Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (70 page)

“Yes,
My Queen.” The words bubbled up from my lips between the lightning fast flicks
of her wrist. Each beat inched over that line of pleasure and pain I had never
thought to cross. All of my analytical reasoning as to why I liked the feeling
of anger etched on my skin fell away in the face of the rubber sliding across
my dewy flesh. Adrenaline beat inside my head turning my thoughts and instincts
into mush, every sure action boiled down to a scream of pleasure through my
lips.

My
knee grew weak, legs and arms giving in to the pressure piling on my chest as
the pleasure eased from my cunt into every fiber of my body. I shook and
shivered with the intensity of my reaction, synapses rebuilding themselves in
the mold of a steady pleasure which pushed my brain across the edge. Every
sensation built until I was cowering from the clenches of my inner walls, my
cunt flaring for attention. My clit was the center of my world, thrumming like
a divining rod as my body bucked one last time under the weight of my orgasm. I
was nothing. I ceased to exist within this pleasure.

The
last thing I saw through half-lidded eyes was the Queen’s face glowing with
exertion and pride as my own skin burst into life. White glow, as if my skin
was alive with firefly lights, beamed out of every inch of my flesh, the orgasm
stretching my skin until I felt like their couldn’t possibly be anything left.
A bell peeled inside my head, flowers growing a bed underneath all the
whiteness as it dripped down like paint until the walls were the Queen’s
receiving hall. I could move my arms and legs, my head a soothing pull of white
noise against a backdrop of complete relaxation. Sitting up was the hardest
thing I’d ever done but the flower bed twining vines into my hair helped ease
the transition up towards my feet.

“Niamh,
touch your shoulders.” The Queen’s laughter bubbled across my skin like the
coolest water as I tentatively reached across my battered body to feel against
my shoulder blades.

I
was beloved.

About
Elise Hepner

Elise
Hepner has been previously published in The Erotic Woman for “Joy Button” as
well as Clean Sheets for “My Little Pony”. She got her erotica wings from
writing short pieces for Alison Tyler’s blog contests every Saturday and found
her calling. This is her first foray into erotic literature though she has
multiple non-fiction publications from travel magazines to medical magazines on
her resume. She hopes to make erotica her main focus in the upcoming years. She
enjoys getting down and dirty while exploring sexuality in a variety of ways
which is why writing smut makes her heart sing. Look for anything new as well
as tips and tricks of the erotica trade at http://celise91writer.blogspot.com

THE CHOOSING

By Darcy Sweet

There
was little comfort in the fact that I was the only one smart enough to recognize
the irony of my being
forced
to The Choosing. Irony was too subtle a
concept for my Uncle, whose fat little fist gripped my elbow. He preferred
brute force and any reflection of his actions was far beyond his mental
capacity. Ordinarily I found great comfort in my self-righteous intellectual
superiority. The quiet certainty of knowing I was smarter than them all usually
got me through anything. It had certainly gotten me through the last six years
of being fostered by my Uncle—that, and my mental calendar, counting off
the days until I finally reached my legal majority and could escape his
authority.

But
not today. Today I felt not superior, but instead small and foolish.

Glancing
over my shoulder at Uncle Hawthorne, I caught his eye and he sent me a brief
jowl-jiggling nod. He turned away almost at once as if he could not stand to
look at me a moment longer. He rarely met my eyes. From the moment we met my
quiet determination disturbed him—at the very least, he found it
irritating, and at the most, it sent him into a frothing rage. I was still
watching him when his fleshy lips curled into a satisfied grin and he gave a
little snort of pleasure, sounding like a well-fed pig. It was the happiest I
think I’d ever seen him. He was so very pleased with himself. As he should be. 
He had finally bested me.

He’d
won.

That
fact crawled under my skin. It itched and burned—a sensation so real I
fought the desire to claw at my own skin. If only I could rake my nails deep,
slice into my soul and remove the burning indignity. But I couldn’t, so I did
nothing, showed nothing. Anyone who looked at me as I walked along would assume
I was not at all bothered by the proceedings—neither happy nor sad. My
façade was perfectly ambivalent.

I
was well-schooled at hiding my thoughts. Outwardly I made sure that I remained
serene, appearing calm and above it all. I never lost my composure; I learned
early to keep my true feelings locked, hidden deep inside. It had been so long
since I had let myself access my vault of stored emotion that sometimes I
wondered if there was even anything there—whether I was capable of
feeling at all. If perhaps I was naught but numb. As cold a bitch as my
relatives had so often accused me of being. It was indeed bittersweet that
after so many years of icy indifference to know that today I was at least
capable of feeling shame and foolishness.

At
my other side—his fingers biting into my arm—was my cousin, Bandar.
I may have felt foolish, but certainly not foolish enough to look to him for
comfort—or remorse. There’d been nothing but hate in his cold grey eyes
since I’d denied his claim. Anyway, I didn’t need to look to know where
Bandar’s gaze would be. Not with the array of nubile young flesh also on their
way to the Summer Choosing. As decreed by Vandarran law, one maiden from every
shire was now walking the Chosen Path to the Night Palace.

