Before She Wakes: Forbidden Fairy Tales (13 page)

Trembling harder now, I press a hand between my legs to relieve the burning ache. I collapse onto the bed, panting, hands roaming up my stomach and chest to clutch at my breasts. Behind closed eyes, they're
his
hands on my body. It's
his
desperation I feel hot against my flesh. I recall the tautness of his broad chest as I caressed my breasts for him, and the clenching of his fists. Had I succeeded in tempting him into the room with me, what might he have done?

Biting my lip, I open my eyes and force my hands to my sides.

I've won this first round, I know. But at what cost?

I know I haven't much time. The game I'm playing with him is perilous. The heat I feel is the heat of change. Of transformation and awakening. Though half a decade past my twentieth year, I've never before met a man who triggered a chemical reaction. I knew it would one day come, but I never dreamt it could be so consuming. I am a child playing with fire. How long before I, too, am believing in his delusions?

I must build a barrier between what is animal and what is human. Animal lust does not equate to human love, and as long as I can remember that, I will be safe.

Leave it to the descendant of Robert Kirk to fall in lust with a madman.

As I dress, I try to recall everything I know about Merlin's Viviane. Unfortunately, it is precious little. There are far more details—though many of them conflicting—about the male characters in these tales. I know that she was referred to by many names, and that she enchanted Merlin, persuading him to share his ancient knowledge with her and ultimately imprisoning him. In most tales he prophesied her coming, but still found himself powerless to resist her.

And that is where my advantage lies.

Were I in truth his reborn Viviane, all I'd need do is wait for fate to take its course. The man must himself see this, and so I view it as a mark of his desperation that he takes this risk.

As I retie the drawstring of my petticoat, I recall he has one overriding desire: to break the curse. Suddenly my course becomes clear.

Footsteps approach. By the sound, they do not belong to my captor, and I glance expectantly at the entrance to my chamber. What strides slowly and heavily into view is not a man at all, but another mechanical creature.

I watch as it approaches, goosebumps rising along my arms. The thing walks erect, but the only humanlike features are the head that rests upon the metalwork shoulders—a male mannequin head, painted like a doll with eyes, nose, mouth, and hair—and the clothing draped over its gangly metal frame. Movement is accompanied by a series of clicks and metallic squeaks.

“Hello?” I say, backing slowly away.

The automaton does not reply—how could it with such lips?—but continues forward into my chamber. He carries a tray laden with bread, cheese, and a pitcher of water, which he rests upon the desk. I can't help but smile when I notice that my dress hangs over one arm. He folds this over the back of the chair.

He then lifts the used tea things, maneuvers around me to the bed to pick up the death shroud, and begins his retreat.

“Hello!” I call more urgently. Rushing forward, I take hold of his arm. Shuddering, I imagine this must be very like how it feels to grip the arm of a skeleton.

The automaton pauses, and I hear a tinny squeak as its head begins to turn. I find myself staring into lifeless eyes, and a shiver runs all the way through me. The head turns again and the thing continues walking, heedless of me gripping its arm. I'm dragged across the floor and must let go before I strike the barrier.

So I am alone in this place with a madman, a mechanical kelpie, and a clockwork butler. Only one of them can be reasoned with, and I cannot afford to allow him to leave my caretaking to his assistants.

Though I've little appetite, I know that I must feed my brain to keep it working properly. I sit down at the desk and take my meal. After that, I build up the turf fire to ensure the chamber remains warm enough for what I must do. My dress, I ignore.

I spend the next few minutes examining my cell more closely. Behind a curtain I discover that what I'd thought was a closet is actually a small privy, quite comfortable despite the rustic nature of this habitation. In addition to the other furnishings, I find a low bookshelf at the foot of the bed, and an assortment of innocuous volumes. Too much to hope, I suppose, that I'd find a copy of
Prose
Merlin,
or Malory's
Le Morte d'Arthur
.

