Demon's Delight (16 page)

The owner of the foot cursed as Harry followed up with a sharp backward jab of his elbow. He got ribs from the feel of it, and a satisfying rush of lost air, but then the first man stepped forward to join in.

“Want a fight then?” Harry said with an old, fierce joy, more than ready to roughhouse tonight. The man came closer. He was tall and moved like he was used to fighting himself. Harry didn't care. The instant the man took hold of Harry's collar, Harry put every ounce of his strength into ramming his thigh upward. Pretty as a picture, his kneecap connected with his attacker's groin, doubling him forward toward Harry's chest.

“Dose him,” wheezed the sufferer to his partner. “Now!”

The other man had been gripping Harry by the arms, no doubt hoping to immobilize him. When he let one arm go, Harry cocked his fist and drew it back, fully expecting to be delivering a knockout blow to the man in front.

But Harry never got the chance to uncoil his punch. Something pierced his buttock with a quick, sharp pain, and every muscle he had instantaneously turned to water.

“Wha—” he slurred as the man in front snapped at the one in back to catch him.

“If he falls, we'll have that swill all over the car!”

Harry was duly caught, and lifted, and carried dangling like a drowned man over his attacker's shoulder. They were going into the alley. A black electric car resolved from the mist. Some automatic part of Harry's brain noted that it was a Falkham. A streetlamp glinted off the trademark winged Victory on the hood.

“Hey,” he tried to protest as he was heaved into the dark backseat, but all that came out was “h-h.”

His heart began to pound too fast, fear coming over him all at once. This wasn't a robbery. He'd been drugged. He could feel his body; he could move his eyes and breathe, and that was it. A peculiar, quivering heat blossomed in his core, possibly from panic. He was as helpless to save himself as a kitten in a sack.

The Falkham's door was shoved shut behind him, its barrier pushing up his shoulders and head. When it closed, the metal made a sound he wasn't used to, a solid, resonant thump. Whatever this car was made of, it wasn't the usual tin.

Then a light sprang into being on the car's ceiling.

Harry's heart nearly stopped with shock. The demon woman sat before him. His feet almost touched her mink-covered knees. She was even more beautiful close up. On seeing him, the only change in her calm, smooth face was a widening of her silver eyes.

The men who'd attacked him must have been her
rohn
servants.

At the realization, something broke inside him, something he hadn't known was whole anymore.
She
had ordered those men to hurt him?
She
was responsible?

If she'd wanted to meet him, all she'd had to do was ask.

The two men slid into the front of the car from either side. The glimpse Harry got from the position his head was stuck in informed him they might be twins. Without a word, the driver revved the engine. Its powerful, quiet purr was as strange as the thunk of the door had been. The men must have been waiting for some sign, because the car remained where it was.

The woman leaned toward them, one gloved hand bracing on the back of their leather seat. “I thought you were only going to subdue him.”

The driver twisted around to smirk at Harry. “He looks subdued to me.”

Harry didn't know if it was the words that stunned the woman, or the singular sight of a Yama smirking, but she fell back. Her hands fisted in her fur as if she were trying to hide how angry she was. “What did you give him?” she asked levelly.

“Narcophane with a kicker,” supplied the driver.

The woman cursed in her own language, which was when Harry realized they'd been speaking flawless Ohramese until then. Their accents were indistinguishable from any of his better-schooled countrymen. He wondered if they were so fluent in either tongue that they didn't care what they spoke. Worse, maybe they thought him too feeble for it to matter if he understood.

As if to confirm this, once she'd recovered from her temper's lapse, the woman continued in Ohramese. “You gave him a kicker? You know humans don't react to drugs like we do.”

“Relax, Dr. Forette,” soothed the man who wasn't driving. “We halved the dose. You'll be glad for it if we're stopped. He won't be wanting to escape even if he does get a chance.”

The claim made no sense to Harry. He knew he'd fight like the devil to get away from them.

The woman's…the
doctor's
pouty lips had thinned. Her eyes turned back to him, running up and down. She didn't seem worried so much as taking inventory of his condition, but her gaze had a more personal effect. The quivery heat that had been forming a ball in his gut abruptly exploded, wave after wave of brandied warmth spreading through his limbs. His sex began to harden the same as if she'd rubbed it. He didn't think it was going to stop hardening, either. With every pump of his heart, his shaft surged longer.

