Seduced by the Angel (Divine Fornication I--An Erotic Story of Angels, Vampires and Werewolves (Divine Fornication (An Erotic Story of Angels, Vampires and Werewolves)) (5 page)

"That taste.  It is amazing, Marechal.  You really are of a special vintage, aren't you?

"You must make women weak in the knees and loose in the hips with the slightest glance.  They take in your muscled shoulders, that broad chest hiding inside your immaculate white shirt.  You come to them with thighs of oak and iron and lower yourself down upon them, letting them feel the weight of a real man, a man in his prime, rich, cultured, as you mesmerize them with your gray gaze and long lashes.

"Why I should imagine they are ready to come with just a smile from you, Marechal.  Your beautiful smile as yet unstained by time or by wine."

The Marechal said nothing, the lash on his chest pulsing with each beat of his heart.  He could feel small runnels of blood leaking down across his abdomen.  And, still, he felt that he had become enormously, preposterously aroused.

She walked behind him and with no warning, she struck him again, two vicious cracks echoing in the air.  His back felt as though he had just been gored by a bull, the pain so intense that he gasped with the suddenness of it. 

He knew she was goading him, but that knowledge did not stop his anger from blossoming into red rage.

With his most mighty effort, he summoned his strength, willing his arms to move.  In that moment, as the blood coursed down his back, he wanted this woman's neck in his hands, wanted to see fear in her eyes as he held her life between forefinger and thumb.

He roared like a wild beast, but his arms only twitched loosely, the geas of the spell holding him.  He smiled inside, though.  A twitch meant that he could weaken the spell's hold, he could work against it, and in time, break free.

"And, you are a fighter, as well, my dear," she said, amused.  Something in her tone troubled him.

"But you shall not have the time you require, Marechal."

With a jerk, he felt his trousers undone and then she was pushing at his back.  His body obeyed her touch as he was forced to bend over.  She slapped the quirt against the inside of his thighs and to his horror, he spread his legs wide.

"Oh, so much better.  If only you could see the look on your face," she said as she circled around him, trailing her fingertips upon his back.

Coming to a stop behind him, the Marechal felt the quirt touch lightly at his anus.  He tried desperately to tighten, to find some means of stopping what she was about to do, but he was powerless.

There was pressure and then there was pain at the unfamiliar sensation.  He felt suddenly very full, deep cramps racking him while he heard her laughing.

"Don't you like that, dear?" she asked as she walked around to his front.  He could still feel the quirt where she left it, pushing at his insides.

She pushed lightly at his shoulders, forcing him back up to a standing position and then she took his penis into her hand, pulling and pushing, as the quirt behind him dangled and swung with her movements.

The Marechal groaned.  The melange of pain and pleasure.  It was not new for him, not after all this time, but to be held powerless in the face of it, a plaything for the whims of another was altogether different and worse than unsettling.

"Calm yourself, Marechal.  I can see my toy twitching back there," she chuckled.  Then she dropped to her knees before him and enveloped his cock with her lips.  The heat of her mouth was intense and she pressed her tongue tightly against him as she worked up and down his shaft.

He wanted to refuse her, to break her hold upon him.  Instead, the sensations that he felt overwhelmed him.  He could feel the quirt rocking inside, pushing against him with a steady rhythm in time with the motions of the woman as she took him deep into her mouth with full, zealous strokes.

The most profound muscles of his abdomen began to tighten and he could feel himself lifting up, his cock stiffening in its extremity and then in great shuddering breaths, he came into her mouth, his muscles spasming, the sensations arising as much from the flesh holding the quirt in place as from the base of his member, pulsing with the force of his orgasm.

The Marechal strained, heaving and heaving, his muscles rippling in the throes of the moment even as his vision dimmed to near darkness.

Then, she was upon him and he, suddenly flat on his back, could only watch as she sunk down over his cock, her pendulous breasts now bared and her nipples standing out in reddened fury.

"I have never known the pleasure of riding a horse, Marechal," she said while she slid up and down his cock.  "But, I imagine it is like this, and that at times, you must show the beast who is master....

Available now at
Amazon

Also by Aimélie Aames:

Anna, Collected and Corrected (A Paranormal BDSM Story)

Anna Ixtassou is a witch who wants to be just like everyone else. Except that she went looking for the fast track to the top and has fallen under the spell of her boss, the magnificent Ewan Crest.

What follows is a series of trials and tribulations in the strange world of BDSM that force Anna to turn to witchcraft as her only means of escape.

A collection of four stories of intense sexual situations involving bizarre hardware and extravagant characters makes for a bundle of hot reading that you will not soon forget.

An excerpt from
Anna, Collected and Corrected (A Paranormal BDSM Story)
:

He pulls the cord that runs from my wrists up through a pulley above my head.  My arms rise higher and I feel the low ache in my shoulders flame up in protest.  I'm on the tips of my toes now, my calves are starting to burn and I can't help it if every time he makes an adjustment I only get wetter.

I should've known better, being who I am.  Or, maybe, that's the reason why I didn't see this coming.  Too close, too blind to remark what should have been obvious from the start.

The pulley creaks with my weight and a quiet whimper escapes through my lips.  I bite down any other sound that might try to get by my guard.  The master is exigent and will only make me pay if I don't follow his rules to the letter.

