Monday, 17 November 2014

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment. Between October (when it came out as an e-book) and December (when it comes out in paperback), those excerpts will be from the stories in my new collection Fierce Enchantments.

Story 4: The Last Thing She Needs

After last week's historical drama, we're back to the present day for this story - but a present day in which vampires are preying on the urban populations. Two vampire hunters, both thoroughly messed up by the horror and strain of their work, are trying to work out their mental baggage via some serious BDSM...

I release her, pulling the long belt free. My hand on her ass has encountered a problem: with those black shorts of hers, brief though they are, I won’t be able to see where I’m hitting.

I could pull them down … But something tells me that’s a step too far, too soon. Too intimate. I signed up to hurt her, not strip her. So I take the soft cotton-lycra and I pull the panties up higher, right into her crotch, like I’m giving her a wedgie. Then I run my fingers round the hems, front and back, ease them up as high toward her hips as they will go, bunching the fabric into the grip of her ass-cleft, baring only the twin orbs of her bum-cheeks.

That sight takes my breath away. Her ass is so beautiful I want to cup and kiss it—but that’s not in the contract. I take a step back.

‘Arch your back,’ I order, folding the belt up in my hand again. I want a short, controllable length for what I’m about to do. ‘Ass out.’

She flexes, just as she’s told, and my cock surges. The blood is draining southward from my brain so fast that I’m in danger of losing control. I have to hit her. I have to hit her with the belt now, or God knows what I’ll do.

So I do. The tongue of leather snaps out and slaps her right ass cheek, back-handed, with a crack like something breaking. It is the most beautiful, pure sound, followed almost before I can savour it by Shanna inhaling noisily through gritted teeth. And that noise—oh, that high-pitched quavering yelp—wraps itself round my guts. I want to hold it trembling in my hands. I want to cherish and soothe it into peace. I want to make it happen again. And again. And again.

The strap leaves a pink stripe across her smooth butt, and then I swing the other way and lay down a matching line on the other cheek. The pistol-crack of skin on quaking skin is just as cold and keen this side, and my heart leaps.

She tries not to scream. She’s proud, is Shanna. She squeaks and whimpers, she jerks and writhes, but she tries not to scream, at first. And I’m fairly gentle, at first, because I’m not sure what sort of punishment she can truly take. I’ve never done this. I’ve never hit a woman. Not even a vampire, except maybe in last resort when it’s someone’s life on the line. This is new to me, and I’m groping in the dark, my path lit only by burning, smoky need. But as I gradually pick up tempo and force, Shanna’s cries become wilder, rising to shrieks. There are gabbled incoherent words in there too; words of protest, perhaps. It doesn’t matter. I ignore them. It is her hands I have to keep an eye on; the white clench of her knuckles and then the spasming flex and furl of her fingers, spreading wide as if to thrust the pain away. Sometimes one splayed palm leaps off the bar: she is barely holding on. I know then to drop it down a notch, to slow my blows and eke out my cruelty.

That’s how I reduce her to gasping and blaspheming and begging for mercy, crying, ‘Oh God no! No! No!’ even as her ass thrashes from side to side. That’s how she keeps me going, my desire focused into a lightning bolt of incandescent force that flashes down my arm, over and over, to earth in her soft flesh.

In the end it’s me that quits first, because my hand’s shaking so much that I’m starting to worry about my aim. But it’s not muscle strain; it’s adrenaline. I take a step back, panting hard, sweat running down my back, and I look at her. Shanna’s still clinging to the bars, ass still out-thrust. There are crimson stripes criss-crossed down her long thighs, and her beautiful ass is scarlet and swollen. Any redder and that glistening skin would shine on a visible wavelength. She’s making a soft keening sound, in and out on her breath. I can’t believe she’s still standing.

My admiration does not alter the fact that I want to break her.

Nor does it make up for the discomfort of my turgid erection, trapped down the trouser leg of my leathers. I pop the waist button and slip my hand in, easing my thick length to the vertical where it nests behind my fly, and adjusting my rucked ballsack so it’s not being ground by the crotch seam. I can feel the cum seething in my nuts.

‘Get those legs apart,’ I remind her with a growl, as I reduce the coiled belt to a lash less than a foot long. I close in to put one hand on her ass, rubbing my palm harshly over the tender flesh. She’s burning like a furnace. I picture Appentak’s poisons pulsing in her capillaries, making her crazy with need. You could heat the room with that ass. You could warm yourself through a Russian winter.
It’s absolutely the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had my hands on.

She whimpers and complies. Legs open, shaking. The hot smell of her sex rising.

I hit upward, without warning. The leather belt-tip snaps up against her pussy, and all the shorts in the world couldn’t save her from the sting on her clit. She screams. One hit and her legs buckle; two and she goes down, sobbing. Her hips jerk.

She’s coming. She’s actually coming. Fuck me, that is an incredible sight.

I have so much wood right now I could stake a goddamn vampire through the heart with it.

Yet she still hasn’t let go. She’s hanging at arms’ length from the bars. I’m glad she can’t see my face; she probably imagines my expression’s stern and masterful. Far from it, Shanna. I’m fighting to control my breath.

I scoop her up bodily with one arm, pulling her back and her ass against me. Her toes barely touch the floor. ‘You can let go,’ I whisper in her ear, dropping the belt with an ostentatious flourish.
She wriggles. The scrape of my fly teeth and buttons must be agonising on her whipped ass. Her hands stay locked on the horizontal bars.

Oh Christ … I shouldn’t have touched my cock. This is killing me. I have definitely stepped over the line now. I press my lips to her temple and slide my free hand around her throat, quieting her sobs. The bite-marks have long-since faded, healing with that unnatural quickness we know so well, so that her throat is slender and smooth and horribly vulnerable. Her weight is nothing in my arms. That ass of hers is a fucking miracle, yielding to the jut of my cock. And my need is a furnace, its roar filling my head.

‘This,’ I growl, the words spilling from my lips as I rub my stiff cock against her: ‘this is why I don’t stake female vampires.’

And there. She knows. She knows my dirtiest, darkest secret.

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