Somehow she knew it. Her gaze fell and fastened on his groin. The way her servants had left him sprawled, he couldn't hide what was happening. Harry was no featherweight, and he was already big enough to show a hump. Her expression didn't change as she took this in, but a tinge of pink crept up her cheeks. To his dismay, that reaction was arousing, too.

“You can't sit like that,” she said as if it were his fault. “You'll be on the floor the first time we turn.”

With the strength for which her kind was famed, she pulled him upward to sit properly on the seat, swinging his legs around and placing his boots on the floor. Though he couldn't move, he felt everything. Every touch increased the lust thumping through his body, every whisper of her unbound hair. He was gasping from sexual overexcitement as his torso, unsupported by his muscles, began to slide toward the door.

Cursing softly, the demon hauled him back to her side. His head fell to her shoulder. The cool mink felt like heaven against his cheek, each strand a separate stroke of ecstasy along his nerves. He experienced an insane wish that he could strip naked and rub every inch of his pulsing body over that sleek, smooth fur—especially with her in it. Longing stabbed through him. He needed to be touched so badly, his vocal chords let out a mournful moan.

“GPS says our route is clear,” the driver announced, which seemed to mean he was free to put the motorcar into gear. “We'll be at Paddington in ten minutes.”

The wheels bumping down the curb jostled Harry closer to his captor. Her coat fell open to bare the curves of her bosom, each perfect, peach-sized breast snuggled into pale-yellow silk. She wore no corset beneath her Yamish outfit, and her nipples were swollen and slightly peaked. Had the cold done that, or was she excited? Either way, Harry's cock throbbed violently in his trousers. He discovered he could swallow—but only in time to moan again.

“Hurry,” said the doctor, reaching briskly up to extinguish the ceiling light. “I think that ‘kicker' is kicking in a bit faster than you expected!”

A
“kicker” was Yamish slang for a pharmaceutical aphrodisiac. The drugs came in different types, but the one Khira's guards had administered to the human obviously increased his sensitivity to and craving for oxytocin—a natural endorphin humans and Yama produced when they were touched. Add an arousal enhancer, and it was no wonder the human was feverish with desire.

Considering that the guards had also paralyzed most of his muscles, rendering it impossible for him to do anything about that desire, Khira concluded they had an inborn cruel streak—no doubt part of the reason the emperor had gone to the trouble of cloning them.

She tried stroking the human's cheek to calm him, but that simply made him break into a sweat.

“Paddington Station!” her driver announced, with an indecent ring of cheer. “Time to get this package stowed.”

She and the other guard hefted the shaking human between them, dragging him along as if he were drunk. They left the ersatz motorcar on the street for some other agent to collect. Prohibited technology couldn't sit around. As quickly as they could with their boneless burden, they headed not for the station's main entrance, but through a long, weedy lot toward a dark siding. The atmosphere was clearer here, and their breath puffed white in the wintry air, the human's coming quick and short with his arousal. Khira fought not to swear. Right then, she was wishing she'd accepted anyone's “help” but these men's.

“Here's the carriage,” said the driver, leaping up the stairs first. “We'll get him settled, and then I'll tell the engineer you're ready to hook up.”

This time “carriage” meant a private railway car—though Khira saw as soon as she climbed in that it was another Yamish vehicle disguised as human. For that, she was grateful. At least they'd be traveling with a real bathroom and real heat. The furnishings looked comfortable, composed of a sitting compartment, a two-bunk sleeper, and the blessed W.C.

Polished brass gleamed on the fittings, a complement to the leather and the small Yamish-style smokeless fireplace. On the semicircular windows, parchment shades were pulled down. Khira was impressed. Whatever else the science minister intended for her future, he wasn't sending her second class.

The guards laid her acquisition on a tufted brown-velvet couch, showed her where to find supplies, and prepared to go.

“You're leaving?” she said, suddenly not so eager to have them gone.

“We're riding in the public cars,” they explained, eerily in tandem. One of them smiled faintly and finished speaking for both. “In case we need to head off questions. Don't worry,” he added, an outright insult, “we'll lock you in.”

Lovely,
she thought, meaning the opposite. A disturbing heat shimmied up her thighs. She and the sex-crazed human would be alone.

 

Khira stayed away from the human as long as her conscience allowed—though she did turn on the fire, pull off his boots, and tuck a pillow beneath his head. She knew he didn't need the blanket that draped the couch's back. Though shivers wracked his body, they weren't from the cold. The hump of his erection proclaimed how warm he was, tenting his loose wool trousers like a mute hammer to her guilt.

