Paranormal Erotica Box Set - Giselle Renarde

by natales2017

Take an anthology of paranormal erotic romance BDSM stories, add a collection brimming with lesbian vampires and shapeshifters, top it off with a secret solstice sacrifice, and what have you got?

Jungfrau

Once upon a time, there was a maiden called Jungfrau who lived alone at the summit of a great mountain range. As she grew into womanhood, Jungfrau remained blissfully unaware of the dangers that might befall a beautiful girl. Monche, the monk who lived on the mountain peak next to hers, observed her insouciance and questioned her safety. He knew that, along this very mountain range, there lived an ogre who would not hesitate before interfering with such a fair maiden.

"Jungfrau," Monche called to her. When she did not respond, the monk began a slow trek in her direction. "Jungfrau? Fair maiden, I must speak with you."

Finally, Jungfrau heard his words and turned. She smiled at him, and her lips were like roses glistening with honey sweetness. In her hands, she held edelweiss and mountain flowers, which only an innocent might find beneath the mountain's snow. Holding them out for Monche to see, she said, "Look what I found, kind neighbour."

"Beautiful," Monche said, feeling the ache of that beauty in his gut.

Jungfrau stood before him in a long white robe, which caught the breeze's whims and fluttered around her ankles. Her snow-white hair glistened in the daytime sun as she brought her bouquet close to her face and took in their fragrance. She closed her eyes and looked as though ecstasy had found her in that handful of edelweiss.

"Maiden," Monche said. His impulses raged below the surface, but he kept his need in check as a monk must do. "Maiden, are you not concerned for your safety, all alone on this mountain?"

Her eyes grew round and wide. "What is there to be frightened of?"

"The ogre," Monche blurted. "I don't mean to alarm you, but he is a beast of a man and lives on the peak next to mine. I would never forgive myself if I failed to keep you safe."

Jungfrau nodded slowly, and then gazed up at her house on the hill. "Will the ogre find me there?"

"He could." Monche's heart raced. "And, worse yet, the ogre has the power to enchant you. You cannot trust your own senses, dear maiden. You might give yourself to him and not know why."

The edelweiss fell from her hands. "Oh dear," she said. "What can I do to prevent such an attack?"

"Come with me," the monk suggested. "I will keep you safe."

Jungfrau gazed longingly at her mountain, and sighed in resignation. When she took his hand and followed, Monche's groin ached most devilishly.

He showed her to his chamber, which was little more than a very large cave hollow. She seemed reluctant as she entered, afraid of the darkness and the heaviness of the stone all around.

"It's all right," Monche said to her. "I will not hurt you, Jungfrau."

"Oh, I didn't think..." She trailed off, but her cheeks burned red and she fidgeted a great deal, touching her dress, scuffing the cavern floor. "Yes, I know. You're a monk."

"That doesn't mean to say I have succeeded in abandoning my impulses," he confessed as he threw off his robes.

Jungfrau gasped, stepping away until her back met the cavern wall. She covered her eyes and then slowly uncovered them. Her jaw dropped and she asked, "What is that?"

She pointed between his legs.

"You've heard of a chastity belt?" he asked, and she nodded. "Well, this is the same idea, but for a man. I've bound myself in leather, you see. It's inescapable unless I take a knife to it, but the danger of cutting my sensitive flesh is far too great. You are safe with me, maiden, but are you safe with yourself?"

A rosy blush crossed her cheeks, and she pressed both hands to her face. "Should I be wearing a chastity belt too, do you think?"

Monche had already considered this question at great length. "I have a better idea for you, Jungfrau. I propose securing you to the wall of my cavern so that you may never succumb to the ogre's evil intentions."

Jungfrau turned her pretty head and gazed at the metal rings Monche had secured to the stone. "It's for the best, you think?"

Monche nodded solemnly. "You can trust no one but me, fair maiden. Only I may guard you without succumbing to my own desires."

Dutiful to her dignity, Jungfrau agreed to be bound within Monche's dark cavern. Though he used the softest of ropes, she whimpered every time he wrapped them around her wrists.

"I apologize," Monche offered. "Am I hurting you?"

"My freedom," she whispered, hanging her head down low. Her long hair splayed against her white gown. "What have I gained in losing it?"

"Safety," he told her, securing her wrists to the metal anchors. He only hoped this was true. In his heart, he cared very much for her well-being, even if his reason for bringing her to this place was less than noble.

"You promise to keep me safe?" she begged.

He tied her ankles together, and she flinched each time his fingers brushed her skin. "I will do my utmost to protect you, Jungfrau."

When she was perfectly secured and unable to escape, her tears flowed softly. They transformed into sobs as minutes drew into hours, and it was then Monche stepped out of his cave to watch for Eiger. Her cries would surely to draw him. It was only a matter of time.

The leather-bound muscle between Monche's legs twitched in anticipation.

There! Was that him, that hulking black mass making its way up the rocky mountain path? Yes, it must be. Finally, after years of trying, Monche had succeeded in summoning Eiger to his peak. All it took was a damsel in distress to gain the ogre's interest.

Monche's naked flesh pricked as he cowered falsely into the cave. Jungfrau gasped at his apparition, and she bit her lip when he said, "The ogre is coming!"

"What shall we do?"

"Don't fret." Monche's heart thundered in his chest as Jungfrau's breasts rose and fell. "I will ensure your safety."

A dark cloud passed by the entryway, and the ogre's form appeared outside the cave. Monche's door wasn't large enough for Eiger to pass through, but the ogre didn't let a bit of rock stand between him and a whimpering Jungfrau. He smashed his fist against it, bringing a cascade of stone tumbling down the mountainside. Monche cowered in the corner with his rear in the air, closing his ears to Jungfrau's tortured screams.

"Monster!" Eiger's deep voice rumbled as he stepped into Monche's cavern. "Using an innocent young woman as bait to beckon me to your mountain? And you call yourself a monk! There is nothing holy about you."

Silence cradled the cave as Eiger seethed. It was Jungfrau who first spoke, asking, "Bait? What does the ogre mean, dear neighbour?"

"You are too young to understand," the ogre replied.

"I am not so young!" she replied, petulantly.

Eiger began untying the maiden before saying, "Very well, then. Your neighbour has used you to summon me to his lair. For years, he's harboured a lust for this humble ogre, and I have rejected his advances continuously. But he's a clever man, and he knew if heard a woman in distress I would investigate."

"Oh it's true, it's all true!" Monche cried, climbing the wall and sticking his bare ass in Eiger's direction. "Punish me for my sins, Eiger. Use this jelly to ease a path inside my base. Drive the demons from me!"

Monche glanced over his shoulder in time to watch Jungfrau drop to her knees, dirtying her white dress against the cavern floor. Eiger took her wrists between his palms and rubbed them gently. Their tender connection became so evident Monche could feel their nervous adoration all the way across the room.

"Let me carry you home, dear maiden." Eiger stoked her hair with his giant hand. "Your arms and legs must ache from being strung up. I will prepare a meal while you rest, and bring tea to your lips until you are yourself again."

Jungfrau blinked rapidly, and Monche recognized the sentiment in her gaze. Her lips pursed when she glanced from Eiger to Monche. He had used her, it was true, but in the process he'd inadvertently brought love into her life and she seemed to recognize that fact. She looked to Eiger and said, "Do as the duplicitous monk desires."

The ogre gasped as Jungfrau arched up and pressed her cheek against the crotch of his torn suede trousers. Her eyes rolled back as she no doubt sensed the mass of his girth, and Eiger groaned unapologetically.

"Tie the monk up with rope," Jungfrau encouraged. "Fold him over and drive out the demons."

"But why?" Eiger asked as the young woman rubbed her cheek across his obvious erection.

"Because," she explained, "if you don't satisfy him now he will only plot to steal you away once I make you my own."

The ogre seemed shocked at such a revelation. "A beautiful girl like you would make me your own?"

Jungfrau smiled coyly and lowered her eyes. "If you will be mine."

The giant stood proud and tall, his throbbing girth creating a visible bulge beneath his pants. When he turned slowly toward the corner of the cave, Monche's cock fought its leather cage and lost. The casing was far too tight to allow for erections, but that was its purpose, after all.

His knees shook as Eiger stormed across the cave. When the brutish ogre's hands met his shoulders, he knew ecstasy was not far off.

The girl drew closer, slithering across the cavern floor and trailing thick black ropes. Monche let his arms fall forward until his fingers brushed his toes. Jungfrau snatched them up, seeming not so innocent as she tied his wrists to his ankles. A strange sort of fire blazed in her eyes as she secured them tightly, much tighter than he'd have thought her capable. Perhaps it was retribution, or perhaps she shared his lusty anticipation.

Monche's nose met his shin as Jungfrau tied his binds. He could no longer see her, and he could only just make out his burly neighbour approaching from behind.

"Are you certain this is your wish?" Eiger asked.

"I am," Jungfrau replied. Her voice was husky and rich. "The watching will do me good."

Monche saw Eiger's shorts drop to his ankles, but he could not catch sight of the thing he most wished for. Jungfrau spotted it, no doubt, because she gasped and then cooed, crawling across the floor to fondle the ogre.

"It's huge," she said, slathering jelly all over the neighbour's cock. "What a treat you'll give our wretched monk. He will surely be satisfied when you've driven this goodly shaft through him."

"He will be satisfied or he will be dead." Eiger's dark tone rang ominously through Monche's gut as the fleshy tip met his hole.

Monche's calves strained under the stretch. His wrists itched though the rope holding them to his ankles was smooth. Jungfrau had secured him so rightly he could not move in any direction. Doubled over, he sensed his tight hole clamping. He wished it open when Eiger's huge hands landed on his cheeks, parting them widely.

"Are you ready, you devilish man who calls himself a monk?"

Eiger's voice made him tremble, and he whimpered, "I am not devilish, but desperate. I have wanted this moment, needed it and kept it inside my fantasy mind."

"You would do anything to feel the ogre inside you?" Jungfrau asked in a tone as lusty as any common whore.

"Yes, I would do anything!" Monche answered. "Anything, anything in the world!"

In seconds, the maiden was perched beneath Monche's face, her back and her feet on the cavern floor, her hips tilted toward his mouth. Her naked cunt dripped with the juices of female arousal. If Monche's cock had the freedom to grow, it would certainly have done so.

"If you want the ogre inside you, you must press your lips to mine," Jungfrau bid. "Kiss me, so-called monk. Make me scream."

The girl's rear rested against Monche's shins and forearms, and he'd most certainly have tumbled backward if not for Eiger propping him up. He extended his tongue, though he was wretchedly unsure of himself. His taste had never much been for women's parts, but he would satisfy Jungfrau a hundred times over if his reward was a giant.

Monche teased the girl's red bud and she squirmed beneath his face, begging for more. He pressed his tongue against her blazing flesh and she moaned so forceful he began to enjoy himself. It certainly was a compliment that she reacted with such lust. Lapping slowly, he swallowed her juices while Eiger slathered his hole with more jelly. He hardly knew where to place his focus.

When Eiger infiltrated Monche's ass, there was no longer any question. Pain shot through him like lightning, from the tight ring of elastic muscle around his hole and down his legs, buzzing like bee stings in his fingers and toes. If the ogre hadn't been holding him upright, he would have fallen over. There was no escaping the sensation. He reminded himself he'd asked for this as Jungfrau forced her cunt against his mouth, rubbing furiously on his tongue.

"Will you be satisfied when I'm finished with you?" Eiger asked as he rammed his monstrous cock farther into Monche's ass. "Or will you be dead?"

"I'm not yet certain." Monche spoke against Jungfrau's fragrant cunt.

She grabbed his head, forcing him flush to her heat. "Make me scream, wretched monk. You are nothing but meat."

"Meat," Eiger repeated as he pummelled Monche's hole with that glorious cock. "Yes, I like that, Jungfrau. He is not a monk, but a hot slab of meat."

"A tongue for me," the girl agreed, thrusting her cunt against his face with such force he could scarcely breathe. "And a hole for you."

Eiger laugher thunderously as he held Monche's cheeks and drove himself inside that place of want and ache. "Perhaps we should keep this wretched monk after we marry."

"Keep him as meat," she answered, giving in to screams of pleasure as she thrust her flesh against his tongue. "Yes, my ogre, oh yes we shall!"

"Yes we shall!" Eigre ground his cock balls-deep into Monche's aching hole and let out a tortured groan that shook the cavern.

A few more rocks came loose around the entryway, tumbling down the mountain as the young maiden and the ogre satisfied their lusts with Monche's needful body. When they were though with him, his chin ran with the maiden's juices and his asshole drowned in the ogre's seed. The unlikely pair found each other's arms like young lovers before finally untying the exhausted Monche. He spilled to the floor and smiled as they kissed.

On the day of their wedding, the mountains rejoiced at the joining of Jungfrau and the ogre. Their loving union perplexed only those who had never heard the story of their meeting, when Eiger rescued Jungfrau from the monk who stood between them. And, though Monche would often find himself as the meat in the middle of their happy marriage, he would never hope to come between them again.

Milady's Bath

By Giselle Renarde

No sense asking me why she does it.

Why scamper out the window every time the moon is full? Why flee the comforts of a warm feather bed knowing she'll return with her gown tattered and her flesh torn to shreds?

Like I said, I'm not the one to ask. I've never lusted for any man, and certainly not with such hearty devotion as Milady lusts for that beast she seeks to tame. If ever I had sought the rough touch of man, I might understand why she puts herself in harm's way every second fortnight. If my inclinations were anything like hers, I wouldn't be so quick to judge. I also wouldn't be so quick to run her bath on those nights she returns from the forest, wounded, but happy as a meadowlark.

She wakes me by the rustle of her skirts if I've fallen asleep, but it's rare I should slumber on nights Milady sets off into the woods. I worry about her something dreadful when she's away. And I always know when she's gone because, though it in't the custom with proper folk, I end my day in Milady's bedchamber.

Most girls who work in great houses share sleeping quarters with other maids. Those lodgings are far away from the family's own rooms. I am far luckier than all those other chambermaids and servants. Me, I share a bed with the girl I adore more than anything else in the world: Milady, my love.

Ever since she was young, Milady had a wild streak in her. She was always chasing after the boys, and the boys had a name for her I'm sworn never to repeat. The Lord and Lady, her ma and pa, traveled the world over without the poor girl. They often visited the continent, and even ventured so far as India and Africa. I don't know what they were looking for in all those countries out there, but it seemed to me they'd have been just as happy staying home with their daughter.

When Milady grew into adulthood, her ma and pa tried to make her prim and proper like themselves, but she wouldn't hear of it. She loved young men below her station, and none of her parents' persuasions would change that. The Lord and Lady then enlisted my service. I was 'round about Milady's age, always a shy girl, but a polite and modest maid. Also, I never broke vases like our Rose always managed to do, and I didn't cover up the bits on the garden statues with old burlap like our devout auntie Dorcas.

When the Lord and Lady of the manor instructed me to report on their daughter's comings and goings, I gladly took up the task. Milady was less than thrilled, at first, about the maid sleeping on a cot in her chamber, but before long she did summon me into the big bed. The Lord and Lady expected me to temper her rotten behaviour, but that in't at all what happened. If anything, my being there made Milady even more unruly.

And then this madness with the creature began. It weren't quite a year ago she started sneaking off in the night to meet him. Who this beastly man might be, I haven't a clue. Some sort of nomadic ruffian, perhaps? Or a convict who escapes his prison cell once every month? All I do know is that every time the moon is full, Milady slips out of bed thinking I'm none the wiser. She steals the same blessed frock out from the back of the wardrobe and pours it over her silk underclothes. At one time, she'd looked a dream in that velvet gown the color of fine red wine. Now the fabric is torn from the skirts to the sleeves, and the hems are caked with mud.

When Milady's gown was new, it had a décolletage of lace which climbed all the way up her thin neck and was secured at the nape with pearl buttons. The lace is gone now. I lay a bet that rakish fellow couldn't wait to get his filthy paws on what was underneath, and tore the lace clean off. Now her pale breasts cling to the edge of her constrictive bodice as though they might leap out at any moment. And, though I have seen Milady unclothed on many occasions, my pulse always races at the possibility of more.

I do wonder what he looks like, this rake of Milady's acquaintance. He must be devilishly handsome if she returns to him month after month. Could an ugly man tear a woman's fine apparel to shreds, leave her body bloodied and broken, and still compel her to return at regular intervals? The thought defies imagining. But, as I've said, I am not like her.

When she is dressed in her rags of velvet, Milady tosses a hooded cape over her shoulders and slips out her grand window. Desire is the only force that could compel her to climb down the stonework like an experienced mountaineer. Only when I hear her feet touch the ground do I jump out of bed to watch her race through the gardens and off into the clearing. I lose sight of the cape concealing her long orange hair when she scampers into the woods, fearless as a tiger but vulnerable as a hare. Sometimes I think the girl acts solely on impulse, and how I envy her for it!

As I await her return, I imagine what sordid acts of carnality she dares to engage in with her brute. When we are alone, Milady and me, I am tender with her body. I curl in against her and wrap my arms around her willowy form. She allows me to explore beneath her nightclothes, and I caress her breasts with the gentlest of hands. My fingers traipse between her thighs and dance in the pool she creates just for me. Her arousal stimulates my imaginings, but I can imagine no greater happiness than lying in bed with my love.

Milady's monster of a man is anything but gentle. His rough treatment is apparent in each incision of her flesh, every bite and every scratch. He devours her breasts until each perfect pink nipple is swollen and red. Clawing at her back with razor sharp nails, he gnaws on her flesh, from her soft bosom to her shoulders. Only when he is satisfied with the damage he's done to her top half does he tear up her skirts. He searches for warmth between her legs.

He is brutal with her, and somehow she appreciates this quality. Perhaps he throws her to the ground so her face meets the dirt and decay of the forest floor. Perhaps he pins her up against a tree so her naked breasts are further tortured by jagged bark. I can scarcely imagine what pleasure she might derive at being impaled from behind by a hulking creature of the night. Certainly he forces himself upon her—she returns home dripping with his seed.

I imagine the expression on Milady's face when he enters her body with furious force. Wincing, she grits her teeth and shuts her eyes. I wonder if the act pains her. If it hurt as badly as I presume, she would never return to him. Indeed, no woman would enter into carnal relations with any man. My fingers know the wetness her desire inspires. If only she appreciated the ardor of my love, she would stay in bed with me rather than venturing out to the woods in the middle of the night. Perhaps my kind hand is insufficient to her purposes. It's possible she savors the sting.

When I catch sight of Milady stumbling out of the forest, I hop back into the bed we share. Under the covers, I wait to hear her footfalls in the garden below, and then her whimpers of exertion as she climbs the old stone wall. The window hardly creaks as she opens it wide and moves through like a specter. Only when I hear the rustle of her skirts do I sit up in bed and rub my eyes as though I had been sleeping all this time.

"Ah, you have ventured out," I say as she casts off her cape.

I observe the state of her gown and sigh. It has been torn anew where I stitched it up last month. The front of her bodice hangs open, her naked breasts scarcely concealed by underthings. Her nipples glow pink through dirty white silk. The scratches across her ravaged chest are red and raised, but her wounds are not bleeding tonight.

"I have ventured out," she concedes at last. When Milady runs her fingers through her tangled hair, twigs and leaves and all manner of things fall to the floor. "But now I have returned and I shall require my bath forthwith."

She wipes dirt from her cheek, but it persists. Her hands are as muddy as her face.

I slip out from bed and throw a shawl across my shoulders. Bowing ever so slightly, I reply, "Yes, Milady," and tiptoe from her chamber in my simple cotton nightdress.

Cook ensures the stove is always lit, and water always upon it for those who wish a cup of tea late into the night. I replace the two kettles I've taken before leaving the kitchen. The hot water steams as I climb the darkened staircase, quiet as a mouse though my arms shriek with pain. This task is onerous, but there is nothing I would not endure for Milady.

When the lengthy preparations for her bath are complete, she disrobes slowly, dropping layers of torn velvet and then silk to the ground at her feet. Under the dim light of wax candles and oil lamps, I observe her naked flesh marred by scratches and bites. Her pale belly, chest, and thighs have been clawed as if by a biblical beast, but when she turns her back to me I am most frightened of all.

"You're bleeding, Milady! And it in't time for Nature's curse."

Stepping into the bath, Milady offers a secretive smile that makes me feel foolish. Spreading her cheeks, she looks over her shoulder, but I doubt if she can see the blood and seed dripping from her backside. Those fluids trickle slow as molasses down her thigh, but my eye cannot escape the image of her tortured bum hole, if you'll pardon my French. The sight turns my stomach, and I clench my buttocks tight as I'm assaulted by the vision of what that beastly man did to my lover.

"Bugger," Milady says. Her voice is light as a meringue. She seems amused by all that's happened, and proud of it as well.

"Does it hurt, Milady?"

"Indeed it does, dearest Bet." She clutches her cheeks with dirty fingernails. "Like a hundred knives shoved up my arse."

Milady winces as she glides into the bathing tub and dunks her head under the water. Her soft breasts float to the surface even before the tip of her nose rises up. Her wet hair emerges and she gasps for breath. All else but her scraped knees remain underwater.

Seating myself on a cushioned stool at her side, I soak a square of cotton in the fragranced water and wipe dirt from her face. She smiles at me as though we share a secret, but I must admit it's a secret I don't fully understand.

"Have you truly never been intimate with a man?" she asks. "You can confide me, dear Lizzie. I promise never to tell a soul."

Shaking my head, I run the cloth down Milady's smooth neck. The white cotton turns grey and I must start again with a new square. "I regret I have nothing to confess. I have no desire to be intimate with any man."

She hisses when I touch the cloth to her chest. Her scratches trouble me deeply, but Milady remains jubilant after such wretched abuse.

"I could never take pleasure in pain," I tell her. "If this is the mark of man, I am safer in my own leanings."

"Ah, but this is no mere man," she says, and closes her eyes. A smile flows from her tender pink lips. "He is a man and so much more."

As Milady skims her fingers through the hair between her legs, I watch her lovely breasts bob in the water. Those pallid spheres call to me, their poor pink nipples distended and erect. I roll up the sleeves of my nightdress before drizzling fragranced oil across her chest. She sighs when I rub my cloth the length of her bare breast, but I am hardly satisfied to touch her skin through a square of cotton. Her nudity provokes irrepressible urges in me. I must feel her soft flesh against mine.

Releasing the cloth, I trace gentle fingertips down her breasts. She whimpers when I fondle her nipples. What that beastly man did to cause her such lasting agony, I'll never know. What can I do but take those floating orbs into the care of my palms and revere them with my soft caress?

When I press Milady's breasts together, she smiles and sighs. I squeeze them repeatedly, again and again. Slick as they are with lavender oil, they slip one against the other and glide from my hands. I circle the meat of my palms around her beautiful breasts until the bathwater ripples in the tub. If it weren't for the pain inflicted by that wretched beast, I would plunge my face into her bath and suckle at her bosom until I drowned.

When she returns from him broken and bleeding, what else have I to offer but my gentle hands? Each time she goes to the forest in search of that beast I must remind myself it is my touch she will come home to. I am the woman she sleeps beside each night. No one else but I may caress her soft body underneath the bed covers. At night, she is mine to embrace. I would never abuse my gift as this horrible man has done time after time. What kind of hideous creature would torture a woman so?

My thighs are slick with juice as I trace my fingers down her stomach. Again I take up my cotton cloth and wipe faint traces of blood from her wounds. Milady whimpers and, opening her eyes, she lifts her hand from the bath. When she quaintly pets my cheek with the back of her fingers, I am in heaven.

"Ah, you are a dear," Milady sighs.

Her words tremble inside of me, but I only acknowledge her sentiment with the slightest of nods. I know what I will do next and, though I am certain she will not put up her guard, my heart pounds inside my chest.

With cloth in hand, I cleanse the length of her thighs. She murmurs her approval each time I approach the abyss. In the illuminated darkness, I can scarcely see her most intimate hair drifting below the water's surface, but I know how to find it. I have touched her there so many times before.

When I set my palm against her mound, she seizes the edge of the tub and gasps. Her wet hair casts water across the floor as she tosses her head side to side against the rim.

"My little Lizzie Bet," she coos. "You take such fine care of your mistress, my dear."

I press my lips together until a grin breaks free. In truth, there is nothing I love better than Milady's praise. I rub her mound with the cloth and she writhes beneath my touch.

"All I want is to please you," I confess, though I've told her this many times before.

Her breath is rough and heavy when she replies, "You do naught but please me, my sweet darling Bet."

With a heart full of joy, I toss away the cotton cloth and kiss her wet flesh with my fingers. The tender place between Milady's thighs is softer than her fine furs or silks, or anything else my hardworking hands have ever touched. Her body is my cathedral, and she my high priestess. I worship at the apex of Milady's tremulous cunt.

Her hips rock the bath in time with my tender strokes. Her pale cheeks flush with exertion as her breath grows rapid and unsteady. As my tempo accelerates, her frenzied motion spills fragranced water over the sides. I rub the lips between her thighs with all my love and might, splashing myself with every stroke. With one hand, I cling to the tub, but the front of my nightdress is already soaked through and my nipples erect with the chill. She stifles the cries I've so often heard stifled. We know we must be quiet. In this house, the walls have ears.

When her bliss has ebbed and flowed, I stroke her mound slowly. She mumbles my name in all its forms, calling me Lizzie, Betty, Beth, and Bet, and spouting tender messages of adoration. My heart is never so full as when Milady speaks my name. Her loving compliments are my absinthe. I massage her most tender flesh until the bath turns cold and my wet nightdress chills me to the bone. Then, I wrap her hair in fine linens and cloak her wounded body in fresh silks. For this one night, I will sleep nude.

Milady's breath grows deep the moment we crawl into bed, but my relief at her safe return overshadows my desire to whisper words of love. I envelope her tender form in my arms. Even in sleep, she flinches at my touch. When I close my eyes, I see the horrific vision of her backside trickling with semen and blood. I shudder and hold her body closer to mine. Seeing her secretive grin in my mind's eye, I wonder what inspired it.

The full moon shines bright outside Milady's window. A lone wolf howls in the distance. Despite my exhaustion, I cannot sleep. What creature would do such harm to a lovely young woman? And to what end does Milady seek the damage?

A Jealous God

«Dieu aima les oiseaux et inventa les arbres.

L'homme aima les oiseaux et inventa les cages.»

~Jacques Deval

"You are My creation, wicked Eve."

"Creator made Eve for the pleasure of knowing her and loving her." She bowed her head as in prayer. Even with the Creator standing right in front of her cage, she cast her gaze downward. It would be presumptuous for a mere mortal to look upon such a luminous being.

"You are mine for the taking, and mine for the keeping," He instructed. "You are mine to do with as I desire."

"Eve is His creation," she repeated, bowing lower, until her forehead met the ground. "He does to her as He pleases."

She was merely the plaything of her all-powerful and all-knowing Creator. Without any right to self-determination, how could she contemplate the meaning of I? Eve had never heard of identity. She saw the world through the camera lucida of His gaze. With Him as the closest she knew to a mirror, how could she view herself as anything but contemptible?

Her cage was made of chicken wire, but escape never crossed her mind. If she left, where would she go? Better yet, why would she go? Eve sat each day in patient silence, waiting for Him to appear. She did not sleep while He was away, for fear of missing out on the thrill of His arrival.

The chicken wire cut her flesh if she held the same position for too long, so she tried not to move. Her knees were scarred red with pointed ovals like eyes without irises. Eve was blind to life beyond the chicken wire.

All day, she waited to hear His key enter the front lock. The door would open and then squeal shut, but Creator never entered her room right away. Her room was, of course, a faulty descriptor. It was not her room in any sense—it was merely the room which her cage occupied.

When He entered, she cast her eyes suitably downward. Offering neither greeting nor request, she waited for Him to make His demands.

"Foul beast of the earth." His voice boomed as He caught sight of her piddle in the corner of her cage. "Go on the newspaper. What do you think it's there for?"

Eve cowered, but made no reply. On days when pain from the chicken wire made her faint, she liked to sit on the newspaper for relief. She couldn't do that if it was soiled.

"A dog can be housetrained," He spat. When she made no response, He commanded, "Lie down. Are you no better than a brute? Present yourself to me like a dog."

Sinking to her hands and knees, Eve backed up against the cage. She raised her posterior high in the air to ensure her two holes would be aligned with the padded opening in the chicken wire. She could never be sure whether He might fuck her pussy or her ass, or her pussy and then her ass. But without any sense of self, Eve had no concept of preference. She existed solely for the enjoyment of her Creator.

When she pressed her chest to the floor, her tender nipples caught the chicken wire at the base of the cage. She began to nudge her forearms underneath her breasts to alleviate the pain, but Creator caught sight and cried, "Stay!"

Eve allowed her face to fall against the floor, and the wire dug into her cheek. Still, she stayed. Though she averted her gaze, she could tell He'd worn his chaps. The scent of leather surmounted even those of urine and sweat.

"Have you any desires, filthy beast?" He bellowed. "Do you wish for me to fuck you?"

"Eve has no thoughts or wishes that are not aligned with Creator's," she replied. "Creator will tell Eve what to think and what to wish for."

"You will think nothing," He snapped. "You will neither wish, desire, nor long for anything at all. You are merely a vessel to receive the bounty I come to bestow upon the earth."

"Eve is an empty vessel waiting to be filled with the gifts of the Creator."

Creator never sank to his knees; He graced the ground with their pressure.

Through the hole in her cage, Creator watched Eve's purple asshole throb and grasp. He poked it with His thumb, and her assring undulated like a brainless deep-sea organism, drawing in every unsuspecting lurker.

"Your ass is begging for it," He mocked, pulling out His thumb. "Do you want to feel my cock plunge inside your tight little hole?"

Puzzled, she replied, "Eve seeks only to please her Creator. She has no desires but His desires."

"A body doesn't lie. Your asshole is praying to be fucked."

"Then it would be pleased if Creator fucked it," she replied, as though her flesh possessed some independent capacity for perceiving pleasure.

"It would," Creator reasoned, "but there is an important lesson every asshole must learn."

"Ah, yes?" Eve remained ready to accept any word or action. "What is this lesson every asshole must learn?"

"Most prayers go unanswered," Creator replied. Reaching through the hole in Eve's cage, Creator gave her pussy lips three preparatory smacks. "I shall fuck your cunt instead."

Bracing at the sweet sensation of sharp slaps against her delicate flesh, Eve wove her fingers through the chicken wire at the base of the cage. "Thy Will be done."

Into the clear juice of Eve's pink pussy, He pressed a thick middle finger. Her grasping cunt drew Him in as her asshole had done before. Creator forced an index finger inside that moist hole. When she whimpered, lifting her wire-marked face from the floor, he fucked her with three fingers, sticky and wet from the liquid of her arousal.

"Your cunt now implores my compassion. I hear her fluid prayer." Creator growled, His voice thick with displeasure. Frowning at the sight of her pussy juice on His fingers, He cried, "Wicked Eve, has your cunt learned nothing from her neighbour?"

An obedient student of her Lord and Master, Eve replied, "Most prayers go unanswered."

"Correct," He exclaimed, beaming with a bizarre form of pride. "Your asshole prayed to be fucked, and that prayer went unanswered. Now your cunt prays for my cock, and neither shall her desires be met."

"Almighty Creator," Eve entreated, her voice soft as linen. "How might Creator's humble servant give herself to Him?"

"Make no mistake: you do not give to me; I do not receive from you. The Creator takes, and his servant is taken from. Now get on your knees, sinful creature."

Eve followed His simple command, rising to kneel. She placed herself before Him, her lips level with the higher of the two padded apertures in her cage. Never meeting His all-knowing gaze, she opened her mouth and extended her tongue to receive the blessing of His cock. She closed her eyes. The scent of leather grew pervasive as His smooth head brushed salty fluid down her tongue.

"You see, my sinful child..." He gasped as He swept the seam of His tip into the pool of precum. "No spiritual plea goes unheard..."

"God hears all prayers," she echoed. With a cock against her tongue, the words were mumbled.

"Precisely," He exclaimed, almost a cheer. "All of humanity's bitching and moaning irritates the hell out of me. Sometimes it puts me in such a mood that I give those importunate whiners exactly the opposite of what they want."

All she could do to set His mind at ease was wrap her lips around His cock. He released an animal moan as the silken walls of her mouth closed around Him.

Grasping the grotty lumber at the top of Eve's chicken wire home, He plunged His cock deep in her throat. She resisted the physiological urge to sputter and choke. After a few thrusts, she would grow accustomed to the pounding.

There was no expectation that Eve should ever thrust, suck, grind, or provide any indication of enjoyment during a sexual act. Her duty, as she was so often reminded, was simply to be and be taken.

"Then there's you, Eve..." Creator grasped her erect nipples through the gaps in the chicken wire. "Always praying for me to join you here in this slum. When I arrive, your anus calls to be filled and your cunt implores that I pump it full of cum. Do you know why I chose to fuck your mouth instead?"

Eve began to nod, but realized Creator anticipated a negative response. Instead, she shook her head no.

"Your mouth was the only part of your body that wasn't asking to be stuffed with cock. I did it with the deliberate intent to displease you."

She pulled away to reply, "No action of Creator's ever displeases Eve."

Even the most thoroughly reflected responses were seen as smart-ass comebacks. Eve's Lord and Master held tight to her nipples with the tips of His fingernails. He twisted them away from each other until she winced, then thrust his cock down her throat. It had no choice but to be receptive. He pulled on her tender nipples to bring her closer. To encourage motion, He allowed Eve to fall back a bit. He plunged again down her throat, tugging her tits through the chicken wire. There were no friendly apertures for winter-white breasts; the antagonistic wires left red marks on her skin.

"It is not merely to prevent your enjoyment that I fuck the lips of your mouth. Wicked, wicked Eve," He scathed, jerking her tits tight against the wire. "I do it that you may not create life inside of you. It was I who created you. It was I who caused all things to be."

"Creator brings forth all life," Eve replied, her words once again garbled by His cock.

"You are but an empty vessel. I hold the power to generate life within you." He grasped her tits through the chicken wire. "It's a gift I deny."

He fucked her face with a kind of brutal frenzy only He could succeed in. Piercing her hard nipples with His fingernails, He pulled her tits while He rammed his cock down her throat. Tears welled in the corners of her closed eyes, wetting her lashes before trickling down her cheeks.

She accepted the collision of cock and mouth with a virgin's tender grace. As He tugged on her tits, her body hurled itself at Him like a doll, halted only by chicken wire. The scent of leather overwhelmed her senses, until she could feel nothing but the flavour of His coverings. Its aroma surpassed even the taste of cum as it hurled past her lips, barely settling on her tongue before coursing down her throat.

Clutching her nipples with all His force, Creator cried, "Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord!"

Gasping for air, she choked on His cum. The cock still lodged in her throat hindered her cries of devotion. When He pulled out of her mouth and released her stinging breasts, she fell back on her ass, whimpering, "Praise Him according to His excellent greatness."

"What was that?" He mocked, turning to depart. "I didn't quite hear you."

Cackling like the devil, He closed the door behind Him, leaving Eve alone in the chicken wire fortress. "Praise Him according to His excellent greatness," she whispered when he had gone.

Her fate was to live out her days in captivity, waiting for the Creator to appear unto her. She might love Him, if she only knew how.

He was in the next room now, cracking open a bottle. Eve wondered if He could hear her voice over the blaring television. "Praise Him in His mighty expanse."

Her cage had no lock, but Eve knew nothing of freedom.

~Mrs. Fox and the Cat of Nine Tails~

Old Mr. Fox would always look fondly on the time he tested his wife's faithfulness. Young Mrs. Fox was so very pretty, and he was so often out of the house, he felt it reasonable to suspect her of infidelity. And was it not a husband's duty to ensure his wife's loyalty in a town full of eligible cuckolders?

All the Fox family was known to be clever and shrewd, and Old Mr. Fox was no exception. In fact, the only quality setting him apart from his fellow kin and townsmen was an unusual protuberance at the base of his backside. Mr. Fox had been born with an abundance of tails, red tipped with white fur like the animal of his namesake. He had nine in total. Though the villagers mocked his deformity, Mrs. Fox found them exceedingly beautiful splayed behind him like peacock feathers.

The plot to test his wife's commitment was really quite simple. Stretching himself out on the garden bench, he stayed perfectly still for two days and nights. On the morning of the third day, their pretty maid Miss Cat came out to the garden to pluck fresh herbs. When she spotted Mr. Fox stone dead, she cried out for her mistress. Mrs. Fox rushed out to the garden, but her shock stopped her in her tracks. He was dead, that much was certain.

Wrought with misery, she raced from her husband's soulless body, went up to her room, and shut herself in. She cried in her bed for seven days, never once changing out of her silk slip. In this time, Miss Cat simmered only clear broth on the fire, as her mistress would take nothing more for her meals.

Though Mrs. Fox had turned heads all over town, her loyalty to her husband was widely known. When the news spread that old Fox was dead, wooers were certain their times had come.

One bright morning, old Mr. Fox observed his own young nephew approaching the house. The lad rapped at the window in the kitchen door, singing, "Oh, pray, are you about, Miss Cat? Do you sleep or do you wake?"

Sleeping or waking? What a question to ask after dawn! These Foxes know nothing of how their maids toil.

Brushing flour from her hands, Miss Cat covered her bread dough with a cloth and left it to rise. She opened the door to the suave suitor, answering, "I am not sleeping, I am waking. Will you guess what I am baking?"

