Shadow Girl (24 page)

‘And you think oh God, oh Thong-Twisting Lord, this is awesome! So jingly flipping good! And you're throbbing, tingling, hurting so bad for that big-wham finale. And your fingers are going wild and you bounce on the edge, shivering, rasping. And the edge is torture, it is hell, it is raw, and you rub deep inside and you frig all around and your eyes tear up for you thrum so good, so poisonously good, but still you cannot come. No, you cannot come and you hang there choking, spluttering. Thrilling on your hard-metal brink. And you know you're a fraud. A fraud girl, a con girl, so wayward, so wicked that she has to be spanked, yes, she has to be spanked to hit her highest notes. To shiver and quiver like a punk-rock harp. To yelp in delight as I nip, as I bite — and nip again and bite again while you claw at the floor, while you jig yourself off. And your arse is smarting and your mind is warping and your hand is twitching.

‘But enough, enough jittery bliss! Enough tearful chokes! At last you split! At last you hoot! At last you burst and cry out to the gods, to the fire in the sky, the crimson heat on your arse. And you fracture and you wail and you crash and you burn! Oh, yessss! Beautiful! Mind-bogglingly
délicieux
!

‘Oh! My sweet poppet! My ravishing fallen angel! Look at you now, so pretty, so gorgeously winded, so charmingly helpless sprawled out there on the floor! On the hard, unforgiving floor. Panting, hiccupping with aftershock pleasure. Poor, poor thing. Can you hear the music? It is still playing softly, though you do not seem to hear. And can you see me smiling, exulting to see you so bewitched? Of course you can't. My poor, poor little lovesick girl.'

It is dark in the room and the showgirls are back on stage, swaying to the sound of a folksy blues tune. They are more numerous than before and their dance has taken a very risqué turn. Legs entwined, bodies curving, they have started petting and kissing to the song.

The male audience has gone quiet, mesmerised by the new number. They have forgotten all about the orgasmic sounds that wafted minutes ago from the bar. Though they had wanted to check for themselves the reason for such exuberance, something had held them back. Something to do with their winged hostesses, who had wagged their fingers and crinkled their pretty noses. Then redirected their virile interest to the stage.

Behind the bar, Jenny is bent over a heaving female form. Her hand lingers over some graceful curves.

‘You need a bit more warming up,' she susurrates. ‘But you should resume your proper shape. There's much to be said in favour of guys exploring their girly side but what I need tonight is a man. With a fully functional apparatus. Besides, when the chips are down, I really prefer gentlemen. I take more pleasure in vamping them.'

She gives one of her usual cheeky smiles, though Yaouen is in no position to appreciate it. He rolls over onto his back and murmurs an intricate spell in a dreamy voice. The air vibrates and hums and he is restored to full male mode. He is still mostly naked.

‘Perfect,' breathes Jenny. ‘You know, I've got you exactly where I want, at long last. You have no idea how much I fantasised about you since that kiss in Mauritius. The kiss that broke the hex. Got rid of my fish tail and gave me back my legs. Do you remember it? Did it mean anything to you?'

‘I absolutely adooored that kiss,' moans Yaouen, still groggy from his female zenith.

‘I want an honest answer.'

‘My sweet, I'm always thrilled to give you the best honest answer you want to hear.'

Jenny swears softly. And mutters something about the annoying side of love spells.

‘Well I remember it well, even if you are unfit to comment. Its memory has been on my lips and haunting me for years. There was something so special in that kiss. Such power and such warmth — and other things I have no name for. The power was a wonderful aphrodisiac. The warmth made me feel safe. Safe, me, who had never before felt the slightest need for it. I thought for a moment . . . I thought I could put everything behind. A new start with you perhaps. But of course that was total poppycock thinking. You were in love with Viviane and I had to live in her shadow. Not wholly unpleasant, but ultimately unsatisfactory.' She pauses. ‘Now where were we? Ah yes, the warm-up,' she says, pushing his thong out of the way and wrapping her fingers around a buoyant proof of his returned gender. ‘Let's check whether this works fine, shall we?'

On the other side of the bar, the mood is heating up too. The showgirls have descended from their stage and spread among the tables with feline grace and hungry smiles. Some have already released half-bent cocks from tight trousers, boosted them to exemplary stiffness and begun straddling their hypnotised admirers. Soon, a potent, pitch-rich combination of moans, groans and grunts has erupted in the semi-darkness. Chairs collapse backwards, bringing down spellbound beaus, and female hips begin to jazz to the beat of a syncopated tune.