I
was one of them.

I
didn’t blame Bandar for staring. I could barely keep my eyes from the other
Candidates myself. They seemed to me like a flock of butterflies, bright
flashes of multi hued splendor sprung fresh from cocoons to dance before my
eyes. The glistening fabric of their gowns appeared to float over the gray
cobblestones as if their feet did not touch but instead somehow hovered,
gliding effortlessly.

Not
me.

 I
did not float. The heels of my boots sounded off like cracks of thunder,
pounding out in futile protest.

Each
crack of my heel asking,
Why? Why? Why?

It
was so ridiculous for
me
to attend The Choosing. So humiliating. Who
would choose me over all that young, lush beauty?

Not
that I wanted to be Chosen.

The
other Candidates—those who no doubt long dreamed of being Chosen—
laughed and chattered with their escorts. Their excitement was palpable; it
brushed against my skin like the prickle of static electricity. One of the
girls, a blond wearing a gown that shimmered like liquid silver, was so happy
she started to dance. I watched her leap forward on pointed
toes—performing as if she were already on show.

Perhaps
we are,
I thought and looked up at the Night Palace. The windows facing the
Chosen Path were either dark or shuttered tight. The balconies were empty and
shadowed. There was no movement, no light. I felt cold just looking at it. I
fought a shudder and looked away.

I’d
never been this close to the Palace. Few had, as only The Chosen and those in
Blood Service could come within three miles of the Night Palace compound. It
was restricted and trespass was punishable by death.

We
walked a street lined with rows of identical brownstone houses, each one indistinguishable
from the next. They butted up against each other in seemingly endless row.
Homes
,
I thought,
for The Chosen. Would I end up here too?
It was doubtful. Far
more likely that I would be housed in the Blood Service Dormitories.

Occupants
of the cookie cutter brownstone houses had spilled out onto the streets to
watch our procession. Watching along with The Chosen were many who were in
Blood Service, easily recognizable by their austere black uniforms. Curious, I
looked into the crowd of watchers, unwittingly catching the eye of one of The
Chosen. I knew he was Chosen, not just because of the cut and color of his fine
clothing but because of his stare. Intent, hungry, consuming—it burned. I
felt as though he could reveal my very soul, peel back my shields and spread me
open with just his gaze. It made me ache. Want, for what I wasn’t quite sure,
but the need settled low and heavy in my stomach. The feeling was disturbing, I
wasn’t one to want. I planned. Wanting was a useless endeavor. I planned for
the least and expected the worst. Wanting led to nothing but disappointment.

Heat
throbbed between my legs and I knew the ache he’d caused had made me wet. Did
he know too? His smile seemed to suggest he did. Shame burned through me,
racing across my skin in a heated blush. I had to learn to harness my curious
nature, push it deep down. I had to hide it or, for the next five years while
in service to the Night Masters, I would be sure to find myself in deep
trouble.

I
hugged myself. Wrapping my arms around my body, I rubbed my palms up and down
the chilled skin. I was wearing a low cut sleeveless gown. The best the Shire
seamstress had to offer. The fabric was gossamer-fine pale pink. I was
uncomfortable so exposed, but discomfort with my clothing was the least of my
worries. My fingers trailed down my bare arm to circle the band of raised skin
around my wrist. I looked down. It was still red from where they’d tied me last
night.

They
hadn’t needed to do that—I wasn’t running and they knew it too. It was
done out of spite, out of the desire to hurt me, break me, make me cry. Bandar
had tightened the straps, pausing between each vicious pull to intently watch
my face, hoping, no doub,t to see me crack, see me cry out in pain. But I
didn’t. I gave him nothing, the same as I had for the last six years.

 Because
they could not claim nor break me, they had made the only threat that could
bind me to their will.

“
Talia,
you will
submit to The Choosing or we will take Leia in your stead
.”

Leia,
my sixteen-year-old sister. No matter how badly I wanted to escape the stifling
boredom of village and my Uncle’s authority, they knew I would never sacrifice
her. More than just being young, Leia was sickly, too frail to endure the
journey let alone whatever The Choosing would bring.

I’d
asked him ‘why’, a futile question I realized as soon as the word left my lips.
I knew why.

“Your
pride,” my Uncle had all but hissed at me. “By remaining unclaimed, your
arrogance has forced us to this, Talia.”

Pride?
Arrogance?
I’d bitten my cheeks at the words, the iron taste of blood
filling my mouth. I wanted to spit the bloody words back at him, but I didn’t.
I did what I always did; I pushed down the feeling—smothered it like a
spent hearth fire—and then smiled and turned away.

My
refusal to accept any claim had nothing to do with pride and everything to do
with self respect. I’d watched the women around me claimed—one by one
they submitted to their husband’s will until they were little more than shells
of their former self. Used, rearing child after child, merely vessels to carry
Vandarran heirs.