"No thank you, Miss," said young Fox, entering uninvited into Miss Cat's humble kitchen. "I have no interest in guessing games. Tell me, what is Mrs. Fox doing?"

She has only just lost her husband! What would you have her do?

Gritting her teeth, Miss Cat forced a smile and sang, "She sits alone to grieve and moan. She weeps her little eyes quite red because old Mr. Fox is dead."

"Yes, I heard the old Fox kicked the bucket," he replied with a conniving grin. "Nasty business, that, but life is for the living and we must all plough on. Do tell your mistress a young Fox is here to woo her."

"Certainly, young sir," Miss Cat replied, offering a reluctant curtsey. Stomping up the stairs, she tapped at the door to her mistress' room. "Mrs. Fox, are you inside?"

"Oh yes, my little cat," she replied in a voice heavy with sleep. "Enter in, dear Kitty."

First poking her head inside, Miss Cat stepped into the room on ginger toes. "I regret to wake you at this early hour, but you have another suitor waiting below. At your command, I can send him away like the others."

Mrs. Fox tapped her hand against the duvet, beckoning Miss Cat to join her on the bed. As she sat up, the strap of her silk slip slid down her shoulder, but she seemed not to notice. "Thank you for your concern, but it is my duty to remarry now that old Mr. Fox is gone." Her lips quivered as she reflected. Pausing, she dabbed the corners of her eyes with one of his handkerchiefs. "Tell me what this new suitor is like, my dear."

"We already know him," Miss Cat replied, sitting with her mistress on the bed of feathers. "He's another Fox, the master's young nephew."

"What do you think of him?" Mrs. Fox begged. "I am beside myself with grief. I can hardly be trusted to judge anybody's character right now."

Though Miss Cat knew well the impression he'd given her, she wouldn't speak a single word against a man who might one day become her master. "He is handsome, at least. And well-spoken too."

"Ah," Mrs. Fox replied, taking her lovely maid's hand and pressing it with great affection. What strength the darling girl gave her. Nobody else had ever taken such devoted care of her, or ensured she had all she needed. She sometimes thought perhaps her maid loved her better than even Mr. Fox had. "But the trait I found most alluring in my husband was his nine beautiful tails. This suitor hasn't a set of tails like the late Mr. Fox, has he?"

"Oh, no," answered Miss Cat, returning her mistress' loving gaze. Of all the mistresses she'd worked for, Mrs. Fox was by far the kindest and most appreciative. Perhaps it was time to share her secret with the lady of the house. "Did Mr. Fox ever tell you why he hired me?"

Mrs. Fox smiled, running gentle fingers along Miss Cat's arm. "He never mentioned anything in particular, apart from your experience and abilities."

Rising from the bed, Miss Cat took a hopeful breath and untied her apron.

"Whatever are you doing, strange girl?" her mistress asked, chuckling though visibly perplexed.

As she unbuttoned her simple cotton dress and stepped out of her slip, Miss Cat answered, "I too was called a deviant by the villagers, and for the same reason as old Mr. Fox." Unwrapping the binding that made a bustle of her anomalous appendages, Miss Cat revealed what had really been under her dress all this time: nine cats' tails, all pristine white and fluffy as a Persian's.

"My word!" Mrs. Fox exclaimed, hypnotized by the undulations of furry tails. "How gorgeous they are! I am jealous, dear Kitty."

The tails waved behind her naked body with the supremely feline quality of having each a mind of its own. Miss Cat approached the bed as Mrs. Fox threw off the duvet. Her well-worn slip had yellowed under the arms and in the lace of her décolletage, which was torn in three places. Her tawny hair had not been tended to in days, and took on the appearance of forgotten brambles. Even so, she was a stunning woman, and far superior to the young suitor waiting in the kitchen.

Curling in beside her mistress, Miss Cat purred as the gentle woman pet her tails. How lovely it felt to be touched by someone else's hands. With such a secret to keep, she had resigned herself to a life of solitude. No suitor could ever be allowed to see her naked body, but Mrs. Fox was something altogether different. Mrs. Fox was full of love.

"I am surprised my husband never told me about these," she said, running her warm hand along Kitty's back, up her behind, and across her tails. "He knows I do not judge."

"But it was my secret," Miss Cat replied, melting under her mistress' velvet touch. "We shared what others view as an affliction, and never once did he betray my confidence. Your husband was a kind man, Mrs. Fox."

"Yes," she agreed, smiling at his memory. When Miss Cat gazed up at her, she was struck to the core by the haunting quality of her maid's golden-green eyes. Why had she never noticed the sheer prettiness of the young woman's little nose and rosebud lips? Leaning closer, Mrs. Fox assured the girl, "You've been very kind to me as well."

A gushing flow of love filled Miss Cat's heart as Mrs. Fox touched her. The heat of her body was no competition for the warmth of her affection. Tilting her head, Kitty eased forward until her lips perched her against mistress'. They lingered there for a moment, lips upon lips, until Kitty kissed her mistress with force. Grabbing the hand that caressed her tails, she pressed it to her mound.

Mrs. Fox straightened up and away from the maid, regaining her senses. "Oh, I am sorry, Miss Cat," she said. "I am ashamed, to abuse you so."

"There is no shame," Miss Cat consoled, brushing fallen strands of hair away from her face. "And certainly no abuse." She took Mrs. Fox's hand and placed it against her eager pussy. "You needn't fear it."

"I have no fear," her mistress whispered, leaning in for another kiss. As their tongues danced, Mrs. Fox plunged her finger into Kitty's wet slit. The girl seized at the welcome sensation, grabbing her mistress' breast to squeeze. Moaning against the early morning silence and the sweet sounds of their kisses, Mrs. Fox stroked her darling's sensitive bud. As Kitty writhed against wet fingers, a few of those lovely tails snuck out from underneath her body to whip and whack Mrs. Fox's leg and stomach.

Miss Cat flipped on top, kissing her mistress as her tails smacked and caressed their bodies. Slipping her leg under Mrs. Fox's, she leaned far back until their moist mounds kissed. They pressed their pussies together, writhing in circles to stimulate those sensitive spots no man had ever found.

Pushing hard against her maid's lovely body, Mrs. Fox grabbed hold of every furry tail she could find. In typical feline fashion, they reacted against her, whipping her face, her arms, and her breasts. Under a torrent of flying fur, she grasped Kitty's foot and plunged those pretty toes in her mouth. Her maid nearly leapt from the bed as she sucked them.

When the initially unbearable pleasure subsided a touch, Miss Cat took hold of Mrs. Fox's foot and returned the favour. Each held tight to the other's ankle, plunging her tongue between toes, sucking them and nibbling. Miss Cat shrieked with delight. Her pleasure built with each of her mistress' eager responses, until it was too much to bear. Breaking away from her mistress' wet pussy and wetter mouth, Miss Cat lay face down on the featherbed, her head at the lady's feet. Mrs. Fox didn't move, except to pet the nine tails pouncing like playful kittens across her body. They rested together until the sun was high in the sky.

"Goodness, I haven't even put the bread in the oven!" Miss Cat cried, jumping out of bed to bind up her tails.

"Please," Mrs. Fox begged. "Leave your tails out as my husband used to do."

Gazing down at her binding sheet, Miss Cat said, "The villagers will taunt me, as they did when I was a child. It was such torment, being ostracised for these oddities."

"In the house, at least," her mistress continued. "There is no one but us here."

Miss Cat's face fell as she realized it was more than just bread she'd left waiting in the kitchen. "Your suitor!" she cried, binding her tails and jumping into her dress.

"Tell him to go," Mrs. Fox said, waving her hand dismissively. "In the care of my Miss Cat of Nine Tails, I am more than happy to live as a dowager."

Rushing from the bedchamber, Miss Cat raced down the stairs to find young Fox still waiting in the kitchen. She ran to the door and opened it for him. "Mrs. Fox regrets she wishes to see no suitors."

"I understand. It is still early days," young Fox replied with a coy insistence, as though they were in on the same joke. "When will your mistress begin to be wooed?"

"Never!" Kitty cried, pushing him out the door and down the garden path. When they arrived at the garden gate, she opened it for him to leave by. "To preserve the memory of her fine husband, Mrs. Fox has chosen to remain a dowager."

On the bench behind them, old Mr. Fox sprang up, crying, "What love! My wife remains loyal, even after my death!"

"Ghost!" his nephew yelped, racing off along the high street.

"Mr. Fox!" Miss Cat exclaimed, crossing the garden with suspicions of deceit. "What is the meaning of this uncommon revival?"

Dashing to the house, he said, "Silly Kitty, I was never dead! It was all just a test to prove my wife's devotion."

"Mr. Fox," she scolded as he bolted through the kitchen. She followed him up the stairs and into the bedchamber, shouting, "What a cruel, mean-spirited trick to play on us! Your wife has not stopped crying for you."

"I know!" he replied, opening his arms to the woman sitting naked on the bed. "Isn't it wonderful?"

Mrs. Fox's eyes grew wide with a combination of apprehension, annoyance, and relief. "My husband," she said, her tone flat and unreadable. "You are here."

"I am here," he cried, taking her in his arms and kissing her tussled hair. "And you are faithful!"

"Yes," she replied, chuckling nervously as she shot an inquiring glance in Kitty's direction. Kitty offered a weak shrug. If he calls you his faithful wife, agree with him. "Yes, it would seem so," Mrs. Fox repeated.

"I certainly hope my little trick hasn't changed your feelings for me," he went on, hugging her to his chest.

"For you?" she stammered, staring helplessly at Miss Cat, who had become so much more than just a maid. "Not for you, no..."

With an optimistic grin, Kitty stepped from the bedchamber and closed the door to leave master and mistress in peace.

Blood Addict

It was just like quitting smoking.

That's what people didn't seem to realize. If you wanted to give up blood and you had a hell of a lot of willpower, you could do it. It wasn't easy. Hell, it was probably the hardest thing Byron had ever done, but it was possible.

Vampire stories were so romanticized. All that undead stuff, the melodrama of addiction, the eroticism, the homoeroticism wasn't what life was like for Byron, even if he was gay. Well, bi, actually. His boyfriend Tyler was always on him about bi invisibility and how they shouldn't let people think they were gay just because they were two guys who loved each other. Byron didn't care so much what people thought, but for Tyler's sake he corrected their mistakes. Sometimes.

Well, okay, maybe part of the reason he let people assume he was gay was that it helped in his profession. If you're styling a woman's hair and she's sitting there thinking you're gay, she'll open up to you like crazy. It makes the job way easier. Tell her you're bi and suddenly she's wondering why you mentioned it at all. Are you hitting on her? What's the deal?

So often Byron let sleeping dogs lie. No skin off his ass.

And then along came Amy and everything changed.

Everything.

From the moment she said hi and he caught that tilted little smile on her blood red lips, he knew no amount of willpower could save him. She sat at his station with her hair freshly washed, wispy black strands sticking to her pale neck. Her skin was so white it was almost blue, and she reminded him of a flapper girl in a black and white movie. She would be his undoing. He knew that from the start.

"What did you have in mind?" Byron asked as he unfastened the towel from around her head. A mass of black hair splashed across her shoulders, shimmering like oil.

"Classic bob." Her lips curved into that crooked smile he loved already. "Straight lines and a fringe. Like Cleopatra."

"Cleopatra," Byron replied, because his mind was too muddled to say anything else.

Amy glanced around Byron's station as he combed her hair. She looked for a long time at the picture of him and Tyler at Halloween when they'd both dressed like Bowie. Most people stole glances, but Amy actually stared.

"Is that your boyfriend?"

Byron nodded, watching their reflections in the mirror. For some damn reason, instead of saying yes he said, "We're bi. Both of us, me and him. Both bi."

What an idiot.

Amy giggled, and there was something in the timbre of her amusement that made Byron want to see under her black salon smock. Not that he wanted to see her naked, not in that moment. He wanted to see what her clothes looked like. Something poofy. He could tell by the way her smock billowed up at the front. If she had crinolines on he'd give himself to her then and there. Hell, he'd let the whole salon watch.

"Are you going to cut?" Amy asked, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

"Cut?"

Her eyes were huge and round like a dairy cow's, dark and dreamy in the centre but with crisp, clear whites. Byron hadn't met anyone like her, not since his days hanging out with other vamps. He craved blood just looking at her, and she seemed to know it.

"Or are you just going to comb it all afternoon?" Amy asked.

Byron chuckled, but he felt like the world's biggest moron. "Cut your hair? Oh..."

Amy's expression fell, just for a second, but long enough for Byron to spot it. "What else would you cut?" she asked with a snicker that seemed insincere. "You're a hairstylist, aren't you?"

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Byron struggled to centre himself. There was something about this girl that put him totally off kilter. Even as he started sectioning her hair, he didn't know how he was going to cut with his blood pumping so hot in his veins. Christ, he could feel gushes of warmth every time he breathed. His heart circulated his own rushing red fluid, but the more he thought about it, the lonelier he felt. He wanted someone else's blood inside of him. He wanted Amy's.

He tried cutting her hair without looking at her, because every time he looked at her his heart went wild. The craving was back. He could feel it in his throat every time he swallowed: a thickness, a warmth, a need very much like lust and yet somehow different. Byron thought about blood every day, but the recollection hadn't been this physical in ages.

With each snip near the nape of her neck, he imagined opening his shears and pressing them to her flesh, drawing blood. In his mind's eye, he could see the precise shade of red she would bleed. He'd watch a droplet drizzle down the nape of her neck and then lean in and catch it with his tongue just before it could slip beneath the salon smock.

Byron struggled through the cut, dizzied by the ongoing fantasy of consumption. He'd had plenty of days like these back when he was first quitting blood, but there was something about Amy that rekindled his desire for it. He didn't know quite what that was until after he'd finished the cut.

"Thank you," she said, and when she handed him a tip, he caught sight of it.

Her wrist...

The scars, some faded, some fresh...

A cutter! No wonder Amy stirred up Byron's blood lust. She was probably as focused on letting blood as he'd ever been on drinking it. Oh, this was bad. This was very, very bad for Byron. He took her money, but shuffled her out to reception as fast as he could. She dragged her feet all the way, obviously wanting a word with him, but he couldn't handle it. If he couldn't be around other vamps, he couldn't be around cutters either. He'd kicked the habit. He was good now.

Even when Amy was gone, she was all Byron could think about. When he got home, he found Tyler in the kitchen. The first word out of his mouth was "Amy." He told his boyfriend everything. No secrets between them. If he was tempted, Tyler would be the first to know.

"But you got through it," Tyler said, always encouraging. "You got through the cut and you didn't do anything stupid."

Byron eyed the big knife his boyfriend was using to slice peppers. They'd gone veg after quitting blood, since eating animal flesh was too close a reminder. But, man oh man, a block of tofu didn't hold a candle to a nice big slab of meat. No way. He pictured a filet mignon, just barely rare. He imagined slicing into it and watching the blood pool on a clean white plate. Oh god, he wanted that.

And then he thought about Amy and, god, he wanted that too.

"She was really pretty," Byron said as he watched Tyler chop vegetables. "Like, vamp-pretty. She'd fit right in with our old friends."

"So what?" Tyler snapped. "Stop thinking about her."

Byron took a step back, leaning against the fridge. "Jeeze, I'm sorry, okay?"

Tyler held his pose for a moment, knife poised above an onion. He stared at Byron. Stared, his eyes so intense Byron could feel the fire in him. Finally, his shoulders fell and he shook his head, relenting, "It's not the girl."

"Then what is it?" Byron asked.

"It's the blood." Shaking his head, Tyler sliced into the onion and backed away from its intense aroma. "Look, I don't want you starting up again with that stuff. We worked hard to kick the habit, and if you go back you're making me choose..."

Tyler put the knife down.

"What?" Byron asked. "Choose what?"

Tyler started rattling around in the cupboards like he was looking for something. Turned away from Byron, he said, "I can't stay with you if you start up with blood. I can't go through that again."

"What?" Byron scoffed, though he knew Tyler's concern was well-founded. "Who ever said anything about going back to blood? I was just telling you about some girl I met. That's all."

"That's not all," Tyler growled, pulling a can of black beans from the cupboard. "Don't start seeing her, man. You know where it's gonna lead and it won't be pretty."

Byron slammed the flat of his hand against the fridge and propelled himself out of the kitchen. He headed toward the bedroom and then changed his mind. The bedroom was too close. He slipped on his shoes and picked up his keys while Tyler asked, "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Out!" he shouted, and slammed the door.

"Out," he kept thinking to himself as he left the building. He didn't look back, not once. He was acting like such a little queen, he realized, but sometimes Tyler just pissed him the hell off. No, it wasn't Tyler. He was just blaming his boyfriend for being right. Byron wanted blood. He wanted it so damn bad he could taste it on his tongue, like a hot, thick elixir.

"Byron!"

He turned, expecting to see Tyler chasing after him even though it wasn't Tyler's voice that had said his name. It was Amy's voice. It was Amy.

"Hey, I found you," she said.

"Yeah, I guess you did." He was so surprised to see her he forgot to be nervous. And then he remembered. "Hey... hi... you look... wow!"

"Same as I did last time you saw me," she said. "Your haircut. Your work."

He nodded. "It looks good."

Amy scrunched up her nose and turned around. "Not in the back, though. My roommate told me when I got home. It's kind of crooked."

Byron touched the tips of her hair, and the silky sensation against his fingers brought a surge of electricity through him. She was right. He'd really screwed up.

"How did you find me?" Byron asked, wondering at once if she was psychic as well as a cutter.

"I called the salon and asked for your address. They weren't going to give it to me, but I said we used to be friends."

"Oh."

Amy walked a ways down the sidewalk, and settled on the ledge of the neighbouring building's water feature. Her crinolines poofed up in front of her, and she folded her hands in her lap, waiting for Byron to sit at her side. The fountain at her back splashed up in the air like a geyser, creating a soothing water sound. He walked by this place every day and he'd never noticed how nice it was.

"So, how long since you quit the vampire life?" Amy asked.

Byron's spine went straight. All his muscles tightened. "What... how did you...?"

"It's obvious," she said, and shrugged. For a while she stared at her hands, and Byron stared at them too—at the chipped black nail polish and the long sleeves covering her forearms. "I bet you think I'm one, too."

"I don't know," he said. He didn't want to sound accusatory or anything.

"I spent a couple years dabbling in the scene," she admitted. "But there was something weird about me. That's what everyone said. My blood wasn't... it wasn't like everyone else's."

Byron watched her kick the heels of her patent leather shoes against the base of the fountain. "What do you mean your blood's not like everyone else's?"

She glanced up at him and smiled, then lowered her eyes back down to her lap. "Some vamps would utterly drain me and say they felt nothing, like my blood was a non-alcoholic beer or something. They didn't even get buzzed off it. Then people started getting better after drinking me week in, week out."

"No..." Byron had heard of people like Amy, but he didn't think they really existed.

"Yes," she said. "I'm like a human nicotine patch. I've got the cure for bloodlust flowing through my veins."

"How?" Byron asked.

"I don't know." She looked up at him, her eyes large and round, two dark pools of mystery. "I really don't know how or why, but I know it works. If you want to kick your habit for good, I'm the girl to drink."

Byron's heart beat fast, too fast, too loud and too wild. "No, Amy, I've already kicked it. I haven't had a sip in... years."

"Except when you've relapsed behind your boyfriend's back and tried to hide it from him, lied when he asked, 'Is that blood on your breath?' Overreacted to make him question himself. You've done all that, right?"

Suddenly Byron felt dizzy, like Amy had stolen his thoughts and he was left empty. "How did you know?"

She shrugged like this was all so simple. "I've seen it before. Now are you going to take me upstairs, or what?"

"Upstairs?" Byron couldn't blame the girl for trying.

"To fix my hair," she said. "It's crooked, remember?"

"Oh." He'd forgotten already, with all this blood talk.

"You have scissors at home?"

"Yeah, but my boyfriend," he said. "Tyler's up there and we just had a fight."

"Introduce me." She perked up, bouncing a little against the fountain's edge. "If he's as cute in real life as he was in that picture, I'm sure I won't be able to think straight."

Byron stood, though his legs felt like jello. "Tyler didn't want me seeing you. You'll need to explain to him, you know, all that stuff about the nicotine patch. Tell him you're not going to fling me off the wagon."

Amy laughed at his turn of phrase and took his hand while they walked slowly toward his building. The architecture was early twentieth-century, and he watched her take note of it. Vampires always seemed to love great architecture. As they inched slowly up the stairs, Byron clung tighter to her hand. Tyler would not be happy, not one bit.

"I saw you with that vamp girl!" he hollered the second Byron's key turned in the lock. "I saw you on the sidewalk, and you went next door and you sat by the fountain!"

"Yeah, we did," Byron agreed, ushering Amy into the apartment. "And then I brought her up to meet you."

Tyler stood stunned at the entrance to the kitchen. He flipped a tea towel over his shoulder and swallowed hard. His voice was much softer when he said, "Oh crap, I'm sorry. It's Amy, right? Please come in."

"Tyler always was good with guests," Byron said with a smile that made Tyler smile back.

He explained about Amy's haircut, how he'd screwed it up and needed to fix it. Then Amy took over, offering Tyler the same information she'd just given Byron. She was a blood addict's nicotine patch. She could fix them for good. Tyler didn't seem sold on the idea, even though he'd heard of blood like Amy's before. It was just so rare to encounter a girl like her. It seemed impossible that her blood could wean a vamp off his cravings.

"Well, you might as well get started while I work on dinner," Tyler told them. "I hope you'll stay, Amy. It's a tofu stir-fry tonight."

She scrunched up her nose and then laughed. "Sure, sounds nice."

Byron went into the bathroom to fetch his spare styling tools, and he returned to Amy sitting in the dining room wearing a strapless black corset, crinoline skirts, fishnets and dainty shoes. The sight took his breath away, and when he gazed into the pass-through between the dining room and kitchen, he saw Tyler staring every bit as intently.

"I didn't want bits of hair all stuck in my top," she explained.

He nodded, but wrapped a stylist's smock around her. No way he'd be able to concentrate on hair if he could glance over her shoulder and catch sight of those pale white breasts rising and falling with every breath.

Tyler gulped audibly from the kitchen, and then resumed his chopping. His pace was slower than usual, like he was afraid he might cut off a finger or two.

Once Amy was covered, Byron realized he hadn't taken notice of her scars. Damn it! There was something about cutter scars that did it for him, but he didn't want to ask. He just concentrated on the crisp clipping sound his scissors made as they evened out Amy's hair. Christ, he'd done a seriously shitty job the first time around. He must have been hella-distracted by his lust for her blood.

This time when he finished the trim he let Tyler be the judge.

"Yeah, looks good," Tyler said as he set the table. He didn't even look up before answering. "Dinner's ready, so get everything cleaned up, okay?"

Byron pulled Amy away from the table so they wouldn't get bits of hair in their food. He swept off her smock and brushed her neck with a feather duster, which made her giggle and purr. When she turned to face him, he glanced down at her arms. God, those cuts. Those fine lines, some healed white, some glowing red. He wanted to lick her so bad his cock pulsed against his fly.

When he noticed Tyler staring, he said to Amy, "Let's eat before it gets cold."

Amy smiled bashfully, but she didn't put her top back on. She sat at their table in her black strapless corset and began eating while they watched. "Mmm... this is good. I didn't expect to like it but, yeah, I really do."

Tyler looked at her blankly for a long moment before grunting a monosyllabic, "Thanks." Slinking into his chair, he shovelled stir-fry into his mouth.

Byron knew exactly what Tyler was up to: filling his mouth with the taste of vegetables and teriyaki so he wouldn't imagine how her blood might feel on his tongue.

Oh, her hot, red, beautiful blood...

They ate quickly, shrouded in a thick, weighted silence. When they'd cleaned their plates, Byron didn't know what to do. His body felt itchy, inside and out. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so anxious. He wanted blood and sex, and he wanted to share all that with Tyler. And with Amy. God, it had been so long since they'd been with a girl, or another guy for that matter. Not since their vampire days. Everything had become so convoluted.

"Thanks for the cut," Amy said. "And for dinner."

Against the soft glow of a setting sun, her lips looked red as blood and her skin powder-white. She stood, but she didn't go anywhere. She just looked at them, back and forth from Byron to Tyler, like she'd asked a question and was waiting for an answer.

"Oh, you're welcome," Byron said. "It was our pleasure. Truly."

Bowing slightly, Amy took a long breath and then glanced around. Time slowed to a crawl as she walked to the sideboard, where Byron had set his shears after disinfecting them. She picked them up, holding them high in the air. The sharpened edge glinted like a beast's snarling teeth.

Amy opened the scissors wide, as wide as they would go, and by the time Tyler had shouted, "No!" it was too late. She'd opened her left arm in a long line near the pit of her elbow. The slice wasn't along the vein, but it brought brilliant red dots to the surface. Those dots joined together in slow motion, and formed a crimson line on her snow-white skin.

"Come on," she said, sidestepping to their bedroom. "It's good for you. I'm the human nicotine patch, remember?"

"We don't need you." Tyler backed away, like that was the only way to resist her siren's song.

Byron moved toward the bedroom, a sleepwalker wide awake. His heart slowed at the sight of that blood, and his pulse moved lower down in his body. "Maybe we do."

Tyler's voice turned hard. "No," he said, emphatically. "We don't."

"But..."

"Byron!" Tyler's voice turned uncharacteristically resonant. "You've got your thirst under control. Don't do it."

Byron didn't turn around, didn't respond. Amy's crimson blood had cast a spell over him, and he entered the bedroom, approaching her like a wolf on the prowl. He could smell it, warm and rich and sweet. Sure, he wanted to stop himself, but how? He craved Amy's essence more than he'd ever craved anything.

"Get back here," Tyler shouted. He hardly ever raised his voice, but he was angry now—not that Byron could blame him. "You're making a choice. It's her or me."

"Both," Byron said, so quietly the word barely left his lips.

Tyler must have heard him, even all the way across the room. Out of nowhere, Tyler was running through the apartment, then jumping like a maniac, landing so hard on Byron's back they both flew across the bedroom. Byron caught himself on the bookshelf, shaking the old wood enough to knock a load of paperbacks to the floor. Like an animal, Tyler hooked both feet around Byron's waist, arms over shoulders.

"Get off me!" Byron hollered, trying to unhook his boyfriend's hands from around his neck. "I want it. You can't change that."

"You're an addict! You can't stop yourself." Tyler sounded so choked and tortured Byron's heart bled. Of course he wanted to stop, but he couldn't. Every inch of his body burned for Amy's blood.

Byron was usually the kind of guy who wouldn't hurt a fly, but just now his muscles twitched to toss his boyfriend across the bedroom. He would do anything to get Tyler off his back. He would do anything for the blood now dripping onto their hardwood floor.

"Amy's our elixir," Byron cried. "She's our anti-venom. If you had any faith in me, you'd drink her blood to. We'll be healed forever."

"She's lying!"

"I'm not." Splayed on the bed, Amy held her bleeding arm in one hand, like a gift.

Tyler hooked his legs tighter around Byron's waist. "You know vamps. They'll say anything."

"I'm not one of them," Amy pleaded, looking almost hurt by the comparison. "Please, you have to believe me!"

Just as Byron opened his mouth to console her, Tyler cupped both hands under his jaw and pulled up, forcing his head back.

The lightning bolt of pain that shot down Byron's spine put him right over the edge. Howling, he propelled himself—and Tyler along with him—across the bedroom. Amy let out a terrified scream as they reached the doorframe. Spinning on his heels, Byron bashed his boyfriend's body against the wooden jamb. The crushing force that drove Tyler into the entryway forced a groan from his winded system. He let go only for a moment, but it was enough time for Byron to toss him out of the bedroom and lock the door.

"You bastard!" Tyler jiggled the handle, then growled like a grizzly. "If you drink from her, I'll leave you tonight. I'm not even joking."

"Amy's the cure," Byron said, though probably not loud enough for Tyler to hear over his shouting and banging and rattling at the door.

"He's really mad." Amy cowered on the bed, her bloody arm extended. "Maybe we shouldn't do this."

"Were you lying?" Byron asked. His muscles surged with excitement.

Amy shook her head. Jet black hair waved sharply against her pale cheeks. She looked scared out of her wits. "I wasn't lying. I wouldn't lie. My blood can fix you. Just drink it and you'll see."

"You hear that?" Byron shouted at the door. His cock was so hard it hurt, and his heart beat like a drum. "Her blood will fix me. Drink, and I'll never crave it again. I'll never go to another vamp party behind your back, and then lie about where I've been. I'll never put you in danger."

Tyler didn't say anything, but he did stop banging on the bedroom door. For Byron, that was as good as a go-ahead.

Byron followed his rampant erection to Amy. A few drops of blood had dripped onto the clean hardwood floor, and she pointed to them as she leaned against the headboard. "Don't waste."

Though his cock throbbed inside his pants, begging for freedom, he dropped to his knees and licked. When Amy's essence touched his tongue, a long-forgotten sensation came over him. It was the taste he'd never forgotten, the heaviness of it. But Amy was right in what she'd said before—there was something missing. It didn't have that quality, that addictive je ne sais quoi of other bloods. Hers was unique. He could tell from the first drop.

"So you've made your choice," Tyler hollered. The words seemed angry, but his tone didn't sound that way. Maybe he was cast under Amy's spell just as much as Byron was.

Closing his eyes, Byron imagined Tyler falling at Amy's feet, right there beside him, licking her blood from the floor. There was something incredibly hot about that mental snapshot of his boyfriend on all fours, ass in the air, running his hot, wet tongue across the hardwood. Byron could anticipate Tyler's reaction—the recognition, the warmth, the realization that Amy would not destroy them. He would gaze up at her the way a puppy greets his master, worshipful and loving, and then he would kneel high and lick her arm, all along the cut.

The knocking began again.

"Let me in," Tyler cried, with more urgency in his voice than anger. "Open the door, Byron. I want inside."

Byron tried to block out Tyler's voice, but it wasn't easy. He loved his guy, yet he couldn't stay away from Amy, whatever the repercussions.

Approaching the bed on his knees, Byron licked a drop of blood that had dripped all the way down Amy's hand. When he sucked her finger, she let out a wicked groan. She leaned back on their bed like liquid, like a body of pleasure. Byron followed her as an animal craving human flesh. He licked her all over. It wasn't just her arm anymore, but everywhere her clothing wasn't—her neck, her shoulder, the topmost curve of her breasts.

"Come on!" Tyler rapped madly at the door, making it rattle inside the jamb. "Open up. Let me in."

Amy's skin tasted salty and fresh, but Byron missed the metallic sting of copper from her blood. He went back to her arm for more, but he didn't feel the lurid pull of addiction. Blood lust, yes, but it was temporary and he knew it could be satisfied body to body.

Tyler banged at the door. It sounded like he was using himself as a human battering ram.

"Let me," Amy said, digging into Byron's pants with the fingers he'd already sucked.

Byron looked at the trembling door.

"Is it okay?" Amy asked.

Of course it was okay. Tyler would never object to the sex. Sex wasn't the problem. Blood was. But it was all mixed together in Byron's lust, now. He wanted the taste and the feeling. He wanted the satisfaction.

He put on a laugh. "You think I'm gonna say no?"

With a coquettish grin, Amy unzipped his pants and his cock pummelled her hand. They both moaned as precum splashed her wrist. Byron had never felt so hard. His erection throbbed wildly, in time with Tyler's insistent pounding at the door.

"I want you in my mouth, Byron." Amy wrapped her hand around his shaft with familiar force, and gazed into his eyes. When she opened her mouth again, he expected words to tumble out. Instead, she slowly licked her lips and every muscle in Byron's groin tightened.

"Fuck, I need this." Byron tore out of his clothes, ripping them at the seams, no cares. Only destruction and desire.

Just as he'd finished struggling out of his shirt, the door burst open and Tyler rushed the bedroom like a tornado. Amy flipped onto her side and Byron's heart raced, full speed ahead, with such velocity he could feel it against his ribcage. No doubt Tyler was about to take a swing at him, not that Tyler had ever done any such thing before.

Byron braced himself for impact.

But that's not how it went down. Not even close.

Racing to Amy's side, Tyler grabbed her bleeding arm with such force she gasped. Just as she started to pull away, he set his tongue to her cut and licked it, a savage embrace. Byron hadn't seen his boyfriend's appetite for blood so voracious since they were deep in the vamp lifestyle. He had no idea Tyler still harboured such unbound desires.

"Yes," Amy whispered. Her eyes rolled back in her head, like he was bringing her to orgasm just by drinking her blood. "Oh god, I need something to suck."

"Guess my cock will have to do," Byron said as he shoved his erection between her brilliant red lips. In truth, he was a little jealous that she'd reacted so overwhelmingly to Tyler's tongue. It bought out the rough stuff in him.

But Amy didn't seem to mind Byron's exertion of force. She went at his dick as voraciously as Tyler consumed her blood. The way she sucked him brought Byron nearer to ecstasy than he'd been in a hell of a long time. Sure the sex was great with Tyler, but they were so close. They knew what to expect from one another. Things were always different with someone new.

Amy's chest heaved as she moaned around Byron's erection. Her tits looked so gorgeous he shoved his hand deep inside her corset. She gasped as her cupped her full breasts, and then whimpered when he pinched her nipples.

The sounds of Amy's pleasure drew Tyler's attention. Stripping off his T-shirt, he pressed the fabric against her bleeding arm. When she took over applying pressure to the wound, he stripped out of his pants and then crawled over her body to undo her corset ties. Vamp girls loved corsets, so vamp guys had plenty of experience unlatching all those complicated systems.

While Tyler worked at stripping off her clothes, Byron watched the sweet pucker of Amy's lips around his shaft. Her lipstick painted his dick crimson, though the shaft itself was getting pretty red through the pressure of her suction. She knew just how to do it—not afraid of sucking hard, but not going at it so rough it hurt. God, this girl was perfect. She rolled toward him, burbling as she wrapped her fist around the base of his cock.

Tearing off her corset, Tyler rolled Amy onto her back and Byron's dick popped out of her mouth.

"Dude, what gives?"

Tyler glanced at Byron for the first time since he'd barrelled into the bedroom. "Yeah, you're one to talk."

"But I was right, wasn't I?" Byron asked, feeling just cocky enough to rub his engorged cockhead up and down Amy's pale cheek. "Her blood's special. You can taste it."

Tyler didn't say a thing. He seemed far more interested in Amy's naked breasts rising and falling as she gulped for breath.

"Wow." Pure lust blazed in Tyler's eyes as he gazed down at her. "I'm getting kind of glad you followed my boy home. Honey, you've got the most gorgeous tits I've ever seen."

Byron had never heard his boyfriend talk like that to any girl, vamp or not.

"You like my tits, sweetie-pie?" Amy grabbed his hands. Setting them at the sides of her breasts, she forced him to press those pallid mounds together. "Want to fuck them?"

Tyler shuddered visibly, like lust had seeped into his veins. Did she know how much he loved shoving his dick between a nice pair? It was the sort of thing Byron could never give him, but all the power to Tyler if tits were his thing.

Hopping off the bed, Byron fetched lube and condoms. He squirted the lube into his palm and then fisted Tyler's cock, getting it all covered in slick liquid, tip to base. God, he loved the way his boyfriend's dick jumped in his hand, like a puppy happy to its master. He stroked Tyler off, gazing from that huge, hard dick to Amy's huge round tits. Oh, he had to. He just had to lean down and lick the erect buds of her nipples. They were so pert and perfect.

Amy arched and squealed as Byron sucked her tits. She somehow found his dick, squeezing it, and the three of them became a mess of limbs. As Tyler slipped his dick between Amy's stunning breasts, she beat out his rhythm on Byron's needful cock. They were like a human ball of yarn, all tangled up in each other. Byron barely knew which parts were his own.

"Fuck me," Amy whispered.

Byron looked up at Tyler, still half-waiting for his boy to crack.

"Fuck her," Tyler said, encouragingly, without a hint of jealousy. But that was Tyler. He was so giving, when it came to sex. He wanted Byron to take pleasure in life as long as that pleasure wasn't harmful. And by that point, they both seemed to have reached their own conclusions that Amy's blood was safe.

Flipping off the bed, Byron slipped on a condom and tossed up Amy's crinolines. She had on fishnets, but no panties. The sight of her bare pussy lips pressing against the holes in those sexy stockings made Byron's cock jump. She lifted her feet, opening her legs wide. Her pussy glistened just for him, and Byron moaned despite himself.

"Bad girl," he said, watching her pussy lips splay. He craved the pink of her, the sheer wetness and want. "Were you walking around like this all day?"

Amy tilted her head to one side and glanced at him beyond Tyler's thrusting body. "You betcha."

This pretty vamp girl had been sitting in his salon chair with her wet pussy rubbing against nothing but this gaping pair of fishnet stockings. Oh god, and no panties when she was sitting by the fountain either. This knowledge changed everything. Byron wished he could go back in time and re-experience every moment with Amy's pantyless pussy at the forefront of his mind.

Tyler turned his head and stared at Byron's throbbing cock. "What are you waiting for?"

"Just..." Byron shook his head, staring into the pink of Amy's pussy. "Just looking at this gaping, gorgeous slit. I can't wait to fuck the hell out of it."

"So stop looking." Tyler dickhead poked through her cleavage, then hid back inside. He pressed Amy's breasts together with such force that she squealed. "Start fucking."