‘Phew! Quite a performance you put on back there!' giggles Jenny, brushing some come off her thighs. Her cheeks are flushed a healthy vermillion and her hair appears to have been blow-waved by an eccentric stylist. ‘I'm happy to confirm you're fully functional, and more. I think I'll keep you as my favourite male pet once this is over.'

Yaouen looks at her lovingly.

‘Now, if you wouldn't mind following me.'

They leave the show room and follow some stairs to the restaurant, which is filled with a motley collection of small wooden tables. The walls are peppered with sepia photographs of rigid-looking locals posing near the megaliths.

‘I'd like you to meet my favourite
female
pet.'

She claps her hands. The door to the kitchen opens and Gonval steps into view. Trailing him on a leash is Viviane, naked, save for a black velvet blindfold. Her arms are trapped behind her back by thick wrist cuffs that dangle from a leather collar.

‘You were right,' says Jenny to Yaouen. ‘Sandra was only half the story. A projection of the ghost trapped in your air tower. And you'll be pleased to know part of your plan has come good. The two halves have been reunited. Viviane is whole again, though perhaps not quite her old self.'

She moves over to her captive and runs a teasing finger around her nipple. Viviane's breath catches, then she lets out an urgent moan. Jenny steps around her and seizes her from behind. Grabbing her hair, she tilts her head back to sample her ear with her tongue.

‘Do you like this?' she husks, as another helpless moan spills out of Viviane.

‘Oooh . . .
Oui, maî
. . .
maîtresse
.'

‘Did you attend to my knights properly in there? Did you give in to all their demands?'

‘
Oui,
m
. . .
maîtresse
.'

‘All? Let me check for myself.'

She insinuates a finger into the crack of Viviane's butt and goes for a shallow probe.

‘Oh . . . mis . . . mis . . .' The blindfolded girl is too distracted to finish the word.

‘Yes, delightfully juicy.'

She brings her lips to Viviane's ear.

‘Are you ready to submit again? Without question?'

A rasped agreement.

‘Forgive me. I shouldn't even be asking. You
have
to keep that demon happy, don't you?'

Viviane is squirming on the finger, lips parted.

‘I want you to yield to your old lover.'

‘Oooh . . . Oooh,
maîtresse
. . .'

‘As you can see, Yaouen, Viviane has bloomed. I completed your good work, with the help of her other half. She is a perfect slave to her own urges. I even removed the hexed collar that allowed me to subdue her.'

She gives a happy little laugh.

‘No need for that now. She has surrendered unconditionally to her demon. And has taught me a trick or two that allows me to control her. Though to be honest with you, that's also superfluous now. Conditioning can be as powerful as magic. Set a pattern and get a witch bitch for life.'

She looks at Yaouen with a naughty smile and draws further moans from Viviane with her tease.

‘A witch bitch,' she repeats, ‘and a lovestruck wizard. Yes, the flesh works in mysterious ways. Here I was following you two around like a puppy, spending my life being perfect spy, perfect best friend, perfect whatever. And now I've got you good people eating out of my hand and other parts of me. Don't you think this is a delightful irony?'

‘Yes, a delightful irony,' echoes Yaouen, his eyes still glued lovingly to Jenny.

‘Now, lover-boy, you're going to be a darling — you would do anything for me, wouldn't you?'

‘Anything. Anything for you.'

‘You are going to follow me and Viviane upstairs and screw that bitch senseless. You will do that for me, won't you? I would be so, so terribly sad if you didn't. And you wouldn't want that, would you?'

‘Oh no, no, no, no. I wouldn't want to see you sad. Ever.'

‘Good boy.'

Jenny turns to Gonval. ‘I'll take it from here, thanks. Keep watch with your men inside and outside the building. Make sure we're left undisturbed. I spotted one of my Korrigan acquaintances earlier on in the show room, masquerading as an artist. I think he slipped away. He's not much of a threat, but let's take no chances. You spot him, you book him.'

Gonval gives a curt nod and hands Jenny the leash. He walks out of the room without looking back. With a smirk on her lips, Jenny leads her two love birds to the narrow spiral staircase in the corner of the room.

She has stumbled a couple of times on the way up. It is so hard to focus. And it is not just the blindfold. She is burning with desire. Dripping with it. Her breasts are baying for a knead, the rest of her aching for a good ravage. She is biting her lip in anticipation, in frustration.

And yet she knows she must be patient, she knows she has no say over when she will be taken. Subdued by the next man. Probed by the next fingers. No control over when she can gorge on the next cock, on the next clit.

She wants to cry and stifles a sob. She can't even touch herself, with her wrists in shackles. If she could, she'd be working herself like crazy, rubbing deep inside. She does not know if she can take it. If she can wait to be possessed. She'll go nuts. But no, she has to be patient. She has to bear her insane urges. She has to please her mistress. Do everything her mistress says.

