“Exkella, I don’t know if this will help you, but….” She trailed off as if she’d changed her mind.
“What?”
“I met Calara many times, when she and the Prince were betrothed.”
Oh great. More lessons in how to be more like Calara. “
And?”
“That whole time…. He never looked at her the way he looks at you.”
Chapter Eighteen
We walked with them to their car to see them off. Sarik pulled me aside. “Lucy,” he said seriously, “you’ve walked into something here that none of us really understand. I wish I knew more, so I could keep you safe. The best advice I can give you is: when you know something’s wrong,
run.
Don’t hesitate. You may only get one chance.”
He hugged me, and I stood there numb as we watched their car depart. As if the fear wasn’t bad enough, I had to consider the possibility that it was my own country doing this. Sato from the State Department had been very excited about finally making contact with Asteria. How far would they go to secure the palladium for themselves?
Or was I just being paranoid?
Jagor led me back below deck, his arm around my waist like a security blanket. “We’re as safe as we can be,” he told me gently. “We have the guards and the military team. Now forget about all this: why don’t you put on that outfit you brought with you?”
I turned and kissed him. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all day!” His hand crept around and squeezed my ass and I yelped and scurried off into the bedroom. I could still feel the fear, but it was sliding back into the background. This was exactly what we needed to take our minds off things.
In the bedroom, I opened the bag that Doracella had pushed at me: Jagor’s
outfit.
The first thing I saw was vivid, flame-red silk. I lifted out the corset Doracella had shown me – the same one Ismelda had mentioned. Long black laces trailed from the back, and black lace trimmed the top and bottom. I could feel the metal in it, hard and unyielding. Wearing it was going to be…an experience. I held it up against me. It would finish under my bust.
I dug deeper in the bag. There was a pair of heels in the same flame red, ridiculously tall: they must have been five inches. There was a pair of sheer black stockings: hold-ups, this time. I felt around for the rest.
Nothing. No bra, no panties and nothing to wear over the top.
At least I had a good idea of how we’d be spending the rest of the evening.
I slipped off my clothes and put the heels and stockings on first – I’d learned my lesson after last time. Then I tackled the corset. I’d had some practice back in Monaco, but I still wished I had another pair of hands.
That’s what Doracella’s for,
crept into my mind. God, was that what it would be like, when we got back to the palace? Doracella lacing me into some ridiculous get-up Jagor had chosen, helping me with hair and make-up before sending me half-naked to his bed? I felt myself flush, shocked…but not as shocked as I would have been a few weeks ago.
I started lacing, and the feeling of being clasped tight snapped me back to reality. I started to breathe more shallowly, watching myself in the mirror as my silhouette changed. My hips and ass seemed to flare more, but the real change was to my breasts: as my waist narrowed it was like they’d grown a cup size. It was an illusion, but a good one.
I stopped when it became too tight, paused and then pulled a little tighter, because I knew I’d get used to it. Now unable to bend properly and taking short little breaths, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror.
The heels lent my legs extra length and the smooth stockings made them seem even longer. With the narrowed waist and flared hips and bust, my new shape was all about sex…and submission. Between the heels I could barely walk in and the corset I could barely breathe in, I was close to powerless. And this was before Jagor started whatever bondage games he had planned. Not to mention the collar: I’d got used to the way it felt, but I’d forgotten the way it looked, the way it gleamed and shone, catching the eye, telling the world I was owned.
I turned, seeing my naked ass, glimpses of my nude sex in the shadows between my thighs. I could feel the heat of anticipation building inside, working its way down to my groin.
I stepped back and almost knocked something off the bed. The brown leather case – the mysterious
sarith
kit.
It wouldn’t hurt to take a peek.
I had to fiddle with the spring-loaded locks for a while before I discovered you had to turn them in opposite directions. They clacked loudly back against the leather and I glanced at the door – but there was no sign Jagor had heard.