The sight of Tyler's back muscles working as he thrust between her tits made Byron so horny he couldn't stand it. Tyler's butt bucked into Amy's crinolines, and Byron had to push them forward to keep her pussy in sight.

He couldn't wait any longer. He had to have her.

Tearing her fishnets open at the crotch, Byron pressed his cockhead into her wet heat. Her pink lips parted, just like her mouth had done before. She was so open, so willing, and that made his dick throb even harder. He pushed his hips forward, slowly, fighting the resistance. God, her pussy was hot. It hugged his cock so hard he shivered, grabbing her fishnets and holding tight.

"Fuck me," she growled. She was grasping Tyler's hips now, and he had one palm pressing against the cloth that stemmed her blood flow.

Byron watched that place where his boyfriend's hand met Amy's arm. He thought about the sweet metallic taste of her blood, its warmth and the pleasure he'd taken in drinking it. He asked himself if he wanted more. Did he?

A few years ago, he'd have been all over a cutter girl, licking and lapping her arms until he'd gorged himself on her essence. Maybe he'd changed, or maybe Amy really was different. Either way, he knew he wanted her in his life for good. And not in an addictive sense. It really wasn't that. By now he knew the difference.

That's what Byron was thinking about as he rammed his cock balls-deep into Amy's wonderfully wet pussy. She whimpered and writhed. She must have been at least a little afraid Byron would fuck her harder than she could handle, because she started crawling up the bed. She didn't get too far before Tyler pinned her down. They would satisfy her, for sure. They'd be rough in bed, but out there in the big bad world they'd always stand by her side.

"Amy," Byron cried as her pussy muscles clamped around his cock. "Oh god, Amy, I'm going to come."

"Me first!" Tyler moaned, his body jerking against Amy's ample chest.

Byron let go of Amy's fishnets with one hand and smacked his boyfriend's ass. Crinolines bounced against their bodies like the froth beneath a waterfall while Tyler shrieked, "Again!"

Another smack. Byron spanked his guy while Amy wrapped her wicked legs around his middle. He could feel the dig of her patent leather flats into his flesh, and when he fucked her, Tyler got jostled in the mix.

"I'm coming!" Tyler cried.

"On my tits," Amy begged, holding them together while Tyler took his cock in hand. There was no mistaking the sound of Tyler's lubed up fist rushing up and down his shaft. Clenching his cheeks and groaning, he throttled his dick until he got himself all the way there.

Byron had to bend to the side to see his boyfriend's cum spill across Amy's breasts.

That spectacle put him over the top. He needed to come, and he was intent upon bringing Amy with him. Setting his thumb against her cherry-red clit, he traced circles around that explosive little spot. It was only when Tyler rolled off of her and started kissing her neck and shoulders that Byron saw how close she was. Her eyes rolled back and she fitted recklessly on the bed. Byron pushed his thumb down even harder on her clit, and he shoved his dick in her pussy with such rapid-fire thrusts that her hips started to buck with every fuck.

"Yes," she murmured, over and over again. Her lipstick was nearly gone now, and her pink lips puckered as she hugged her breasts. They were still coated with Tyler's hot cum, and when her fingers found the stuff, they painted her flesh with it.

Byron couldn't believe he hadn't blasted his load yet. Amy's every move was so hot, so sexy, that he could have come sixty-nine times by now. With every thrust, the tension built inside him. He crushed his palm to her clit, feeling his cock moving inside her as he mashed that tender bud.

Amy went over the top. She screamed and tightened her grip on him, both with her pussy and her legs, bringing him so far inside herself that his balls pressed against her ass. When she arched off the bed, he couldn't help but picture the rosy pucker of her asshole. Oh, that was it. Byron came hard, like the first few times with Tyler, when they were still exploring each other's bodies. Now Tyler looked on, unsmiling, and just when Byron started to worry his boyfriend was mad as hell, Tyler zipped across the bed and kissed him fully and deeply, with such pleasure and pressure that Byron knew it was for real.

They fell in beside each other—one, two, three—across the bed. Staring at the ceiling, breathing so loudly nobody tried to talk over the sound. It was divine torture, those few moments after coming. You wanted more, but you couldn't move. Your parts were spent and sore, so hot you didn't want anyone touching them. You wanted your space, but not too much space.

Byron thought about the look of bliss on Amy's face, the look of desire on Tyler's. He wanted that forever. Both of them.

As if hearing his thoughts, Tyler said to the ceiling, "I didn't believe your human nicotine patch story. I thought you were just one more vampire siren, luring addicts in recovery back to blood. But you were right—your blood is different, somehow. It tastes like the real thing, but there's no buzz."

"I'm too safe," she said, placing one hand in Byron's and the other in Tyler's. "That's why the addicts don't like me. They laugh, like I'm some kind of joke, like I'm not playing at their level."

"Don't worry about those bastards," Byron said, kissing her freshly cut hair. "You've found your place in our bed."

"And our lives," Tyler added.

"And your hearts?" Amy asked.

Byron's breath caught in his throat, and he tried to arch up and grab Tyler's attention as subtly as he could. But they all knew the answer, so there was no point in skirting it. "Always in our hearts," Tyler said.

Sighing, Byron smiled. "And in our blood."

A Wolf in Grandmother's Clothing

By Giselle Renarde

He could smell her coming, like a rose among carcasses. The forest was a crass place at the best of times, its potential for beauty subsumed by death, defecation, and human pursuits. The girl in red cut through all that like a streak of desire in a life of quiet desperation. Wolf couldn't keep himself from drooling as she approached. He watched her feet in leather shoes ambling—left, right, left, right—along the beaten path.

Those ivory legs went all the way up, yes they did.

He fancied his chances.

As she leaned across the Queen Anne's Lace to inhale its subtle aroma, Wolf put on his toothiest grin. He sidled up next to her, quiet in his approach. His voice was gravel on velvet as he whispered, "Lovely flowers, are they not?"

The girl leaped to recoil, but on seeing his artificial expression of chivalry, remained, transfixed.

"Oh," she said, with a blush. Taking a strand of chestnut hair between her fingers, she brushed it against her cherry lips. "They're okay, I guess."

Okay, I guess? Internally, the wolf rolled his eyes, but woodland beggars had to settle for whatever firm white meat presented itself. He smiled beseechingly and continued with his scripted flirtation.

Taking her small hand, he held it to the matted fur of his chest. "I do hope you'll forgive my presumptuousness, but I must speak freely."

"Your heart's pounding!" the girl gasped.

"It's pounding for you," he replied, pressing his muzzle to her ear. "You are a rose among daisies. The loveliest flower of the forest is jealous in your midst."

She giggled deep in her throat. Her warm breath strengthened his desire. "Grandmother calls you a philanderer, Mr. Wolf."

"Does she?" he asked. "And is that what you think too?"

"I guess so," she said. Another giggle fluttered from her lips. "I don't know."

Wrapping his claws around her thin, cloaked waist, he growled, "You'll soon find out, my little one."

With perfect calm, the girl grasped him by the wrists and shifted one foot back along the dirt path. In a lightning-swift motion, she pulled him flush to her chest, brought her foot off the ground, and kneed him square in the crotch.

His vision blurred as pain took hold. Groaning, he held the offended area like a shattered egg. The ache rose into his gut as he meekly attempted to contain the stream of expletives surging past his lips. When he regained his senses, he realized he'd crumpled to the ground.

His attacker knelt at his side with a look of casual indifference in her eyes. Despite the pain she'd caused, Wolf shifted to get a glimpse up her skirt. When she noticed him looking, her eyes pinched to slits and she squeezed her thighs together.

With a saccharine melody in her voice, the girl said, "Thanks for the offer, Mr. Wolf, but..." A wicked smile bled across her lips as she pronounced three of the most dispiriting words he'd ever heard: "I like girls."

As she skipped along the trail, he reached a beseeching hand in her direction. The pain in his groin wrenched and he doubled over in agony. "You're not planning to leave me like this?"

"Sorry," she sang, skipping backwards as she paid him brief consideration. "I should really get this basket of tarts to grandmother's house before the sun goes down. Feel better!"

With a wave, she set off into the clearing. Wolf pulled himself out of the dirt, and then hobbled into the ravine. It would take the girl all afternoon to arrive at her grandmother's cottage along the beaten path. He'd get there first. Crossing the river at its low point, he'd be there in two shakes of a lamb's tail. If the girl in red saw Wolf with faithful Gran, she'd be sure to trust him. Perhaps little miss red-cloak would have him escort her home.

The wolf smacked his lips in contemplation of his next saucy meal.

When he collapsed in anguish at the entrance to Grandmother's house, she opened her door with a provocative chuckle. Pulling him by the tail into her modest kitchen, she asked, "Back for more, are you?"

"Couldn't if I wanted to." He never wanted to, but Gran was an insistent woman. "I met your granddaughter along the way. She kicked me in the 'nads."

"I'm sure you deserved it." Grandmother cackled. Leaving him like a broken yolk on the kitchen floor, she untied her tattered housecoat. "A little spitfire, isn't she? The kid takes after her old Gran."

Slipping the terry robe from her shoulders, she revealed a body cloaked in the habitual getup: leather corset, black stockings and panties, gloves and collar. If he hadn't already felt nauseous from the kick in the crotch, this sight would have done the trick.

As he scrambled to his feet, she caught him by the tail and dragged him to the bedroom.

"Your granddaughter!" he cried in agony mixed with desperation. "She's on her way. You wouldn't have her catch us like this?"

"Time enough for a quick go," Gran rebutted, picking Wolf up by the underarms and tossing him on the bed.

Before he could make a break for it, she bolted the door. There was no question as to why she had iron bars on her windows. It wasn't to keep out thieves so much as imprison gentleman callers.

Grandmother laughed at Wolf's panic-stricken state. "I love it when you play hard-to-get!"

"Who's playing?" he muttered, climbing up the wall.

As she pulled him into bed, Wolf cupped his injury zone. He'd learned long ago there was no way out. Though, on that particular occasion, he hadn't been in quite so much physical pain—at least, not until after. As he watched her approach him like an amorous ogre, a brilliant idea pounced on his brain. There may be no way out of the boudoir, but it might be possible to rid the room of threat.

"Please." Adopting the least cowering tone he could manage, he stammered, "I'd like to see you n-n-n...n-n-n..." With a deep breath, he closed his eyes to spit out the word, "Naked!"

Grandmother gasped. "Nobody ever asks anymore. What a darling you are!"

As she squeezed out of her leather and rolled out of the nylon, Wolf envisioned how he might pull off the plot. If he tore her limb from limb, the whole affair would be dreadfully bloody. He'd hate for his good name to be dragged through it. The only way would be to gobble her up headfirst. He'd have an awful bellyache, but all in good cause.

Unbuckling her leather collar, she spread her arms at her sides. As her sagging parts jiggled, she asked, "Well, Wolfie? What do you think of mama's tatas?"

He wouldn't allow himself to be sick. A lot of good that would do. Instead, he said, "You look delicious!"

With a sharp inhale, he geared up to pounce. And, because all good villains left their victims with a few memorable words, he sneered, "I could just eat you alive!" as he launched his attack.

It was no easy feat, devouring an entire old lady in one bite, but he figured if snakes could do it so could he. Starting with her head, he consumed her wrinkled body until her toes were out of sight and he could no longer hear her screams.

For a time, Wolf felt very full. Lying on Grandmother's bed, with his hands on his belly, he contemplated how much better he would feel if he were dead. The ache in his gut grew so excruciating he remained completely still until he fell into a deep sleep. When he dreamed, he saw Grandmother's essence dispersing throughout his body. As he digested, her flesh became his flesh, and her blood his blood. Her spirit resided within him.

When he awoke from his nap, Wolf was pleased to find his pain subsided and his stomach much less bloated. Rising unsteadily from the bed, he gazed out the window. Nearly dusk. The girl in red was soon to arrive. He must get ready.

With her grandmother gone, there was only one way to gain the girl's trust. He'd have to become old Gran. Once little red was safely inside the cottage, Wolf would get his second taste of white meat—this one a little more on the pink side.

What would a Grandmother wear for her granddaughter's visit? Wolf tripped on her leather gear on his way to the wardrobe. Certainly not that!

"And yet," said a voice in the back of his mind, "she must wear some garment or other underneath a housedress. Why not the leather?"

Wolf plucked black panties off the ground and held them up in the air. Would they fit him, these smallish, shimmering, silky things?

"Only one way to find out," that little voice replied.

He put them on one leg at a time, and pulled them up to cradle his package like satin palms. Lovely! Gran's black lace-top nylons had been kicked almost all the way under the bed, but he pulled them out and felt them with his paws. They were silky like the panties, but less opaque.

"Don't put them on directly!" the feminine voice in his head scolded. "All that fur on your legs will burst straight through them, and then what will the girl think of you? One mishap and your cover will be well and truly blown!"

True, he reasoned, and rushed to the bath. With razor after razor, he removed the matted fur from his legs. Of course, once he'd finished the job he saw in his reflection an autumn tree with hair for leaves. He kept going, shaving the fur from his arms, his face, and his front. Without a second set of hands, he couldn't get quite as much off his back, but he did the best he could.

When his skin was smooth and shiny, he sat on the edge of the tub. Careful not to tear the nylon with his claws, he rolled Gran's stockings all the way up his soft legs. The elastic in the lace tops pressed into his thighs, but the binding felt quite nice. He looked down along his hairless body. The stockings went some way to covering up his huge clomping feet, but his wretched paws were a dead giveaway.

Traipsing into the bedroom, he gathered one and then the other black evening glove from the floor. Like the panties, they looked somewhat small, but again that persistent voice in the back of his mind goaded him on. "Give them a try! You might be surprised."

Without all that pesky fur on his arms, the opera gloves fit quite well. They clung to his fingers like satin armour, protecting his newly-naked flesh from the evening's chill.

There were only two items left on the floor, and both were leather. The Wolf first collected the dog collar and looked at it in his gloved hands. What would it mean to put it on?

"Put it on!" that little voice called. "Wear it as a subtle reminder of your animal nature."

That reasoning sounded decent enough. His gloved fingers fumbled with the clasp until the metal bit eased itself into the leather hole. It felt tight around his neck, but not too tight. In fact, it felt quite perfect.

Wolf gazed down at the garment on the floor. There was no practical reason to put it on, was there?

The voice tittered, "It completes the ensemble," so his satin hands retrieved the leather corset. Wrapping it around his hairless chest, he struggled with the hooks at the back. The loops were so tiny and his hands so tightly bound in their black gloves that the process nearly drove him to distraction. His entire adult life, he'd concentrated so thoroughly on unhooking small latches. It seemed almost a travesty to fasten them up.

When he'd secured all fifteen clasps one by one, and the corset clung to his skin, he happened to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The outfit held his gaze tight as a bear hug. He couldn't take his eyes off the corset, the panties, the stockings, the gloves, all caressing his smooth, hairless form. For a brief moment, he forgot to what end he'd dressed this way, and for once that nagging voice at the back of his head remained silent.

The girl!

Ah, yes. She would arrive any moment with her schoolgirl skirt barely concealing those legs pale as birches. The blood-red hood of her cape could hardly obscure her dark hair and eyes, or the scarlet lips that never seemed to mean what they said.

Wolf licked his chops as the eyes in his head met the eyes in the mirror. He hardly knew himself—which indicated he'd made significant progress.

"But the girl might yet recognize you," the mischievous voice prodded. "Gran always was a sucker for cosmetics."

Wolf considered his naked face in the mirror before noticing the vessels of powder and paint strewn around the dressing table. Sinking into the Hayworth chair, he contemplated the contours of his cheeks and his chin.

"Begin with foundation," his inner voice bid. When he picked up the powder puff, it said, "Wrong!"

The adviser seemed satisfied when he selected a pot of face paint instead. He very nearly dunked his fingers in the cream before realizing he'd dirty his lovely gloves. With a sponge from the table, he spread the paint all around his face and down his neck. It was useful stuff, he realized, in concealing that he'd shaven. Next, he used the puff, only because he couldn't resist its powdery call. His skin looked rather lovely.

"Now your eyes," the voice said. "They could benefit of shadow, and your cheeks of blush. Use the brushes on the table."

His heart raced as he brushed pink powder across his cheekbones and purple above his eyes. He explored every paint pot and pressed powder on the dressing table. With a dark wax pencil, he drew a line above and below each eye. Urging a mascara brush from its tube, he ran it through his lashes until they were thick with black balm.

The lipstick made him nervous. He wasn't sure he could stay within the lines.

Twisting the base of the tube, he watched the rouge à lèvres swirl and rise in anticipation. Wolf's hand trembled as he brought the lipstick to his mouth. In one careful motion, he traced the border of his upper lip. In a second, the bottom. He pressed them together to coat them fully before stepping back from the dressing table to get a good look.

"My Wolfie!" Gran's voice cried, stroking his mind like a velvet palm. "You look georgous, my woodland beauty!"

His heart felt warm and full at the compliment. As his dark mane flopped across his ears, he could not but agree.

A sudden rap at the door shattered the private moment between Wolf and the woman inside his skin.

"Gran, are you home?" a familiar voice hollered. "I brought those tarts you like."

Excitement surged through his veins as he raced to unlock the bedroom door. Just as he started to swing it open, he realized he hadn't put on a dress.

"No need," Gran scolded. "Don't leave our little red out in the cold! My old robe is in the kitchen. Throw it on along the way."

Following her command, Wolf threw open the bedroom door and raced out. He spotted the threadbare robe before noticing the girl, though she held it in her pale hands. The kitchen door wasn't locked. She'd let herself in.

Even in make-up and a host of undergarments, Wolf felt vulnerable as a lamb when the girl cast her gaze along the boundaries of his flesh. Frozen in place, he watched her eyes, awaiting a reaction. For what seemed an eternity, she simply stared at him—at his stocking legs, his gloved arms, corseted middle, and painted facade.

The girl in red threw down her grandmother's tattered robe. Still, her features betrayed no emotion. Just when he thought she would flee the cottage for good, she dropped her white cotton panties to the floor.

Wolf's red blood pumped fast through his veins as his tongue lolled out the side of his mouth.

"My, grandmother, what a lovely big tongue you have!" The girl's fine breasts heaved as she stared into Wolf's eyes. He could practically feel her breath on his shaved skin.

When she hopped on the kitchen table, presenting herself like a Thanksgiving spread, Wolf glimpsed the secret surprise swelling between her thighs. A fierce smile crossed his lips.

He suppressed the voice screaming at the back of his mind, and replied, "All the better to eat you with, my dear."

Sneak

By Giselle Renarde

It wasn't much to look at, inside or out, but this house had been a brothel of sorts for as long as Bess could remember. Only one woman here now, living alone—or so she thought. She didn't know about Bess. At least, not yet.

Ah, Loralee, so unassumingly pretty underneath that awful cake foundation, the false lashes, the dark shadow. The men only got to see her this way—made-up, falsified, cloaked in everything that wasn't her. Her skirts were small, but her hair was big, teased and sprayed to retain its dimension. It wasn't the real Loralee on that bed, just a body that looked somewhat like her. Cosmetics prevented the men, the adulterers and perverts, from seeing her true self. Loralee, pretty Loralee, was so vulnerable, so insecure, so unsure...so like Bess.

Bess looked on, unnoticed, as Loralee let some reeking cowboy take her from behind. His shirt was half off, dirty denim around his ankles, boots grinding mud into the worn-down carpet. They were all so lazy, these dirty, grunting men. Loralee deserved better, but the poor thing was resigned to her fate.

And how, exactly, did Bess know all this? Well, people tend to talk when they think they're alone. Loralee always talked to herself when the men had gone, while she was stripping the bed. Poor girl always washed the sheets after a john had left. Bess didn't blame her—she'd have done the same if fate hadn't blessed her that one night, so long ago. So long, in fact, that she hardly remembered being human. She hadn't liked it very much, as far as she could recall.

The cowboy pulled his cock out of Loralee's pussy and shoved it up her ass. Bess cringed as Loralee screamed bloody murder. Loralee's hands, with their chipped-polish nails, balled the fitted sheet, tearing it from the mattress. The cowboy just kept ramming her like she enjoyed it, and Bess again wondered how humanity continued to function with so many of these heartless bastards on the loose. He slapped her ass rosy, and when he pulled out, a trail of white stuff followed. And blood, too. Without a word, he shrugged on his shirt, zipped up his jeans, and tossed a couple bills on the tall dresser. They landed so close to Bess she could smell his putrid scent on them, and her stomach flip-flopped.

The ceramic tea light holder on the tall dresser was open at the back and had stars cut out in the front. It was a perfect hiding spot. Perched inside its slick base, Bess watched Loralee take heaving breaths, like she was trying to expel that man from her lungs. Pulling the sheets along with her, she slipped to the floor and sobbed.

"Oh god," she kept saying, over and over, like a pleading sort of prayer. "What kind of life is this for a person? What did I ever to do deserve it?"

Bess wished she could help in some way, but how? Perhaps if she got close, that would provide some sort of comfort to the woman huddled in a pool of dirty sheets. Dipping through the hole she'd gnawed in the wall, Bess scurried down a familiar series of beams and brackets to hole in the baseboards. She poked her head through, pulling her fat little body after her, and skittered close to Loralee. Oh, the poor thing, with black rivers of mascara coursing down her cheeks, parting her deep pink blush like the red sea. If only Bess could say something, talk to the girl...

"Ahhh! Mouse!" Loralee scooted back on the carpet, reaching for the largest volume on the bottom of the bookshelf. It had to be the Bible—what else? With it, Loralee tried to thump what she obviously perceived as vermin. "Git, you!"

Bess wasn't put off. How would the poor thing know any better? Either way, Bess darted underneath the tall dresser, where even the vacuum couldn't reach, and convinced her racing heart to settle down.

"Damn you!" Loralee's voice was hoarse with tears.

For a moment, huddled in the dusty darkness under the dresser, Bess was sure that statement was aimed at her. Her heart fell until she peeked out and saw that Loralee's focus had shifted to the mirror. As usual, Loralee was talking to herself.

"Slut," she said.

Bess watched in the mirror, her gaze travelling the length of Loralee's bruised and beaten body. When she was younger, she didn't have the varicose veins or the cellulite, but Bess appreciated her figure as it was now: a real woman's body, with life to show for it.

When Loralie dredged the blade from her underwear drawer, Bess hissed, "No, no, no..." but her words came out as squeaks. On the one hand, she didn't want to see this, but on the other hand, she felt the need to supervise in case things got out of control.

Loralie fell to the floor, swaddling herself in bloody, cum-soaked sheets. Leaning back against the bed, she opened her legs wide and stared down at her cunt. She still had on that hideous animal print mini-skirt, but no panties. The cowboy had torn open her purple blouse, so sheer her polka-dot brassier showed through even when it was buttoned up. Her big breasts bounced as she sobbed silently.

"Why?" she asked as she ran that blade across her thigh. She hissed when it sliced her flesh, just a surface wound, but still deep enough to bring up blood.

"Don't hurt yourself," Bess pleaded, still more squeaks. "Oh, Loralee, you're such a pretty girl."

"Ugly," Loralee replied, as though she'd heard Bess on some level. "Ugly, ugly, dirty whore." She sliced up her poor thigh, rapid cuts in quick succession, one after another. "Dirty whore."

Loralee drank a whole bottle of whisky that night, and passed out on the floor in those blood-and-cum-stained sheets. Bess stood guard the whole night long, and well into the morning hours, skittering to the kitchen every so often for a snack.

It was after noon before Loralee dragged herself to the toilet and her sheets to the old machine. She looked perfectly horrid with makeup spread across her cheeks like an impressionist painting, her mascara-laden false lashes askew—gilding the lily in some backward sense, Bess felt. The poor thing didn't even wash, except the crusted blood from her thighs, pussy, and ass. She powdered and primped and put on a fresh pair of panties.

"Eat something," Bess pleaded. Squeak, squeak, squeak. "Oh, my poor darling..."

"Gotta get to work, gotta pay the rent, pay the bills, pay the piper." Loralee traipsed about the place, one shoe on, one shoe off, and thankfully stopped at the fridge to pull out the orange juice. It was better than nothing. "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers," she said, like she was trying to convince herself she wasn't drunk. "Peter Packer plucked a pack of pickled peckers. Ha!"

Obviously, she was.

Bess had seen so much self-destruction in her time, but Loralee got to her like no one else. She couldn't watch much more of this and do nothing to help. It was time to come out of retirement in the career she'd never begun.

How long since she'd taken human form? Long, long time ago, in what she now thought of as her youth. She'd watched generations come and go since then, trapped—though not unhappily—in this tiny, fuzzy form. Bess preferred life as a mouse. Life as a human seemed too full of repercussions. And, of course, there was the promise...

With a hair-of-the-dog flask in hand, Loralee stumbled out the door and tramped around back. She didn't drive anymore—license suspended, car impounded—and it was an hour-long walk to the bar. It worried Bess that the poor thing cut through the brush and down the ravine, but that was her chosen path. Loralee's life was full of shortcuts.

Bess pushed the small pot of Old Gertie's powder beyond the hole in the baseboard and stopped cold. What would she look like when she took human form? Would she still be young? Because if she was about to look her natural age, she might need a few more minutes of mental preparation. Bess shook her head. No time for worries—she was doing all this for Loralee, after all.

Without another moment's hesitation, Bess dipped her nose in the pearly white powder.

The transformation was swift, thank god, because it hurt like hell and left her naked and moaning on the floor. The room looked much smaller from this perspective, and when she rose on shaky legs she was surprised to find her mirror image as young as she'd once been. She was never a great beauty or anything—small, frizzy brownish hair, lacklustre skin, and the odd freckle—but to see her own face was to come home again. She held her cheeks in both hands, pressing, feeling the long-forgotten skin and bones. In that moment, gazing at her naked reflection, she knew she'd made the right decision.

Before seeking out her old clothing, Bess went in search of a telephone. She felt like a baby giraffe, so tall and gangly, but she knew she'd get used to this form soon enough. Bess had never used one of these modern telephones with their fancy rotary dials. It was all very modern age for her.

"Operator?"

The telephone made a noise, a low, steady buzz.

"Hello, Operator? Are you there?" And then she recalled watching Loralee dial a number to place calls. Bess didn't know which number would get her through to Dorothy's Tavern, so she figured she would start with zero.

A woman answered. "Operator."

"Oh, wonderful!" Bess replied. That was a stroke of luck. "Could you connect me with Dorothy's Tavern, please?"

When the operator put the call through, Bess' stomach tumbled. Loralee couldn't possibly have arrived so quickly, and even if she turned right around the minute she walked through those doors, that still gave Bess a good hour and a half. This plan was sure to succeed. But...what if it didn't?

Another woman: "You got Dorothy's Tavern, here."

"Wonderful," Bess said again. "I'm looking for a patron of yours—a Miss Loralee."

There was silence on the line, and Bess was sure she knew why: the tavern owner was kind to Loralee and didn't care to see her in any trouble. "She ain't here just now...but she might be later on. You got a message I can give her, or what?"

"Yes." Bess twirled the telephone cord around her index finger. "Would you please tell Loralee her next trick is waiting for her at the house, and to please come home immediately?"

Bess didn't wait for a response. She dropped the handset back in the receiver and hopped up the stairs to the disused second floor, her heart plunging into her toes with every step. Everything was dusty. Loralee never came up here and neither did Bess. Too many memories. Bess didn't like to think about the old days.

She found her old frocks crammed at the very back of the cupboard. Amazing that nobody had thrown them out in all these years. Grabbing the tawny one with the little flowers from its hanger, she held it up in the muted sunlight. The white collar had yellowed considerably, but Beth was happy to find something she'd stitched by hand, back in the days when she had hands and not paws. She looked at her hands now—the nails were quite long. She would have to cut them later on, but no time for that now.

Despite her lack of undergarments, Bess slipped into the dress and ran downstairs, into the comfort of the kitchen. It was too soon to put water on for tea—no, coffee, to sober the girl when she arrived. Bess paced the floor, smoothing her dress over again and again. Goodness, this frock did have a musty odour. Oh, her hair, perhaps? She raced to Loralee's bedroom and used some clips from the dressing table to pin it back. Now what? What's next? Her stomach rumbled and she decided it was time to eat...as humans do.

After pacing and fidgeting indoors for a time, Bess decided to pace and fidget outside. She couldn't get over how strange it felt to be big in her body, and clothed to boot. She could only hope Loralee wouldn't notice she had no shoes on.

Crackling in the bush set off Bess' instinct to run, but she convinced herself to stay put. It was only Loralee, after all. "You hoo!" Bess called out, waving her hands over her head. "Over here!"

Loralee emerged from the brush, leaning her weight against a tree. "Who the heck are you? Dorothy said I got a trick waiting for me at home."

"You do," Bess replied. She felt nervous now, under Loralee's scrutiny. "It's me. I'm it."

Tossing her head back, Loralee cackled. Her hair was sprayed so firmly in place even the tree trunk couldn't dent it. "But you're a woman."

"Yes..." Better a woman than a mouse! "I'm a woman with money." Money I took from your night stand.

Loralee considered Bess gravely, perched with one foot up against the tree. "You're not some freaky chick, are you? Here to kill me and whatnot?"

Bess shook her head, trying not to smile too widely. "I'm just a girl who wants a little pleasure out of life...like you?"

"Oh, sister, you got me all wrong." Cackling, Loralee pushed herself away from the tree with her foot and stumbled toward the open kitchen door. "Hmm...guess I musta left that open."

"Right..." Bess's heart palpitated as she followed Loralee inside. "Well, since you did and all, I brewed you up some coffee. Want a cup?"

A grin like Bess hadn't seen in ages bled across Loralee's lips. "I surely would, little lady. Thanks a bunch." She sat at her own kitchen table and allowed Bess to serve her.

As Loralee sipped her coffee black, her hazy eyes found the glimmer of her youth. She'd been so vibrant before the drinking, before the whoring. Bess had watched from the walls as girls grew up too fast in this house. She would have been one of them if it hadn't been for Old Gertie's magic, and there was more guilt in that thought than Bess could bear.

"Could I help you take a bath?" Bess asked, watching Loralee's strong hands grip her coffee mug. "I'd enjoy that quite a bit."

Loralie looked up from the table, questioning, and then grinned. "Guess so." She shrugged. "Hey, what is your name, anyway?"

"Bess," she replied before contemplating whether she ought to give a false one.

Rising from the table, Loralee said, "Well, that's a pretty little name. How's about you wait here while I take a piss, and then we can get on with that bath, eh?"

With a polite smile, Bess sank into Loralee's vacated chair. What a luxury, all this indoor plumbing—hot water that flowed right through the taps! When Loralee opened up the bathroom door, she was naked as a jaybird and the tub was full up with bubbles. The whole room smelled like lavender and heat. The steam from that warm bath made it a little tricky to breathe, but Bess wasn't about to complain.

"I gotta admit, little Bess, I ain't too sure what you wannna do with me."

"Your body'll know what to do," Bess encouraged.

Did Bess know, herself? Her desire for Loralee was more a feeling, a thick pulse at the centre of her being, than a clear action. The few times she'd shifted into human form in the days of her youth, the transformation was spurred by this same pounding within. Loralee's nude form, her breasts soft and full, hips wide, thighs gently cascading down to knees and calves and painted toenails, made Bess feel faint. Loralee stood before the tub, shielding the fiery hair below her navel, as though she were shy for Bess to see it.

"You certainly are a very pretty woman," Bess said, looking over that pale flesh. "Let's wash you up."

When Loralee swivelled toward the tub, Bess beheld the sight of her backside and resisted the urge to smack it and watch that generous flesh ripple. It wasn't until Loralee hissed upon sinking into the warm bath that Bess realized her mistake: Loralee hadn't been shy of Bess seeing her pubic hair, but rather the cuts she'd inflicted in that general area the previous night. Bess's heart sank as she wondered if this might all be a terrible idea, but how else could she act as saviour to this poor, dear woman?

Perching on the edge of the tub, Bess scooped water into her hands and let it trickle down Loralee's full, weighty breasts. It felt funny to do all this again, to touch things with these big hands. When Loralee sighed and leaned back in the water, Bess sat and watched. Loralee went all the way in, sinking her big hair below the crackling bubbles. When she emerged, her hair was dark, saturated. Sheets of water flowed from it, and her makeup ran off in black lines.

Bess reached for the flannel and soaked it before running a plain white bar of soap across it a few times. "Mind if I help you wash up your face?" she asked. When Loralee jerked away, she said, "I promise I'll be gentle."

"Well..." Loralee sat up a little straighter. "What can I say? You're the john, Jane."

"Bess," she corrected before recognizing the joke.

They both chuckled and Bess was so nervous she scarcely touched Loralee on the first pass. She gasped when Loralee took her by the hand and looked her straight in the eye. Bess knew that look, of course, but it had never been for her. There was so much longing in Loralee's gaze, and so much hope that her longing might be satisfied. When Loralee gazed at her like that, with the closest thing to love the dear woman knew how to feel, Bess felt a glittering sensation all around her heart. It coursed downward, too, like the wet bubbles running down Loralee's breasts, nudging between her legs as a hot tremor.

Loralee flushed her face with bathwater when Bess finished scrubbing off all those ground-in layers of make-up. Years of cosmetics, caked on, had formed a mask over her skin. Now it was gone, and all that remained was Loralee, her face rosy red from the heat and the pressure.

"Why, you're even prettier now than you were before." Bess smiled with all the joy in her little soul, and Loralee must have believed it because the woman didn't contradict her, not even a laugh. "Can I wash your hair now?"

With a wink, Loralee said, "Nah, I'll deal with that mess. You work my front, doll."

Bess's heart beat wildly when she realized Loralee's meaning, and she wasted no time running her rinsed and re-soaped washcloth down Loralee's long neck. Despite her fierce desire, Bess was shy about touching. She stared at Loralee's heavy breasts, dark nipples puckered beneath still-popping bubbles, but she couldn't seem to trace the washcloth around those beautiful globes. They had a funny sort of tan from low-cut blouses, diagonal lines running down to meet where her pushed-up cleavage would sit in a brassiere, lines separating dark from light.

Loralee had her hands over her head now, pressing shampoo against her scalp and lathering the suds into her hair. She looked like a princess for the first time in Bess' recollection, and that made Bess even more anxious about touching her.

"Come on, now." Loralee put on a pout. "Ain't ya gonna wash my tits?" She stuck out her chest and waved her breasts side to side. Bess was mesmerized by the motion. "Aww, don't be shy, kid. I like being touched."

Bess swallowed past the dry lump in her throat. The cloth in her hand hovered above Loralee's breasts, water droplets falling gently on those pert nipples. While Loralee washed that mass of hair, Bess pressed a soapy cloth to her skin, rubbing round and round. She even worked up the nerve to touch the other breast with her bare hand, and the sensation made her dizzy. Oh, Loralee's flesh was softer than Bess ever could have imagined. This girl wasn't as hard, as calloused and secure, as those wretched men might think. This girl was precious, and Bess wanted her to remember that.

"You want to wash my pussy next?" Loralee rose to her feet. Sheets of sudsy water coursed down to the tub as she leaned against the tile wall.

Looking that dark, wet bush straight on, Bess gulped in fear and in awe. There were so many things she'd like to do with that pussy, but cleaning it seemed like a good start. Washcloth in hand, she pressed her palm flush to Loralee's bush. Loralee moaned when she moved her hand up and down, hoping she'd strike the girl's clit if she kept at it. She poked her fingers up, too, tickling that wet slit with the flannel, but she couldn't feel all she wanted to that way.

Dropping the washcloth, Bess pressed two restless fingers inside Loralee's pussy. Oh, she couldn't believe how hot it was, how slippery-wet. The yearning sigh that passed through Loralee's lips made Bess's core throb. She knew she was just as wet, but she still felt shy about asking Loralee to discover her desire.

With her fingers in Loralee's pussy, Bess pressed the meat of her palm against the engorged clit poking out between plump pussy lips. The glistening redness of that pleasure-giving part drove Bess out of her senses, and she lunged for Loralee's breast, sucking with the intensity of one who'd gone without for oh so many years.

"Oh, little Bessie!" Loralee cried, cradling Bess' head in her hands. "Oh baby, that feels so nice!"

Bess moved to the other tit, licking and sucking that pebbled nipple. Loralee's flesh tasted like white soap and lavender, so clean and fresh and new. As her arousal built, Bess' body took over. Her fingers, three now, fucked Loralee's pussy hard, only pausing momentarily to allow her palm to mash a distended clit. Loralee gasped and groaned, bunching Bess' hair in her wet hands.

"Is this what you came here for?" Loralee asked, squealing and moaning through the words. "You're paying to make me come?"

"Yes!" Bess cried, pressing her cheek against one breast while she lapped the other with her tongue. "I want you to feel good."

Climbing into the tub, not caring about soaking the hem of her dress, Bess kissed Loralee's mouth. She tasted like coffee, and the flavour was exhilarating. Loralee's tough tongue danced with hers, and the heat rendered Bess breathless. She let herself collapse a little against Loralee's wet chest, but that only made her wish she was naked, too. When she started fiddling madly with her buttons, Loralee laughed and said, "Come on now, little one. You come on down to my bedroom and we'll do this right."

Loralee didn't seem to realize her hair was still a beehive of white bubbles on top of her head until Bess pointed it out. Stepping out of the tub, she crouched over the ledge to wash it all out in the water. Bess's torment of longing only increased as she observed the sway of Loralee's plump backside. She reached out to touch it, and surprised herself by squeezing that rounded flesh, digging her fingernails into it and really grabbing on.