Perhaps half an hour later, as I'm flipping restlessly through a well-used volume of Mary Shelley's
Frankenstein,
I hear the hoped-for footsteps. Lifting my gaze, I watch as Mr. Ambrose crosses the room to his great desk, opens what looks like a ledger, and begins to scribble across a page. This reminds me that I've lost my satchel and notebook. They must still be inside the mechanical horse. I've little need for them now, but all the same, I resolve to try my luck at recovering them—if my captor ever speaks to me again.

I set down the novel and rise from the bed. Standing before the stove, which is not visible from his vantage point, I take a full breath and let it out slowly. Then I begin again to remove my underthings, fingers trembling. When I am completely naked, I return to lie upon the bed. Because the bed has been placed along the wall opposite the doorway, I surmise that my head and feet are not visible to him, but the rest of me
is.
As a result, I cannot see him. But I do note the precise moment the pen's scratching ceases.

I am ill prepared for the sensations that arise, knowing that his eyes are upon me. The rush of blood creates a throbbing between my legs. My breasts quake with the violence of my heart pounding beneath them.

His form rises to my mind unbidden, and I study the round, hard musculature beneath his fine shirt. I recall the shape of his hand as his fingers clenched.

I raise my hand, crossing my forearm over my body, and touch one rouge nipple with the tip of my middle finger. I move my hand in slow circles, groaning softly at the delicate, exquisite sensation. The tiny shocks of pleasure that harden that bead of flesh.

It's not enough, not
nearly
enough, so I raise my other hand, pressing both elbows close to my body now, and give both nipples the same attention.

Fascinating.
Instead of imagining Ambrose, I now watch my own body work upon itself. The sensations in my nipples are almost unbearable. In response, my back arches and my knees tip apart. I stare between my breasts at my mound, festooned in golden curls, and for the first time in my life I picture a hardened cock poised above it. Moisture seeps from my pussy into the bedclothes.

“Ah,” I murmur, allowing one hand to slide between my breasts, down my abdomen, and into the soft hairs.

With my other hand I cup and knead one breast as I slip my fingers between hot, wet folds of flesh. I can't hold back a little cry as my fingertip connects with a point of pure pleasure, and instinctively I begin to circle that point.

My mind is quiet. I am pure form and sensation. I continue to knead and rub, and as another cry breaks from my lips, I slide my middle finger into my opening. My hips rise to meet my hand. I rub my breast against my chest. I thrust a finger in and out until my hand is dripping.

The pumping wet heat takes me and I give a cry of pure astonishment, hips thrusting higher.

As I collapse back onto the bed, breathless, not a sound comes from the desk in the library.

When I rise to dress again I see that he is gone. I'd been too preoccupied to note when that moment occurred, or what state he might have been in. Did he flee, like before, in order to maintain control of himself? Of what strong stuff his self-possession must be made to allow him to resist such wanton advances.

At the very least, I believe the man must now be realizing that his scheming has led to unforeseen consequences. He must be asking himself whether he has miscalculated. And that brings me yet one step closer to my objective.

But I hope that
I
have not miscalculated. My knowledge of men is admittedly scant; is it possible that I've disgusted him with my boldness? More probably, I've frightened him away. But if he refuses to come to me on either count, the only avenue I've found for escape will be closed.

When the automaton returns, I fear this may be the case. But he comes bearing a restocked tea tray, and I allow myself to hope this is only a routine visit, the first of many, and that it does not signify that my captor is avoiding me.

When he has placed the items on my desk and turned to go, I move to block his way. “I have a message for your master,” I blurt, hoping to have time to speak before he pushes past me.

Again comes the eerie inclination of the doll-like head, and I press on. “If he will but consent to school me in the alchemy of lovers, in which I've developed a keen interest, I will apply my own learning and intellect to the task of breaking his curse. Are you able to tell him this?”

For an answer, he rights his head and pushes past me.

I don't know if the automaton is capable of communication, but if not I'll have to hope for another visit from his master so I can apply to the source. I wonder whether Ambrose is lost enough in his delusion not to see through my offer. For while it will give the appearance that I have accepted his assignment of the Viviane identity, in fact all I hope is that in exchange for permission to play with his captive, he will continue discoursing with her.