I slowly lifted the lid and stared at the contents: silver pots and some sort of tubing.
Nestled in the centre was a pint jar of blood.
I stood frozen while my brain played catch-up. Suddenly a lot of things were slotting into place. I’d read more than a few paranormal romances on my e-reader. A mysterious, seductive prince with eyes you’d almost call
hypnotic?
Who lives in an ancient palace in a small, Eastern-European country? Who’d taken his innocent bride somewhere we wouldn’t be disturbed for some ancient
sarith
ceremony that his terrifying mother approved of?
That’s why she looks so young!
I didn’t have any idea where I was going: I just threw open the door and ran out…straight into the big, firm wall of Jagor’s chest. “What are you doing?” he asked, astonished.
Between the fear and the corset, I couldn’t speak. He walked into the bedroom, pushing me gently ahead of him, and saw the open
sarith
case. “Why were you looking at that?”
“You—” I panted. “You’re a—a….”
He frowned. “A what?”
“A…vampire,” I almost whispered.
He stared at me intently. And then he nodded.
“I’d hoped to keep it from you for a little longer, but…” He picked up the jar of blood and unscrewed the top. “Tonight, you will drink the blood of our family. Then I will feast on yours.” He stuck his finger into the jar and tasted it with evident pleasure. Then he dipped his finger again and held it out towards me. “Taste, and know that you will soon become one of the endless of Asteria!”
“No!” I backed up, but I was against the wall. “No!”
“Taste!” he boomed, and pushed his finger into my mouth. I spluttered, eyes screwed shut in horror as the thick liquid was rubbed over my tongue, tasting….
…sweet?
…sort of cherry-ish?
My eyes opened.
“It’s black cherry syrup,” he told me, and kissed the top of my head. “You idiot.”
I looked at the case. I couldn’t speak, yet.
“
Sarith
is an ancient Asterian drink,” he told me. “I was going to make it for you. It’s traditional.”
I still couldn’t speak. Relief and utter humiliation were competing to push any coherent speech out of my brain.
“A vampire?” he asked. “
Really?”
And suddenly I was laughing, great rolling giggles that left my sides aching. He was laughing too – every time he looked at me or the
sarith
kit it started him off again. I punched him on the arm. “‘The endless of Asteria’?
You bastard!”
“You really thought I was going to—to drink your blood?” he managed.
“I thought the Queen—stayed young—by drinking the blood—of virgins.” I was holding my stomach now. “Stop. Stop making me laugh!”
“It’s pilates. It’s too hard to find virgins these days.”
I kissed him to shut him up, so that I could recover. That led to some more kissing, and some rolling and cuddling, and even warm, non-sexy cuddling takes on a whole different feeling when you’re
sans
panties. He gently pushed me away.
“First the
sarith,”
he told me.
***
Sarith
and the process for making it is difficult to describe: but I’ll do my best. For a man who still couldn’t make coffee, Jagor was surprisingly adept, but then he’d been doing it since he was a teenager. And unlike making coffee – where you’re doing things by feel and eye – this was a preset, very specific routine, every little step followed precisely; even when and how many times to stir.
Imagine a chemistry set, but with a lot more silver and engraving. Various flasks were connected together with rubber tubes and a tiny wood burner was used to boil the water. The whole thing took almost an hour, which was part of the attraction. This was at least as important in Asterian culture as the tea ceremony in China.
Water was boiled and dripped through a cylindrical cloth bag containing tightly packed coffee grounds, then mixed with a thick dollop of black cherry syrup. A fair amount of vodka – some expensive Polish brand I’d never heard of – was added. Everything was constructed from curves and cylinders until the very last step. Then a perfect sci-fi cube of shining, almost black material was dropped into the liquid: very rich, dark chocolate.
The resulting brew is the ultimate in aphrodisiacs. It has alcohol to lower your inhibitions, phenyl-ethylamine from the chocolate to turn you on, caffeine to keep you up all night and sugar to power you through your sweaty, intense couplings. It tastes absolutely wonderful, and I now consider it one of Asteria’s great contributions to the world (though it’s impossible to find outside the country).