Swinging around with surprise in her eyes, Loralee splashed the tile with her wet hair. After a moment, her expression faded from alarm to intense arousal, and she quickly stole a towel from the hanger to swaddle her sopping head.

"That's it, you!" Loralee leapt from the bathroom, streaming toward the boudoir. "To bed, I said! And get yourself out of them clothes, you hear me?"

Bess abandoned her frock while Loralee retrieved a bottle of scented oil from her dresser.

"Am I going to rub you with that?" Bess asked.

"Not if I get to you first!" Loralee chased her naked onto the clean sheets, straddling her waist and pouring the sweet-smelling oil between her breasts.

When Bess stole the bottle away in a fit of giggles, Loralee laid hands on Bess' sizzling flesh, tracing oil in circles around her tits, taking the peaked nipples between her fingers and squeezing. Of course, Loralee's hands were so slip-slidey with the oil that they couldn't get a grip on Bess' nipples, or any other part of her for that matter, but it sure seemed like fun trying. That's why Bess sprinkled thick droplets of oil across Loralee's big breasts and traced her hands around those globes. Gosh, Bess could never get tired of this!

And then Loralee slowed the pace and her laughter subsided. In drawn-out back and forth motions, she brushed her big bush over the wispy hair of Bess' little pussy. Bess was mesmerized by the sensation. It wasn't enough, just barely a feather touch, but she was sure, oh so sure, it would evolve into something more.

In silence, Bess watched the pendulous sway of Loralee's big breasts. The towel toppled out of her hair, allowing wet strands to fall across her shoulders. Water dripped down her tits as she moved too softly against Bess' tortured pussy, until droplets were falling from her nipples and landing cool against Bess' warm belly.

"Oh, more!" Bess begged. All she could feel was the faint kiss of clit on clit through a curtain of pubic hair. It just wasn't enough. "Please, more!"

Loralee winked, and her smile seemed more than genuine. "You're the boss, little lady." Sneaking one leg underneath Bess' thigh, Loralee leaned back so far Bess could no longer see her head beyond those mountainous breasts.

When the wet heat of Loralee's pussy met hers, Bess gasped. The sensation was so vast and yet so direct she started to pull back, but forced herself to stay put. Loralee rolled her hips in slow circles, rubbing Bess' slick lips and clit with every pass. It was messy down there. She could tell. Everything, every slight motion, made her tingle all over, and her pelvis filled with a buzzing sort of pleasure she hadn't experienced in a very long time. Her skin was hot, her nipples so hard they hurt. Her pussy sang with pleasure as she writhed against Loralee.

The motion continued, hypnotic, the same tight circles, pussy on pussy, clit kissing clit. Even minor variations—a wider loop, a diagonal splash—made her squeal and buck against Loralee's curves. They were trapped together like this, caged by one another's bodies, and the tremulous pleasure went on and on until Bess was trembling and moaning, until she couldn't control herself anymore. She pinched her nipples and squeezed those buds, pressed her eyes closed. She pounded her pussy against Loralee's wetness.

"Easy, little on," Loralee laughed. "Or you'll be sore in the morning."

"I don't care!" Bess cried, smashing her clit anywhere that would receive it—Loralee's pussy lips, her thighs, her fingers...oh, those wonderful fingers! Loralee squirmed from the bed and planted them inside Bess' cunt, then dove between her legs to lick her clitoris.

Bess had never in her life been so wild with pleasure. She screamed and cursed, groping for Loralee's head and grabbing hold of that long wet hair. Loralee shrieked, probably from the pain of it all, but Bess couldn't stop. Her desire drove her into realms unknown, and even when the pleasure of Loralee's tongue was so good it hurt, she trapped the woman's face between her thighs and held her there.

The explosion was monumental. Bess' belly flip-flopped while her bum bounced against the mattress. She released Loralee's hair and pinched her nipples until the sensation zapped through her body and ignited her cunt. It was too much now, too much to bear, and she closed her legs, curling in on herself and moaning while Loralee joined her on the bed.

"I don't know where you come from, little Bess, but you're the best thing that's happened to me in donkeys' years." Loralee folded an arm around Bess and pulled up the quilt.

Was it too soon to tell all? Bess had wondered how she would reveal her plan to Loralee, but now that her exhilaration was wearing into exhaustion, it seemed almost easy. Bess turned around in the bed. When they were nose to nose, she could smell her pussy on Loralee's breath and the image of that pretty woman between her legs came roaring back.

"Loralee, I need to tell you something. I know this'll sound crazy, but I'm the mouse that's been living in your house all these years."

She expected Loralee to laugh, but Loralee didn't do anything, just lay there waiting for more.

"I was raised in this house a long time ago, and told it was my fate to become what you are now. Well, I just couldn't do it, and I went to Old Gert who knew spells and such. I asked her to release me from my fate. She gave me some powder that would turn me to a mouse, and I been living like that ever since. I could turn back human if I wanted, for a while, but if I wanted to stay this way, Old Gert said I had to switch places with another girl. Somebody had to live this fate, even if it wasn't me."

Loralee nodded solemnly, pulling Bess close so their soft breasts touched. "Yeah, I heard about you from the girls I grew up with. Never knew any of that were true."

Bess nodded, hooking her chin around Loralee's smooth shoulder. "It's true. And now I want to trade places with you. I'll take on your life and you can be the mouse in my house."

Pulling away quickly, Loralee left Bess with a cold front even under warm covers. "You don't want this, little girl. Hell, I don't want it neither, but the whore's life has just about killed me. I wouldn't wish that on nobody, no how."

With a giggle, Bess leaned in and kissed Loralee's lips. "Don't you worry, doll, I got a plan: you be my one and only john. Never was any rule saying I couldn't go out and get some other job, too. I could work in town, be a secretary. Nobody knows me there. I'll come home, give my girl the money, and you pay me for pleasure—that way I'm technically still a whore. I'm just your whore."

"You'd make love to a mouse?" Loralee asked, screwing up her brow.

"Silly girl." Bess pulled her in close. "You can take human form for hours at a time. Aren't I pretty human-looking now?"

Loralee looked at her funny, and then petted something at the side of her head. "Well, you did until this little mousy ear sprouted up." Looking her straight in the eye, Loralee conveyed about as much gratitude as any one person could. "Imagine that—me, a mouse! I bet I'll do a lot of squeaking inside your wall."

With a smirk, Bess replied, "I bet you will and all."

The Mesmerist and the Mare

"Good afternoon, Doctor Jesper."

"Ahh, Ditta! My favourite patient." The mesmerist bowed deeply. "Please, take a seat. Be comfortable."

Ditta sat at the edge of the familiar chaise longue. "I am relieved you could see me on short notice, Doctor. The mare has returned."

"Ah, yes." The doctor puffed reflectively on his pipe.

"You said I would be cured after last week's session." Ditta cocked her head. "Perhaps my faith in your methods has been... misplaced?"

The doctor's moustache curled fiendishly when he grinned. "Not at all, dearest Ditta. If anything, my approach was perhaps too subtle."

Ditta's heart raced. "What do you propose, Doctor Jesper?"

"The Mare is guiding you in one direction, and our treatment has attempted to rein her in. This course of action has been ineffectual, as you say. Instead, we must provoke the efforts of Nature. Rather than drawing you away from the Mare, we must push you forward, into her lair. You must surrender yourself."

"But Doctor!" Ditta clutched at her breast. "I could do no such thing. Her ways are sordid and sinful."

"Yes," Doctor Jesper agreed. "And if you wish to be rid of her, you must submit."

The Mesmerist set his pipe in its holder and picked up his magnets. With his foot, he pushed the ottoman closer to Ditta's chaise. "Shall I explain the procedure?"

"No need," Ditta replied. "I am most familiar with your methods."

"Very good." He sat on the ottoman, so near to Ditta that his knees touched hers. "Then we shall begin."

Ditta closed her eyes as Doctor Jesper pressed magnets into her palms. The cool round discs warmed quickly when she closed her fingers around them. The doctor cupped her closed fists, lowering his hands until they rested on her knees.

She could feel the force already, stirring in her veins. Energies in the body responded to magnets—this was a theory Doctor Jesper called "animal magnetism." Ditta had been thoroughly skeptical before beginning treatments, but she could not deny how her pulse quickened when she sat hand-in-hand with the doctor.

"Is the Mare with you now?"

"No, Doctor."

A flash raced across her mind's eye, and she gasped.

"Ditta?" Doctor Jesper opened her hands and removed the magnets. "Did you see her just now?"

"Yes, Doctor. She howled." A thick pulse warmed Ditta's thighs as he traced his magnets up her wrists. "The Mare took form as an owl."

"Interesting."

He followed the same path on every occasion: slowly coasting up her arms and along her shoulders, criss-crossing her chest once and again. He swerved around her breasts and down her sides, until the magnets met her middle. He held them with his thumbs while his hands encircled her waist.

Ditta's mind detached from her body, and wandered into the forest it most feared—the region where the Mare resided. When her body grew limp, the doctor helped her lie back on the chaise. He would return her to consciousness if he sensed danger.

Every night, she entered these woods despite her best efforts to prevent the journey. She rejected the bed. In her nightclothes, she read by candlelight on the divan. But the sand of sleep found her eyes, and she surrendered, always. She could not keep the night, or the Mare, at bay.

The Mare was not always an animal, nor was it always a woman. Sometimes the Mare appeared as a hunter, or a knife-wielding tramp. Sometimes it was not one being, but many—a pack of wolves, or wild horses pursuing her through the darkness. Other nights, Ditta could not see the Mare at all, but she felt its presence like a mist or a fog, or an offending odour.

Every night, it chased her through dark woods. The Mare shadowed her at every turn, and she ran until her feet bled. She ran until her sides ached and her lungs felt shredded to bits, until her heart threatened to burst. The wolves or the tramp or the mist caught hold of her and threw her to the ground. Then, she woke up pinned to the divan, struggling for breath, frightened of the darkness, and despairing of a cure for the dark mass sitting on her chest.

During her appointments with the Mesmerist, Ditta relived these horrifying experiences with the faint, hovering knowledge that her doctor was close at hand. He would protect her.

Ditta breathed deeply as her energies surged around the magnets. Doctor Jesper joined her on the chaise, sitting just next to her hip. She could feel the heat of his body mingling with hers. When he pressed his palms against her pelvis, a sigh escaped her lips. Warm currents swirled around her throbbing thighs as images of the forest found her again.

The owl screeched from somewhere up in the trees.

"No!" Ditta raced through the brambles. "Please, I beg of you..."

"You are running?" Doctor Jesper asked.

"Yes." She'd only just begun, and already breath escaped her.

"Running from the owl?"

Ditta slowed and turned. She couldn't see the bird, or hear it, but she could sense its presence still. "She is the Mare, today."

"Are you certain?"

A low-pitched growl rumbled from the darkness, and Ditta's blood ran cold. "A monster lurks nearby. I hear it."

"What sort of a monster, Ditta?" His hands traced the magnets up her abdomen. They dipped down low, igniting an all-too-familiar ache. "What does the monster look like, Ditta?"

"I don't know. I can't see." Her feet felt rooted to the earth. She tried to flee, but her legs froze. "I hear it, doctor. I hear its growls, like the earth is opening up, ready to swallow me whole."

"Can you escape it, Ditta?"

"Oh, Doctor." Her stomach clenched as she tried to creep away. "Doctor, I cannot say."

The Mare-owl screeched overhead, and Ditta's heart leapt into her throat. Her feet lifted from the forest floor, finding the strength to flee. Debris crackled under her footfalls. She ran through dried leaves and twigs as the creatures gave chase.

Ditta did not look over her shoulder as her hair and cape whipped behind her. The Mare's presence loomed all around her. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered to run—it would inevitably catch her. Perhaps her animal nature, her instinct to flee, was too strong. She could not fight it.

As she raced through the forest, the creature growled in such a way that Ditta suspected it might be feline. Its footfalls shook the earth as it gave chase. The monster must be huge.

Whipping her head around, she set her eyes on the cumbersome being.

The black cat glistened like oil. In the moonlight, it stood so large that Ditta's feet ceased their motion. She turned fully and beheld the feline—a puma, or jaguar? Ditta was unsure of the nomenclature for foreign creatures such as this. She swallowed forcefully as it stared her down with its huge cat's eyes.

And then the doctor's voice intruded. "Ask the creature what it wants."

Ditta nodded. "Mare, what do you seek? Why do you give chase night after night?"

The feline pawed the forest floor. In a raspy voice, it said to her, "Darling Ditta, I am not your Mare."

At once, the night world felt immense and also so small it stole the very breath from her lungs. "I do not understand. You give chase. You are my Mare. Is that not so?"

Before the stealthy cat could answer, an owl shrieked from above. When Ditta gazed into the treetops, she thought the sight must be a trick of the eye. An owl as big as a horse soared toward her, with its horrible talons extended.

"That is your Mare," the big cat warned. When it set off, so did she, for fear of everything. Her cape flapped behind her, too cumbersome to make the journey. She untied its satin ribbon and released it against the cat as she ran. Ditta still could not be sure whether the feline was friend or foe, but in the darkness of night, one could never be too careful.

The owl grew ever-larger in its threatening approached. Its talons glinted like knives in the moonlight. If the Mare caught hold of her, she would surely succumb to a quick death.

"Please!" Ditta cried. "Doctor Jesper, I cannot bear it. Rescue me."

The owl's knife-claws stabbed at her shoulders, slicing through her frock. By some good fortune, a fallen tree appeared on her path. Ditta tripped, plummeting to the forest floor. Her back burned where the owl had incised her skin. At least the Mare hadn't caught hold of her shoulders and carried her into the night. She could thank the heavens for that one small mercy.

The Mare-owl screeched across the sky, but Ditta knew it would be mere moments until the creature attacked again. She crawled through the woods, her heart beating like a drum, pulsing in her throat. Could the Mare sense her desperation? And where was the doctor to save her? She would spare no expense to find salvation.

Ditta's tattered dress tore as she rolled in a carpet of leaves and moss. How could she have forgotten the black cat bounding in pursuit? Her mind raced, but her body froze. Every muscle turned to ice as the sleek monster arrived at the tree, and leapt easily across it.

Time slowed, almost to a halt. The big cat soared, its great paws extended, its coat gleaming like a black lake. The creature landed on her chest, crushing the breath from her fraught body. Her ribs must be broken, her organs must be crushed, and yet she felt no pain—only the warm flow of animal magnetism circling between her thighs.

"Doctor Jesper?" Ditta whimpered. "The Mare has seized me. It prevents me from moving. I cannot... oh Doctor, I cannot move!"

"No need to fret." The big cat licked her neck. Its rough tongue left traces of warmth and wetness across her weeping flesh. "Your Mesmerist will keep you safe from harm."

In confusion, she despaired. "Doctor Jesper? But it cannot be you. You are... You are..."

"I am here, as you desired." His hands moved down her arms, drawing energy through her body as he did in every session. Were they human hands, then? Ditta could not turn to look. When she gazed up at the menace pinning her to the forest floor, she could not be certain whether she saw a glistening black coat or a pale human head. He seemed both man and cat at once.

"Ditta, my dear, we must push you toward fear." The doctor's words fell hot against her hair.

"But why, Doctor?" Ditta gasped when his strong hands met her hips. "What benefit do you hope to achieve?"

His fingers became claws, slashing away at her underclothes until they were shredded beyond recognition. "This is the work of animal magnetism: to guide the patient's energy in the direction it chooses to flow."

"But Doctor," Ditta cried. "Does this method not present a danger?"

"No, no, my dear. It is enlightened society that presents a danger to Nature. The Mesmerist holds Nature foremost in his mind, and follows the path it carves."

"But what if Nature leads down a path to madness?"

"Then I guide the patient toward madness." His claws dug into her naked flesh. "I take her over the precipice. After the fall, she is much recovered, I assure you."

"And if Nature's path leads to lust, Doctor? What then?"

"If that is the case, then the patient must see her lust fulfilled before she can master it."

"Doctor Jesper, I must confess, I am at times overwhelmed by lust." Ditta traced her hands down his sides, which were at once sleek with fur and smooth as skin. She could not bear the waiting. "You must relieve me of my affliction before I seek my relief in a most unseemly manner."

"And so I shall, my lovely Ditta." He brushed fallen strands of hair from her face, and then traced his hand down her cheek. It felt quite like the rough suede of a cat's paw. His hand then moved down her front, cupping her swollen breast. She shrieked when he pinched one erect nipple, and moaned when his mouth found the other. The pain of his pinches soared between her legs, while the pleasure of his suckling moved like a balmy breeze inside her skin.

"Yes," Ditta whispered. "Oh yes."

"You are learning, my lovely."

Doctor Jesper pressed Ditta's breasts together, kissing back and forth between the two. When he licked her straining nipples, her eyes rolled back and she moaned unashamedly.

"That's right." His tongue was huge. "Shed every last inhibition. Give yourself over to the energy flow. Surrender."

"Yes," she hissed, opening her legs. "I surrender to Nature, Doctor. I surrender."

His mouth met hers, hot and hard. His kisses were not the least bit tender, not the least bit refined or mannerly. But then, neither were hers. Their tongues whipped roughly, one against the other, battling for supremacy—a fight Ditta could not hope to win.

Darkness descended like a shroud as the doctor-creature let his thick shaft loose against her thigh. She'd never witnessed one in the flesh. From the paintings and sculptures she'd seen, she imagined a man's member to be a good deal smaller. She could only sense its outline blazing against her flesh, but it felt enormous.

When Ditta opened her eyes, she saw nothing but black. She thought perhaps the cat's coat had covered her face, but when she swept it away, nothing was there. And yet, she could feel the doctor's mouth on hers and feel his mass pinning her body to the forest floor. She could feel him, and yet she could not touch him.

Ditta tried to speak, but his tongue prevented her. The luxurious fur of his chest brushed her nipples, making her weak with lust. Warm wetness slicked the path between her legs. He pressed the bulbous head of his heat just there.

Curling his cat-paw at the dip of her back, Doctor Jesper tilted Ditta's lower half until it angled exactly the way he wished. She felt entirely at his mercy, more so now than during her regular appointments, and yet she held great faith in her Mesmerist. He would never harm her.

The doctor thrust forward, driving his mass into Ditta's virgin core. She felt split in two when he entered. This was not at all the thick, throbbing pleasure she'd anticipated. His body stretched hers so wide she cried out into the night. "Doctor! Oh, Doctor, I cannot bear the pain."

"Hush, darling Ditta." He pressed his hips to hers. Despite the lining of fur, their bones clacked together, sending a peal of pain all the way to her toes. "You will see—in moments, the sensation improves."

She reached for his arms, but could not grasp them. He was there and not there. Still, his mass filled her, repeatedly. As he rammed himself between her thighs, she clambered and cried, despairing of the torture she'd so coveted.

Soon her shrieks were joined by another's—by a voice high up in the trees. The true Mare screamed as if to alert its legions. Suddenly, great feathered wings flapped across the sky. A parliament of owls bared down on the doctor's ever-shifting form, howling viciously.

The doctor-feline gripped her tightly as he thrust in the wet heat between her legs. Over his black shoulder, everything became clear. She saw the warrior owls soaring toward them, extending their razor talons as they screeched.

In terror, Ditta hid herself under the Mesmerist's big body. She panted and shrieked, struggling some, but not nearly enough to drive his body from hers. After all, his body now acted as her shield. It was in her interest that he should stay put.

"The Mare," she whispered as the owls' shrieks filled her ears. "Brace yourself, Doctor. They are coming for you."

When their talons found his flesh, the doctor released an agonized roar. His body stiffened and surged, pinning her yet more firmly to the forest floor. Ditta's heart despaired for his animal nature, and yet she felt also a hint of schadenfreude in knowing the Mare owls caused him as much pain as he'd unwittingly inflicted upon her.

Screaming in agony, the doctor thrust deeply in her body. She tasted his anguished cries on her lips as his mass filled her void completely. A swirling warmth enveloped her lower half in just the spot Doctor Jesper always rested his magnets. The sensation that used to be pain now glowed like fire in her belly. It burned her from the inside out, joyfully incinerating her body as the Mare-owls ravaged her doctor.

"Ditta," he moaned. "Ditta, the moment has come!"

She gripped his absent form, exploding with unknown pleasures as spasms set off across her body. Shuddering against the doctor's velvet chaise, she held his name in her mouth, rolling it over her tongue, savouring the pain that had grown into pleasure.

Blackness surrounded her. She could not move for the exhaustion in her muscles. When finally a spark of light seeped into her mind, her eyes fluttered and she saw the doctor at her side.

He remained on the ottoman beside her chaise, watching her intently. When she sat up, her head spun. Magnets fell from her sides. Her frock was in perfect order, not a torn bit of lace or a thread out of place.

Had it all been a dream? How real the encounter had felt.

"All will be well now, Ditta." Doctor Jensen helped her up from the chaise. "The Mare will not bother you again—and if she does, she'll answer to me."

Ditta thanked the doctor profusely as he walked her to the door. She hardly knew what she was saying. The experience on Doctor Jesper's chaise had altered her in ways she could not yet articulate. She would not soon forget this day.

Just before he could close the door, Ditta spotted the wrap she'd left behind. Pointing across the room, she said, "Oh Doctor, I nearly forgot."

When he turned to fetch it for her, Ditta caught sight of his backside. She gasped, wavering against the door frame. Her fingers felt numb and her stomach rolled, for the doctor's fine clothing was torn to shreds and soaked with blood.

~Blood Lust~

I have no specific recollection of how Cat came into my life. One day she was just there, lying on my bed. She seemed to know me, I seemed to know her, and after one of the longest dry spells known to dykedom, that was good enough.

"Come to bed," she purred. She always seemed to be purring. Maybe that's why she was called Cat. I couldn't remember if it was a nickname or a diminutive of Cathleen or Catalina or something. At that point I was too embarrassed to ask. I was supposed to know her. The way she talked, it seemed like she'd been in my bed for ages, and I was only just waking up to her.

"Look at the time," Cat said. She drew open the bed sheets, inviting me in. Had I ever seen her in that cotton cami or those little ruffled boy shorts? Everything about her—even her clothes—seemed hazily familiar, like I knew them from a dream.

"Come on," she begged, with a pretty pout on her pink lips. "It's late."

"Late? It's only two." I felt like she ought to know I didn't consider two in the morning late, but at the same I didn't really know what she knew. "I work better at night," I explained, but that didn't seem relevant to her.

"You shouldn't stay up sketching all night," she teased. Her voice had the warmth of a cashmere blanket. When she spoke, I wanted to wrap myself in her words. "Do you want to turn into a vampire or something?"

The innocence of her tone made me chuckle. "Yup, that's it," I said. "All artists want to be vampires. That's why we work under the cover of darkness."

"Oh." She stretched out like a tabby. The way she looked at me, with total honesty, made me wonder if she didn't take me a little too seriously. But when she raised her eyebrows and crossed her long legs like a pin-up model, work was the last thing on my mind.

Setting down my pencil, I crawled on top of her and nuzzled in. Somehow I knew she'd giggle. As I kissed up and down her neck, she laughed so loudly I'm sure my neighbours thought they were in on our joke.

"Suck my neck," she cried. Loudly. Her lithe body writhed beneath me. "Bite me!"

I wrapped my lips over my teeth like a toothless granny and chomped on her neck. She giggled so hard I thought she was going to die. I loved that something so simple evoked such a huge reaction.

"Stop, stop," she wheezed between sputters of laughter. "Stop, I can't breathe!"

Showing mercy, I leaned away for a second. Her chest heaved as she sighed, giggled, sighed, giggled, her pixie face framed with messy orange curls. The weathered cotton of her cami was so sheer I could see her pink nipples forming tight buds underneath as her breathing regulated. A surge of electricity shot through me. I barely knew who she was, but I knew I couldn't resist her.

Pulling her top over her head, I dove at her little white tits and sucked her hard nipples. They were like candy on my tongue. I loved her tits. If I had two heads, I'd have sucked them both at once. She ran her hands through my hair, moving my mouth from breast to breast as I thrust my hand beneath her shorts. Her slit was wet and waiting. When my fingers dove inside, she sighed and grasped my hair in her little fists. If I sucked hard, I could get her whole tit in my mouth, but she seemed more interested in the fingerfucking.

"I want to take this the next level," she panted. In my books that meant fisting, but as I prepared to give her another finger, she let go of my hair and rolled onto her belly.

I gasped as she fished through my night table. "Your back!"

Why did her back come as such a shock when her clothes and her lips and her hair seemed so familiar? Had I never seen it before? Had she never rolled over naked in my bed?

Looking up at me, her eyes wide with alarm, she asked, "What's wrong?"

My head seemed to be shaking of its own volition. My whole body felt prickly and hot. I was horrified. Or was I fascinated? Maybe both. I was transfixed, at any rate. Her back was carved up like...well, really, the only comparison I could draw was, "You've got a back like a bathroom wall!"

A cheeky grin bled across her lips. "I like that," she said. "A back like a bathroom wall. I've never thought of it that way."

"Who did this to you?" I asked, though it was obviously more than one person. There were different names, different phone numbers, quotes and political messages, different styles of handwriting. Was it still considered writing when it was carved into a girl's back?

"Some people get tattoos every time they think they're in love," Cat reasoned. Her tone was dreamy and casual. She turned her head until her chin rested on her left shoulder, and pointed to the name there. "The first girl I slept with was Roxanne. I thought I was in love with her."

All I could do was stare. I didn't want to touch it—I didn't want to hurt her—but I wanted to know how her scars would feel against my skin. "And this was her idea of a tattoo?" I asked, tracing the big 'x' in the name with my fingertip.

"No, that was her idea of love," Cat replied. She shuddered as I stroked it. Her scar was the softest skin I'd ever touched. "Love and possession were the same thing to Roxanne. She sat on my back. She wasn't big, but she had some serious muscle to her. She sat with her ass in the curve of my back and her knees pressing my arms into her carpet. Then she pulled this knife out of her pocket."

Fishing around in the drawer of my night table, she finally found what she was looking for: a razor-sharp scalpel with a shiny metal grip. When she passed the knife to me, I was surprised by its weight in my hand.

"She took her time marking me with it. She dragged the knife through my skin and I could feel it cutting through me. Just one straight line to start the 'R.' I could feel that I was bleeding, but she leaned down and drank up every drop. No good wasting it on the carpet, she said. She did another line and drank the blood from that one, but then she said that was enough for one night..."

"For one night?" I stammered, shaking my head. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't have my finger on the very 'R' Cat was talking about.

"Yes," Cat replied with a simple nod. "And I promised to stay with her until she'd finished putting her name in my skin. We did a little more each time. She'd lick my pussy or fuck me with her fingers, and then as the grand finale, she'd carve me up. We never lost a drop of blood to the carpet."

"What?" The word came out more explosively than I'd intended. I didn't want to seem judgmental, but it was all just crazy, wasn't it?

Handing me the scalpel, Cat giggled, "The bathroom wall wasn't built in a day. It's taken years to get to this point."

With a combination of nausea and awe, I traced my finger down from Roxanne, through a phone number with an international area code, and the words Art is Life. There were more names than I could stand to read. Though I felt no sense of ownership over Cat, it hurt me to think of her with all those other people. I wouldn't let myself count how many names had stained her back with blood. Too many. But the worst part was that mine wasn't one of them. Looking down at the scalpel in my hand, I thought, 'The next person to hold this thing will never know I was here.' I had to leave my mark.

Cat rested her head on my pillow. She wasn't looking at me when she asked, "Do you want to add your name to the bathroom wall?"

"Yes," I replied before she'd finished speaking.

The biggest space I could find was down in her lower back, nearly along her side. Anywhere else, I'd have to condense my name to a diminutive, but I felt like if I was going ahead with this I might as well carve Marjane out in full.

My heart raced as I visualized the knife cutting the first line of the 'M.' I traced the scalpel through the air, imagining exactly what that line would look like: mostly straight, with a slight curve at the bottom.

"Remember to catch my blood after you make the cut," Cat called as I leaned in to put scalpel to skin. "Best way is with your tongue. Just suck it up. It'll heal faster, too."

"Okay," I agreed, leaning in very close. I rested the point of the scalpel millimetres away from her flesh and held that position so long my hand started to cramp. What was I waiting for? Pressing the tip of the knife into her skin, I drew it down, around, and out in one swift motion.

Cat shrieked in what sounded like half pain and half orgasm. I licked the line of blood tumbling down her flesh. The moment that thick metallic redness met my tongue, I knew I could never go back. Those few drops of sweet blood seemed to course through my veins, warming my toes and exploding like a supernova in my pussy. I gasped at the sensation her life force generated in me.

Setting the scalpel on my night table, I flipped her onto her side and grabbed at her tits as I licked the incision. I felt like an animal. Her blood made me wild. As I sucked the blood from her body, my throbbing clit drove me to trib on anything close by—and that anything ended up being her smoothly-shaven leg. I suckled her side. She nourished me. Her blood ran hot through my body, and I knew if I didn't get to feel her wet pussy on mine I would lose my mind.

In one swift motion, I tore off Cat's ruffled boyshorts and pressed them against the bleeding line in her side. Her legs were long, but her body was easy to manipulate. When I tucked my body neatly between her legs, she sighed, Oh, Mari, Mari, Mari, and my lungs just about exploded. Her voice contained all the passion of the willingly seduced.

Cat threw her leg over my shoulder. I kissed it, leaving a path of red blood as I sunk into the V of her thighs. She pressed her wet pussy against mine, and I pressed back against her moist folds. Together, we were juice. We were one big pool of pussy juice lapping like waves against distant shores. The pressure of her wet lips on mine drove me wild. My body burned with her blood.

Neighbours be damned. I cried out in an ecstasy of blood and sweat as my soul blazed. Cat was shouting too, shouting incomprehensible niceties as she circled her hips to press against me. We were stuck pussy to pussy, bound together in a writhing mass of bodies that seemed more than the two we were. As I lay face-up on my bed with a strange girl between my legs, I felt a sense of invigoration attached to my post-coital exhaustion.

"I can't believe I licked your blood," I said, shaking my head in amazement. It occurred to me that I should clean her wound with something more than my tongue, but when I lifted her little cotton shorts from her side there was nothing there but a clean cut in her flesh. No blood. I stared in disbelief. "I cut you. You bled. Why aren't you bleeding now?"

Cuddling her head on my pillow, she giggled. "I told you your tongue would seal it up." Her eyes seemed to melt from sky blue to seafoam green as she held my gaze. "How did it taste?"

"Good," I said. I could still taste the metallic sweetness of her blood on my lips. When I licked them, all her strength surged through me. "It tastes incredible, actually."

So incredible I began to crave not only its taste but also the surge of fiery power that coursed through my body with every lick. Each night I carved a new line. I sucked the blood from her fresh wound. She gave herself over to me. When I looked at her back, I didn't see a bathroom wall anymore. I saw generosity of spirit. Cat was the most benevolent creature I'd ever known.

It would take twenty-three nights, I estimated, to spell out 'Marjane' all in capital letters.

"What are you?" I asked on that final evening. Only the last line of my 'E' remained to be carved. As I sketched her, I could only think how normal she looked. She couldn't be human, could she? Was I? At one time yes, but not anymore. I could feel the change in my body and my cravings.

"I told you when we met," she said with a smile, like she was amused by my forgetfulness. "I told you who I am."

My pencil scratched against the paper as I shaded her inner thighs. That night, she wore a satin slip that barely covered her hips when she lay on her side. I licked my lips. Sex and blood were becoming one in my mind. Cat had everything I wanted.

"I don't remember," I finally confessed. I hoped she wouldn't be upset.

With a quaint chuckle, she said, "I'm the Catalyst. You wanted to switch your days to nights. You wanted to give your life over to art. I am the way. I'm the means to that end."

I didn't understand, and that's what I told her, though I suspected if I'd concentrated more on the conversation and less on my art I might have figured it out on my own. As much as I wanted to put down my pencil, I couldn't do it until I'd finished her portrait. It was the only way for me to keep her, in any sense.

"Haven't you ever heard that art is life?" she giggled. I couldn't get over how coy she was with me, even though she was living in my bed.

"Sure," I said, still putting pencil to paper. "It's carved into your back—Art is Life."

"You want to be a true artist," she replied, tracing her big toe up the back of the opposite calf. "Where do you suppose all that life force comes from? If it came from you, your art would eat you alive. You'd be dead in a day. If you want to create like the masters, you have to live like them." Taking the scalpel from my night table, she held it up like an instrument of worship. "I've given you a taste. Now you have the blood lust. I've been your mother and allowed you to suckle my lifeblood, but after tonight you'll be on your own to procure your meals. Do you think you can handle that?"

My pencil fell from my hand. "No," I said. My head seemed to be shaking. I couldn't stop it, even as I dropped my sketch and ran to join her on my bed. "You're my source, Cat. If you leave me, I'll die of thirst."

Leaning forward, she ran her fingers through my hair and planted a sweet kiss on my forehead. "You can fly, baby bird. I know you'll figure it out."

"No, I really won't." I was starting to panic, but her smile reassured me.

"Where's your confidence?" she asked. "You're more innovative than you know, so don't go asking me where your next meal is coming from. I can only tell you where to get your last supper." She cocked her eyebrow as she handed me the scalpel. "Finish the E."

The instrument had never felt so heavy in my hand. I suppose I must have known all along my ginger Cat was initiating me into another realm of existence, but I hadn't counted on her leaving until I was ready to let her go. Now the end was drawing near and all I could do was cut.

She sighed into my pillow as I traced the knife through her flesh. The sensation of cutting deep into her skin was familiar to me now, but no less invigorating. After a brief moment of molecular shock, small drops of red rose to the surface. My legs quivered even though I was sitting. My heart beat in double time. I licked my lips.

Tossing the scalpel to the night table, I threw my face at her side and savoured the taste. Her blood ran through me as I sucked it from her body. Its sweetness filled my cheeks and its warmth burned inside me. She sighed at the sensation, but I knew how nice she'd feel if I pressed my palm against her pussy.

Cat seized, tossing her head back on my pillow. As I squeezed her pussy lips together, she moaned my name, Marjane, and pressed her thighs tight around my hand. I stroked her gorgeous slit. Her juice soaked my bare fingers while her blood drenched my lips. When she reached under my top and grabbed my tits, I sucked her side with renewed vigour. Her soft hands felt incredible against my skin. Why did she have to leave? She squeezed my breasts as I lapped her blood in ecstasy. Why couldn't she stay with me? Nourish me? Feed me?

My hand went wild on her slippery clit and she threw her head to the side, pinching my nipple hard. Her sweet blood coated my lips when she came loud as ever. She was pain and she was joy. Her scream was the cry of an infant entering this world with the wisdom of the ages. She gave me all.

How can I describe Cat but to say she was my creator and my creation? She was the Catalyst who sparked my blood lust. She was my artist's enabler. Without her, what would I be? Normal? What artist could live that way? Normality, mediocrity—artists cringe at these words.

I don't remember Cat leaving. Of course, I didn't remember her coming either. In and out like a lamb, but a lion in the interim. I understood why she had to leave. There were others like me, other artists fated to add their names to her bathroom wall. She had to tend to them all, and there was only one of her. In that sense, I marvel at the number of weeks she devoted to my personal catalysis. The taste of her sweet blood planted a longing in my veins, but I'm on my own now, fending for myself. It's a task in everyday eroticism and as sexually charged as you can imagine, but not as challenging as I'd anticipated. You'd be surprised how many backs are out there, just waiting to be scratched.

Princess of the Ravens

Benjamin had no recollection of his real mother. She had died in birthing him—a fact which his eleven older brothers never allowed him to forget. His father could be equally cruel when he, the king of seven counties, paid the boys any attention at all. The brothers muttered scornfully when their father married Hermione, who would be their new queen, but Benjamin loved the woman like a mother.

Beautiful Hermione with hair bright as fire patted tears from her cheeks. When young Benjamin observed her thus, he asked why she cried.

"Oh, Heaven!" The woman sobbed, falling to her knees and wrapping her arms around his small shoulders. "I have no confessor, and I must reveal my sins: I am with child, Benjamin!"

"Is that a sin?" the boy asked in earnest. He recognized, at only six years of age, there were many things he did not understand.

When Hermione gazed at him through tear-filled eyes, Benjamin perceived her pain. "The king's mystic proclaimed the quickening shall be a daughter."

The young queen's tears fell hot on Benjamin's neck, and still he could not comprehend her anguish. "What joy!" he exclaimed. "My brothers and I shall have a sister!"

"The child..." Hermione looked at him quite seriously now. "This child is not your father's, as you are. She will not share your blood, and though the king has no way of knowing this, I feel he must, for..."

Like a specter, Hermione rose from the floor. In silence, she led Benjamin across a long corridor. When they arrived at the thirteenth door, the queen took a golden key from her breast and, with trembling hands, pushed it into the lock. A single torch illuminated the large room. For a long moment Benjamin did not understand what he was seeing: twelve wooden boxes of varying lengths, all filled with wood shavings and fitted with silk pillows.

Entranced, Benjamin touched the smallest of them, its sides carved ornately and polished to shine. "What are these boxes for, mother?"

Hermione clasped her hand to her heart. "They are coffins, dear child." Her voice was no more than a whisper. "The king proclaimed that if I bring a girl child into this world, as the mystic prophesied, you and your brothers shall be put to death so her wealth may be great, and she alone may inherit the kingdom."