He doesn't notice, though, as he ties off the thin rope at a little T post thing.  It reminds me of something I once saw on a sailboat, only smaller, and that seems just about right for this guy.  A sailboat type...no, a yacht type of guy.  He has it written all over him, with his broad chest and heavy arms.  I've never seen anyone with shoulders so square.  It's as if he was press formed in a mold destined to turn out lovely men.  Which is what he is.  Lovely, gorgeous, take your pick of whatever man candy euphemism strikes your fancy.  He's all that and then some.

He bends down now and slides his hand down across my bare belly.  It's flat and tight.  I bust my ass at the gym and skip the pasta.  The price to pay for abs that make men want to touch me, to lick me up and down like a lollipop. 

He keeps going down with his hand and slips it in between my thighs, pausing just for a moment at my aching, wet epicenter.  He knows I'm turned on, but refuses me and my needs, sliding his hand down my legs instead.  At my ankles are a pair of leather straps that he buckles around each, cinching them in tight before finally descending to the tiny platform where I'm standing.  I didn't notice before but it's actually two platforms that he unlatches and pushes apart.  They follow the track of the half circle rail mounted to the wall behind me.  The effect is that suddenly my legs are spread wide open and there's nothing I can do about it.

Do I care that much?  It's hard to say.  On one hand, what I went through yesterday with him at the controls was awful.  He made me feel like absolute shit.  On the other hand, I came back today, didn't I?  Yeah, I did.

I think it's because he's just that beautiful.  And, I use that word, beautiful, for a reason, because it isn't often that it applies well to men.  Men are handsome, or rugged, or built.  But this guy...he has it all.  He owns the company I work for, he's built like the wet dream of a Greek goddess, and, right now, at this very moment, I'm what he's thinking about.  I'm at the center of his every intention and filling his lovely green eyes with lust.  And all of that's just fine except for one thing.

He's the devil.

There he is before me, perfect in so many ways...but the devil, just the same.  You don't think you're ever going to meet the devil, right?  That it takes a dark circle of naked worshippers off on some hill in the woods.  It has to be at night, the moon up high and full, and the wind whispering of foul portents.  There should be some blood letting first, then everyone whips themselves into a frenzied orgy that is meant to call up the dark one.

Only the devil takes so many forms.  I know this.  I am my mother's daughter, after all.  But the only thing I had to do was to ask for a meeting with the boss.  Mistake?  You tell me once I get done with this story....

***

We took the elevator down and I had trouble not fidgeting or tugging at the mask I was wearing.  Ewan was dressed in a full split tail tuxedo, with elaborate cummerbund and a golden pocket watch that he said dated to the twenties.  It didn't matter to me as he was as resplendent as ever, his gorgeous hands housed within impeccably white gloves.  He even wore a silk top hat which set his attire off perfectly.

He leaned upon a black cane, a roaring lion's head in ivory as its pommel, and looked me up and down.

After my bath, I had found my clothing, or what little there was of it, laid out upon the suite's bed.  I was dressed in a body suit of black mesh that hid next to nothing of my skin beneath.  A silver mask hid my face from scrutiny and I carried a sort of short whip that Ewan had called a scourge.  It was comprised of many strands of soft velvet cording, like an overlong tassel, finishing in a black, leather bound handle that felt good within my hand.

I doubted that it could ever inflict real damage as soft as the strands were, but the heft and weight of it gave me the illusion that I could yet control what was about to happen.

In very short order, that illusion was wiped away.

The elevator came to a stomach fluttering halt and its doors slid open upon a great hall filled with animals and other queer creatures milling about.  The rustling of elaborate costumes and voices muffled behind all manner of masks came to a perfect silence in the instant after we stepped into the room.

There might have been one hundred of them, two hundred, even.  I could not say, but they each and every one stopped in mid sentence and turned to face us.

My thoughts were a ruddy mix of pride and fear under their regard.  Pride to be found at the side of Ewan Crest, my master, and for whom all before us then inclined their heads in an unmistakable gesture of respect.  Fear because I knew that Ewan was an extravagant man and that if this masquerade was meant for his amusement and those assembled here, then I would soon find myself the center around which this hub of decadent beasts would turn.

We stepped down among them and they parted like the sea before us.  The murmur of their voices surged up in excitement and the line opening before our steps led to what appeared to be some sort of bizarre table.

Our steps were slow, measured, and as we move closer to the wooden contraption in the center of the room, a wolf faced man leaned in and said, "Oh, Ewan...the boxing is going to be wonderful this year."

Ewan gave no answer other than a slight nod then seized my arm as we drew near to what I had thought was a table.

It was not flat as any table should be, but a series of opened wooden compartments.  The wood was old, its veneer polished and shining.  The surface had been inlaid with marquetry of the finest sort.  French craftsmen had placed capering animals etched in precious woods, their colors contrasting with the rest of the piece.  There were astronomical symbols, of a quality meriting a place among the most precious works of black magic.

I looked at it and with a feeling of lead settling into my stomach, I could see that it was lined in red velour and in that interior, the velour would hold the form of a four limbed being.  A human being.  Its parts were articulated with heavy, antique hinges where the joints of a person would be but its soft interior could leave no doubt.  It was as much a prison as an iron maiden rusting and blood stained in an ancient chateau, only lacking the needled interior to terminate its macabre charm.

Once closed it would hold a person completely.  The only openings that I could make out were at the juncture of where a pelvis would fit, both front and back.  There were also cutouts at chest level.  Two of them through which breasts might be drawn and punished.