We drank from elaborately engraved silver goblets. There are two ways alcohol, coffee and so on can affect you. One of them is a subtle mood enhancement that comes on over the course of several hours: you can just about tell that you feel a little happier, a little more awake, a little more relaxed.
This was the other way.
It was like being under a spell: the room lights seemed to dim and I was very aware of Jagor’s scent: of my own perfume. I could feel the corset hugging me as tight as a lover, the air against my naked sex. Everything that turned me on was enhanced and everything else faded into the background. I could tell I was breathing faster, my body shifting into readiness. My breasts felt full and super-sensitive, swollen with my arousal and there was a moving, twisting current inside me, flowing through every vein, working inexorably down towards my groin.
What enhanced the effect even more was watching the potion work the same magic on Jagor. He didn’t speak; didn’t tell me what he wanted. He just watched me, removing his clothes without ever breaking his gaze, until he stood naked before me, towering over me even in my heels. As he approached, every step made my heart beat faster; I was almost panting by the time he was close enough to touch.
He turned me, so that I had my back to him. There were no mirrors on the wall in front of me: I couldn’t see him and I let out a groan of frustration. But when he started to touch me, I understood: when I couldn’t see what was coming, every touch was a delicious surprise. He started with my cheek, his fingertips smoothing over my skin and leaving me trembling, twisting my neck to push against him like a cat. His other hand slid around the waist of the corset; he was barely touching me, and I shouldn’t have been able to feel it through the metal ribs and silk, but I swear the heat of him pulsed into my side.
“Step forward,” he told me. “To the wall.”
I did, on legs tense and shaky, muscles twitching with adrenaline. I could hear the whisper of my stockinged thighs, the room was so quiet. I stopped against the wall, so close that when I breathed I could feel the heat reflected back to me. There was something submissive even in this, I realized. He’d effectively robbed me of sight without a blindfold, and being forced to face a wall was raising all sorts of connotations – of being disciplined; of being punished.
“Raise your hands,” Jagor said. I lifted them slowly up beside my head and he wrapped something around my left wrist. A cuff, and not some toy thing bought for playful lovers, all silver-painted plastic or pink fur. This was for restraining someone – actual
bondage.
The brutal practicality of it made it all the scarier. It was thick black leather, strong enough to resist all my pulling and tugging. It was softly padded on the inside.
So it can be on me for a long time,
I thought, my heart racing,
or maybe so I can yank and twist as much as I want and not hurt myself.
It had a thick metal buckle that he fastened securely: I wouldn’t be able to get it off on my own. I went slightly giddy at the thought.
He buckled a matching cuff onto my other wrist. The blood was pounding in my ears. I’d heard of people who were turned on by leather, who fetishized it. Now that I could feel it, smooth and soft around my bare wrists, and smell the sharp, heady tang of it, I started to understand.
He pulled my wrists up above me, until they were stretched high above my head and I was almost on tiptoes. There was something bolted into the wall there, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it: a black-painted iron ring. He took out a metal bar the size of his finger, with one of those sliding locks at each end, like climbers use. A second later, it was through the ring and locked onto the wrist cuffs. I pulled instinctively on them. I was held firmly, arms above my head.
He bent, then, and I could feel his breath on me as he sank down. His lips touched the back of my stockinged ankle, feather-light, and started tracing up the length of my legs, alternating between them. His hands traced the same path up the front. He did it agonizingly slowly and with every gasping, panting inch the tension ratcheted up, because I knew he was getting close to my naked ass; my naked sex.
When he got there, he seemed determined to eke out the anticipation as long as possible. He knelt behind me, his fingers playing along the fronts of my thighs like a pianist’s, just a few inches from my throbbing sex. I could feel each breath blowing across me; each word was like its own touch.