Benjamin's fingers seemed to understand before he did, and they jumped away from the box that was to be his eternal home. "Mother..." Confusion overwhelmed him. "What shall we do, my brothers and I?"

"You must leave your father's kingdom," she advised. "Soak your clothing with lamb's blood and hurl it over the cliffs. I will say you put yourselves to death rather than facing your father's dagger."

Of course Benjamin wished to stay in the castle with Hermione and not flee with his contemptuous brothers, but to stay would be his demise. Hermione bid Benjamin farewell, kissing his cheeks and assuring she would pray for their safety every morning and night.

When Benjamin shared his knowledge with his brothers, the older boys became angry and cried out, "Are we to suffer death for the sake of a girl? We swear to take revenge. If ever we come upon this child, her red blood shall flow."

They followed the plan Hermione set out, soaking old clothes with the blood of a lamb and tossing them over the precipice. Saying goodbye to their fair land, all twelve boys set off across country, walking weeks on end until they arrived at the outskirts of a neighbouring kingdom.

Safe at last from their father's murderous ambition, the brothers built a large house bordering on a bewitched garden. The woman who was their neighbour allowed them to eat her enchanted fruits, and in exchange the older boys shared the profits of their hunt. Over the course of eleven years, the boys revealed to the enchantress why they had been driven from their kingdom. Even after such a long time, the brothers hated the girl who was not in fact their sister, but who stood to inherit their kingdom and their wealth.

And then one night, Benjamin had a strange dream: he dreamed he saw a lost star in the forest. It grew brighter and brighter still. The star had fallen from the sky, and it searched for something vital. Night after night, he was plagued by this odd dream, until one night he went out of the house when the brothers were sleeping. There he saw the star he had dreamed, and the star was on the forehead of a girl with hair as bright as fire.

"Am I dreaming still?" Benjamin asked her.

The girl trembled in the night, clad only in a white gown, which was torn at the hem and all along the skirts. "If you are dreaming, then I am too." Despite her sorry state and her solitude in the dark forest, she smiled as though she recognized him. "I have left my father's kingdom in search of twelve brothers I never knew."

At once, Benjamin understood his dream, and he took the young girl in his arms and squeezed her tight to his chest. "You are the daughter of Hermione, the queen!"

"And the king as well," she added, cuddling quaintly against Benjamin's chest. "You are one of my many brothers?"

"But the king is not your father... and we are not truly your brothers." Benjamin backed away from the girl and sat with her in a cushion of moss. She huddled next to him for warmth, covering her scraped knees with torn skirts, and listened intently as Benjamin revealed what her mother had told him prior to his departure.

In turn, the girl introduced herself as Verity, princess of her mother's kingdom. Following the death of the king who was Benjamin's father, Verity discovered the room at the end of the corridor, the one full of coffins, and her mother revealed to her the story of the boys who had gone. The tale touched her heart, and she was intent upon finding these boys, now men, and inviting them to return and share in her power and wealth. Her mother advised against such measures, saying her brothers would surely slay her for the crime of her birth—all but one, who was called Benjamin. He would be kind to her, her mother had said.

"And Benjamin is you." Verity smiled, clinging to his arm. "And you are kind. You will explain to your brothers their exile was not my doing, and I wish for their return. You will tell them I am good and kind, will you not?"

Benjamin gazed down into the girl's pale face, admiring the innocence of her green eyes, the fire of her ragged locks, and the peculiar star at the centre of her forehead. She looked strikingly like her mother, whom Benjamin so loved and admired, and his heart ached anew for the castle home of his youth. As he talked with Verity throughout the night, a great affection grew. Her presence warmed his heart, and he knew he would give this girl anything in his power. Most especially, he would stand up against his brothers for her.

When dawn broke across the horizon, Benjamin rose from the princess' side, bidding her rest while he explained her plight to his brothers. Certainly they would be glad at the prospect of returning home. Hopefully they would understand their expulsion had not been Verity's doing.

The morning sun warmed Verity's skin as she watched Benjamin exit the forest. After a time, she rose from the moss and, curious, followed in his wake. The house he entered was quite large, and much sturdier than its neighbouring cabin. She did admire that little home's garden, though, and wandered about as she waited.

In that garden, Verity counted twelve lilies all in a row, and she thought what a lovely gift those flowers would make for her twelve would-be brothers. She watched the house Benjamin had entered for a moment longer, and when no one emerged, she gathered the lilies as an offering.

The moment Verity had plucked the twelfth flower, a chilling screech arose from the large house. The horrid sound made Verity tremble, and when she turned to run from the garden, she found herself face to face with a fine beauty whose hair was white as snow and tumbled all the way down to her feet.

"Wretched child!" the woman cried. "What have you done?"

Tears welled in Verity's eyes. "I only plucked these lilies as a gift for my..." And, as she began to say the word, she realized they were not her brothers at all, though she loved them already. Verity glanced quickly between the beautiful woman and the large house. "I fear I've done something awful."

Before the woman, slim and sparkling as ice, could say another word, all the windows of Benjamin's house burst open and an unkindness of ravens flew out.

"This is what you've done, child." The woman seemed frozen in place as she observed the spectacle. "You've turned them all to ravens."

After so many weeks of searching, so many nights of sleeping in the woods and praying the beasts of the forest would not find her, she had found what she sought. To have transformed them thusly, by some unknown infraction... Verity fell to her knees and wept. "What can I do to redeem them?"

The wintery woman took pity on her, and said, "The spell will be reversed only if you remain silent for seven whole years—no speaking, no laughing, not a sound. One word will kill them all."

In the woods of a foreign kingdom, who would she speak to now that the men she sought were all transformed? It had been her fault they were banished. She'd come to redeem them, and so she would.

Verity nodded to the beautiful woman before wandering into the woods.

By that time, the ravens had soared away—all but one, who flew alongside her. She knew it was Benjamin. How she wished to converse with him, but she was sworn to silence and he could only caw. So Verity walked quietly through the forest, and Benjamin flew over her shoulder, and they remained together until the bark of a dog drove Benjamin to the treetops.

Verity turned to find a sleek greyhound hopping along the forest path, and she dropped to her knees to greet the dog. When it licked her cheek, she reminded herself not to speak, for one word would mean death for the twelve ravens who once were men. She petted the dog until its owner bounded along the path on a chestnut horse. She knew by his regalia that he was a prince. He must have known by the star on her forehead that she was a royal too, and yet he asked her many questions she could not answer. She could not even tell him her name, or where she was from—though she knew the answers to those questions—and she could not reveal where she was going, for that she did not know.

When the foreign prince plucked her from the ground and seated her on the back of his horse, Verity felt apprehensive, but she had no voice for her concern. She searched the treetops for Benjamin as they galloped away, but she did not see him.

In due time, they arrived at a castle, where the prince announced they would be wed. Verity's heart beat wildly. She wanted to cry out, "No! I am only a girl!" but the prince's mother seemed to recognize the fear in Verity's eyes.

"How old are you, my child?" the queen asked.

Though Verity could not speak to answer, she held up her ten fingers and then held up one more.

"Have you a home to return to?" the queen endeavoured.

The response to this question was too complicated to convey, and so Verity simply shook her head to indicate no.

The royal queen determined that her son would marry this girl only after seven years confined to quarters in the highest tower of the castle. Verity was adorned in royal apparel, housed in a room fit for a princess, and fed the finest of foods, but she spent her days and night alone... until Benjamin arrived at her window. She knew it was him by the loving glint in his eye.

Though they could not speak, his presence was a great comfort. He would fly into her room at dawn and leave again at dusk. In that time, Verity would weave fine lace or practice music. By this time, it had been so many years since she'd spoken the thought of singing a note wouldn't have occurred to her had Benjamin not cawed along in his strangely soothing raven voice.

They spent so many hours together that, in time, Verity learned to understand his birdsong, and he seemed to understand her silence. They spoke without words, he conveying to her the names and traits of her would-be brothers, and she conveying to him the solitude of her own upbringing. In his way, he expressed his fondness of Hermione, and Verity allowed him to see her thoughts about her mother. After many years of daily visits, she knew she loved Benjamin. There was nobody else in the world who understood her thoughts without the luxury of language, and very soon she realized she could not conceal her adoration. After all, he could read her thoughts.

Together, they counted down the days until Verity would be wed to the prince for whom she held no affection. "It is you I love," she told her raven boy, in her way. "How can I marry another?"

"Leave it to me," he sang, and she smiled. She knew she could trust him, just as she knew he saw every delectable imagining that entered her mind. In that moment, she caught herself recollecting that this was the day of her birth, and she was now a woman in every sense. As soon as the thought struck her, she knew she had conveyed it to Benjamin, and they both fell more silent than they had ever been with one another.

"Where do you go in the night?" she asked him, in silence. "What do you do when you are not at my side?"

"In the night..." he crowed. "In the night, I am transformed. In the night, I am a man."

Verity's heart froze in her chest. She recognized well the urges in her own body, and she could only imagine how it must be for Benjamin. He was, after all, a "brutish man" as the waiting maids called them, and he was older, as well. Must she dwell on the ideas of what he did in the night? With other women?

"No," he sang in response. "Verity, how could I when it is you I love?"

"Then stay with me tonight," she suggested in her thoughts. "It is a day for celebration, but we must revel in secret."

"In silence," he agreed.

She nodded, feeling the warmth of a smile bleeding across her lips. "In the night."

When dusk came, Benjamin did not flee through the bars of her window. He waited in the wardrobe until the servants had gone. When the night was dark and all was silent, Verity opened the tall wooden doors. She backed away as Benjamin emerged into the moonlight.

Verity bit her lip to keep from gasping as she perceived his naked form. He was tall and pale, his limbs long with lean muscles. The hair of his head was black as ash, and when she allowed her gaze to trickle down past his chest, she perceived another dark cushion of hair, from which emerged an appendage the likes of which she'd never seen.

Without a thought, Verity reached for the fascinating thing. Like an animal, it jumped in her hand. The flesh was very smooth, but hard as well, and the more she stroked it, the smoother and harder it became. Her thighs grew slick beneath her night dress, and she hiked it up and over her head as she did so many nights. Pooled in moonlight, she touched the tender flesh between her legs and watched as Benjamin's gaze followed.

Her knees buckled with the intensity of sensation, and she let herself rest upon the trunk at the foot of her bed. When Benjamin—beautiful, mournful, intense and eager Benjamin—brushed a thumb across her nipple, which had grown hard with the evening air, Verity bit her lip once more. She could not make a sound, not one, or her twelve raven-brothers would die. Benjamin would be killed. She could not imagine a greater loss.

Benjamin cupped her breasts, pressing them together. His hardness was so close now that she ran it across her chest. It left warm wetness in its wake, and Verity was fascinated once more. There was such satin smoothness to this flesh, and it rested on top of hardness like iron. Her raven man sighed as she allowed her breasts to envelop this hardness, and for the first time in nearly seven years, he said her name: "Verity."

Not a crow, not a birdsong, but a word, and the sound made her tremble inside.

She wanted to say to him, "Please..." but she wasn't sure what to ask for. Pleasure, sensation, yes, but how? Rising to her bed, she lay upon it, stroking the velvet place that gave her the utmost pleasure in his absence. "Here," she wanted to say, but she knew she could not speak.

Benjamin knew. He always knew, and he crawled between her legs, kissing her thighs and then higher, higher... oh, what delight beyond measure! What thrill beyond pleasure! Verity had never conceived of a love such as this, and she moved in time with his kisses. He was licking her now, his tongue hard and flat, caressing her layers.

Wetness seemed to be everywhere: between her legs, running down to the bed, coating the muzzle that scratched at her thighs. She ran a hand through his raven hair and pulled his face closer to her body, bucking and writhing as he licked that sacred spot. A sound rose up inside her, but she bit it off. It kept coming, but she resisted. If she spoke, he would die. His very life was in her mouth.

The resistance increased her pleasure. The sounds which she could not release were absorbed by her blood, generating sensation like nothing she had ever imagined. He crawled up her body and kissed her mouth, and this kiss was her first and it was beautiful. Naked, they writhed together until she was on top of his body, kissing him, wrapping her legs around his core, and pressing her tender bud against the softest part of his hard flesh.

He spoke her name, and said the teasing was divine. For her, the pleasure built once more. The juice of her core was everywhere upon him, and she rubbed herself with such intensity he said, "You'll bruise me, my love."

All concern, Verity slid from his body, issuing mental apologies one after another. His smile grew, though his eyes were dark with desire. When he kissed her once more, she lay with him, still brushing her body close to his, feeling pleasure rejuvenated. He set himself upon her, and his weight was crushing and powerful. He broke their kiss to whisper precious words in her ear, to prepare her for the act of love which had always been shrouded in mystery.

"Will it hurt?" she wondered.

"No, no, no," he assured her—and to her delight, that was mostly true. The hardness of him entered the softness of her, and for a moment she clung to him, arching her back, biting his shoulder. She could feel his girth stretching her wider. The sensation drizzled pain upon pleasure, but the wet silk of her desire eased a path for him, and when he was fully inside, she felt glad of it.

She clung to his body, biting his shoulder, as he thrust deeply in and then pulled away. In quick time, she caught his rhythm, and soon they worked together, pressing into one another, thrusting, rubbing. Verity rolled her hips in circles, feeling the brush of his hair against her swollen bud. His chest pressed firmly against her breasts as he lunged in her, and how she wished she could release some gasp, some moan, some expression of the joy her body felt.

But Benjamin knew. She was sure he heard the singing of her soul as he loved her, and he moved in her yet faster. Bucking harder, he filled her, meeting her body with crushing heat before crying out her name. Her love hovered over her, panting desperately. He seemed in disbelief as he gazed down, bending to kiss her lips before relaxing in the pool of her satiated longing. Now, she was fulfilled so deeply and truly she thought this could be heaven. If it were, would death be such a horrid place? Ah, but his death and not hers... that would be Verity's anguish. Nothing could be darker than a life without Benjamin.

The days and nights leading up to her wedding came and went, always too quickly. Benjamin was a raven in the daylight and a man after dark, satisfying Verity's every need but that for escape. And then one morning, as the sun rose in the sky and Benjamin transformed into his bird self, the lock on Verity's door clattered, the handle rattled, and who should waltz in but the prince? He had grown fatter and balder since last she saw him, and she pulled up the linens to cover her nudity.

"Ah, my princess!" he said with a distinct sneer. "You are ready for me, I see. We are to be wed this afternoon, but I see no harm in sampling my bride a little early. After all, who will you tell? You are a mute."

Verity cringed as the horrid prince approached the bed, but her confidence in Benjamin was not misplaced. He dove at the prince and pecked the man's face, neck—pecked until the prince was driven from Verity's chamber. He hollered and shielded himself, but Benjamin followed, pecking even as the prince swatted him away. Verity followed too, wrapped in linens. She arrived at her door just in time to see the prince grab for the rail and miss, then tumble down the tower stairs, cursing and crying all the way.

She raced quickly after him, following his cries, and watched as he writhed helplessly at the base of the steps. Just as Benjamin perched on Verity's shoulder, the queen came running and witnessed her son, all carnage and welts.

The queen's eyes glowed fire when she observed Verity and the raven. "I protected you." Her voice was low, a beast-like growl. "I endeavoured to keep you chaste into womanhood, as I wished my mother had done for me, and now I find you are of evil conscience? You have bewitched this bird to do your bidding! I should have known—a girl who never laughs can only be wicked."

Verity held her linens tight to her breast, still naked underneath. If only she could explain her plight to the queen, who had always been kind to her. But she would rather be put to death than kill her brothers, who had already suffered so much.

"Come." The queen grasped Verity by the wrist and tugged her over the prince's writhing body. "You have revealed the true extent of your malevolence—and on the day you were meant to wed my son! Instead, you shall be put to death."

With great effort, Verity stifled a gasp.

Benjamin will not allow this...Benjamin will save me!

And yet, when she looked all around, Benjamin was nowhere to be seen. She was alone now with the queen, who dragged her barefoot, summoning courtiers to care for her son and others to light a fire in the courtyard.

Benjamin will return to me...Benjamin will make it right.

"This godless creature will be burned at the stake," the queen announced to the assembled crowd. "She neither speaks nor laughs nor makes any sound at all, yet she has the power to bewitch the birds. This girl is an evil entity and must be put to death."

At once, the linens were torn from Verity's body and rough men tied her naked to a pike.

"Have you anything to say for yourself?" the queen asked as the courtiers raised her toward the flames.

One word could be her salvation, and yet one word would put her ravens to death.

Ah, Benjamin...where are you, my love?

Tongues of fire licked her toes, and still she said nothing. The heat of the flames rose through her, and she knew she would soon be dead, yet still she hoped for deliverance.

When the pain became too much to bear, she choked back screams. Her brothers would not die for her sins. They would be saved, even if she should be killed.

Verity looked to the skies in prayer. The day was still so young the sunlight scarcely played on her naked breast. The day was blue and her pain was great, but her hope remained.

Benjamin...I need you!

From beyond the treetops came a fluster of dark wings. Twelve ravens flew toward her, as though they would throw themselves on the fire. When they arrived in close proximity, they pecked at the ties that bound her to the stake. Just as the heat became too much to bear and she fell toward the flame, the birds began their transformation. They were men and ravens at once, with the strength to carry her away from the fire. By magic, their beaks curved to lips, their wings to shoulders, their claws to feet, and they were men once more.

Benjamin fell at her side, taking her in his arms and kissing her deeply. "Seven years have passed," he said. "We are ourselves again, and you may finally speak."

"What is there to say?" Her voice was raspy, little more than a croak after years of disuse. "You know me for all I am. You know the extent of my love."

"But what joy to hear you proclaim it." He kissed her gently and her body came alive.

With she and all her would-be brothers naked in the courtyard, the queen and courtiers gazed down at them as though they were beasts. All Verity cared was that she was reunited with Benjamin, her great love. The queen's scowl could not shame her. Now they could return home, where Verity and Benjamin would rule alongside her beloved mother and the men who once were ravens.

To Dream of Her True Love's Face

By Giselle Renarde

"Two bay leaves and a sprig of rosemary," her sister whispered, sprinkling the bundle with rosewater. "All that remains is to wrap them in the leaf from a cherry tree and you shall dream of your true love's face."

"And if I dream of Paul," Emma asked doubtfully, "I should accept his proposal of marriage?"

"Well, of course you should, silly girl!" Rosalind tucked the fragrant bundle under Emma's pillow and kissed her forehead. "You must accept his proposal whether or not you dream of him, or risk becoming an old maid like your sister!"

Dear Rosalind chuckled and rose from the bed as Emma pulled her fine Parisian quilt across her chest. "I have my doubts about marriage."

"Nonsense," Rosalind clucked. "You shall dream of Paul's face, and you will know in your heart he is your one true love."

Emma sighed as her sister departed, but perhaps there was some enchantment in her sister's parcel of herbs after all. When Emma's reluctant eyelids weighed heavy and closed shut, she tumbled directly into sleep.

Hooves fell, signaling the advance of a powerful creature.

At once, Emma beheld a proud chestnut horse approaching from a great distance. Even in sleep, its rider stole her breath away. The man on the horse was certainly not Paul, and as she gazed more closely upon his face, Emma realized this was not a man at all! The rider was a woman, neither a dainty Englishwoman in petticoats nor a colonial farmwoman in cotton skirts, but a proud Native warrior dressed all in leather.

The Native woman's face was unlike any Emma had observed in the talented Mr. Catlin's paintings. Her hair was black as a raven's and shimmered bluish against the blinding sunlight. Her copper skin glowed with the radiance of a star, her features noble and well-placed cheeks neither chubby nor gaunt.

As Emma looked on in rapture, a breeze picked up and tossed the woman's long hair over her shoulders. A stronger wind then urged her head to the side until at last she looked directly into Emma's eyes. Her expression hardened, but Emma's fear and excitement and great trepidation spilled into an eager smile. How could she impress her adoration upon this warrior woman? What could she do but grin widely and invitingly?

After a moment that felt to Emma like an eternity, stone melted and the radiant woman offered a glowing smile in return. Even her dark eyes beamed with cosmic light, until Emma blinked from the sheer luminosity. Soon the white light overtook her and she was forced not merely to close her eyes, but to cover them.

When she stole her hands away, Emma was dismayed to see daylight filtering in through the lace curtains of her bedroom window. The dream had gone, and she was alone. Frightfully alone.

Emma dressed into a fine white frock, for she had no maid in this godforsaken "New World" country. She then slipped down the stairs and into her chair at the breakfast table.

"Good morning, dear Sister!" Rosalind squealed. "I suppose visions of Paul have detained you. Will you accept his proposal this morning?"

Despite the shame lingering on her hazy mind, Emma sat up straight in her chair and cracked her egg with firm resolution. "No, Sister, I did not dream of Paul."

Even Father set down his newspaper at this shocking statement.

"Who, then?" Mother asked. "Emma, dear, of whose face did you dream?"

"I..." Emma stared at her egg, with no desire to eat it. She stumbled on her words. "I am not fully certain."

When she told her inquisitive family of her dream, of the horse and its beautiful dark-haired rider dressed all in leather, Father choked on his morning tea. Mother dropped the marmalade knife to her china plate.

After an eternity of silences, Rosalind laughed like a raucous sailor. "Perhaps," she suggested, "the horse is your one true love!"

Mother tittered at the suggestion, and soon Father chuckled along. How Emma wished to join them! How she wished she could laugh at the very possibility of loving a radiant woman rather than a safe young Englishman, but she knew in the depths of her soul she had dreamed of her true love's face, and the family would never, never understand.

Urging her chair back against the polished hardwood, Emma raced from the dining room. The family whispered between themselves as she departed, but in that moment she had little desire to hear the mocking words they spoke. Passing through the kitchen, she grabbed a berry basket. She was expected to offer her answer to Paul today, but how could she very well break the boy's heart? He was a nice enough sort, but he was not her one true love.

In her pretty white frock, Emma tore through the woods with no destination in mind. She wished to be far from town and family. If only she could live here in the forest! Yes, a wild streak ran through her. Emma's mother had always said this was due to her fierce orange hair, and she could feel it now, stronger than ever before.

Clinging to her basket, Emma took dainty steps toward the marsh berries, knowing those most difficult to pluck always tasted sweetest. The delicious red fruit was too far to grasp on reaching, and Emma must walk a little ways out along the beaver dam to fetch it.

When still Emma could not reach the fruit she so desired, she chanced step out onto a patch of marsh. At once, the spongy soil gave way underfoot. Emma plunged into the muddy waters all the way to her pallid breast. In shock, she reached across the useless marsh flowers to steady herself.

"Help!" she cried as muddy water seeped into her white leather boots and soaked her ankles. "Somebody, please help me!"

The marsh water crept up underneath her petticoats until even her undergarments were wetted. Emma grasped the few grasses in her midst to keep afloat. She kicked her feet, but they were caught in the mud at the base of the marsh. It was useless, trying to escape on her own. She needed a savior, and called out as a horse trotted up along the path. When its rider came into view, Emma's heart nearly beat out of her chest. It was none other than the woman from her dream: dark hair and eyes, and a radiant glow emanating from her face and her shoulders.

"You!" Emma cried out, feeling at once relieved and fearful. The vision of this warrior woman brought out a boldness in her that had so long been suppressed. "I dreamed of you. You are my one true love!"

The woman on the horse cocked her head and furrowed her brow. For a moment, Emma wondered if she understood the English language, but the radiant beauty then cackled and said, "Your one true love? I very much doubt it."

Emma blinked forcibly and quickly to ensure she was not dreaming even now, but her dream figure continued to laugh. Why would this stunning woman ridicule her? Emma's godmother was a Duchess, for heaven's sake! Any person, woman or man, should be more than happy to be called Emma's one true love.

Still, the woman's laughter made Emma feel small and silly, and she realized she must offer some form of explanation. "I put a rosemary satchel under my pillow," she said, "and I dreamed of your face."

"Superstition." The woman slid down from her chestnut horse and landed on her feet like a cat. She was very tall, and her long hair glinted in the sunshine as she tossed it behind her shoulders. "If you were indeed my one true love, you would have no trouble escaping this marsh on your own."

"Well, never in my life have I heard such drivel!" Emma replied. When she realized how like her mother she sounded, a hot blush bloomed across her cheeks. "What I mean to say is that I called out and you appeared. Please, you must help me out of this cesspool."

The woman from Emma's dream ran a loving hand down her horse's mane. "If you want my help, you must first help yourself."

Emma kicked her feet out of anger. Her shoes were now caked in mud. How could she possibly be expected to escape with no help?

"I cannot get out on my own," Emma replied.

Her unwilling hero offered only a shrug. "Then I supposed we are at an impasse."

Emma pursed her lips, and then nodded self-righteously. "Yes, I supposed we are."

In silence, the woman clad in leather looked down and smiled. She seemed to derive a twisted sort of satisfaction in watching Emma struggle against the mud and the water plants.

"Yes, what is it?" Emma shouted. "What, pray tell, do you find so vastly amusing?"

"I find it amusing," the woman taunted, "that you have demanded my assistance and informed me that I am your one true love, yet you haven't bothered to ask who I am."

This was absolutely true, but to admit it would only show weakness. "That may be the case, but you have not asked who I am either."

"Who you are is of no consequence to me," the woman replied, her face like stone.

Emma's muscles clenched underwater. What insolence!

"Then why do you stand about watching me struggle?" she demanded, gripping the marsh grasses with her fingers. "Why not get back on your horse and ride away, if you're not going to help me?"

The woman smiled like a vixen. In one cunning leap, she bounded onto her horse and said, "I will do as you say."

Emma bided her time in calling the rider's bluff, but she waited too long. When she called out, "Wait! Please come back. I need you!" the woman of her dream had already disappeared into the woods.

For a time, Emma waited upon the mysterious rider's return. When the stunning horsewoman did not come back immediately, Emma wondered if she hadn't dreamed the entire encounter. Surely her true love would never reject her, and never behave so unpleasantly. Now she clung to surrounding plants and called out, "Help me! Is anybody nearby? I am caught in the marsh. Please do help!"

When she heard the sound of hooves against the forest floor, Emma's heart leaped in her chest. The radiant but mocking woman once again made her way to the clearing, leading behind her a horse stocked with bundles of branches and ferns. Emma's emotion drained away.

"If you would not help me before, I hardly expect you to help me now," Emma grumbled.

The woman grabbed bundle after bundle from her horse's back before sending the mare off to graze. Emma awaited a response as she watched the woman build a fire pit close to the water, but there was none forthcoming.

"My name is Emma. Who are you, if I may be so bold?"

Rising tall beside the fire, the woman dusted pine needles from her knees and stared into the flames. "I was born in the sky," she said, "where I was given the name Star Dancer."

"Star Dancer," Emma repeated, unsure whether the woman was mocking her. Born in the sky indeed! Still, she admitted, "That's a lovely name."

"It was more than just a name," Star Dancer went on, absently braiding her long black hair as she gazed into the fire. "I was born to the stars, and I thought I would always live among my kind."

Star Dancer stared for a moment longer before releasing a harsh breath and shaking out her braid. Tramping just beyond the flames, she organized her bundles of branches.

"What are you doing?" Emma asked.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Star Dancer shot back. "I'm building a shelter."

Emma's heart smiled at the response. "Then you are staying here with me, Star Dancer?"

"Where else am I to stay?" she asked as she threw together a lean-to big enough for the pair of them. "I've been banished from my home and sent down to live here. This is not where I belong, but I am not allowed to return to the sky."

"I suppose, in a broad sense, I have been banished from my home as well," Emma reflected. "I was meant to accept Paul's proposal this morning, but I won't do it."

"Because I am your one true love?" Star Dancer cackled disbelievingly.

Emma closed her eyes and remembered her dream, and then opened her eyes and saw her dream come alive. "Yes," she told Star Dancer. "I dreamed you were coming, and now you are here."

Star Dancer ceased construction for a moment to gaze down at Emma. Though her face was stone, her eyes glittered.

"Why can you not save me?" Emma asked again. She kicked her feet, but could not free herself from the grips of the marsh. How could she be expected to free herself when the mud had very nearly swallowed her whole? With bile in her heart she spat, "It's obvious why you were banished from the sky. You really are a perfectly horrid woman. Why you should be my one true love, I haven't the faintest clue. Perhaps I ought to marry Paul after all!"

But the provocation did nothing to invoke Star Dancer's help, or even her anger. The fallen star only continued to build her new home near the water's edge. She sang quietly to herself as she poked fresh pine boughs into the roof and lined the floor with deep green ferns.

Every moment of Star Dancer's silence brought another droplet of anger to Emma's belly. "Will you please speak to me, you wretched woman?"

Star Dancer only chuckled as she shook her head slowly. "And what would you like me to say?"

Emma had no idea what Star Dancer ought to say. She only knew she didn't care to be ignored. "I knew you must be a star from the moment I first saw you," Emma said, employing her father's method of flattery to secure the upper hand. Of course, in this case she meant what she said. "You have a star's radiance about you. Your skin gleams in the sunlight, and your eyes sparkle so." She sighed. "I do envy you, Star Dancer. How I would love to be a star!"

"I very much doubt it," Star Dancer answered. "You'd have been cast away quick as I was, and for the same cause."

"Oh." Emma hesitated before asking, as delicately as possible, "Did you dream of your true love's face also?"

Star Dancer took a rest from perfecting her shelter, and kneeled down by the fire. With a faint smile, she said, "I thought I knew my true love, but she was the wife of a jealous man. When he discovered our affection, my lover denounced me. She said I'd forced myself upon her, which I swear was not the truth. But none of that matters now. I cannot redeem myself. I'm doomed to live out my years sitting here, watching you fumble about in that marsh."

When she realized Star Dancer was teasing her, Emma laughed. "Well, you realize you could pull me out of this mess. We are castaways both."

Star Dancer's eyes glowed with ephemeral kindness. She smiled, but said, "There is nothing a star can do but cast a light. It is for you to take up that light and make use of it. I cannot rescue you, only inspire you to free yourself."

Though she puzzled it over, Emma could not decipher much meaning from such an obtuse statement. "You are a star, but you have been cast down. Can you not help me as any caring person would?"

The fallen star seemed to reflect on Emma's question as she gazed into the fire. Nodding, Star Dancer then drew herself up and crept across the narrow ledge of the beaver's dam. When she arrived near to Emma, she sank to her knees and leaned far forward. Emma wasn't at all certain what to do until Star Dancer's lips met hers.

The kiss between them seemed to melt the muddy white frock from Emma's body. As Star Dancer's tongue moved in her mouth like a serpent, her mind grew hazy and her body felt light as air. She kicked her feet until they came out of her boots, and lifted up her hands until her frock fell from her arms. Throwing them around Star Dancer's lean but strong shoulders, Emma ran her fingers through the star woman's glassy midnight tresses and kissed her with all the more vigor.

Emma's clothing was caked in mud, and it plunged down into the marsh. Wearing nothing but her once-white undergarments, she clung to Star Dancer's firm body as the star pulled her from the mud.

With care, Star Dancer scooped Emma up and carried her across the dam. Nestled in warm arms and the summer breeze, Emma felt as though she were soaring through clouds. She wrapped her arms around Star Dancer's neck, and when Star Dancer broke their kiss to set her down in the clearing, Emma could only look up in wonderment. She was muddy and nearly nude, but she felt no shame as she gazed upon her true love's face.

"You dirty, filthy woman." Star Dancer chuckled, tracing a finger down Emma's cheek. And then her eyes squinted and an impish smirk broke across her lips.

Summoning her chestnut mare, Star Dancer helped Emma up and then leaped onto the animal herself.

"We need to cleanse you," Star Dancer said, her whispered breath hot on Emma's ear.

As the horse raced across the clearing, Emma clung to its mane. She was accustomed to riding side-saddle, as ladies must, and at once understood why riding like a man had been forbidden to her. Sometimes she thought the world existed solely to deny young women their pleasures. Indeed this ride pleased her like no other, but perhaps that owed to Star Dancer's deft fingers, which fiddled with her corset as they galloped. When the corset ties came loose enough, Star Dancer tore the whalebone implement from Emma's tender frame and tossed it to the wind.

Emma had never felt so free. Placing all her trust in Star Dancer's waiting hands, she threw her arms in the air. "I have found my true love, and she is mine! She is mine!"

Laughing, Star Dancer cupped Emma's breasts. As the mare rode on, those pale mounds bounded and tumbled against Star Dancer's palms. The sensation of rough hands against her untouched flesh sent a queer sensation through Emma's belly. The tingling in her lower regions overwhelmed her, and she made her body heavy against her lover's so Star Dancer would continue to fondle her breasts. When Emma turned her head to beg another kiss, Star Dancer not only complied but also pinched Emma's nipples. A shock like lightning scorched her thighs, and she kissed her love with yet more fervor.

When the mare raced into the lake's clean water, Star Dancer hopped from its back. As Emma slipped down after, Star Dancer tore off her muddy silk pantalettes. Emma looked in all directions, at once alarmed and aroused. Not since she was a very small girl had she been naked out of doors, and even then her mother had scolded her brutally for it. Now there was nobody but Star Dancer to behold her nude body in all its glory. As Emma stood proudly, ankle-deep in the cool lake water, her one true love stripped off leather garments and tossed them onto the beach.

Emma had grown accustomed to her own body's soft pink nipples and pretty bush of orange hair. Star Dancer's nakedness both shocked and awakened her senses. Her true love's skin was more golden-hued than her own, and those nipples darker atop smaller breasts. The triangle of hair between Star Dancer's athletic thighs was a startling black, and it shone in the summer sun.

As the mare sauntered away, Sky Dancer grabbed hold of Emma's shoulders and pressed her down until her knees met the wet sand. Sky Dancer bent and splashed her with cool water until droplets bled down her chest and her nipples hardened into tight pink buds.

"Do you feel dirty now?" Sky Dancer bid as she sank into the lake, splashing her own chest with cool water. "Because, if I am your one true love, I feel it is my duty to rub you clean."

Emma wasn't certain of Sky Dancer's precise meaning, but she did not wish to betray her naïveté. "Please do," she said, leaning back on her elbows and extending her legs.

The ride had made her most sensitive parts all the more tender, and Emma gasped when Sky Dancer slid one leg under her thigh and the other overtop. As the waves lapped the shore, Sky Dancer pressed her body closer inside the V of Emma's thighs and she wasn't sure what this was or how she was expected to reciprocate. When black hair kissed orange Emma jumped, and yet the sensation was so unequivocally pleasurable, she found herself pushing back against Sky Dancer.

There was more wetness between the women than simple lake water. With every kiss of lips on lips, lust mounted in Emma's core. Her breasts swelled and even her heart felt bigger as she pressed her toes into wet sand and moved her hips in circles. Each time she pushed her bottom down into the sand, clear water streamed across her paper-white belly. Every time she raised her hips up to the blue sky, water trickled off. She was hypnotized by the motion of their hips.

Sky Dancer moaned as she moved, and let her head fall back into the lake. When she lifted it up again, water streamed down her nose, dodging her lips before dripping from her chin to her chest. Her beautiful hair ran like black streams down her breasts before joining the motion of her hips.

"Is this new to you?" Sky Dancer asked as she glided her smooth wet lips up and down Emma's.

The answer seemed so obvious that Emma only responded to say, "Everything feels wonderful!" As she spoke, the words became all the more true. Queer sensations rode up her belly, all the way out to her fingertips. Her toes tingled, even as she curled them around wet sand. Something very unusual occurred within her body, and she couldn't deny the pleasure of the experience.

Without quite knowing why, Emma sent her fingers rushing through the hair below her navel, only to curl around Sky Dancer's black bush. Sky Dancer cried out encouragements as she smacked her lower lips—and a tremendous amount of water—against Emma's.

Emma wasn't certain what she was doing. Guided only by lust, she pressed the meat of her palm between her mound and her lover's, stroking back and forth until her flesh felt sizzling hot. Sky Dancer shrieked and covered her face before running long fingers through her wet hair. Emma's muscles ached as she moved with frantic pulsations, but she could not bring herself to stop until they'd climbed the mountain before them. As she bucked her hips in time with Sky Dancer's and rubbed their mounds in a frenzy of passion, she saw them rounding the tip.

They arrived together, and the view from the summit was magnificent.

Everything afterward was a slow tumble through perfection. Sky Dancer climbed up Emma's body and rested her head on Emma's breast as the water lapped against them. Finally Emma interrupted their bliss to beg her way out of the lake. After all, she reasoned, she'd spent more than enough time underwater for one day.

With kindness, Star Dancer helped Emma onto the waiting mare. As they trotted through the clearing, she wrapped her arms around Emma and said, "I searched for my true love among the stars, and I found her stuck in a marsh."

Emma set her sleepy head against Star Dancer's shoulder. "Even if I hadn't dreamed of you last night, I would have known you for my true love the moment we met."

Star Dancer kissed Emma's forehead, holding her close as they approached the place they would henceforth call home. Emma had never imagined living out her days as an inhabitant of the woods, and a lover of the trees and creatures therein. And, yes, a woman's lover too. She adored the star who had brought her to embrace the mud and the mess of nature, as well as the breathtaking beauty of the flowers and the birds. Together, they would grow in love and wisdom.

In town, rumors spread of Emma's "sickness," and her "life of sin" with a Native woman in the forest. After a time, this gossip circulated to those who were needed to know, and each year a few young seekers came out in partners or alone to learn from the wise women of the woods. Though she granted it was no better than a parlor trick, the first gift Emma gave these new friends was a rosemary satchel to dream of their true love's face.