The
only legal right a Vandarran maiden had was that of choosing her claiming. A
claim could not be forced. Because of that law, I’d thought myself safe as long
as I remained unclaimed. I thought all I had to do was wait it out until my
twenty-fifth birthday and then I could escape. I had no grand dreams, no
delusions of my life after I’d reached majority. All I wanted was to head to
the Capitol and find work as a servant, hopefully as a governess, but now those
meager dreams were gone, just three months shy of my twenty-fifth birthday.

Now
I would either become a Chosen novitiate or go into Blood Service to the Night
Masters.

The
Palace gates came into view, bringing our procession to a stop. We stood
suddenly quiet, all awed by the wrought iron shaped into giant black wings, the
tips extending high above the six foot stone walls. Four guards dressed in
shining black regalia opened the gates. They moved silently, without even a
creak.

Bandar’s
grip tightened on my arm. “I hope they bleed you dry, frigid bitch,” he hissed,
breath hot with the stench of last night’s malt liquor.

“I’d
rather choose death than you,” I answered him. He seemed surprised that I spoke
rather than given him my usual calm smile. In truth I’d surprised myself and it
felt…
good
. I didn’t pull away or flinch when he raised his hand to me.
His hand was up but he had not yet swung when his father pulled him back.

 “Don’t
damage the goods. She’s the Night Master’s problem now.”

Bandar
slowly lowered his hand, finally releasing his grip on my arm. With a hollow
laugh he said, “They’ll see you for what you are, Talia—a useless dried
up old bitch. They’ll suck you dead if they can stand your bitter taste. My
only regret is that I will not see it.”

I
met his eyes and finally, letting the years of hate seep into my voice, I said,
“And with my dying breath, I’ll tell them you deliberately sent your worst.
That your offering to the Night Masters was made not in reverence but in anger
and spite. They’ll come for
you
then, Bandar.
My
only regret is
that I will not see you beg for your worthless life.”

He
blanched, stepping back with wide, frightened eyes. He had not expected a
response to his cruel words. My usual response was silence. I came to them
already schooled in restraint from the harsh life of serving my own brutal
father. I didn’t speak out. I didn’t curse. I kept my tongue, locking my
resentment behind a curtain of cool indifference. Over the years my quiet
disdain became more than a shield; it became a weapon against their arrogance.
They both hated my refusal to yield. I did what they said, cold smile locked in
place, but they knew in their hearts I never really submitted to their will.
Because of the years of passive resistance, Bandar had never known the whip of
my tongue and I would not let him leave now without a final taste of my hatred.

I
said in a calm, measured tone, “You were never man enough, Bandar. You know
that don’t you? That was why you could not claim me. You had not the strength
nor the skill to own me. You think me frigid? You think me dried up? You fool.
I am no virgin. I took whomever I wanted. I just never wanted
you
.”

“Quiet
bitch,” my Uncle said through clenched teeth. “Shut your filthy mouth.”

Around
us Candidates cried their bittersweet farewells, clasping their escorts as if
they did not wish them to leave. Me, I grinned. Even fearing what I faced ahead
could not dampen the joy of knowing I would never again answer to Bandar or my
Uncle.

I
watched them leave. Bandar looked back at me one last time before mounting the
steps to the carriage. I met his eyes and smiled again, a true smile from a
free heart. I closed my eyes and savored the short-lived feeling of liberty. An
instant of freedom I knew was fleeting, but for that brief moment was mine
alone.

I
was the last to walk through. For one brief charged minute, I considered
running. Adrenalin shot through me, singing through my veins as my body
prepared to take flight. But I didn’t. I didn’t run. Where would I go? What
would I do even if I could outrun the guards? I would be an outlaw, with no
money, no hope, no choices left. I looked up at the forbidding façade of the
night Palace and gave in. I submitted to the inevitable, and with head down, I
walked through the gates and on to The Choosing.

Inside
the winged gates we were ushered through huge black lacquered doors into a
hall. A Great Hall. Vast and empty, it held only a wooden table, two chairs and
a large bronze gong in the back corner of the room. The walls were lined with
flocked black velvet wallpaper. I longed to run my hands across the raised wing
design but instead I clasped my hands together, gripping tight until my nails
bit into the skin. Light filtered in through floor to ceiling windows. It shimmered
through what I first thought to be sheer bronze curtains but on a second look
realized were thousands of hanging strands of fine metal. I kept focused on the
details to shield myself from thinking. From wondering.

The
sound of nervous chatter echoed in the cavernous room—whispered gossipy
threads of what to expect weaved in through my focused shield. I dismissed
them, shut them down, turning away from the nearest Candidate who tried to draw
me into her supposition. No one knew what to expect. It was futile to suppose.
There were countless rumors of course, drunken stories told by firelight, but
no one actually knew—no one other than those who had undergone The
Choosing and they were blood bound to silence.