“It wasn't my choice,” she whispered to the paneled walls in the sleeper where she was hiding, too restless to sit. “Of my own will, I wouldn't have done this to you.”

Her will didn't matter. He was suffering, at least indirectly, because of her, helpless to ease himself in any way. Human or not, it wasn't fair to leave him like that.

She was allowing herself the indulgence of biting her knuckle, when she heard the clunk and rattle of their carriage being coupled onto the train. The car began to move, gradually picking up speed along the tracks. The rattling motion sent vibrations from her heels to her groin, obliging her to acknowledge that more was happening to her body than guilt or nerves. She was hot inside, pulsing and wet. Even as she admitted it, a rush of warm, creamy moisture slipped from her sex.

A second later, a moan trailed to her from the sitting room. It was the human. If she was bothered by these vibrations, how much more must they be torturing him?

She really couldn't put off going to him.

He watched her as she entered the sitting room, his eyes pleading silently. Too confused and miserable to glare, he didn't look dangerous now. He was shuddering, his erection even more pronounced than before. Her body tightened. If she didn't help him soon, she feared he'd go into convulsions.

Squaring her shoulders, she pulled on her long kid gloves. One of the many reasons humans were best avoided was the ease with which human etheric energy transferred to the Yama during skin-to-skin contact. This energy was a drug to Khira's people, better than coffee or chocolate or wine. Unfortunately, it also carried the taint of human emotion. Yama—especially the lower classes—might enjoy the invigorating effects of etheric force, but human emotions were perilous. Those Yama who weren't appropriately disgusted were susceptible to addiction, and a Yama who gave way to emotion might as well consign herself to banishment at once. Such a person would not be fit to live or work with. Khira had enough against her without risking that.

Prepared now, she crossed the room and stopped at his side. “It is all right,” she said, bending to undo his waistcoat. “I'll make you feel better soon.”

The moan that issued from him was surely trying to be words.

“I must remove
all
your clothes,” she said. “Considering the state you're in, a simple hand manipulation isn't going to do. You need full body stimulation.”

His strange green eyes went round, but of course he couldn't protest even if he wished. He panted as she propped him up to pull off his smock-like shirt. His chest was hairier than she was used to, and more heavily muscled. Beads stuck out from the center of his rosy nipples, as thick around as her smallest finger. The sight shouldn't have aroused her; it was too different, too obvious. Nonetheless, her sex closed hungrily on itself.

“I'll…open your trousers now,” she said, carefully laying him back.

His erection pushed so forcefully against the wool that the fastenings were difficult to undo. He grunted as she finally freed them, and the full, hard length of him sprang up.

Having studied comparative physiology, Khira knew genital size varied widely in both races. This man qualified as well endowed in either. His organ was brutishly thick along all its length, girded by a net of dark, swollen veins. The huge head pounded like a heart from the blood that had forced its way into it and its lust-widened slit was weeping pre-ejaculate.

Unable to control her reaction, Khira licked her upper lip. She had to remind herself she couldn't touch his genitals this soon. The release wouldn't satisfy him unless she built up to it, and she was damned if she'd do this twice. Fighting temptation, she slid one gloved hand beneath his hips and lifted them, thus enabling her to drag his trousers down. As she wrestled them over his muscled thighs, she noticed his underthings were as damp as hers. He'd been seeping with excitement all this time.

“There,” she said, her voice too husky to count as properly restrained. His naked body was incredible—hairy, tall, and beautifully formed. She'd been right to call him hypermasculine. The lush brown bush from which his cock was jutting was an utterly primitive display, one that spoke to parts of her that—clearly—weren't civilized at all.

As if to tease her, his nearer leg fell off the cushion, his foot striking the carpet with a thump. Khira didn't put it back. The heavy swell of his balls was bared. They were hairy, too. Ripe. She wanted, quite insanely, to cup them in her hands and squeeze.

“I'll just kneel, shall I?” she said, moving from the territory she longed to explore to a somewhat safer position near his chest. “I'll start at your head and work down.” She shut her eyes against the image of the other head she was more than willing to work down. “Don't be anxious. All of this will feel good.”