After many long years together, some trying and others joyous, Emma and Star Dancer one night fell asleep before the fire. When they awoke, they were stars in the sky, looking down on the place they'd lived in harmony and taught pride and acceptance to generations of young people. And now, when seekers gaze into the night's darkness, they will see above the marsh a fallen star risen again and hear the laughter of lovers and wise women.

Beneath the Ice

"One lousy fish?" Enooya hollered, whacking her good-for-nothing husband with the tail fins. "You're on the lake the whole day and all you manage to catch is one teeny, tiny trout?"

"I'm sorry," Manoomee bleated. "They weren't biting."

"Just like they weren't biting yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that? I tell you, give me one full day on the ice and I'll bring back a dozen fish. I'll bring a giant monster fish! First thing tomorrow I'll be out on the ocean while you care for the elders with a rumble in your belly. See how long you can put up with—"

"Don't go out on the ocean," Manoomee interrupted.

Enooya folded her arms across her chest, the small fish dangling from one hand. "You're afraid, aren't you? You're afraid the Kaloopalooit's going to get me."

She roared with laughter while Manoomee protested. "No, I'm not afraid. There's no three-headed monster living in the cracks of the sea ice. The Kaloopalooit doesn't exist. It's just a story to scare children..."

"Well, then, I'm going to the ocean tomorrow," Enooya said. "And I'm going to catch more fish than you've ever dreamed of."

"But... but... but..."

"But what?"

"Well, it wouldn't be a fair comparison, would it? Every day I fish in the lake. If I fished in the ocean, maybe I would catch a lot of fish too. If you want a real competition, you'll have to fish in the lake."

"Fine," Enooya snapped. "I'll fish in the lake."

Hour after hour, Enooya sat by the lakeside without a single tug on her line. When hunger got the best of her, she muttered, "Forget this. I'm not going one more day sharing a tiny spec of trout with the whole family. There are plenty of fish in the sea."

Trudging through the early spring snow, Enooya traced a path to the ocean. She stepped over the cracks until she was out just far enough to get her hooks into some massive Arctic char. They were down there somewhere, and Enooya had her heart set on iqaluk for dinner. Oh, she could see that silver skin, that pinky-red flesh. She could nearly taste it on her lips.

With no company but the blowing snow, she dunked her hooks into a crack in the ice. "Hey, all you great big fish out there," she said to the ocean. "This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to become rich and famous."

The snow blew harder across the ice, but no fish responded to her casting call.

"I'll take anything," she continued. "Any colour, any species, but the bigger the better. I'll even take the Kaloopalooit if he's around."

As soon as Enooya spoke the sea creature's name, the winds picked up. Her line tugged so hard she was hurled head-first toward the crack in the ice. It would only take a matter of moments in that glacial water before she'd be an ice block herself. Waves of warmth would envelope her until her heart stopped. She would die within minutes, and never again see Manoomee's gentle face or the elders' caring smiles.

They'll remember me as a cruel mistress, whose harsh words cut sharper than a hunting knife, whose temper flared at the slightest criticism.

Pressing her knee down on the fishing pole, Enooya threw her hands forward to catch the lip of the fissure. Pushing against the ice, she sprang back, fighting the arctic winds. Her hair slapped wildly against her eyes until she saw more black than white.

Grabbing the fishing pole, Enooya stomped her cleats deep in the ice and rose to her feet. The wind pushed her toward the crack, but she held her ground. Her arms strained with effort as she pulled back, took one step, pulled harder, took another step. She couldn't keep this up much longer. The pain in her legs and arms grew unbearable. She'd have to let go. Whatever was trapped at the end of her line was much too strong.

One last heave, then she'd give up on this catch.

Bending forward, Enooya summoned every ounce of strength to haul this creature out of the depths. Just as she pulled on the line, the tension released. She tumbled backward, landing with a thud against the cold, hard ice. The moment she fell, the wind let up and the sun broke through a sheet of grey clouds.

Tearing frosty hair from her eyes, Enooya got her first look at what remained on the line.

"I caught six fish," she said in disbelief. "Six Arctic char, all at once! No wonder it was such a hassle reeling them in."

Dusting the snow from her ass, Enooya stomped over to the flip-flopping char. Their silver skins glistened like jewels as she sang six little prayers of thanks.

"I can't wait to get you guys home," she told the fish. "Manoomee will hide his face in shame when all his buddies find out his wife is a better fisher than he is. Hell, I'm a better fisher than any one of those chumps. I should get in the trade. I could make some serious bucks. What do you think?"

The fish opened and closed their mouths, offering a silent reply.

"You're right," Enooya agreed. "I'll take only what I need, and give back what I can. Just a few of you big fellas will feed my family well. The rest of you can go back to doing whatever it is char do."

Enooya bent to unhook the superfluous mouths, and then laughed. "For a second, there, I was shaking in my boots, thinking I had the Kaloopalooit on my line."

The moment she spoke its name, an icy sensation took her in its grips. Felt like someone shoved a snowball down the back of her long johns.

Enooya shuddered. Her fishing pole fell to the ground.

Ghostly silence swept across the sea. The day had been fairly warm and bright, so this chill running through her bones had nothing to do with the weather. Oh, enough already! She was overreacting, calling to mind folk tales her dad used to tell to keep the kids from playing near the cracks in the ice.

Every couple years, some cousin, neighbour child, or stranger wouldn't heed the elders' advice. They'd fall or get pulled in like Enooya nearly did today. But back when her dad told those Kaloopalooit stories, oh, she believed them all right. As the wind picked up, blowing snow across her feet, Enooya started to believe those stories all over again.

Pulling up the hood of her parka, she grabbed her fishing pole with six char still on the line. The wind gusted harder, nearly knocking her on her ass. She dug her cleats into the ice underfoot. That's when she heard a voice of the wind, calling to her through the veil of blustering snow.

"Heeeeeeee... Nhooooooo... Yhaaaaaaa..."

Enooya's feet froze to the ground. It was nothing. It was nothing. It was just the wind. I'm just worked up is all.

"Heeeeeeeeeeeeee... Nhooooooooooooo... Yhaaaaaaaaaaaaaa..."

Enooya's heart beat like a broken-down engine, like it was trying to hide behind her ribs. That was more than just the wind. That was a name; it was my name. I must have hit my head when I fell on the ice. This has to be some kind of hallucination.

"Who are you?" she cried, her voice echoing across the ice.

"Khaaa... Lhoooooooo... Paaa... Lhooooooooooo... Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit..."

"Get me out of here!" Enooya shrieked, as if escape were an option.

Suddenly, snow was everywhere. Sharp flakes fell in her eyes like grains of sand, until she couldn't keep them from watering. Her heart froze, and so did her tears. When her fight or flight instinct kicked in, she ran as fast as her heavy feet would take her.

Cold air tore Enooya's lungs to shreds. She tasted blood at the back of her throat as she ran, seeing nothing but white. Above, below, straight on, to the left and the right—nothing but white all around.

In despair, Enooya fell to her knees. All this time she'd been running in the wrong direction.

Beads of sweat froze along her brow. Winter wind tore through her hair. Cold took over from hot until the perspiration down her back ran cold as ice. Nothing remained but a whisper, which escaped her chapped lips. "Save me, sweet death."

Enooya fell face-first on top of the ocean ice. If she could only lie there for a little while, cold would melt into beautiful warmth. The horrible pain slicing like a fishhook through her chest would simply go away. When she awoke, the spirit world would greet her, and she would be happy forever.

A great rumbling from the bowels of the ocean shook the surface, and Enooya planted her face in the snow as a fissure ripped through the ocean ice. When sea water splashed up her nose, she jerked away from the tremendous crack, choking as salt burned her throat.

A creature burst from the giant hole, dreadful and beautiful. Its glistening scales shone so brilliantly Enooya had to shield her eyes. Its flesh glittered like fields of diamonds, gleaming with every shade of the ocean. It was blue as the blue whale, green as algae, turquoise as the southern coasts, and as silver as the Arctic char.

Before Enooya could make out anything beyond its dazzling colour, a slick tail coiled around her ankles. Her knees knocked together with a bony bang, sending streaks of pain down her legs. The coil tightened, slithering up her thighs, around the corpulence of her ass, slippery and smooth around her waist. She fell limp under the creature's stranglehold. Her eyes shut. Her head tilted to one side, too heavy to hold upright.

The monstrous thing tugged so hard Enooya fell back with a thud. Her shoulder blades smacked the sea ice, making her ribs rattle. Her skull met the surface, and for a moment, everything went black.

Enooya didn't struggle, even when the evil creature dragged her feet-first into the frigid ocean. It tugged her body toward the fissure, and there wasn't a thing she could do to escape. It had her in its power.

There was a feeling of falling, and then everything changed. The cold transformed into warmth. Harsh weather turned balmy. She floated infant-like in the peace and comfort of a mother's womb. Enooya had sunken leagues beneath the sea before she realized she was ensconced in water. Tranquility wrapped her in a warm embrace, soothing her worried mind.

Down, the monster pulled her until the sun faded to a speck of light in the darkness. Down, until seaweed caressed her cheeks. Down, until bottom-feeders scattered. Down, until her boots sank into the sandy floor and mud rose like a dust cloud. The water lulled Enooya until she felt safe and protected in the sea creature's tight embrace.

Suddenly, Enooya realized she couldn't breathe. The sharp sting of salt sliced through her nostrils and the tender lining of her throat. She tried to cough, but there was no air left in her lungs. Panic set in and Enooya struggled, but the monster's grip only tightened. Its tail slithered toward her breasts.

A voice spoke so close behind her she felt the creature's lips against her neck. "Breath I can give you, if breath you desire."

Enooya nodded, too terrified to resist.

"In exchange, I ask only—"

"Anything!" Enooya tried to scream.

The monster must have understood because, before she could see precisely what was coming, a cold-blooded mouth pressed against hers. Its slithering tongue felt soft and smooth as a gold chain as it parted her lips.

The creature drew her close. Its seaweed breath spiced her mouth as its tail coiled around her shoulders.

Enooya gasped, breath-taken by her breath-giver.

Is this really the dreaded Kaloopalooit?

She'd held off believing, convinced it must be some run-of-the-mill sea creature.

But how many sea creatures speak? How many give the breath of life? How many kiss like this, both forceful as a demon and soft as dandelion feathers? And why, if it's such an evil being, is my body melting like April snow?

A rush of hot-blooded desire coursed through her veins.

"Let me see your face," she whispered, astounded by her miraculous ability to breathe underwater.

"Faces," the creature replied, leaning back.

As Enooya's eyes adjusted to the darkness, the creature's shimmering skin sharpened to features. Three faces gazed back at her, as though the heads of beautiful men or women had been pressed through the skin of a stunning fish. Even in the dim light, its faces sparkled silver-blue. They hovered side to side like a cobra. Gills flanked their heads. Their grey, beady eyes reminded her of a trout. Streams of seaweed sprang like hair from their scalps, trailing ocean debris.

"You are the Kaloopalooit."

"Of course," burbled the sing-song head on the right, which possessed an air of utter contentment.

Despite the stench of rotting fish, the Kaloopalooit retained some alluring quality. Its glittering skin hypnotized Enooya, opening forgotten channels of suggestibility. The Kaloopalooit was beautiful and hideous all at once.

"Enough of this revolting generosity," snapped the long face on the left side. "You owe us a favour, Enooya."

"What do you want from me?" she asked, no choice but to obey this creature whose body was wrapped around hers.

"Children!" the miserable head barked.

"You want to have children with me?"

"No, miserable human! Bring us your children!" He licked his thin lips.

The kindly head at the right shushed the thin one. "You see, Enooya, children provide us sustenance."

"Children are the core of our diet," said the middle head, noble and proud.

"That's impossible," Enooya replied.

"We had an agreement," the middle head continued. "A kiss is a binding contract."

"No, I mean I can't bring you my children because I don't have any children," Enooya explained. "I have a husband and parents."

"Ewww..."

"Yuck!"

"Revolting!"

"I tried parents once," said the middle head. "Parents were far too gamey for my liking."

"Yes," agreed the kind head. "We prefer plump, fresh children for our meals."

"No parents!" cried the mean head. "We reject your parents!"

"That's good, because I wasn't actually offering them. My husband, on the other hand..."

Three faces stared in silence. Enooya felt smaller by the second.

"Children!" the mean one shouted.

"Look, I'm not getting you children, so you can just give it up right now."

The coil circled tighter around Enooya's core as the monster's three heads gazed beseechingly, gallantly and broodingly.

Enooya had an idea. "Have you ever tried woman?"

"Woman?"

"Woman?"

"What is Woman?"

"Woman is a delicacy where I come from," Enooya said. "Woman is tangy and sweet, fleshy and filling. Woman is the highlight of the buffet."

"I would like to try Woman," the thin face decided, licking his lips with a thick, pointed tongue.

"Well, you're in luck because there's a plentiful supply right before your eyes."

The Kaloopalooit looked off in all directions.

"I mean me!" Enooya cried in exasperation. Slow learners, these sea monsters.

The Kaloopalooit's six eyes took on an air of consideration as their heads bobbed in circles around Enooya.

"We would regret to destroy you," said the noble one. "We have taken quite a liking to your form."

"I haven't," grunted the mean one.

"Yes he has," the plump one consoled.

"Destruction is not on the menu. Eating a woman is not like eating food. It's done with great care and consideration."

The monsters appeared puzzled.

"It's like the kiss of life you gave me."

"He gave you," the nasty one clarified, with a nod in the noble one's direction. "I would just as easily have let you die."

"No he wouldn't have," said the kind one, shaking her head.

"It's a kiss of life for the entire body," Enooya went on.

The Kaloopalooit huddled out of earshot, whispering from one head to another. The mean one broke away, then returned begrudgingly to the conversation. There was a collective nod, though the nasty head did not seem so enthusiastic.

"We have agreed," the noble one said. "We are very curious to taste Woman."

I bumped my head on the ice. This is all hallucination. What does it matter?

"Taste away!" Enooya's belly fluttered at the thought of three tongues slithering across her naked flesh.

Kaloopalooit indeed! There is no such thing as a Kaloopalooit.

"You'll need to unravel me first," Enooya told them. "So I can take off these layers of clothing."

"What did I tell you?" the nasty head hissed at the others. "It's a plan to escape."

"I'm not trying to escape," Enooya interrupted. "Trust me. I'm not going anywhere."

"But humans float!" he cried. "If we let you go, your body will return to the surface and we will not get our taste of Woman!"

"Anchor me by the foot, if you're so concerned."

Undulating in the seawater, all three heads turned to gaze at one another. Slowly, their body uncoiled like marine rope. The slithering motion felt so good Enooya rushed out of her clothes. Her jacket came off with lightning speed. For some reason, she thought it would float. Instead, it slumped to the ocean floor, raising a soft cloud of sand. Off came her sweater and her micro-fleece top. Off came her camisole, so the maternal seawater could caress her buoyant breasts.

The Kaloopalooit released its hold long enough for Enooya to kick off her cleats and boots, snow pants, track pants and long johns. She gasped as the monster's slick tail glided down her neck, between her breasts, along her stomach. Her feet rose from the sandy ocean floor, opening wider the higher she floated. Its tail thrashed, coming at her swiftly, threatening to strike. To her great surprise, it smacked her squarely between the thighs. She closed her legs on instinct while that sparkling tail slid down her thigh, grasping her foot before she could float away.

Enooya's spine became jelly. Her body waved like a flag in the salt water.

The stunning and strange faces approached hers, asking, "When do we eat?"

"The question you should be asking is how?" Enooya's naked arms floated above her head. "It's about kissing, not biting. Little bites are fine, but really it's all in the tongue. It's licking and sucking every inch of her body. That's how you eat a woman."

"But when?" the nasty one pressed.

Enooya couldn't help but smile. "You eat now."

Pulling her arms down, Enooya reached around the noble head. His scales felt like links of pure gold.

"You already know how to kiss," Enooya said. "You kissed me before."

"Yes," the noble one confirmed.

Bringing the monster to her mouth, Enooya set her full lips on his thinner ones. They yielded like a human's, though they were cold as a statue. At first, the Kaloopalooit made no movement, offered no response. Soon, though, the other heads hovered so close she felt claustrophobia setting in.

"When do we eat?" the kind voice enquired.

"There's a whole body here to be consumed," Enooya offered. "Fingers to toes. It's your choice where to begin."

The kind one lunged at her fingers, perhaps believing fingers or toes to be her only options. A slick tongue ingratiated itself in the gap between digits, taking two at once. Enooya's body surged at the sucking sensation.

This must be what it feels like to be a man. This is what it must feel like to have your cock sucked: your body's energies drawn to one small point by a wet tongue.

Soft yet forceful, Enooya pressed her kidnapped fingers against the silk walls of the stunning creature's mouth. The teeth were sharp, issuing sweet piercings along Enooya's knuckles as the kind one sucked her fingers into the depths of her throat.

And what to do with her own restless tongue? Nothing but kiss.

Lunging at the noble head, Enooya plunged through the creature's teeth. His response was immediate, impassioned. His tongue made no allowances. It fought her deliriously at every step. His tongue advanced, assaulted and attacked. It conversed, feinted and fleched. He drew her in, drew her out, and all with a kiss. If her pussy hadn't already been so wet, this would have done the trick.

Enooya throbbed when a new mouth wrapped itself around her toes. That tongue sent a bolt of pleasure through her core. She nearly kicked the monster's face as he slithered beneath and between, sucking each toe in turn.

His technique echoed the kind one's, who worked on Enooya's fingers as the noble face ravaged her mouth. The harder the creature sucked her toes, the more forcefully she kissed, until her pleasure overwhelmed her. Her muscles went into spasm. She kicked so hard the Kaloopalooit tightened its grip on her ankle to avoid being struck.

Who'd have thought toe-sucking could bring me to orgasm?

"There's more to explore," Enooya told the monster, breathing hard. "You haven't even started on the delicacies."

Slipping her fingers from the sweet one's mouth, she guided the noble creature until his lips perched before her weightless breasts. Her nipples grew hard with excitement. They bobbed in the warm water, hypnotizing the beautiful monster.

"Taste," Enooya invited.

He did. A lick at the dark bud. Then another.

A tremble bent Enooya's core, and her stomach fluttered. After those first few tentative licks, hungry ones followed. And then sucking, suckling. The kind countenance grew jealous, and Enooya invited her to dine at the other breast. The gentle one's tongue wasn't as soft as she thought it would be. The girl sucked hard enough to draw Enooya's entire breast into her greedy little mouth.

Enooya's body became a wave, writhing with every suck. A wet tongue worked its way up her thigh, and she leapt when it slithered across her pubic hair. The creature nuzzled her pussy lips, pressing gently against her erect clit.

She couldn't actually see the monster, but she could certainly feel its smooth skin tracing the perimeter of her pussy.

The malicious monster didn't hide for long. He lost his timidity with a vengeance, licking her pussy in broad strokes. Enooya's stomach quivered. Her arms began to float up, up, up toward the sky, or at least to the surface. The lean one licked all in a frenzy until his licks became forceful penetrations.

This creature, this Kaloopalooit, had the longest, slickest tongue imaginable. It pressed itself, forced itself into that swollen cavern, searching in the dark for god-knows-what, petting and tickling forgotten spaces in Enooya's cunt. She found herself thrusting in his face, begging to feel his tongue deeper and deeper inside.

The monster's tongue emerged, trailing sweet nectar from Enooya's pussy. Guiding it to her clit, he tickled her with the tip of his tongue. The monster's tongues were like nothing she'd ever felt: slippery and slick, like a water snake's tail. The nasty creature took her swollen bud between his lips and sucked—harder, then harder still. He jerked his head violently, in side to side motions, taking her hips along with him.

Before Enooya realized her breasts were floating free, a wicked tongue tickled the forbidden path to her ass. A smooth, wet thing traced the perimeter, forcing its way into her hole. The tongue in her ass elicited sweet convulsions, which drove her crazy every time its twin mouth sucked her clit.

Lulled by the surging seawater, Enooya fought to keep her eyes open. When the Kaloopalooit's loveliest face kissed her shoulder, Enooya's eyelids surrendered to overwhelming pleasure. She writhed in favour of the slick friction in her ass, the strong suction on her clit. When she cried out, a cool mouth muffled her shrieks.

Enooya twisted and swung. The sea drew her upward, yet she remained fixed to the bottom. She threw her hands around the nearest head, drawing it close. As her tongue wrestled the Kaloopalooit's, waves of volcanic bliss warmed her core, rising, swelling, until it reached an explosive peak.

When the waves subsided, Enooya floated at the bottom of the ocean, moving in time with the gentle flow. Her arms and hair hovered overhead as she struggled against sleep.

"We enjoyed Woman very much," the Kaloopalooit whispered. "Quite the delicacy."

In her state of bliss, she wasn't sure which head spoke. Enooya thought about the words, rolling them around in her mind for what seemed like many minutes, before she managed to speak. "I told you so."

"Enough!" hissed the lean face, expert woman-eater. "Enjoyment is a trifle, useless in the absence of satiety!"

"You're still hungry?" Enooya asked, eyeing the six Arctic char on her line. "Have you ever tried fish?"

"Fish are our neighbours," the plump one replied.

"They are our friends," the noble one explained.

"But I am hungry!" cried the mean one, tearing into a char. He chewed with noisy delirium. "Mmm... Fish are delicious!"

The other two eyed the char hesitantly.

"Much better than children," Enooya said.

The noble and kind heads of the Kaloopalooit nibbled tentatively at the fish.

"Delicious!"

"Delectable!"

The Kaloopalooit conspired momentarily, and then returned their attention to Enooya. "We will make you a deal, human. If you return to us every spring through the cracks in the ice, and if you allow us to sample the delectable Woman each visit, we will dine on fish throughout the year. Your children will be safe from harm."

Enooya chuckled to herself. Little did the triple-tongued sea monster know she'd have granted it weekly access. Daily, even!

"Do you agree to our terms?" the ice monster hissed.

"I agree." Enooya bowed her head, playing the martyr. "To secure the safety of all Arctic children, I promise to return."

The Kaloopalooit must have been satisfied, because it helped her into layers of clothing, topping them with her wet parka. Enooya grabbed her fishing rod and three remaining char just as the monster began its ascent.

Together, they soared through the water. Light cut through darkness, warming her skin as the monster launched her through a crack in the ice. Enooya reached for its glittering faces, but not fast enough. The Kaloopalooit sank beneath the frigid waters, splashing the tears from her cheeks.

Freezing and wet, Enooya ran home with dinner in hand.

"Enooya!" Manoomee cried, his face all concern. "What happened to you? You're soaked! Are you all right?"

Tearing the layers from her icy skin, Manoomee wrapped his wife in a blanket and set her before the glowing fire.

"I caught six fish," Enooya said, shivering.

"Three," Manoomee corrected. "But three! Three is great! Three sure is a successful day at the lake."

"Yes," Enooya replied through chattering teeth. "At the lake..."

~Taken From Behind~

"Guess what?" Nicole called from the bathroom. "I'm gonna take you from behind and split you right in half."

"Oh yeah?" Sidney teased, writhing naked on top of the bedspread. "And how do you plan on doing that?"

Nicole stepped over the threshold. Cocking her head, she let her long hair cascade over her shoulder. "How do you think I plan on doing it?"

Her black push-up bra left no space between her boobs for the heart-shaped pendant lying displaced against her stunning cleavage. But what really attracted Sidney's attention was the dildo strapped to Nicole's black harness.

Sidney dug her nails into the bedding. "Looks like you might do it with that cock between your legs."

"With my big cock?" Nicole strutted across the bedroom.

Sure it was big, but it wasn't huge. Tonight, Sidney was in the mood for something huge. Riffling through the bedside table, she pulled out a purple dildo one size up. "How about we use your huge cock?"

"My huge cock?" Nicole chuckled, grabbing the purple monster out of Sid's hand.

Sidney started finagling the old dildo out of the harness to make space for the new one, but then she had an idea. "No, wait a minute." She pulled something even better out of the sock drawer. "Why go huge when we could go enormous?"

It was big and red, attached to its very own harness. When Nicole put it on, she looked like a firefighter gearing up to plough Sidney with her giant hose.

Sid growled deep in her throat, like a jungle cat ready to pounce. "That one really is enormous. I don't know if I can handle it."

"Oh, is that so?" Nicole pulled her heart-shaped pendant back and forth along the silver chain. After a moment, she let the pendant fall against her cleavage and sent that hand down to the apex of her thighs. She wrung the base of her dildo, her fingers a cock ring trapping energy inside that red monster.

Sidney's clit ached as she watched Nicole fiddling with that tremendous cock. "It's just so fucking big!"

"Enormous," Nicole corrected, taking a quick step toward the bed.

"I don't think it'll fit." Sidney inched away, biting her fingernail.

"I'll make it fit," Nicole growled. "Just you wait and see. I'll shove this bad boy so deep you'll scream."

That, Sid could believe. Her pussy clenched anxiously, clamping down on nothing. "Did you put the bullet vibe down the front of that thing?" The harness had a small slit across the top, but she couldn't tell if anything had been shoved inside.

Nicole adjusted the strap-on, then pulled a small vibrator from the gap in the harness.

Sid grabbed it from her. "I like this magic show."

They considered each other for a moment, until their shared giggles died down and dense silence enveloped them. The dark flame of desire burned in Nicole's eyes. With every breath, her shoulders rose high and her breasts grew larger, fuller, still cradled in that sturdy black bra.

Sidney climbed up her woman's body. "You don't know how I need this tonight."

"Sure I do," Nicole whispered, her breath hot on Sid's lips.

Grasping the bullet vibe in one hand, Sid wrapped her arms around Nicole's shoulders. She tilted her head, slanting her lips across her woman's blazing mouth. Their tongues met and mingled, welcoming this well-worn ritual of lovemaking into their bed.

"God, Nicole." Panting with anticipation, Sidney planted sizzling kisses down her woman's neck. "I'm gonna come so fast tonight. I want you so bad."

"It's been way too long." Nicole flipped Sidney over on the bed, dangling her legs off the side. Her toes barely touched the floor, which made her feel vulnerable as hell. Her woman kneaded her ass cheeks with both hands, and she moaned unapologetically.

"Feel how wet I am," Sidney pleaded, bunching the bed sheets in her hands. "That's all for you, lady."

Nicole made a keen growling sound. She traced her fingers around Sid's engorged pussy lips, drawing wetness from slit to clit, rubbing all the right places.

Sidney arched and purred like a kitten. "Yeah, fuck me with your giant cock."

Instead of diving right in, Nicole slapped Sid's cunt with the strap-on, making her hiss. The lightning pain rode down her legs and up her belly simultaneously, buzzing in her breasts. She tried to nudge back, to seek out the cock, but without a foothold it was pretty much impossible.

Luckily, Nicole didn't tease her much longer. Resting the dildo at the mouth of her juicy slit, Nicole eased forward in jutting pulses, spreading Sid's pussy lips, infiltrating her cunt little by little.

Suddenly, Nicole started shaking, vibrating almost, like she was having a fit. Sid's heart trembled and she almost asked what was wrong, but she already knew. This wasn't the first time sex had been interrupted by Nicole's transformation.

"Fuck!" Nicole growled, sounding so defeated it just about broke Sidney's heart. "I'm sorry, babe. I'm so, so sorry."

Nicole pulled the dildo from Sid's cunt as her hands turned leathery as a dog's paw. Or a cat's paw. A big cat's paw.

That's what Nicole was, when she shifted: a big cat. A cougar. She'd been so scared to tell Sid when their relationship was just starting out, but Sid knew right from the beginning there was something very different about this woman. For starters, she'd been drawn to Nicole like a moth to a flame, and love wasn't usually like that for Sid. Usually, attraction grew out of friendship. Not with Nicole. From the moment she first set eyes on Nicole, she wanted that beautiful woman beyond all reason.

The eyes were the other giveaway. Nicole had cats' eyes—large and round, with a yellowish glint and an air of distant superiority.

But she didn't seem superior now, cowering in the corner like a wounded animal. Her black bra had snapped off. Her silver chain lay broken on the floor, along with its little heart pendant.

"Come on. It's not so bad." Sid forced a nervous laugh. "Hey, look! You're still wearing your strap-on."

The idea of a huge, hulking cougar wearing a strap-on harness and a giant dildo must have struck Nicole as amusing, but she didn't let on. She simply said, "This couldn't have come at a worse time."

"Oh, no?" Sid chuckled. "Like the time you were giving a presentation to the board of directors and you shifted? This is worse than that?"

Nicole shrugged, then licked the back of her paw, tracing it up her forehead and down the side of her ear.

"Wish you'd lick me like that."

"Well I won't, so quit asking." Nicole huffed and went on grooming.

Perched over the side of the bed, Sid watched her girlfriend wash. This was crazy! Sidney had her own personal cat woman and they couldn't even have sex. That was Nicole's rule, by the way. She was convinced that if they fucked while Nicole was shifted, she wouldn't be able to control herself.

"Who knows what I might do?" Nicole had asked more times than Sid could count. "I might go wild on you, tear you apart with my claws or bite your throat open. This is the only way to keep you safe."

Sid sighed, and Nicole said, "Don't start with me."

"What?" Sid shot back. A sudden burst of rage coursed through her, and she didn't even see it coming. "I didn't say anything, I was just fucking breathing. Jesus, Nicole! Don't put words in my mouth."

"Fine. God."

They stared at one another, each in her own corner. Sid told herself not to say anything, but she couldn't help it. "Why can't we just try?"

"What a stupid question."

"I really need a fuck tonight." Sid spat the words, like sex was an instruction. "You got me all worked up, we were right into it, we picked out a dildo, and then suddenly it's nope, sorry, can't do it."

"What, you think I'm not disappointed too?" Nicole growled. "You think I don't want to fuck you? Of course I do. I want to shove this cock so far up your cunt you can't sit for a week. I want to destroy your pretty little pussy, Sid."

"So do it!"

"I can't!"

Sid balled the bedding in her fists. "Just fucking do it!"

"No!"

Plunging her face into the covers, Sidney let a fiery scream that probably had the neighbours calling the police. She felt like a toddler having a temper tantrum in a supermarket, but she didn't care. She wanted Nicole to fill her pussy with that huge, hard cock, and she wanted it now!

"Fine!" Nicole roared, padding angrily across the room. "But don't come crying to me when I slice your back open and you're bleeding all over the goddamn carpet. If you want to get hurt, well get ready, 'cause here it comes!"

Those massive cougar paws landed like velvet bricks on Sid's shoulder blades. Nicole's weight put so much unanticipated pressure on Sidney's body that her chest bore into the mattress while her head jerked back. A bolt of pain shot through her neck, and she struggled to ignore it. She didn't want to regret fighting for this.

Within seconds, Nicole shoved that giant dildo into her snatch without a word of preparation. If Sid thought it hurt when Nicole's paws landed on her back, that was nothing compared to the sharp pressure of infiltration. It might not have hurt if they'd used one of the smaller dildos, but Sid had opted for the big guy, so she really couldn't complain.

"How's that?" Nicole spat. Her voice was like gravel. It changed drastically whenever she shifted. "You wanted to get fucked, well here it is. Here's your good hard fuck, Sid. Enjoy!"

Sid bit down on the coverlet, squeezing her eyes closed while Nicole arched back and thrust forward. She was so wet her juice coated her pussy lips and her inner thighs, but somehow that was little comfort with a giant dildo working her over.

It wasn't until Nicole had rammed that fake cock into her six or seven times that Sid started to feel something pleasurable. The bullet vibe was still on. She'd completely forgotten about it, but now she wished to god she could feel those vibrations against her clit.

And then there was another sensation, this one even better than a vibe. The downy white fur on Nicole's lean, long legs brushed against the backs of Sid's thighs with every push. She'd never felt anything like it. The bigness of a humming dildo filled her, over-filled her, and the pressure on her poor pussy made her wince. At the same time, her cougar woman's wispy fur felt so incredible against her flesh, she clamped down on the fake cock every time it pummelled her.

When Sid turned to get a look at Nicole, she wasn't prepared for the impact that vision would have on her, emotionally. There was no doubt about it: she was getting fucked by a big cat. That wasn't a woman, no way. Well, maybe in her heart Nicole was still a woman, but outwardly she was a grunting, growling, bloodthirsty cougar. Sid's muscles tensed so hard around the fat dildo that Nicole could hardly move inside her.

"What's wrong?" Nicole asked, a low growl close to her ear.

"Nothing." Barely a whisper.

"Tell me."

"It's nothing."

Nicole pulled out, and just when Sid thought that was the end of it, she felt her cougar's broad, wet nose nudging open her thighs.

"What are you doing?" Sid asked, even though she knew exactly what Nicole was doing.

Without a word, Nicole licked Sid between the legs—hair, lips, ass, everything. Even when Nicole repeated the action with that huge wet tongue, Sid's muscles were all anxiously stiff. She expected Nicole's tongue to feel rough and needle-like, the way a cat's normally would, but as she let go and really felt what was going on, she realized that tongue wasn't made of sandpaper. Oh no. Not like sandpaper at all.

Nicole's tongue was large and wide, wet, hot, velvety as her paws. When she licked Sid's pussy, the sensation was nothing short of amazing. Sid hooked her toes around the bedframe and arched her ass up, opening her legs wider.

"That's some invitation," Nicole chuckled.

"It feels so good," Sid admitted. "Not what I expected."

Nicole went at her pussy, licking hard and fast, covering her clit and slit and ass crack with every lap. Under normal conditions, Sid would have felt self-conscious about her woman licking her asshole, but it was different when her woman was a cat. A cougar, in fact. A cougar must be used to strong tastes.

Sid imagined what it would feel like if Nicole suddenly attacked, digging nails into flesh, chomping down with those gleaming teeth. The idea made her shudder with an odd sort of lust. She pushed her ass back against Nicole's cat-face and moaned at the sensation. It was almost like being licked with a warm, wet washcloth. Every so often, Nicole pressed her wide nose into Sid's ass crack, spreading her cheeks wide, making her groan.

"Flip over and I'll finish you off," Nicole said.

Sid liked Nicole's confidence and followed the instruction, perching her pussy at the edge of the mattress and spreading her thighs. In this position, she could watch Nicole's cougar face coming at her snatch. She could see that huge pink tongue as it left Nicole's eager mouth to lick, lick, lick. Maybe that's why she came so fast.

The ball of frenzied lust in Sid's belly exploded when Nicole lapped her pussy—again, again, again. Normally, she'd grind on Nicole's human face, but she didn't feel it was safe to do that with those cougar teeth so close by. The resignation built her arousal even higher, and she burst with grateful lust, throwing her head back, screaming big.

When Sid couldn't stand the pleasure, Nicole backed away, bowing solemnly before circling the floor. For a while, Sid watched from the bed. She couldn't catch her breath. She'd spent all her energy on orgasms.

"You okay?" she asked Nicole.

"Yes. Why?"

Sid shrugged. "You said you didn't want to do this and I kind of made you."

"You couldn't ever make me do anything I didn't want to." Coming from a giant cat with such very big teeth, that sounded just about right.

"Thanks," Sid said. "That was really amazing. Want me to take off your harness?"

She knew Nicole hated not being able to do things, but there was no shame in needing help. Sid sank to the carpet and undid the buckle, removed the harness, and turned off the bullet vibe. Nicole's tan fur felt so good Sid couldn't help petting it, even though she wasn't allowed. Nicole had always been so careful with this cougar body, so afraid that the slightest thing could set it off.

"I think you have more self-discipline than you give yourself credit for." Sid set her head down on Nicole's upper back, spooning her from behind. "I love you, babe."

"Even when I look like this? When I'm unpredictable and moody and prone to outbursts? Even then?"

Sid kissed Nicole's fur and said, "Especially then."

Simple

I watch a lot of TV when Gall is away.

One program featured a British couple who'd worked in the Secret Service during World War II. That's where they met. They both worked in the same building—she was a code-breaking mathematician, and he was a tactician of some sort—but because they were assigned to different missions, neither could discuss what they did all day. Under the Official Secrets Act, even after the war was over they couldn't disclose their assignments. The couple courted, married, and had children together, but they were in their late 70's before they finally discussed their roles in the war effort.

Most people wouldn't believe anyone could keep such a big secret from their spouse for years upon years... but I believe it. I believe it because I live it.

It's not that I do anything important or militaristic in my career. The biggest secret I'm supposed to keep at work is that the Produce Manager is having an affair with the guy who delivers snack cakes—and, trust me, when tomatoes are rubbing elbows with Twinkies on the delivery dock, it's no secret. You can hear them halfway across the parking lot.

Gall's the one with a pocketful of secrets. I don't even know what he does for a living, to be honest. I tell people he works for the government, because, as far as I know, that's the truth. Doesn't matter that he's my husband. He can't tell me a thing. When he's away, I don't know where he's gone. I don't know who he's with or where he's sleeping. I don't even know if he's safe. He has a signal he uses at night, to show me he's thinking of me: at ten o'clock the phone rings once. Just once. That's how I know he's still alive. On nights when the phone doesn't ring, I tell you, I don't sleep.

I'm proud of my husband. Whatever he's out there doing, I know it's for the good of the people. He'd risk his life for any stranger off the street. I'm sure he does, every day. I bet he's got hero medals squirreled away somewhere. When he's gone, sometimes I hunt around, behind the baseboards, in the back of the closet, anywhere he might have hidden something that would tell me more about him. The man I love is a man of mystery. Until he's home, I sometimes wonder if he's even real.

