Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (72 page)

No.

I
couldn’t.

I
wouldn’t.

I
had too.

I
tensed, rocking my wet sex into her hand, accepting the inevitable, giving over
to the feeling when she stopped. I felt both relief and frustration as she
removed her hand from between my legs. Those feelings quickly turned to shame
as she brought the dripping hand up and presented it to her brother.

“Look
at this,” she said as she turned her fingers back and forth, showing the
dripping residue of my shame.

The
man stepped up from his chair and came forward, his erect penis bobbing with
each step. The ribbon bound woman followed on her knees as if connected by an
unseen chain. She curled again at his feet and mine.

“Do
it,” he said and then to my surprise he pushed away the ribbon-bound woman and
crouched at my feet, his face level with my naked sex.

Do
what?

Before
I could ask out loud the Chosen woman brought her hand back between my legs.
This time she did not just plunge them into my vagina, this time she brought
her other hand around my waist and started to rub at my mound. She circled her
fingers around at first creating a sweet building ache that had me pushing back
on the fingers resting deep inside my sex.

And
then…then…

Then
when I thought I understood, when she thought I knew the plan. It changed. The
soft circling caress became slaps. Tapping, stinging beats against my mound and
the resting fingers became pistons, pushing, thrusting deep inside me.

“Yes.
Yes.” I heard the Chosen man at my feet say. I looked down, down at the hand
that slapped my mound and at the face of the Chosen man who peered intently at
my dripping sex.

The
shame. The burning shame of them looking at my wicked sex. Of the plunging
fingers and the slapping hand. I could take no more.

No
more.

And
it happened. I clenched. Arched my hips and exploded, spurting clear hot liquid
shame across the Chosen man’s face. I cried, as I never had, not for my Father
not for my Uncle and not for Bandar. I cried racking sobs of humiliation as I
continued to spurt out my orgasm.

Wrong.
So wrong. How could it feel this good? How could shame and pleasure be so
intertwined?

I
slumped against the Chosen woman. Resigned, I let my weight fall back on her as
I recovered. The room was silent other than the broken pant of my breath. My
heart pounded, my limbs were heavy as if sliding in quicksand.

One
word broke me from my fugue. Spoken by the Chosen man, still at my feet. He
said, “Again.”

I
didn’t quite understand until the fingers started up again, thrusting and
slapping. This time he stood, moving in close until his hardness was pressed up
against my belly and the hand that was between my thighs. He took the nipple of
my left breast between his fingers and pinched. Hard.

“Do
it. Do it again,” he commanded and on the strength of his voice and the feeling
of his pinching fingers I again spurted out my orgasm. This time across the
thighs of his black pants.

They
both stepped back from me at the same time. As if it was a dance. As if it was
rehearsed. I had trouble standing, my legs shaking in the aftermath. I wrapped
my arms around my waist and gripped tight.

The
air from the hall blew cool on my wet thighs. I didn’t dare look around, not
wanting to see the other Candidate’s response to my repeated disgraceful act. I
looked down at the ground, there was a wet spot at my feet. Further evidence of
my shame. Of my breaking.

The
warmth of the Chosen woman returned at my back and I turned my head, looking
over my shoulder to see what she was doing. She stroked her fingers across my
shoulder and then gripped my chin, forcing my head back to look at her brother.
When she had me positioned where she wanted, her hand moved down to stroke the
side of my breast.

She
spoke, not to me but to him. “After all this time. Could it be, brother? Should
we summon him?”

“Not
yet. Not without tasting.”

I
couldn’t follow their words. I didn’t understand what they were saying. Call
who?
Not a Master. Please not a Night Master
.

The
hand that had been stroking my breast came up to my neck. It was then that I
realized how she had removed my clothes. Her thumbnail was long and razor
sharp. She pushed it against my pulse until I felt the skin break with a pop. I
felt shock more than pain as a trickle of warm blood trailed down my neck. She
moved around in front of me, she opened her mouth, her lips pulling back. Her
canine teeth extended, not into the fang-like extensions I had seen in the
painted icons of the Night Masters but still long enough for me to know she was
not human.