She clings to the thought as to a buoy in a rough sea. Oh God, how long will she have to wait? She is melting. Turning to mush. She can't stand this. Even walking is a torment, for the whisper of her thighs on each other is enough to rouse her. Her loins are a mess. An absolute disaster zone.

She knows they are standing in the attic under the mansard roof of the building. She knows that, in front of them, the narrow side of the roof is made wholly of glass and affords an unobstructed view of the stone alignments. She knows all that because she planned it, some time ago, when it seemed to matter. She intended to trap Merlin here. Go down on him and take his soul.

But now, all she can think of is being taken. She is obsessed with being taken. From behind, from the front. Flat on her back and flat on her face. By as many cocks as will deign to cow her. Big, small, hard, smooth, she does not care. She is so weak-willed. So needy. So desperate. How could she think for a second she could control Sandra's demon? Her demon. Her lust. Her mistress is right. She is a slut. The queen of sluts. Insatiable. No backbone. Just insane urges.

And so she must be punished. She must be tied up. And not just her arms. Her legs too. Her chest. But the thought of being tied up and punished — oh God — the thought makes her hornier still. Her pussy is crying hot tears. Her guts are begging to be played with.

Maybe she could relieve this ache if she arched back far enough, maybe she could reach for . . . Oh Christ. She is so horny. She must be taught a proper lesson.

She hears a soft buzz. She knows what it is. The glass panels retracting in their grooves. The gable sliding. The sun roof too. The attic is opening to the stars above. To the blue moon.

Her mistress's voice cuts through the hot mist of her mind.

‘I've got the perfect horse for you. Wide base, thick padding on top, velvet traps for your knees. A sloping bench to keep your arse hanging in full view and your lips kissing the ground. Just the thing for a juicy sub. Now lie flat.'

A tug on her collar. A hand on her back, forcing her down. She collapses like a doll. The bondage horse feels as wide as a barrel and her legs are spread wide. The cool vinyl squashes her breasts. Her nipples tighten painfully, deliciously.

Hands on her ankles, pinioning her. Straps on her body, coiling like slick vines around her waist, around her limbs, binding her more tightly to her luscious doom. Straps, or perhaps her demon's limbs, she does not know. She does not give a sweet tentacle. She only cares for this consuming heat. Her clit is close to the cool padding. Maybe she could wriggle her hips. She needs this. She so badly does. She has to move, rub herself against the bench. Just a little.

A slap on her arse. She catches her breath in shock. In gratitude.

‘Who said you could move, bitch?'

‘I . . . No one . . .'

Another slap, a shade harder.

‘Didn't you forget to say something?'

‘My . . . my forgiveness, mis . . . tress,' she stammers.

The spanks have roused her blood. Anything can inflame her. A caress. A breath in her ear. A chastising hand. The bite of a crop. She is grateful, so grateful for this. For any touch is better than no touch. She is waiting anxiously for the next slap.

Fingers on her face. Parting her lips. Teasing her, tickling her. They take possession of her mouth, massage her tongue. She squirms in delight. Then something soft and round is pushed on her tongue. A ball gag, she thinks. She wraps her lips around it. The gag's straps bite deep into her cheeks and she feels immensely gratified.

‘You've been such a bad girl. Hatching plots of world domination. Plots of a new dawn. Don't you think she has been terrible, Yaouen?'

‘Indeed, terrible,' echoes Yaouen, without a trace of irony.

‘Would you show her how terrible she's been?' Her mistress's voice is dripping honey.

‘Of course, my love. Anything to please you.'

Viviane shudders in delight when the palm bites.

‘Very good, Yaouen. Keep going. She needs to be taught her place. And pleasure her as you go, too. The carrot and the stick. Always been the best policy. And when you have goaded her long enough, you can take her as you want. Use her as you like. Go hard. Do not spare her. She is a slut, and she knows that.'

The hand bites again. And again. Spreading thick doses of heat and strange bliss. Then it strays to her clit for an expert tease. Another slap, another tease and she moans a tortured moan into her gag then bucks against her bonds as the first climax hits her. The
first
climax. She knows she has no sway over how often she comes. Or how quickly. Or how hard. She is so wound up, so utterly yoked to her needs that it takes nothing to set her off. The slightest wing flutter can trigger her storm. The slightest flick of a tongue. The slightest brush of a finger.

The hand is back, dishing harsher thwacks that shake her flesh and bring tears to her eyes. She has deserved this, for she is sweet-rotten to the core. She is a shameless minx, a slave to the pleasure. Her mistress is right, so right.