 

Good
was not the word. What Harry felt as she massaged his scalp with her ten gloved fingers was an explosion of ecstasy. Wetness spurted from his cock, not come but the clear, sweet fluid that signaled its approach. If he'd had any brain to think with, he would have been embarrassed. He didn't though, and all he could do was wallow in the heavenly relief of finally being touched.

His skin felt as if it had been itching for this for hours. In fact, he might have been itching for it all his life. Naturally, he'd been with women, but those had been quick, practical encounters. No one had ever caressed him with their full attention, probably not even as a babe. Wards of the state got the minimum care to keep them alive. As a result, her hands were a stronger drug than whatever they'd given him before. God help him, but if this Yama intended to keep him as a sex slave, she was making a persuasive case.

“Gl-” he managed to choke out, wanting the feel of her bare hands more than his next breath.

When she shook her head, her silky hair swept shiveringly across his chest. She rubbed that then, in slow, firm circles over his ribs, combing through his hair as her hands came closer to his nipples. She pinched them when she got there, pulling them out enough to sting. Sensation pulsated through him. He gasped as his cock spurted hard again.

“G-come,” he grunted in warning.

“Sh,” she said. “Not yet.”

Her hands smoothed down his arms, her thumbs pressing forceful tingles across his palms. That felt so good a tear trickled from his eye. She squeezed his hip bones, his thighs, forcing each taut muscle to lift and relax. Then her warm, soft gloves cupped his scrotum.

His groan reverberated through his whole body.

She massaged his balls as if she didn't know the meaning of shyness. Maybe she didn't. Maybe her people approached sex differently. Whatever her inhibitions or lack thereof, pressure built inside him with frightening swiftness. He couldn't come before she touched his penis, he refused to for pride alone, but if she didn't stop squeezing him like that, he was going to.

“I'll help you last,” she said, her voice softer than before. She gripped the skin at the top of his scrotum between her thumb and fingers and tugged firmly, something he had tried now and then himself when he wanted to slow down. She knew the trick of it better than he did. The pressure inside him eased a fraction, but not his maddening need for her hands on him.

“St-roke me,” he pleaded, every syllable thick. “Cock.”

Her eyes were startled to his, meeting them for the first time since she'd knelt down. Her pupils glittered, swollen disks of black in pools of silver ice. He couldn't help wondering what lay behind them. “You can't wait?”

“N—” was all his tightened throat let out.

“Very well,” she said, and wrapped her fingers tight around his swollen root. She dragged them upward, her hold so snug he felt more hot fluid push from his slit.

God, he wanted to be inside her, holding her, fucking her, making her feel even half of what he felt now. His paralyzed body shook with pleasure and desire as the train clacked rhythmically on the tracks. Again, she pulled her hand tightly up him. He ached from the force she was using, from the incredible need to release the seed building up inside. Her grip slid over the rim of him, into the pre-come running from his crest.

He tensed, but, “Good,” she said. “I can stroke you better if you're wet.”

Her palm cupped the head, turning from side to side to oil her glove in his juice. The delicious feel of the leather rotating over those sensitive nerves made him drench her more. Her grip slid down easily, then up again faster. He thought back to his years in the workhouse and on the streets, when he would have given his eyeteeth for the smallest physical kindness. Now he had it, and it didn't mean a thing. Overcome by it all the same, another tear of bliss trickled from his eye.

The woman touched his cheek with her second hand, a tenderness at odds with her detached expression. He closed his eyes. He couldn't look at her, couldn't bare this soul-deep hunger for connection when she appeared so composed.

“Breathe,” she said softly. “Breathe through the rise and the climax will be deeper. Breathe and you'll empty out.”

The best he could do was gasp. Her hand was suddenly moving faster than a human's could. The friction of her strokes burned hotter than his blazing skin. He climbed the slope to coming until his body's anticipation hurt. His stones felt as if that's what they were made of. They pulled up urgently between his legs.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Go.”

She wrapped her second hand around his shaft, pushing both fists together at its center before pushing out again. His crown registered every finger that squeezed over it. She was stretching his cock in both directions. Her skill astounded him, not to mention the matter-of-fact manner in which she employed it—when all the while she nearly killed him with pleasure. Light flared behind his tightly shut eyelids a second before the climax tore out of him.

When he came, his hips jerked off the couch, joints and muscles straining without his control. Long, hot bursts of seed jetted and splashed down. He groaned as each brought him closer to complete relief, the sound harsh and guttural.