Tonight, the phone rings more than once. It's three in the morning and my heart rages. I'm not sure whether I was asleep before the ringing started, but I'm sure as hell awake now. When I pick up, there's helicopter noise in the background. It's so loud I hold the receiver away from my ear and shout, "Gall?"

"I'll be home in half an hour," he hollers over the roar of the chopper. "Be ready."

Gall makes it simple for me, and I love that about him.

He once told me about a book he'd read. Either it was in Spanish or the writer was Spanish, I'm not really sure, but the character in the book is a doctor who's having an affair with a maid or a slave or someone like that. He doesn't have much time to fuck her, so he tells her to wait for him bent over the bed, no underwear, her skirts tossed up over her waist. Between home visits, he runs into her room, gets off on her wet pussy, then zips up and leaves.

The idea makes my body pulse. I remember the way Gall looked at me when he first talked about it—like there was nothing hotter than a woman who was wet, ready, and waiting. That's what he wanted from me, and his blatant sexual desire forged a blazing path through my want of tenderness.

Realistically, my yearning for soft affection subsided the longer Gall was away. When he first left, I'd stand at my cash register, fantasizing about cuddling up with him in our big bed. As the days and nights went by, my daydreams grew more sordid, more hardcore. I wanted to give myself to him, unconditionally, and I wanted him to take, take, take.

I thought incessantly about my husband's cock. I pictured it forcing its way inside of me, pummelling my pussy as his balls banged my clit. The friction took hold until my panties were slick with juice. I'd writhe against the seam of my black pants as I pulled boxes of cereal across a barcode scanner. I'd get so distracted that I'd ring bananas through as passionfruit. My work suffered in Gall's absence, but luckily, my work is nowhere near as important as his.

And now he's on his way home. Half an hour until I get fucked. Hard. I could go back to sleep for a good twenty minutes—and after a full day on my feet, I need the rest—but anticipation gets the better of me.

Slipping out of bed, I plant both feet on the carpet. I pull up my nightie, bunching it under my belly so my ass is exposed. My nipples are already hard. I feel them poking into the rumpled duvet as my breath warms the fabric.

I stare at the digital clock—cruel red lines forming numbers that never seem to change. Closing my eyes, I tell myself that when I open them five minutes will have gone by.

Sometimes I dream about Gall. The images unsettle my mind and leave me feeling terribly queasy. I try not to remember what I've seen. I don't want to know what it means when I dream that his teeth become knives, when he bathes in the blood of other women. He's an animal. He's a predator, roaming the streets of whichever city he happens to be in. He always finds what he's looking for, because he always knows where to look. In dark alleyways and dilapidated hotel rooms, he devours his prey. I wake up thinking, "He does it to protect me," but I don't understand. He does what to protect me?

I don't want to know. I don't want to know.

In my mind, I see him surrounded by buxom blonde Bond girls from the 60's. Their bouffant hairstyles are huge and their eyes are dead. I feel like I should be jealous—look how they're fawning over my husband!—but instead, I pity them. I don't know why. He touches their bellies beneath the crass fabric of their babydoll nightgowns. He strokes them, pulls them close, kisses the swollen purple bruises on their necks. They're hideous, those girls. There's nothing inside them. They're empty shells. I shouldn't be jealous. Shouldn't be...

I must have fallen asleep waiting. The next thing I know my front door squeals open and then bangs shut. There are footsteps downstairs. I bite my lip and twist the hem of my nightie. What if it's someone else, not Gall at all? What if some strange man tears into our bedroom to ravage me?

"Shelly?" Gall shouts. His boots pound up the stairs. "I hope you're ready."

"I am," I whisper.

A smile paints itself across my lips. I want him so bad.

Gall throws open the bedroom door and I turn just enough to catch sight of his body in the moonlight. In his black pants and boots, he stands tall like a superhero. He's breathing hard, his white shirt torn open. There's a stain across the front, and it looks like blood, but I don't want to know. Even if he could tell me, I wouldn't want to know.

Gall isn't suave like James Bond. He's something else altogether.

"Good," he says.

The devil's in his eyes, and I want more of that.

I ask him to check my pussy, see if I'm ready. I know the answer but I want him to find out for himself.

A smirk bleeds across his lips, like he's surprised that I've spoken. After a moment, he shakes his head and chuckles, tearing off his ripped and bloodied shirt. His shoulders are huge. I know this, but sometimes I forget. When Gall has been gone for a while, there are moments when I can't even summon his face to mind, let alone his firm chest or his washboard stomach.

He approaches the bed like a hurricane. I open my legs and arch my ass up to give him a good view of my cunt. I know I'm wet, but he needs to test the waters. He shoves not one but two fingers inside me and my heart rattles in my chest. I want his cock. God, I want it.

Gall slaps my ass and chuckles. "I knew you'd be ready."

I bury my smile in the duvet, breathing in the heavy air until my lungs feel like cotton. His belt unbuckles. His zipper unzips. My clit throbs. Everything turns me on. The moment Gall walks through that door, I am liquid arousal. All I want is to be a pool for him to play in. And, for the moment, that's all I am.

As his pants hit the floor, he grabs my cheeks and spreads them so wide I feel my asshole open up. Gall must notice, because he shoves his thumb in my pussy and drags my juice up to my ass. I gasp and tighten up as he traces the perimeter, but my hole is no match for Gall. He shoves his thick thumb in my ass, and once I'm finished expecting it to hurt, I remember how much I like this sort of thing.

Before my feathers have quite unruffled, Gall's cockhead finds the mouth of my pussy. I want him so badly my juice slips down my clit and spills into my pubic hair. It eases the impact of his rough thrusts.

He streams into me like a battering ram, sparing no sweat. When his cock pounds that place deep inside of me, the pang bolts down my legs like lightning. I shriek, but he doesn't stop. My asshole clenches, milking his thumb. He pulls almost all the way out of my pussy, and then bangs back inside.

My toes curl, grasping hold of carpet fibres, yanking them out of the broadloom. I've never felt quite this wide open before. I get the sense Gall can see inside my gaping pussy and asshole as he fucks them both.

"How would you handle another cock?" Gall asks. I don't know what he means, but after a moment he clarifies. "What would you do if I brought a buddy home and he went at your cunt while I destroyed your tight little asshole?"

My legs waver against the side of the bed. "Oh God..."

Gall fucks me in double time, his heavy balls whacking the mattress as he carves a path through my cunt. The night air is cool on my ass, but his body heat compensates, blazing against my skin. I buck back at his cock, pushing up from the mattress to meet him again and again.

We thrust forward and back, moving one in time with the other. I almost wish there was a second cock to fill my ass. Next time, will he bring home a friend? I can just imagine meeting one of his associates for the first time with my naked ass in the air, my wet pussy splayed for the guy's eyes.

If I reach down with just one hand, I know I can push myself over the edge. Gall is close—I can tell by his ragged breath—and I want to come with him. But I need to ask permission.

"Mister?" My fingers stand at the ready, digging deep through my pubic hair, waiting for the perfect moment. "May I?"

He fucks me, but he doesn't answer my question.

I can smell us now. The scents of pussy and cock combine with the faint aroma of ass. My pelvis buzzes wildly. My thighs shake. The friction makes me whimper. He's so huge. I swear I can feel his cock pulsing as he pounds me. I bet he's been thinking about this the whole time he was away doing whatever it is he does. I bet he went to bed each night with his cock in his hand, wishing his fist was my pulpy, wet pussy.

"May I?" I try again. "Please, Mister?"

"Fuck," he groans. It's hardly even a word, but I take it as a signal.

When Gall digs his fingers into the swell of my ass cheek, I give my hand the go-ahead. My fingertips find my clit swollen and soaked, and all it takes is the slightest stroke to start me coming.

My man bucks hard, filling me as I scour my clit. We're moaning together, "Yes! Fuck, yeah! That's it! That's it!"

"Stroke your clit," he instructs me. "Scour it hard. That's right. Harder!"

I'm working as hard as I can—so hard my arm aches—but I build pleasure on pleasure. I'm getting there fast, and so is he. My muscles seize. My pussy clamps on his cock and we get there together.

We come, the two of us. We come at the same time. Such things are not impossible. Gall gets off on the sweet swell of my pussy and he brings me along for the ride. My legs shake while he stands firm as a steel rod. His dick is lodged inside me, parting my pussy lips. The strain catches up with me, and I close my eyes to picture his cockhead spewing cream inside my cunt. I groan against the duvet cover, feeling the heat of my breath spreading across the fabric.

He pulls out, slow as sin, and I feel every inch of him spreading me wide. When his engorged cockhead pops out, I savour the sound but I miss him already.

I remain folded over the bed, squinting against the bathroom light while Gall washes up. When he returns to me, he is naked, powerful, and all mine. He scoops me into those strong arms like I weigh nothing at all, then tosses me on the bed. Laughing, I scurry under the covers and he joins me.

"Your toes are freezing," he says, playing with me, tugging at my nightie. "Here, get this off."

"Why?" I tease. "It's four in the morning and I don't know about you, but I've got to work in the morning."

"I don't care." He nuzzles my neck and his stubble pricks me, making me squeal. "Ouch! That hurts."

"Does it?"

In the moonlight, his eyes shine the strangest shade of silver. I stare and stare, but there's something inside him I just can't see. I know it's there, but it's not for me.

"Do you know now much I missed you?" he asks.

My heart surges, and so does my aching pussy. "I missed you too."

"Do you know who else missed you?" Gall wraps his arms around me and presses his cock against my backside. I can't believe he's hard again. Already!

Rolling me onto my belly, Gall pins me under his weight. I'm his, completely. Trapped. I can kick my legs, but that's about it.

As he rubs his cock slowly between my ass cheeks, he groans, and that sound tells me everything I need to know about his love for me and commitment to our marriage. My husband promised to be true, but promises are just words and sometimes words only complicate matters. Groans are simple, and simple never lies. There are gaps he never fills, but those gaps keep my life easy, and I appreciate that more than he'll ever know.

~Blood Whore~

The splintered door opened a crack, and a hoarse voice asked, "Are you my whore?"

Crossing her arms in front of her chest, Charlotte rolled her eyes, praying this wouldn't take long. "Yeah, whatever, just let me inside." The bloodletting hadn't even begun, and already she felt drained!

When the door closed in Charlotte's face, she gazed this way and that around the corridor. The paisley gold walls looked like they'd been papered back in the seventies—the eighteen seventies—and hadn't been attended to since. The burnt-out sconces were more cobwebbed than the ones burning with subtle shame, but everything in this building felt dirty. After a moment of terse silence from the inhabitant in the ether, the metal bolt unlatched and the door opened wide.

Standing just inside the candlelit apartment was a pale young woman. Her wild orange hair looked like it hadn't seen a wash in as many years as the wallpaper in the hallway. Even so, the girl was stunning. She wore a short skirt made of torn lace held together with three velvet ribbons. Under heavy black boots, she had on ripped cherry-red fishnet stockings to match opera-length fingerless gloves. But what really drew Charlotte's eye was the black PVC corset with red ornamental lacing on either side. The girl's tits nearly burst out the top like two scoops of vanilla ice cream.

Even as Charlotte threw her head back and laughed at the freaky chick in the apartment, she couldn't deny the pulses surging between her thighs. Her pussy throbbed for those tits. They were nothing short of spectacular: smooth, pale, and without a single blemish.

Lucrezia's crimson lips pursed. "What precisely do you find so amusing?"

Setting her palm against her cheek, Charlotte shook her head. "Girl, it's the whole getup."

"You know why you're here," Lucrezia snapped. "Who did you expect, Titania Queen of the Fairies?"

Grabbing Charlotte by the wrist, Lucrezia pulled her inside the darkened flat and slammed the door with such force a few of the candles blew out. Charlotte's heart quieted in her chest while her breath hid deep his inside her lungs. She thought she could laugh this off, but now a chill ran up her spine. When she caught sight of the old-school dentist's chair and the needles and the blood pouches and rubber tubing, laughter escaped her body like the sweat beading at the small of her back. She stared into Lucrezia's cleavage with a sense of speculative awe.

Lucrezia wrapped ten fingers around the straps of Charlotte's knapsack and eased it from her back. The specter of a redhead stepped in so close Charlotte could almost feel those corset-cloaked tits against her own. Red lips hovered kissably close as Lucrezia slid Charlotte's backpack to the floor. Her heart raced like a frightened rabbit. Why had she answered an online classified? What kind of damn fool situation had she gotten herself into? No good could come of a woman named Lucrezia.

"Goddamn heavy textbooks." Charlotte snickered with nerves. If university didn't cost so dang much she wouldn't have to submit to this nonsense. "For the price you pay for books, they ought to carry themselves."

Making no reply, Lucrezia pressed her supple body against Charlotte's and let the bag tumble to the ground. Lips, chin, nose, cheek—Lucrezia's flesh was nearly upon hers when Charlotte arrived at a stunning realization:

"I know where I've seen you before—you work the deli counter at that big-ass supermarket down the street!" Charlotte's laughter was unmistakeably mocking. The image of this scary chick in a meat smock and hair net broke the sexual fear-tension, only to generate a visible rigidity in Lucrezia's ghostly body.

"One does what one must to satiate a thirst for blood." In her big boots, Lucrezia stormed to the dentist's chair near the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Lucrezia?

"Hey, I thought your nametag said Tiffany. Is that your real name? Tiffany?"

Her voice turned every bit as ice-cold as her gaze. "I'm not paying you my hard-earned cash to be insulted. Now sit down and shut up."

Charlotte could go on teasing and tormenting, but Vampira was right: she was shelling out good money for blood. The least Charlotte could do was cut the lip. Under Lucrezia's masterful gaze, she crept toward the old vinyl chair exploding with stuffing and climbed into it. Once she'd set herself down, Charlotte felt more horizontal than she'd anticipated. As blood rushed to her head, she felt a buzzing sensation in her brain, like she'd eaten a tuna roll with way too much wasabi. She shook her head, but the sensation wouldn't quit.

Looking down from above, Lucrezia offered a cunning smile. "Problem?"

"No," Charlotte whispered. She felt strange now. Rubbing her face with both hands, she asked herself if giving this woman her blood was a smart move. Duh! No, it wasn't. But would she do it? Duh! Yes, she needed the money.

When she shifted her hands away from her eyes, Lucrezia stood at her side with a swab drenched in iodine. "Roll up your sleeve."

Charlotte tried to follow the naughty nurse's instruction, but her shirtsleeves were too tight to roll. She fumbled, looking up in dismay at impatient Lucrezia. "I can't."

Cocking her head, Lucrezia offered a seductive smirk. "Then take off your top."

Shouldn't Charlotte have hesitated before tearing out of her shirt? She felt like a woman possessed as she tossed it on to the floor and sat back in only her jeans and a black bra. The slits in the vinyl chair scratched her bare back, but Charlotte felt too disconnected from her body to care. She was hypnotized by Lucrezia's hand as it traced iodine around the inside of her elbow.

"It doesn't show up on you like it does on white skin," Lucrezia mused, staring down at her arm.

Charlotte might have surged with indignation under other conditions, but the nail-polish-remover scent of the iodine made her too dizzy to react. Anyway, Vampira was right—her skin was too dark to be tinted.

When Lucrezia pulled out a length of rubber, Charlotte felt hot all over. Her pussy seemed to explode with wet heat, to the point where her jeans chafed her thighs. Before Lucrezia could get anywhere near her arm with that tubing, she'd unbuttoned, unzipped, and pushed her pants down past her hips.

"Help me," Charlotte begged. Why was she doing this? Any of this? It wasn't her. "Take them off. Get them off."

Charlotte kicked off her shoes while Lucrezia ripped her jeans from her legs. Pale tits jiggled in that PVC corset as Lucrezia struggled against moist denim. Once her jeans had settled on the floor, Charlotte felt considerably less sweaty, but her flesh still burned at the sight of Lucrezia's.

In a swirling daze, Charlotte mumbled, "Blood whore," and laughed. That's what she would become if she went through with this: a woman who sells her body for money. All the education in the world couldn't change what she was about to do.

"I'm going to tie this tubing around your arm," Lucrezia explained. The voice sounded distant and contorted, but the snap of rubber against her skin brought Charlotte surging back to reality.

The phantom woman stroked Charlotte's forearm slowly. Lucrezia's fingers felt cold against her blazing skin, and she closed her eyes to enjoy the massage. When she opened them again, Charlotte was shocked to spot her own fingers stroking her clit overtop of her black panties. What the hell was she doing? Masturbating half-naked in a circa-1950 dentist's chair while a ghostly butcher hovered over her with a needle in hand? This could not be real life. It had to be a dream.

But, despite her surprise at her own behavior, Charlotte didn't stop stroking her wet pussy. She let her fingers move around her clit in sloppy circles as Lucrezia set a cold needle against her flesh.

"You're going to do it now?" she asked as Lucrezia tapped a finger against the soft skin inside her elbow.

Lucrezia nodded. Her countenance was utter concentration while she inserted the sharp metal into Charlotte's vein. Charlotte gasped. Her body buzzed and a listless scream caught like a fishbone in her throat. She shook out her fingers and her toes. She tossed her head side to side. Waves of giddy warmth passed over her core even as her stomach wobbled and tossed.

"Don't fidget," Lucrezia commanded, though not unsympathetically. No doubt she'd seen a number of blood whores through this process. She grabbed both Charlotte's hands. Climbing on top of her and straddling her thighs, Lucrezia pressed the backs of Charlotte's wrists flat against the chair.

Layers of lace wisped against Charlotte's thighs. Boots brushed her calves. When she looked up, all she could see were white tits struggling to remain cleavage. If only Lucrezia would lean a little farther forward, her breasts would tumble out of that corset. Her tight pink nipples would fall right into Charlotte's mouth and Charlotte would suck, suck, suck like a babe.

Lucrezia placed her palm flat against Charlotte's. "Squeeze my hand. Squeeze it in pulses."

Charlotte struggled to follow instruction. She happened to glimpse her ruby blood flowing down a tube and into a pouch on some kind of machine that teeter-tottered the viscous fluid back and forth. Her body vibrated with a frenzied feeling of apprehension. But what good did it do to worry now? She was in it. Deep inside. Though her whole left arm felt limp, she closed her fingers around Lucrezia's gloved palm and pressed it.

"Good," Lucrezia whispered. She bent down low to put her hot breath in Charlotte's ear. "Good girl."

"Please." The words came out of nowhere, but they were undeniably Charlotte's. "Let me suck your tits."

Burbling with a generous brand of laughter, Lucrezia dug her breasts one by one out of her PVC corset. She never let go of Charlotte's hand, even as she pressed an erect pink bud to Charlotte's mouth.

Charlotte squeezed Lucrezia's hand as she let that hard nipple slide between her lips. She circled her tongue around it before licking up and down. Lucrezia's breast was unbelievably soft, and Charlotte had never before seen skin so paper-white. Her breath bounced in her chest, and she felt blood pulsing out through her arm even as it surged down to her pussy. She sucked that gorgeous nipple, and the warm sensation in her core urged her to wrap bare legs around Lucrezia's boots and buck her hips up against the lace layers of that tattered skirt. She needed to feel pressure against her pulsating clit.

"Please," she begged, squeezing Lucrezia's hand tight. She tried to hold back, but her head rolled side to side on the chair. "Oh, I need it..."

Charlotte wasn't quite sure what she needed, but Lucrezia seemed to know. Descending between Charlotte's thighs without releasing their handhold, the white ghoul pressed her chin against Charlotte's clit. Even through a layer of wet satin, the motion of Lucrezia's chin as she opened and closed her mouth pushed just the right button.

With Lucrezia's soft breasts between her knees, Charlotte pressed her legs together just a touch. That supple flesh drove a frenzy of excitement through her veins until her blood surged out of her body and into the pouch beside her chair. Her extremities tingled.

What kind of whore demanded gratification?

"Please." Charlotte ran the fingers of her right hand through Lucrezia's wild hair. "Eat me."

Without hesitation, Lucrezia pressed her tongue flat against the satin crotch of Charlotte's panties. She took one long lick, looking up at Charlotte from behind heavy eye makeup. There was a smile in her green eyes. It was a look of utter adoration. Of worship, even. And in that moment, Charlotte understood. "I feed you."

"Yes," Lucrezia hissed, pulling down Charlotte's black panties.

"I give you what you need."

Lucrezia nodded even as she dove at Charlotte's pussy. With a fierce moan, she licked Charlotte's wet slit hot and rough. She was an animal—a pale, redheaded tiger, destroying the sizzling flesh of Charlotte's snatch. The woman went wild, shaking her head side to side as she slurped Charlotte's engorged clit into her mouth and sucked the life out of it. Charlotte's insides trembled and quivered. Her blood flowed fast as her heart pumped faster. She bucked her hips toward Lucrezia's face, gliding her wet pussy across the gorgeous girl's lips.

As Lucrezia slurped and sucked and licked Charlotte's pussy, Charlotte lost control over her hips. It seemed terribly rude of her, but she watched herself coat Lucrezia's cheeks and chin with juice. Clear pussy nectar dripped from the tip of her nose as she ate Charlotte's snatch in rampant sips and gulps. That tongue drove Charlotte out of her mind and very nearly out of her body. She squeezed the collector's hand in raging pulses, though her arms felt weak as water. Her life force ebbed and flowed, pulsing with sexual surges and draining with the loss of blood. As fast as Lucrezia gifted her with energy, it slipped out through her arm.

Still, the wave built stronger inside her core. Her thighs trembled with her oncoming orgasm until she couldn't keep herself from slamming them closed against Lucrezia's ears. Nothing could stop the pallid specter. Lucrezia licked and lapped at Charlotte's slit until the familiar flourish of warmth overtook her. Charlotte hopped on the dentist's chair. Her body surged upward. Her stomach tumbled as her pussy went into spasm and quaked under a barrage of unending kisses.

When she couldn't handle any more, Charlotte opened her legs and pressed Lucrezia's head away from her clit. "Please," she begged. "Please, no more."

With a dizzy smile, Lucrezia tumbled to the floor. Her pale tits bounced outside her corset as she pulled herself up against the large chair. Wiping pussy juice from her face, she gazed at Charlotte's pillow of a blood pouch and rushed to shut down the operation. When Lucrezia extracted the needle, Charlotte watched her blood pool at the site.

"This is the essence of you," Lucrezia said, letting a drizzle of blood from the rubber tubing course down Charlotte's arm.

The blood was hot. Red. It was redder than anything she'd ever seen dripping across her flesh. She'd never have imagined feeling aroused as she watched another person drinking her blood, but when Lucrezia bent down to lick the trail, Charlotte's exhausted pussy tingled. Was it a revolting sight, or was it the most beautiful mingling of souls she'd ever experienced?

Lucrezia sucked the injection site and Charlotte went limp watching. She was horrified on a certain level, but on a more immediate and more sensual level, she'd never felt more attracted to a woman.

"I'm inside of you now," Charlotte said. She understood. She'd never understood before, but she did now. "I'm inside you."

Red lips kissed the bleeding site. A thirsty tongue licked the thick, warm fluid. When Lucrezia was satiated, she cleaned the spot and sealed it with cotton and gauze before climbing into the dentist's chair. Lucrezia's breath had a metallic tang as it warmed Charlotte's cheek. Cold pink nipples pressed against her hot brown flesh. She couldn't have moved if she wanted to—but she didn't want to. Lucrezia ran an adoring tongue up Charlotte's neck, and there was no place else she'd rather be.

Charlotte would come again. Money, no money, it didn't matter. She'd give again. Again and again. All for Lucrezia, whose body surged with her dark essence. Charlotte had come to this place a blood whore, but she'd leave a vampire.

Neither Love Nor Money

"How's Bernadetta feeling?" Jean leaned over Max's cubicle, wearing the familiar pouty-sad smile all female staff put on when they passed his workspace. "Doin' okay?"

Since when do you care how she's feeling? Max wanted to say. You bitch about Detta more than anyone!

But all he managed to mutter was, "Same as always."

Max held his tongue because Jean was holding a huge tub of chocolate peanut butter ice cream. As much as he loved Bernadetta, he wanted a bowl. The three o'clock lull hit hard and he needed a sugar rush.

When she didn't offer any, Max asked, "What have you got there, Jean?"

The creases around her grey eyes multiplied as she smiled. "I made poor Bernadetta a batch of my grandmother's special chicken noodle soup. Should lift her spirits some."

"Oh." Max had to admit, he felt a little disappointed there'd be no ice cream, but he couldn't deny the kindness of her gesture. "Thanks, Jean. I'm sure Detta will appreciate it."

It wasn't easy, carrying the damn thing home on the subway without spilling it all over somebody's fine Italian shoes, but nothing in Max's relationship had ever been easy. Bernadetta was the company's owner and figurehead, and she liked to remind staff that she'd built Detta Designs from the ground up. Everything they did, good or bad, reflected on her. She wasn't sweet or kind, and it didn't help that Detta was goddamn gorgeous. The women who worked for her told anyone who would listen that she'd slept her way to the top.

And, in a sense, that was true. But not in the way women like Jean were thinking.

"Honey, I'm home!" Max called as he stepped into her ornate condo apartment. Bernadetta was rich enough to buy one of those McMansions outside the city, but she preferred to have her finger on the pulse. She could also afford private nursing, but most healthcare workers wouldn't understand her unique situation.

"Nice day at the office, sweetheart?" She looked weak, a shadow of her formerly vivacious self. She kicked off about fourteen blankets when Max stepped into the room. Hot to cold, she went hot to cold, sweating to freezing.

Max put on a brave smile, despite feeling helpless. "Not bad. Jean made you some soup." He held up the ice cream tub.

Tilting her sallow cheek against the pillow, Detta let out a feeble laugh. "Chocolate peanut butter soup? Sounds delicious."

Her effort made him smile. "It's chicken noodle, apparently."

He checked on her five times while it heated up. Her dark hair had once been thick and lustrous. Now it was falling out in clumps. Her hands looked skeletal. Her face did, too, so much so that Max had trouble looking at her.

When she first hired him, Max couldn't look Bernadetta in the eye. Her beauty made his knees buckle. She'd been the source of hundreds of instant erections. All she had to do was saunter by his cubicle and—bing!—he was stiff as a pole. How many hard-ons had he rubbed out in the men's room? He'd lost count.

What is it about her? he'd wondered, back then.

It was everything: the long hair, the long legs, the round ass under those tight leather skirts. Her big tits burst out of tailored jackets, with only the thin ruffle of some see-through blouse separating her golden skin from her thin lapels. God, he wanted to bury his face in that mountainous cleavage. There was so goddamn much of it. He'd always hoped she might bend far enough forward that her beautiful breasts would cascade into full view.

And those were just the tangibles. He spotted a special something in her eyes, when he managed to look at them. They mesmerized Max, and scared him halfway to hell. A man could lose himself in those eyes. He got the feeling many men had, given the way she stared at him unsmilingly, then allowed a slow grin to bleed across her crimson lips. Many men had lost themselves somewhere inside her. Max was sure of it.

Thinking back, it was a typical night working late with the boss when he'd discovered Bernadetta's true nature. And when he found out—when he realized what she was—everything fell into place.

Max had always been good with visuals. Detta had asked for his help, for his "eye" as she put it. Her office was strewn with glossy pictures and panels of text as he helped her put together the following year's catalogue. He'd always wondered if she meant for this to happen, for any of it to happen, or if it was all some kind of near-fatal accident.

He was bent over the sideboard at the time, in part to get a closer look at the mock-ups, and in part to conceal his massive erection. She'd come up behind him, so close he could feel the heat of her front against his ass. That heat only got him harder. His dick slapped the edge of the sideboard, begging for something soft, something hot. Then rough. And he knew that's exactly what he'd get from Bernadetta.

Grabbing his sides, she dug her blood red nails into his flesh. She bucked her hips against his ass, like she could fuck him with her bones. In that moment, he wished she could. He wanted her to take him, just strip him bare and do whatever the hell she desired. He'd be hers if she wanted him. He'd give her anything.

Did she turn him around or did he do that himself? He couldn't remember anymore. Somehow he ended up facing her. She tore off his tie with one hand while she found his cock with the other. How did she manage to zero in like that? Just wham! She had it in her fist, stroking hard through the fabric of his trousers.

Max knew Detta wouldn't be gentle. He'd seen the violence in her, right from the start. She man-handled him, strong, tough, and she stood nearly his height in those fuck-me heels.

She only let go of his cock to bind his wrists behind him—and with his own tie, to boot. When she pressed him against the sideboard, he worried he might ruin one of the catalogue mock-ups, but if she didn't care why should he? So he pressed his head against the glossy board while Bernadetta tore open his shirt.

Buttons went flying, sailing to the floor in slow motion. Each mother-of-pearl droplet settled like rain on the industrial carpet. He was so mesmerized by the subtle shimmer that he almost didn't notice Detta ripping his belt from its loops. When she tossed it around her shoulders, it morphed into a black snake. Were his eyes playing tricks on him, or did his belt hiss while his boss opened his fly?

Max's pants dropped to the floor with the weight of his wallet, his keys, and his merciless arousal.

"Oh my God." Max didn't think he could speak, but the words spilled out when Detta pushed his jockeys down his thigh. "Oh my fucking lord."

His cock whacked his naked belly. The cool air was a relief against the blazing heat of his erection.

Bernadetta didn't even look at him as she grasped his dick, pumping the shaft in her fist. He'd never been this turned on in all his life. When his thick, swollen cockhead spilled streams of precum across his boss' fingers, the thought crossed his mind that this could be a trap. For a moment, he worried he'd be in trouble, maybe lose his job.

His boss answered his unspoken concern with a kiss so powerful it drove every ounce of energy between his legs.

Her mouth sweltered, sizzled, and when her tongue battled his, he fought hard but lost miserably. There was no winning with Bernadetta. She was too strong, too commanding to truly contend with. Max knew instinctively that they weren't on a level playing field.

And yet it was Bernadetta who bent at the hips, scratching his bare chest all the way down, until the pads of her fingers pressed into his pubic hair. His hips bucked uncontrollably when she touched him there, touched his pelvis, slipped those fingers around his balls. He hissed, then. God, she was rough. It hurt, the way she grabbed him, the way she squeezed. The pain was brilliant.

Slipping his belt from her shoulders, she wrapped it around Max's thighs, low down, almost at his knees. He watched in disbelief as she pulled the braided leather taught, so tight around his legs that it dug into his skin. He splayed his palms on the sturdy wooden sideboard. Danger sizzled on the air like electricity.

Max couldn't move. Though his position wasn't precarious in itself, he felt like if he budged even slightly in any direction, he'd lose his balance. But he knew, instinctively, that he couldn't move. Even if he had the inclination.

A dark haze took over. The edges of reality bled into something fantastical, something dizzy and delightful, but with an unshakably sinister underbelly. Something was happening, now. Something that had never happened to Max before...

"Bernadetta?" His head hung low, swinging side to side as she tossed that long stream of dark hair over one shoulder. The snake was back, black, hissing, squeezing his legs so tight he felt choked.

And then another snake, a pink one, tickled his cock. Her tongue. Her hot, wet, slithering, writhing tongue traced a slick circle around his tip. He shuddered. If he'd been able to move, he would have bucked forward, forced himself between her full red lips, but he couldn't budge. He was stuck, and dizzy besides. He couldn't keep his head up any longer. He tried to lift it, but it was too damn heavy.

Slumping forward, he watched her crimson lips part. Bernadetta's face blurred into green eyes and red lipstick on a golden canvas. Her nose, cheekbones, all her features disappeared as she swallowed him whole.

Max's knees buckled as his boss honest-to-god deepthroated his cock, right to the root. He'd never experienced anything like it, and he held his breath to keep from losing the moment. Her silky mouth enveloped his shaft. Her warm breath rustled his pubic hair. She squeezed his balls mercilessly.

And then, at an absolutely torturous speed, she leaned back, leaned away, and very nearly let his cock fall from her mouth. But not quite. She held him between her lips, sucking just the tip before swallowing him all over again. Faster this time. Faster next, until it became an in-and-out, a game, a race.

How could she stand like that, with her legs perfectly straight, in those killer heels? She bent at the hip, with her head tilted so he got a perfect view of her face. She sucked him hard. It was the sweetest torment, but what could he do? He wanted to thrust forward, drive the monster faster and deeper, but something held him in place, something beyond the physical restraints. He belonged to Detta in every sense.

Max wouldn't last long like this. His eyelids started to droop, feeling as heavy as his head, and he worried. Detta kept sucking, but he couldn't watch. He couldn't see. He tried to shift his weight to his hands so he could raise his hips, but it was useless. His muscles had once been thick ropes. Now they felt like dental floss. Despite his arousal, despite his desire to fill his boss' mouth with cum, his body lacked the energy required.

Couldn't he just lie down? On the carpet would be fine. He didn't mind. Just lie down, just a little rest...

Bernadetta sucked him hard, pumping his shaft with one hand, squeezing his balls with the other. Max felt a telltale trembling in his thighs, a quaking in his balls, but it was all so far away, like he was feeling somebody else's orgasm. His cum flooded her mouth, but the first surge sent him hurdling psychically backward, like the recoil on a pistol. Darkness consumed his peripheral vision. All he could see was the golden glow of his employer's face.

The shots kept firing, streaming from his cock to her mouth, sending him back even farther into the darkness. Farther, and farther still. Until everything was in shadow. Darkness all around. Nothing else.

He'd woken up in Detta's big bed, probably looking a lot like she did now. Over the hazy days that followed, as she nursed him back to health, she'd confessed her true nature.

In that strange dream-like state, it made perfect sense that Detta should be a succubus. Why not? It didn't even faze him when she admitted she could steal his essence. She could. All of it. She could. But she wouldn't, because she loved Max too much. That's what she said. This had never happened before, never in her entire life. As much as she wanted to suck the breath from his lungs, she couldn't. She really and truly loved him.

Max approached the bed with a bowl of Jean's soup on a tray. The succubus he loved slumped on her pillow, looking fragile, weak as a kitten.

"Bernadetta," he said.

She gazed up at him while his fingers tightened around the tray.

"You can't go on like this, Detta. Take what you need from me. Just take it."

"But I love you, Max. I can't impose this life on you anymore. Trust me, it's not as fun as it looks." She offered a meek smile. "And I can't take the force from strangers, the way I used to, because..." Cough. Wheeze. "Because everybody I drain is loved by someone the way I love you, the way you love me. How could I take that away? How could I take it from anybody?"

"A repentant succubus." Sitting beside her on the bed, Max placed the soup tray on her night table. "Now there's something you don't see every day."

He rested another pillow behind her head before spooning soup between her pale lips.

"It's good," she said. "Thank Jean for me."

Max watched as a blush of colour returned to Detta's cheeks. Max knew what she needed, and it was more than just soup. Couldn't she swallow her pride and take what he wanted to give?

Shifting the blankets aside, Max found Bernadetta naked underneath. She must have cast off her nightgown during one of her fever sweats. When he closed his eyes, he saw her body as it once was, and as it could be again: full and fleshy, bouncing and bountiful. He could give her that.

"Don't you think I love you too?" He traced his tongue down her chest. It was deliciously salty with sweat. He didn't stop until he'd arrived at her pert nipple. When he sucked it, Detta's chest bucked.

She gasped. "What are you doing, Max?"

"I would do anything for you," he told her, because she really didn't seem to understand how much he cared. "Detta, honey, I'd give my life for you."

"Please..." Her voice faltered as he kissed a path down her belly. "I don't want to lose you."

"I don't want to lose you!" He cackled like this was actually funny. "Let's get you a little stronger, then we'll find a way to keep you fed. We'll figure something out, Detta. Just please, please let me help you."

When the tip of his tongue met her pink folds, he could hear the lost lust in her cries. Her clit was hiding, but he found it. If he could get her started like this, surely she'd find enough energy to take what she needed. He just had to turn her on first—and judging by her hoarse moans, she was close.

She whimpered when he sucked her clit. He was getting her there—he could feel it. He had the power, and he worked hard at it. Damned if she wouldn't be screaming for mercy soon, her thin frame shuddering against the mattress, her pussy quaking under his tongue.

"Max!" she cried. "Max..."

When he looked up, Bernadetta waved in a come-hither motion. At first, he wasn't sure what she meant. And then she licked her lips, and they looked full, glossy and plump. Deep, deep red.

"Get up here," she said with a smile. "I want you in my mouth."

They were the greatest words of affection Max had ever heard, and as she wrapped those perfect lips around the head of his cock, sucking resolutely, all he could think to say was, "Detta, I will always love you."

~Sparrow Takes Flight~

"Do you know why I love you?" Joliette sat at the edge of the bench, staring straight ahead. "Do you know why I keep coming back to you time after time?"

Parveen said, "Tell me."

"Well, you're hot, for starters, but it's so much more than that. You understand me. I need my freedom, and you get that. You would never try to tie me down or hold me back. With you, I'm free. We're together, we love each other, but I'm still free. You would never tell me how to live my life or impose your beliefs on me. You love me for who I already am, not for some idea of who I could be. You love me without being possessive, without being jealous. You live your life, I live mine, and we meet somewhere in the middle. And when we meet..." Joliette giggled. "God, is it good!"

"When are you leaving?" Parveen asked, cutting through crap.

"Soon."

"Soon like mid-May or soon like tomorrow?"