A languorous tongue coats her clit in a layer of delight and she goes into convulsions. Oh God, she is coming so fast! One tease, one lick is all it takes. She is soaking this up like a voracious sponge. Craving, always craving. She is a shell filled with lust. She
has
to be chastised. Toyed with. Enjoyed by all to the end of her days.

She groans into her gag when the whisk snaps. A whisk, not a hand. To teach her to behave. Inflict a bitterer genre of delectation. She writhes helplessly on her bench. She relishes this debasement, this defilement. Oh, to be tied up forever, groped and punished by careless wills. She wants to be used, preyed on, savoured to the core. Possessed by the first Joe that passes by. By the second and by the third. She needs to be tortured by a thousand lubricious tongues.

She strains against her straps. Quivers in gratitude with each sharp nip of the flogger. Her ball gag is humming with her throaty moans. Her blindfold is damp from her tears. Now and then, oily palms soothe her burns and oily thumbs patrol between her cheeks, playing with her butthole.

Please take me there
, she begs.
Take me, enjoy me, milk me as you wish. Prise me wide open. Make me come again. I am so bad, so bad. I deserve all of this
.

And the whisk returns to chasten her. And the thumbs are back to subdue her.

And when at last she has cried all her tears and squirmed all her squirms, he takes her in the arse and she comes like a beast on the second thrust. Shock waves that tear through her soul and leave her gagging on her ball.

But still she hungers for more. And still she begs through the blur in her mind. And he obliges. Rams deep into her. Pushes her to the brink and pushes her beyond. Wrenches more rugged groans from her muzzled mouth. More liquid bursts from her feral depths.

Tiring of his backend games, he switches to other soils and she folds herself avidly around him. Avidly, ardently, to draw thicker sheaves of bliss from his might.

Soak up, suck up, that's all she does. That's all she craves. She lives to be filled. Swelled. Spoiled. Enjoyed.

And she ruptures again with a mindless grunt and he pulls back her hair, riding her like a mare. And she is clasped so tight around him, for she needs this, she craves this, oh God she is burning and the tears are bursting and the gag is drenched with her desperation.

And he keeps pumping. Keeps riding her hard. And the iron grip is pulling on her scalp, exciting her and bending her. Oh God, oh God! She is a dirty filly with blown-up urges and she can think of nothing, nothing but the might of stallions mounting her, soiling her, bloating her with more wickedness.

This is insane. The dark excess is flooding her, searing her chest, ravaging her belly.

She is soaring on her swell curve.

She can't hold back, she can't. She is ballooning, tearing apart. She will burst, shatter into a million parts.

She begins to shake all over. Uncontrollably.

A voice slashes through the fumes of pleasure.

‘She is ready.'

Her blindfold is whipped off. Her hands are freed and placed on something hard. Hard, vibrant with power. She looks through her hunger. Looks at the pummel of a sword. At the sword pointing at a rock. At the head stone of the main alignment. She looks without seeing for the man in her is driving her wild, pushing her beyond thought.

‘Grip this hard!' snaps her mistress.

And then she explodes with a gut-wrenching spurt.

She feels it. Like a fall off a cliff. A hollowing, a sudden rush of pent-up lust and bliss and want and need gushing out of her, setting the sword on fire. She feels it through the fog. The blade coming alive, the red-hot jet bursting out, hitting the menhir. Turning it red-hot too. And the stone's molten light hitting the other rocks. Igniting them, one after another, like rows of monstrous dominoes.

But no matter. The stones do not matter. Only the pleasure, only this rush. She grips the pummel hard but she does not see them, she does not see the stones — nor the beam arcing from the blade. She does not care. Only her bliss, only this euphoria, whisking through her like a current, electrifying her.

She has to soak it up, faster, harder, because it is gushing out of her, flushing through the sword. Please let him go in deeper. Let him screw her witless. She needs all this, more than before, to keep the ecstasy lashing through her.

She looks at the stones. They're glowing like the sword but she does not give a damn. Only the pleasure, only this gush.

And through the flames consuming her she hears the shriek of an eagle. She begs the thrusts to go deeper, to thrust faster. And she hears it again, spiralling above her, but she does not care, does not give a hoot. An eagle getting closer, swooping from the stars, warning. But only the pleasure matters. And there are voices now, fairies' voices calling in the sky. Voices worried, voices shouting.

And still she begs him to ravish her, to feed her endless needs. And around her there are more calls and more shouting. More eagle shrieks tearing the night. And then the air above her ripples with wingbeats. But it does not matter. It does not matter. And there is a thud and the sound of squealing.

And then the smell hits her like a dump of foul treacle. Repulsive, noisesome, nauseating. Her guts somersault and her mind backflips. Something snaps in her.

And then nothing.

A dark vat of nothing.