Not
human. Not Chosen.

With
fangs, she had to be a Master of some kind.

I
shook. Uncontrollably, my body finally overtaken by fear. A thin stream of
blood ran from the cut she had made. It came down my neck and ran down the
curve of my breast until it dripped from my nipple.

“Gorgeous,”
the woman I had thought to be Chosen said. I did not know what to call her now.
I had no words. She brought a finger forward and swiped it across my bloody
nipple until it was coated in my blood. She sucked it into her mouth and
moaned. At the noise the room seemed to vibrate. The fine bronze metal that
covered the windows thrummed. Singing in a low-pitched chant.

From
all around me I heard the gasps and sighs of the other Candidates. Curious, I
looked back to see them still kneeling, some with their backs obviously bowed
in pleasure. When I looked back the brother had come to stand before me. I
didn’t even hear him move, his speed, his stealth, it was clearly inhuman.

“Clear
the hall,” he said to his sister. She clapped her hands and I heard shuffling
behind me as the Candidates rose up from their knees. I did not look back as
they left. I kept my eyes on him, like prey watching the predator.

His
lips pulled back as he gazed at the blood dripping from my nipple. His jaw
jutted forward, the muscles of his neck bulged and his canines descended into
long sharp points. Longer than his sister.

“Show
off,” his sister said leaning into him and stroking a fingertip across one
pointed canine. “He’s older,” she said, answering my obvious confusion. “I’m
too young to bite, that’s why I have this.” She waved the sharpened thumbnail
in my stricken vision but I did not look. I kept my eyes fixed on his teeth.

I
braced for his bite—my body tensing in fear—but instead came his
tongue. It lapped warm and rough across my nipple and through the fear again
came the rush of desire. He moaned, rich and deep. It too made the hanging
metal sing. He sucked and licked until his head was forcibly pulled back by his
sister.

 He
hissed at his sister, turning back with fangs extended and his eyes filled
black like polished onyx. I stepped back as he fought her hold on his head
trying to get to me.

“Calm
brother. Think!” She tugged hard on his shoulder length black hair. The pain
must have helped clear his desire because his eyes went from shining black to a
cloudy dark grey and then finally to a clear blue grey. “This is not ours. She
does not belong to us. You know that! What would he do if you took first bite
of his Chosen?”

He
brought his hand up and gently stroked his fingers across his sister's fist
which gripped his hair. “You’re right sister dear. I momentarily lost my mind.”
She released his hair and he stood tall beside her draping an arm across her
shoulders.

Chosen?
Me? And who did they speak of? Who did I belong to?

Before
I could ask, the gong sounded, shattering my thoughts. The noise filled the
Great Hall, bouncing off the walls and singing through the bronze window
coverings. I stepped forward until I came up against the wooden chair. I
gripped the high back, my knuckles whitening as the sound grew louder and
louder. I knew it could not protect me but I wanted something solid in my hand.
Something that was real.

The
sound surged loud and strong; so real, so intense I could almost see it as it
left the room through the wide open doors. The noise rolled in a continuous
loop, never-ending, never losing intensity. I looked over to the gong to see
who was hitting it over and over. There was no one.

It
only stopped when he entered.

Everything
stopped. The brother and sister fell to their knees, dropping their heads low
to the ground in abject subjugation. I stood. Afraid to move. Afraid to speak.
Only when my lungs began to burn did I realize I had not taken a breath since
he entered the room.

Night
Master Roth. Dark Prince of Pleasure.

I
knew who he was because I had seen his icon. It was brought out once a year.
Other Master icons were displayed at every festival; some remained on constant
display in the Night Temple. Not Roth. His image was deemed too strong, too
intense to risk everyday exposure. His icon was reserved only for the Midwinter
Solstice. It was a dark tapestry of precious stones, inlaid with rubies, onyx
and platinum. The Chosen Temple Priest brought it forth to bestow virility on
the men. While women were present at the unveiling they were strongly
encouraged to avert their eyes. I never had. When told not to look I always
did. Never overtly—I hid my curiosity behind my cool façade—but I
always looked.