The element I cannot afford to allow my thoughts to rest upon is the fact that the captive increasingly wishes to be played with.

I will go mad soon myself without a timepiece. Impossible to say for sure, but I make a guess that an hour has passed by the time I hear the heavy tread of the automaton (whom I've begun to think of as Arthur, because of the alliteration with “automaton,” but also because it amuses me to do so).

He appears to hesitate outside my cell, an unlikely action for an automaton, and then I see his master slip past and take up his place at his desk without so much as a glance my direction.

My heart begins to thump in blind anticipation, for I cannot see where this is going, but know the part that I must continue to play. Yet I, too, hesitate, because I have questions: Has Arthur communicated my message? Do I wait for the automaton's departure to continue?

I realize that the answers to these questions can have only negligible effect upon my next actions, so I reach for the top hook of my corset, this time in full view of both Merlin and Arthur.

The automaton is unreadable—and I presume insensible, else I'd not have the courage to do this—and his master is paging through a heavy, leather-bound volume.

Ignoring them both, I strip away my clothing once again and let it fall to the floor, thinking perhaps for efficiency it should simply remain there. Though there is certainly an eroticism to flesh concealed.

As my petticoat pools at my feet, Arthur surprises me by stepping over the druid arc. He approaches slowly, and I notice he's holding a length of gleaming copper tubing. Something from his master's lab, perhaps.

He stands stiffly, the only way he can, as if he waits for me to do something. I continue to stare at him, thoroughly baffled by his behavior, until he shifts his mechanical body to stand with one shoulder toward the doorway, lowering the pipe until its position makes it look like…

Oh my
.

Startled, I glance at Ambrose, but he's still thumbing through his book. Apparently Sir Merlin enjoys a show. Or perhaps he feels a vicarious experience will protect him from my “power to act upon him.” Either way, it's clear he's going to make me earn his notice.

A part of me wishes to feel affronted by the mere suggestion. But a stronger part of me wants out of this cell at any cost.

And a part of me that gains strength by the minute longs to feel something more solid than my own fingers between my legs. My body answers this thought with a bead of moisture that travels all the way down to my ankle.

I make a slow circle around the inert Arthur and grab the desk chair. I return and place it before him. Standing between Arthur and the chair, I sink to my knees facing him. I walk my knees closer to study the copper pipe, noting the carefully considered size and length. There's even a bend at the end that allows Arthur to more easily grip it in his gloved mechanical fingers. Will he be able to hold it steady, I wonder?

I decide to make a test. Raising my hands to the approximate location of the automaton's hips, which feel like nothing so much as iron rods, I lean forward and take the pipe into my mouth.

In the outer room I hear the clatter of a pen hitting the floor.

Working my lips back and forth along the pipe's length, curling my tongue over and around, I taste the tang of metal. I think less about what I'm doing than what my captor is seeing. Imagining how best to move him, I use both long and languid caresses and rapid in-and-out motions. I envision how he might react were I ministering to him in this way.

The channel inside my pussy begins to clench convulsively, and pulling back my lips I give a last, slow lick along the underside. I hear steps in the outer room, and the sound of labored breathing.

Rising to my feet I turn, bending and gripping the seat of the chair. I tip my backside into the air and reach around with my hand to guide the pipe, now warm and wet, as deep inside me as it will go. Grasping the chair's seat, I thrust until I strike against Arthur's hand.

The automaton doesn't even flinch. But his master is breathing so heavily I almost fear for his health.

Still I don't look at him. I sink inside myself, and in my mind's eye I again see what Ambrose sees, my pale flesh bucking and writhing against the emotionless mechanical man, a gleaming length of copper connecting us, sliding in and out of my wet pussy.

My fingernails dig into the wood and I shove my body back hard. My breasts swing, and it's as if the pipe end has pressed a lever inside me. I rock back so hard my ass knocks into Arthur's metal frame, and as I feel the mechanical fingers curl around my hip for support, I let out a scream of release.