh of his torso. She pulled at the wet thonging that held up his strange garment and it slopped to the floor in heavy folds.
What she did then not even the whores of Kiev will do. Such a thing is reserved for a husband alone, for the intimacy of the marriage bond. She took his pale length, already oozing at the slitted tip with eager moisture, into her hot mouth. The Vodyanoi groaned at that just like a real man. She used tongue and lips to explore his girth and his strange contours and then worked him deep into her throat, sucking warmth into that chill staff. It gave her satisfaction in unexpected places to suck him like this, and she felt her own sex flutter as her fingertips weighed the heavy pouch of his stones, finding water still dripping from the black ringlets of hair at his groin.
Shifting his weight forward, he leaned into her. His legs were tense, almost as hard as the iron of his pike. His hips jerked as her head rose and fell in supplication, and he pressed his cock so far to the back of her throat that she gagged and tears welled in her eyes.
I could choke here, she thought, snatching her breath in the backstroke. It wasn’t a new idea though—her husband had similarly used her. The Tsar was an older man and would sometimes take so long that she’d weep for the ache in her jaw—but that wasn’t to be the case this time. She felt the Vodyanoi’s rhythm grow fiercer, then become a stutter, and suddenly her mouth was awash with his slippery flood. Instantly—so copious was the flow—her fear of choking became a fear of drowning, and she jerked her head back with a gasp. His cock shuddered upon her tongue as the liquid, as cold and clear as mill water, overflowed her mouth and ran down over her chin.
He tasted of nothing at all: just like water.
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