Standing
before me, he seemed somehow smaller than I had imagined. His clothes, while
very fine, looked as if they had been borrowed. They hung off his frame. He was
large, virile and strong looking but he gave the impression of somehow being
less than he once was, as if he had lost much of his bulk.

I
did not realize how long I had been openly assessing him until I looked up and
met his gaze. He seemed bemused at my appraisal. He did not smile but at the
corner of his mouth there seemed to hide a hint of a smirk.

“This
one?” he asked and I gasped at the sound of his voice. It vibrated through me
as if I were a string he had just plucked. The amusement was gone as he looked
me over and I wondered if I had seen it at all. His black gaze burnt cold like
the bite of a wicked winter wind. I was grateful for the chair that came
between us.  I leaned into it, gripping my flimsy shield.

He
asked again louder this time, “This one?”

The
brother stood up, his erect cock bobbing out from the open placket of his
breeches. He answered the Dark Prince but I did not hear what he said. I could
not hear over the rush of blood in my head and the surge of adrenalin through
my veins. I had to stop this. I had to stop this now.

“I’m
not,” I said quietly at first and then after I cleared my throat I said it
again, this time louder, “I’m not.”

“Not
what?” the Dark Prince asked taking a step towards me. “Not mine?”

“No
Sire,” I answered with my head reverently bowed, “I am most humbly yours, Dark
Prince, as is every subject of Vandarra, but…I do not think that I am what you
seek.”

“Really?
And what do you know of what I seek?” The seductive menace of his tone struck
me, hitting deep in my sex.

“I
know nothing, Sire. Nothing. I am nothing special. Ask Sire. Please ask. Around
Hawthorne Shire they will tell you I am not suited to the Dark Prince of
Pleasure.”

He
did not look at me, instead turning to the brother. “Is what she speaks the
truth? Is she nothing special?”

“If
I may Prince Roth?” The sister spoke, coming off her knees at the Dark Prince’s
nod.

“She
hid well, Sire. She is adept at hiding. She shields her true form, but when she
is tested, she reveals herself.”

What
do I reveal? What self is there hidden?
I felt a surge of unaccustomed
anger at her words.

“Reveal
her to me then,” the Dark Prince said and settled himself down on the other
wooden chair to my left that butted up against the vast scarred table.

The
brother came forward, not the sister as I had expected. He stood before me, his
cock still jutting out of his open pants. He wrapped a hand around the shaft,
and rubbed it low on my belly. I looked at the Dark Prince and bit back a moan.
I knew he watched as the brother lowered a hand to splay his fingers around my
thigh. Maybe I should have struggled, protested when he lifted my leg and
placed my foot on the seat of the chair, but I couldn’t speak. I was too
focused on the eyes watching me and the hard shaft thrusting out from his open
fly. He pushed my leg roughly open until I was splayed wide, my wet and swollen
sex displayed for all the watching eyes.

“Watch,”
he said as he placed the heel of his hand on my mound and pulled up, revealing
the wet pearl of my clitoris. I looked down, down to see what had him so
focused. He’d come in closer, until the fat head of his penis was resting on my
stomach. He pushed my leg back on the chair and bent his knees until the helmet
of his engorged shaft was resting on my exposed clitoris.

He
couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not here, not here in front of him.

He
did. He gripped his cock at the root of the shaft and began to slap the heavy
swollen head down on my sex. At the same time, his hand pulled up hard on my
mound.

Slap.
Pull. Slap. Pull. Slap. Pull.

 Over
and over he continued, growing rougher with each cycle. I could not help but
let my head fall back as he slapped and pulled, relentlessly beating down on my
sex. The fat wet head of his cock slapped my exposed clitoris and fell lower
into the wet trough of my sex. The shame. The edge of pain. The knowledge that
I was watched. Watched by him. All these threads wove together into a vicious
orgasm. My muscles contracted and with each spasm I spurted out juice that
coated his cock and abdomen.

“Bring
her to me,” Roth said.