Joliette didn't respond. She was fixated on a pair of mourning doves fucking in the grass, the bottom spreading her purple-grey tail feathers for the top. Flailing in unison, the birds seemed stoic, disinterested. Flap your wings and think of England.

"Shit, Jol," Parveen spat with such intensity the doves scattered to the treetops. "Why are you always doing this to me?"

Shrugging, Joliette asked, "Did you expect me to stay?"

"I never expect anything from you," Parveen hissed. Knowing Joliette, she probably took that as a compliment.

Joliette was a wind witch, the breeze incarnate. The slightest change in direction and she was gone without a trace. She couldn't change her nature. It wasn't her fault. Even so, and despite Parveen's absolute independence, it pissed her off when Joliette left. There was never any certainty with that woman. Never.

As usual, Joliette prevented an argument by changing the subject. "Did you know there's a species of lesbian sea gull in California?"

"I told you that," Parveen said.

"You did?"

"I did."

"Oh yeah."

Parveen sat seething in silence, trying not to breathe for fear her slightest movement would send Joliette packing prematurely. No matter how angry she became, she never wanted her little sparrow to take flight.

"Aw, it's starting to rain." Joliette whined as random droplets struck their heads and thighs. "We should head back."

"Why?" Parveen pressed, sparing herself the awkwardness of crying, Don't leave me! I can't live without you!

"See, that's why I love you. I say something practical like, 'We should get out of the rain,' and your response is just, 'Why?' Like the laws of nature don't apply to you. Like the rain's gonna fall and you won't get wet. Like you're superhuman."

"How do you know I'm not?" Parveen challenged, brushing carefree wisps of golden brown hair from Joliette's shoulder. "I could be a witch, like you. An earth witch, maybe. I could be the witch who stays grounded while you're flitting around up in the air."

"Don't say that," Joliette pleaded. She didn't like people making jokes about witches, or pretending to be something they weren't.

As an apology, Parveen leaned in, pressing her lips against Joliette's neck, white and perfect as a marble statue.

"I like you humans," Joliette said, gasping as Parveen's fingers crawled up her thigh. "With humans, what you see is what you get."

"I guess I'm human after all," Parveen whispered, forcing her tongue past surprised teeth, tasting the minty gum sweetness of that warm mouth. Returning the kiss, Joliette unbuttoned her shirt like a park bench was the perfect place for a last fuck.

The skies opened up along with Joliette's white blouse. Warm rain pelted Parveen's scalp as she dug two firm tits from Joliette's bra, sucking eagerly at those hard pink nipples. Sucking so hard she couldn't keep herself from biting the tender buds. Biting so hard Joliette cried out in pain.

Thunder rumbled the ground as Parveen sank to her knees, escaping the rain under cover of Joliette's floral skirt. Tearing her lace thong like a predator, Parveen threw the ruined garment into the grass and opened Joliette's legs wide. Like a tiger, her attack on those juicy folds was fierce. Relentlessly, she lapped the nectar from that swollen cunt, piercing the flesh of her ass with jealous claws. When Joliette cried out in the rain, Parveen planted her face against that screaming wet pussy, wrapping her mouth around those moist lips. She penetrated Joliette, thrashing furiously in that familiar fluid until her tongue muscles cramped from exertion. The flavour was tangy with an aftertaste of sweet, like sourdough bread chased by blueberry honey.

Parveen replaced her tongue with three fingers plunging frantically into Joliette's cunt, a pinky beating against her asshole, pitiless as the storm from above. As driving rain soaking her back, she swathed her lover's clit in the supple warmth of her pursed lips. She sucked noisily while her fingers raced in and out. Fast. Hot.

Shrieking against the sheet lightning, Joliette clamped her cunt like a vice on Parveen's fingers. The sparrow of a girl gripped the park bench like it was trying to escape. Parveen was never so wet as when her fleeting lover pronounced her name at the moment of climax, harmonic as Swan Lake. Licking long and slow, slit to clit, she begged telepathically for Joliette to stay until the orgasmic convulsions subsided.

Wiping the pussy juices from her chin against Joliette's smooth white thigh, Parveen asked, "Where are you going this time?"

The sparrow gazed into the heavens, droplets of rainwater falling from her narrow nose and chin. "Do you know what I love about you?" Joliette asked rhetorically, tucking those perky tits back into her rain-soaked bra. "You respect me, respect my privacy. Know what I mean?"

Joliette rose to depart, her long hair dripping as she bent to pick her torn thong from the green grass. She never left anything behind.

Over the hillock, Joliette disappeared into the blue-grey fog. Barely audible in the storm, the monogamous mourning doves cooed in consolation.

Like a war widow, Parveen carved their initials into the horizontal slat of the brown park bench, dry where Joliette had been sitting. The two were permanently attached now, living in a wooden heart on the public greens. Parveen might not know where in the world Joliette had gotten to, but she could always find this bench; its legs were cemented into the ground.

Secrets of the Solstice Sacrifice

By Giselle Renarde

Chapter One

Y Tylwyth Teg, the fair folk, have lived on this mount since before there was a country to speak of. After a skirmish with y gwragedd annwn, the wee folk of the lakes and streams, our great-mothers and fathers settled in these hills and became the gwyllion, good folk of the mountain. There were no human creatures in that time—only the fair folk, existing unhindered in our ways and travels.

A knock at the door shattered Selyf's concentration. Like a hare on high alert, he sat poised above his magnum opus. If he stayed very quiet, perhaps the intrusive persons outside his lair would think he wasn't home and simply go away.

"Unhindered in our ways and travels," he repeated back to himself.

We used to ride wild horses over hill and dale. These days, they've all been tamed. We've taken to riding wild pigs, errant dogs, even ducks, if we must.

He could still hear them whispering outside, whoever they were. No, it was no use. The damage to his focus proved utterly irreparable, and he threw down his quill to answer the door.

Beyond the threshold stood a saccharine pair oozing so much wretched love he was surprised it didn't drip like syrup all over his polished leather boots. They wore jackets the colour of birch leaves—green to indicate their status as social fae. Selyf would have to remind himself to include a subsection on apparel in his chapter regarding gwyllion social iconography. It would certainly be of interest to those who picked up his book for mere entertainment purposes.

The printmaker had warned him against publishing a purely academic collection. He'd gone so far as suggest Selyf include various insights on the topics or sex and romance. Hardly an area of expertise.

Tugging the sleeves of his deep red cassock, he snapped out of thoughts of his manuscript. "Yes? What is it you want from me?"

He hoped the sharpness in his tone would convey that he was in no mood for visitors. When neither form in the doorway made any inquiry, Selyf let his gaze wander to the female's face. Her eyes striking eyes found him like a maelstrom, drawing him in.

"Well?" Selyf said, pushing aside his discomfort. "Speak up!"

Turning her head from the cradle of her young man's shoulder, the girl asked, "Professor Selyf?"

Her voice was neither deep nor lilting, but it warmed his body like a tender embrace.

"Yes," he stammered, near a whisper. "Yes, I am Selyf."

He recognized at once that he was staring at her, and yet he could hardly bring himself to stop. Her raven hair cascaded around the slender sapling that was her neck. Her lips were the colour of berries. Her height suggested mixed roots, though it would be churlish to ask.

Placing her hand flush to Selyf's chest, she introduced them both. "My name is Fay Trysta, and the man you see beside me is my fondest caru, Fay Bedwyn."

That word, caru, struck Selyf like a dagger. Of course these social fae were lovers—that much was plain to see—but to hear the word spoken by those pouting lips confirmed his nauseating suspicion. Selyf's heart hardened to dreaded iron.

"Yes?" He could hardly bring himself to look upon lovely Trysta, whose hand still lay across his breast, as he snapped, "And? What is it you want?"

He gazed firmly at the boy, Bedwyn, whose eyes grew wide with alarm.

"Trysta," the ginger specimen stuttered. Taking hold of the girl's wrist, he swept her hand from Selyf's heart. "You forget yourself, cara. Remember, a red jacket is the garb of the solitary fay. I'm certain the good professor doesn't appreciate your social advances."

Bowing her head, the girl said, "Oh, Fay Professor, I do apologize. Bedwyn and I have mixed roots, as you can surely see. We often do forget the ways of the fae, spending so much time in the human realm."

He would have scolded anybody else for daring to touch him so boldly, but knew through his research the "trooping" fae, as they were oft known, greeted one another with warm embraces. Humans were much the same. Surely the girl didn't intend any rudeness. She was simply raised to be congenial.

With a deep breath, Selyf replied, "No harm done. Now, if you please, I am exceedingly busy."

When he attempted to close the heavy wooden door, Bedwyn held it open. "We're sorry, Fay Professor, but you're the only one who can help us now. We've been to the apothecary—well, Trysta has, I should say—and even he hasn't the foggiest idea what to do about her problem."

Selyf considered the girl as she rolled a pendant between her fingers. When she looked up, her eyes penetrated to his very depths. Immediately, he glanced away, up to the edge of the doorframe. A black spider nested in a crook where the wood was rotted. If this woman with eyes like the sea had not been standing before him, he would have smashed the creature with the palm of his hand.

Snapping into the reality of work, Selyf held his wrists behind his back. "Apothecary, you say? Is it a medical problem you've come to see me about? You realize I am not a doctor."

"We're beyond needing doctors," Bedwyn pleaded. "Trysta is beyond them, I should say. It is her problem, after all. Well, when all is said and done, it's my problem too, I suppose. What I mean to say is, it's a female problem she's come to see you with."

The boy nodded as though they two shared some secret affinity by virtue of their gender.

Selyf shook an exasperated head. "Yes, all right, thank you."

A female problem was no great feat. Selyf prided himself on his extensive book-knowledge of the female anatomy.

"Trysta, is it?" he asked the girl, in a desperate attempt to disguise her name's immediate branding on his soul. "Would you prefer a private consultation, or would you have your dear Bedlam sit in?"

"Bedwyn," she corrected. She rolled her pendant so quickly between her fingers it might have caught fire if it weren't made of gold. "Let's speak in private, please. Bedwyn isn't comfortable discussing these matters."

Pressing past Selyf, she snuck deeper inside his private study.

With a satisfied shrug, Selyf turned to the ginger boy, offered a flat, "Goodbye," and closed the door in his face.

Racing to the window, Bedwyn waved to the girl. "I'll come by later on to pick you up. I miss you already, cara Trysta!"

"Yes, thank you," Selyf muttered, shutting the curtains.

Even in the darkness of the study, the unsmiling girl looked more beautiful than anyone Selyf had seen around the hillside or village. When she gazed at him, her eyes were so infused with hope that pressure descended on his chest. He looked around and felt utterly inadequate. His room was cluttered with books and sheaves, with every type of herb and specimen an out-of-practice magical might have in his surroundings.

Trysta ducked slightly at the subterranean ceiling. Those with human blood tended to be taller than the pure fae.

"I'm afraid I have nothing to offer you," Selyf said. He hadn't any milk for tea, and the half loaf of bread in his drawer went stale three days ago.

"Oh," she replied with disappointment in her eyes. Creeping toward the door, she asked, "Shall I go, then?"

When he realized they were talking at cross-purposes, he leapt to block her departure. "No... food! No food. I have no food to offer you. My advice is yours for the taking. I only hope I can offer a solution to your problem."

"You know what you might offer me, for starters?" she asked with a generous grin. "A chair."

Her smile was contagious, even to a solitary fay.

"Please," Selyf said, indicating the seat across from his desk. "Do sit down."

As she placed her bag in her lap and crossed one leg over the other, Selyf slid into the leather armchair where he sat most days and slept some nights. With this beauty in his space, he couldn't overcome his embarrassment at the bacheloresque mess. Selyf wondered if he looked as much in disarray as his study.

"It's an awful thing to admit," Trysta began with a slight titter, "but I thought you'd be dreadfully old."

"Strange," he replied, retrieving kernels of his lost sense of humour. "I thought I was."

Tossing her dark hair behind her shoulders, Trysta offered a charitable smile. "Of course! You're a full fairy. Your face does not betray your age, but your intellect and accomplishments are quite another story. Bedwyn and I walked from two villages beyond the dale to seek your audience. There are other magicals closer to home, but we've heard tales of your power since we were children. I can't tell how grateful Bedwyn and I are that you would make time for us."

Bedwyn, Bedwyn, wretched bloody Bedwyn!

Clearing his throat, Selyf hardened his tone. "You speak on your lover's behalf, do you?"

"Bedwyn is not my lover," Trysta replied directly.

When he met her gaze, he was surprised to find her glaring. Her dark eyes seemed to draw his soul out of his body, until he was all but floating above his desk to join her on the other side.

"Not in the sense you imagine," she continued. "That's why I've come to you, Fay Professor. I have a great deal to share with you, but only if you can assure discretion. Bedwyn knows nothing of my troubles, and I should like to keep it that way."

"Of course." Selyf shifted papers out of the way in search of a new sheet. Quill poised in readiness, he bid, "Why not tell me about this female problem to which your ginger boy alluded? And then, if you will, let me know of any failed treatments you've received from your doctors."

Shaking her head, Trysta let out a wry laugh. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and fondled the pendant hanging between her pert breasts. "It's all lies. I've never seen any doctor for my troubles. I am beyond repair. How could a lowly medicine man help me?"

Quill still poised above paper, Selyf replied, "It's rather hard for me to say with so little information. What is the malady you speak of?"

Wringing her pendant between both hands, she looked all around the room. Even with Selyf's difficulty empathizing, he could see the girl's distress. "You can assure me absolute confidence?" she again asked.

"Oh, yes," he said in his most faithful tone of voice. If he could have reached across the desk, he would have set his hand on hers. "I am a solitary fay. I have nobody to tell."

With a sad smile, she looked into his eye and nodded.

"My mother is fay," she said, holding her hands against the bag in her lap. "When she was young, she liked to roam the villages. All the girls did, in those days. My mother and the other girls were convinced the humans couldn't see them. Now, of course, we know that isn't the case. There are children as well as adults with second sight, who can see the glow of a particularly bright fairy."

"And your mother was one such fay?" Selyf asked.

Trysta nodded. "My mother's radiance was significant in those days, or so she tells me. One afternoon, she was quite on her own when a village boy took note of her. The human was young and attractive, and my mother took his attention as quite the compliment. It wasn't until he started touching her that she realized her folly. He took her for a Corrigan, it seemed. Those bawdy creatures are only too well-known."

"Corrigans, yes." Selyf flipped through his manuscript until he'd come upon his neat description of the species. "Fae known to be young women in the daytime and old women at night. They enjoy quite a reputation."

"Yes, well, my mother isn't one. She tried to flee, but the human was bigger and stronger. Fay Professor, he held her down and raped her. That is the fashion in which I was conceived. That is the shame which has forever branded my flesh."

Here, Trysta ceased her speech. Tears rushed down her down her cheeks.

Flustered, Selyf dug through a desk drawer for a clean handkerchief. He'd heard tears denoted sadness in the human realm, and the last thing he wished was for the girl to feel any pain.

When he'd found the handkerchief, he rushed to her side. "Here you are," he said, handing it to her. She pressed the cotton square to her cheeks. "And is this the root of what the daft boy termed your female problem?"

"Oh, no." She chuckled, despite her tears. "I've not yet begun to describe my troubles, Fay Professor."

"Please," he said, settling against the desk. "Call me Selyf. So few do."

She nodded. "Selyf."

When she said his name, his whole body seemed to ignite piece by piece. He experienced unusual palpitations, and sent a hand to cover his heart as she continued her account.

"When my mother discovered I was quickening within her, she returned to the village to show the man who'd caused all the trouble. Mother found the wicked creature, but now he behaved as though she was invisible. No matter her effort, the great brute ignored my mother entirely. And so, she returned to the mountain to wait out the term, all the while wishing for a happy, healthy baby girl."

Excellent chapter focus! Selyf reminded himself to include in his manuscript a section regarding sex selection in fay babies. It was the mother's duty to choose her child's gender while it was still in the womb.

"Fay wishes are powerful tools, as you know," Trysta went on. "But no amount of wishing can fully alter the form human blood has selected. When I was born, my mother soon discovered I was not the thing she'd wished for—not on the outside—and yet she knew I was her little girl. She knew it in her heart, for it was a fay mother's prerogative to choose her child's sex. And so, she dressed me as a girl and taught me everything a female child ought to know. I grew up a girl like any other."

"I'm not entirely certain I understand," the professor admitted. "When you were born, your body was not a female body? Is that what you mean to say?"

The young woman nodded, seeming ashamed. "Against all odds, my mother was right. Her fay wishing had worked to some degree, because when I grew into adulthood, my child's body became a woman's. My hips widened, and I sprouted my lovely bronnydd."

"Ah, so they're real?" Selyf asked, recognizing immediately what a stupid comment it was. He wasn't used to feeling anything but highly intelligent. The misstep was jarring.

Trysta laughed. "Yes, Professor Selyf, they are quite real. My body is a woman's through and through—except for one small detail."

She indicated her lap, and Selyf immediately understood.

"And your boy Bedwyn knows nothing of this?" he asked.

"Nothing. I'm sure you see only his naïveté, but Bedwyn is a dear and kind young man. More than that, he shares my experience of growing up half human, half fay. Selyf..." She placed a warm hand upon his thigh. Her eyes were flecked with mauve when she looked up into his. "I want to share my body with my caru, and when I do, I wish for that body to be fully feminine. I simply can't live this way anymore. Will you help me?"

"If he's so naïve, chances are he hasn't a clue what you're supposed to look like down there," Selyf replied, unable to contain his jealousy. A creature of such intense beauty deserved a learned man, a man of intellect, a magical being! Not some pathetic mixed-blood. "Why not simply undress before him and wait for a reaction?"

Without removing her warm hand from his leg, she said, "Surely you jest, Professor."

"Of course," he relented.

Generally, Selyf had no trouble solving problems, but Trysta presented him with a significant challenge. The most striking of his troubles was the inability to concentrate in her midst. Her splendour shook him profoundly.

"But you must understand," he said, "I've never come up against a dilemma like yours. I admit, I'm not certain how to proceed. Even a fay magical has his limitations."

"I understand," she said. "Human blood is a most stagnant substance. The body becomes set in its ways. That's why I never bothered with the village doctors. I knew they could no more help me than understand me. More than likely, they would have labelled me mad and locked me in a dungeon."

"I'm certain you are correct." Selyf placed a tentative hand on top of hers. "I will do all I can to help you. Please feel free to stay here while I consult my manuscripts."

Rising from her chair, she tossed her bag over her shoulder before setting her hand over Selyf's heart.

"You have no food," she said in a voice like floating embers. "Let me fetch you milk and honey from the gwyllion town. We must sustain you as you work."

As she buttoned her trooping fay jacket and went out into the world, he placed a wish on the wind for her swift return. It was the first time he'd felt such hope since early childhood. Even then, it was only his mother's safe return he wished for. The day she was snatched up on the way to market, he ceased his wanton wishing and followed his father into the solitary realm of magical artistry.

In Trysta's absence, he pored over volume after volume of potions, spells, and enchantments. The greatest obstacle was in finding a solution that would surely to work on a mixed-blood fay. This problem did not exist amongst purebloods, since they possessed the power to alter their bodies magically.

For most fae, it took little more than a wish.

Chapter Two

Upon her return from the gwyllion town, Trysta spotted her caru halfway up the hill. Her stomach sank as she realized she didn't want to see him just yet. She needed more time alone with Selyf, without the pressure of knowing Bedwyn was standing just outside the cottage, waiting for an answer.

Though she generally loved passing the time of day at market, she'd rushed through her purchases so she might return to the professor post haste. She hadn't the slightest clue what foods a solitary magical might enjoy, so she'd bought a sampling of everything on offer.

"Trysta!" a familiar voice called out.

The ginger boy, Selyf had called him. She snickered as he fast approached. Bedwyn's hair was rather more sandy than ginger, she thought, but the professor's obvious envy made her feel unique.

"Bedwyn, my caru!" she said, as he raced toward her. She planted a kiss on his lips out of habit. "Did you have a nice walk?"

"Never mind my walk!" he said, his voice pitched with alarm. "What did the professor say? Did he fix you all up?"

"He's looking into it just at the minute." What could she say to change the topic? "I bought some food for him, and for us as well. Here, have a pasty. I know they're your favourite."

He smiled brightly, kissing her forehead before taking the food from her basket. "I'm keen on you, you know. Physically, and all."

She couldn't help but laugh. "Yes, I'm well aware of your keenness, caru."

"I hope the professor finds a solution to your problem, whatever it is." As he spoke and chewed simultaneously, little pastry bits flew from his mouth. "And please don't tell me, because I don't think I could stomach it. I witnessed a birthing mare when I was small, and nearly passed out at the sight. If your female problem looks anything like that, I wish never to hear of it."

If only he knew, she reflected. And yet, she'd never tell him.

As they wandered to the ancient stump under which the respected magical lived, Bedwyn said, "I pictured Professor Selyf an old man, but he looks as young as we are."

"Full fairies have much more control over their appearances than we do," she reminded him.

Bedwyn gobbling up the end of his pasty. "He's really quite attractive, don't you think, with his dark hair and birch-pale skin?"

Her heart beat roughly in her chest. "I suppose so."

When she rapped at his door, Selyf called for her to enter. His voice sounded so jubilant she was certain he'd found the solution.

He looked up from his stack of volumes as she entered his study, and joy illuminated his cold face. Coming from anyone but a solitary magical, she would have taken his tone for loving.

"Trysta," he said in a breathy whisper. His face fell when Bedwyn entered the lair. "Oh. I see you've brought the ginger boy along. Very well. Since you're both so curious about my progress, I'll have you know I've made none as yet."

"Sorry to interrupt your thoughts," Trysta said with a bow.

His tone softened. "I shall work endlessly at this task until your crisis is resolved."

Even from across the room, she could sense the warmth of his breath on her skin. Her heart melted for the solitary creature. She knew that, in only a matter of minutes, he'd grown to love her. Magicals were often that way. Surely he did not cherish Trysta herself, but rather the challenge her situation put to his intellect.

She thanked him for his efforts, and set her basket of treats on the chair across from his desk. Selyf appeared truly touched by the gesture. When he thanked her, she looked into his dark eyes and saw sparks of something altogether lovely. There were stars in his gaze—millions of them. All the knowledge of the world existed behind those eyes, and she knew he would find the answer to her query.

He held her gaze so firmly that she grew self-conscious. What would Bedwyn think?

"We'll leave you to your work," she said, turning away from the magnetic professor.

The fabric of his blood-red cassock rustled as he rose. "Where will you stay? Night is soon upon us."

"Oh," Trysta replied, looking to Bedwyn for answers. In truth, she hadn't thought that far ahead. The journey to the gwyllion mountain had taken far longer than anticipated. They couldn't possibly return before nightfall.

"No worries," Bedwyn replied. "There's plenty of grass out there. I'll build us a bit of a lean-to, shall I?"

"I won't hear of it," Selyf interrupted. "Trysta, there is a goosefeather cot in the back room. I shan't have any use for it if I work through the night. It's yours for the taking, if you wish."

Casting his eyes over the food basket, Selyf advised they to picnic outdoors before the sun set. When she reminded him she'd purchased the foods for his enjoyment, he reminded her that full fae ate only for pleasure and not of necessity. Even so, she snuck a corner of honeycomb onto a clean dish on his desk before slipping out to sup with Bedwyn.

Her caru talked incessantly, as was his wont, while she watched the orange sun sink into the horizon. They'd spent most of the day walking. Her legs ached. When she yawned, Bedwyn pointed to a hedge and said, "I think I'll sleep over there for the night. Will you take the professor's cot?"

Her heart thumped against her ribs. "You wouldn't be opposed to it?"

"Of course not," he laughed. "You with your female problem, and the professor being a solitary fay? I know you won't get up to nothing. Besides, you never did like sleeping rough. If there's a cot available, you ought to take it."

She squeezed his hand as tight as she could. "Thank you," she said with a kiss to his lips.

He offered a cheeky growl in response, and hugged her tight to his chest. "Just imagine when there's more of that on offer! I've heard there's nothing in life more satisfying than the act."

With a slight smile, she looked in the direction of Selyf's lair. "Yes," she said before rising to seek out her cot. "Sleep well, caru. I shall see you in the morning."

Chapter Three

He knew she'd return. He sensed it in her look of longing as she left for dinner with that stupid sod of a caru.

"You're here for my bed, I presume?" Selyf said as she slipped past the door.

Her eyes revealed everything she longed to say, but he understood her restriction.

"Will you sit with me?" he asked, beckoning her into the chair by his desk.

Gazing into the empty seat, she said, "I should not have come."

Selyf said nothing as she looked on with apprehension.

Slipping her bag from her shoulder, she sat in the chair. "You should know you represent a distinct temptation for me."

Her bold admission took his breath away. "As do you, for me," he admitted. "But you needn't fear me, Fay Trysta. I have spent all my adult life as a solitary magical. I know denial and self-sacrifice only too well. You are safe here in my home."

With tears in her eyes, she nodded. For a moment, she looked as though she might speak, but then said nothing. As she rose from her chair, she finally blurted, "What if I don't want to be safe anymore?"

He only stammered, with no response at hand.

"You speak of denial?" she went on. "What do you think my life has consisted of? At my age, I have yet to experience the pleasures of the flesh. In the village, I must pretend to be exactly what I seem, and why? Because only my mother, her midwife, and I can know the truth. You have no idea the trust I've put in you, Professor Selyf. You hold my very life in your hands."

"I hold your life?" Selyf asked, rushing around his desk. "Why may I not hold your body as well?"

Slipping past him, she hurried to the window, mumbling, "Bedwyn."

Just as Selyf's heart began to plummet, she continued, "He mustn't see."

Ensuring the curtains were fully closed, she walked to him, slowly. Her eyes burned like roaring embers as they explored the lengths of his body. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she ensnared him in a kiss the likes of which he'd never imagined. He felt her veiled passion coursing through his veins as his mouth melded with hers.

Their tongues fought and surged, one against the other. His whole body was so rapt with hers he could hardly breathe. As they kissed, he ran intrepid fingers through her silken hair and down her back. In turn, she held his cheeks and his neck, his back and his sides. When he grasped the firm flesh of her buttocks, Trysta wheezed and broke free.

The look in her eyes was indiscernible but for the temptation it aroused. He almost apologized for being so dreadfully forward before realizing it was she who'd kissed him.

Grabbing her wrists, he pulled her into his arms and carried forth the sweet embrace she'd abandoned. After a moment of brave indecision, she gave in to the kiss and melted in Selyf's arms. His tongue wrangled hers until she broke away once more.

Pressing her soft lips to his ear, she whispered, "I've never felt like this before."

"Neither have I," he admitted. "You've aroused in me the sleeping serpent."

At that turn of phrase, her body grew limp in his arms.

"Yes," she said. "I know only too well what you mean."

He set her free out of pity. When she sank into her chair and set her head against his side, he placed a comforting arm around her shoulder. Her eyelids drooped. Her eyes closed.

"You need your sleep," he saw. "Let me show you to your cot, and then I shall continue working at your dilemma."

Lowering her eyes, she nodded and followed along as he led her to the back bedroom.

"Thank you for your hospitality," she said, rather too formally.

"It is my pleasure one hundred times over." With a deep bow, he bid goodnight and left her to sleep.

When he sank into his chair, his eyes glazed as he listened to the creaks in the floorboards. Undoubtedly, she was undressing in the next room.

He imagined running his fingers against her soft skin as he took in the scent of her hair. As a solitary, he'd never had a guest in his home. With a volume wide open in front of him, he stared blankly at the spot they'd stood as they kissed. A serpentine hunger rose through his body, but all he would allow himself to eat was the square of honeycomb she'd left on his desk.

Chapter Four

She awoke to a door thrown open.

For a moment, Trysta had no recollection of how she'd come to be in this dark chamber. As moonlight struck the man's eager face, she remembered the previous day, and the wish on her lips as she drifted into slumber. It involved this man, Selyf—that he would enter her room in the night to plant kisses on her mouth, down her neck, and all across her chest.

Sitting up in the cot, she allowed the sheets to flutter down her waist. Selyf's jaw dropped as he stood inside the doorframe, staring at her naked breasts.

"Trysta," he said, in a barely audible mumble. He looked up and into her eyes. "Fay Trysta, I have excellent news. I've found a solution to your dilemma. I can't be sure it will work, because the mythology is not our own, but I can find no other possibility."

"That is good news," she replied, drawing the sheet back up her chest. It would have been better news had he come to ravage her. "Please sit," she bid, tapping on the cot. "Tell me what you've discovered."

With what seemed almost to be a blush, he placed himself down at the edge of the mattress. When his lean behind landed directly on top of her feet, he bounced up and burbled apologies. Solitary fae weren't known for their abilities for form social bonds. She took his bumbling disposition as a lovely compliment.

"It's quite all right," she assured him. "You can sit on my feet. You might keep them warm."

With a veiled smile, he set himself down. Although it was only his bottom against her toes, and separated by layers of bedcovers, she felt intensely connected with Selyf.

"I made the mistake at first," he admitted, "of examining only the fay magical volumes. Finally, I realized they would be of little use in your unique circumstance. Every solution involved simple fay wishes, which, as we have seen, won't work because of your mixed blood."

When he looked into her face, she thought for a moment he might crawl up the bed to plant a kiss on her lips. Instead, he shook off his fixation and looked down into his volume.

"Out of pure good chance, I happened to trip over this manuscript of human mythologies. When I flipped open its cover, it came directly to this page here. You see?" He showed her the illumination of Balder, the god of light. "Every year at the time of Solstice, Balder is honoured through sacrifice only to be born again as the sun goddess Sunna."

"Yes," she said. "That story sounds vaguely familiar, but what has it to do with me?"

"There are accounts," he replied, tracing his finger down the page, "of human sacrifices. They began the ritual with fully male bodies. Those sacrifices emerged from the ceremony glowing like the sun goddess, with bodies fully female."

She could hardly believe her ears. Could the answer be so simple? "Are these true accounts? Human mythology is not like that of the fae. Our stories can be substantiated. The humans tell tales for their own amusement. Would you cause me a mortal wound if this narrative were based on fiction?"

Closing the large volume, Selyf moved closer to her on the cot. Taking her by the hand, he explained, "These sacrifices were not made with the dagger, but with the..."

"Ah."

He didn't have to finish his thought for her to understand his meaning.

"And the wound, you already have," he went on.

With a reticent smile, she acknowledged, "Yes, I've heard mention of that type of ritual. I always took those stories for idle gossip."

"In ancient times, these ceremonies were conducted by druidic priests," Selyf replied, with a firm hold on her gaze. "But since we haven't any at our disposal, I suggest we employ a fay magical instead."

Her fingers felt numb, even as he held her hand. She released the sheets she'd held against her chest, and they tumbled to her waist.

"You would perform the ritual with me?" she asked, wanting him to witness her true beauty before responding.

"Would you have me?" he asked, gazing from her face to her naked breasts.

In answer to his question, she took his hands in hers and brought them to her pale orbs. She gasped as he touched her skin with the tips of his fingers. Leaning into her chest, he set his hot tongue against her nipple and traced its perimeter, making her gasp. He left one, wet and straining, as he brought the other into his mouth. Her whole body felt warm as he suckled and squeezed.

Pressing her breasts together, he licked the cleave as she grasped his dark hair. There was so much she'd desired and denied. To finally succumb to a talented tongue left her panting with need.

When he kissed her lips, her body smiled in anticipation. "Can we do it now?" she begged. "The ritual. The ceremony. Please, Professor."

"Selyf," he said with a chuckle. Sitting up in the cot, he brushed the wrinkles from his cassock. "You really must call me Selyf now."

It was her turn to blush. "Of course."

"The ritual must take place in twenty-two hours."

She nodded. "Why then and not now?"

Taking his precious volume up and off the floor, he explained, "The time and place seem vital to the success of the ritual. We are very fortunate to have the site of sacrifice close by. If we set out on foot at daybreak, we should arrive in good time, but we must go on the morrow or else wait a full year."

"All right," she agreed. She'd come here with purpose. Trysta would do anything to see her body changed. Still, she was curious, "Why must it be tomorrow?"

Rising from the bed, Selyf said, "At midnight on the Summer Solstice, the god and goddess of light intersect. If we enter the ritual at that particular hour, you, as human sacrifice, may emerge embodied as the goddess Sunna."

Though she didn't want to raise as dissenting voice, she had to ask, "I may or I will?"

With a deep, somewhat defeated, breath, he replied, "The manuscript claims many successes, but, as you say, there is limited overlap between human mythologies and actualities. I could continue searching for another answer, but I must admit I've reached my endgame. If the sacrifice is unsuccessful, I won't know how to proceed."

After all the research he'd done on her behalf, it saddened her to see the magical so down on himself.

"But if it is successful, we will celebrate," she encouraged him. "I have every confidence in you, Selyf. As I said, I've told you more about myself than I've entrusted to anyone else, including my caru."

That word seemed to strike him like a dagger, and she immediately wished she could take it back. As he bid her goodnight once again and fled the room, Trysta gazed up into the scintillating moonlight.

Caru.

Yes, she loved that "ginger boy." She loved him dearly, and they shared a lifelong bond, but their partnership never did demand exclusivity. Despite the human blood in their veins, they'd never even spoken of a handfasting. It didn't seem necessary. Their rapport was perfectly happy without bringing the law into it. That's all marriage seemed, to Trysta—a contract, rights to ownership, a man ruling over his woman. As cara and caru, they were partners. Once Selyf had sacrificed her on the solstice, she would even have a body to fortify their bond.

Chapter Five

Morning broke soon enough, and before even bidding her good morrow, Selyf asked, "What shall we do about the ginger boy?"

"What do you mean?" she asked as she rubbed her eyes. When she sat up and the sheet fell to her waist, Selyf seemed to take no notice of her nudity. "What of him?"

"He cannot come with us," he declared, still dressed in his alluring cassock.

Trysta had always been drawn to intellect, and there was no more appealing an intellectual than a fay magical. The one thing she'd forgotten about the solitary fae was that, when they did form bonds, they quite often grew jealous and possessive. Most fae, whether pure blood or mixed, never saw the appeal of the solitary intellect squirreled away in his lair, reading and writing manuscripts. When those few women did manage to break into a magical's heart, it didn't end well. She'd heard cases of Corrigans locked in cages to keep the eyes of the world from their faces and the hands of the world from their flesh.

Yes, the magicals were a jealous lot, according to local gossip.

"Why can't Bedwyn come along?" she asked.

He stepped outside the chamber door so she might change her clothes in privacy. "You don't want your boy knowing what this sacrifice is in aid of, correct?"

"Yes," she replied. "That's right."

"But surely he'll witness what you don't want seen when you're lying naked on the sacrificial stone."

Her heart thundered.

"Will I be fully naked?" she asked, with trepidation. "Only, nobody's ever seen me naked since I was a baby bathed by my mother."

He stepped inside the chamber just as she fastened the last button on her long green jacket. "We will leave him a note."

"He doesn't know his letters," Trysta protested. "Can I not simply tell him we must venture out? As long as I return, he'll only be happy our troubles are past."

When she looked into Selyf's eyes, his expression was surprisingly soft. He nodded, taking up his sack and the basket of food left from the previous night.

"Very well," he said. "Whisper in his ear as we pass, but we must set off now."

A thrill ran through her body as she jumped into her shoes and raced out the door. When she arrived at the hedge where Bedwyn slept the previous night, there remained no trace of him.

"Bedwyn?" she called out. "Caru?"

Closing the door to his lair, Selyf joined her in the grass. "Has your ginger boy run off?"

"No," she snapped, though she wasn't at all sure. "He enjoys morning hikes. Perhaps we'll meet up with him along the way."

"Perhaps, indeed."

Taking the food basket from his hand, she said, "Let me carry this."

Selyf wouldn't release it. "Don't concern yourself."

She smiled, but didn't let go of the handle, even as they set off over the hillock and down the dale. "We'll both carry it, then, if you insist on being so stubborn."

He smiled too, though he seemed intent on veiling his pleasure. "I do insist. I am nothing if not stubborn."

As they hiked, Trysta looked in all directions, searching out Bedwyn. By mid-day, her feet ached and she figured there was no way his morning hike took him so far north. He must have absconded in the night, as Selyf suggested.

"You're hungry," the professor observed. "And you're in pain. Let us sit."

To her surprise, he joined in her luncheon. "I thought you full fae only ate for pleasure," she teased as he snacked on strawberries.

"Pleasure," he replied, "is sitting in the grass on a summer's day across from the most beautiful girl in all of Faedom."

She laughed at his obvious flirtation. "What do you know of summer's days?" she teased, drawing her thumb across his chin. "You're pale as a banshee. You look as though you hadn't seen the sun in years!"

"Indeed," he replied.

Breathing deeply, she considered the dark circles beneath his dark eyes, and asked, "What if Bedwyn has left me for good?"

Wrapping his thin, pink lips around a strawberry, he shrugged. "I'm sure you'll find a way to cope."

They continued eating in silence. She didn't ask why he gazed at her so intently, because she knew it was the same reason she stared at him, absorbing every sharp feature of his sleepless face. When they packed up to walk on, they spoke very little. Being half fay, she still managed to communicate a great deal without words. She let him know how very much she appreciated him simply by walking at his side.

Darkness set across the sacrificial mount as they arrived at its base in the midst of celebration.

"All these people," Selyf said with a shudder. He wrapped his arms across his chest even though, as a pure blood fay, chances were great that nobody could see him. Trysta, on the other hand, had enough human blood in her system to be seen by all.

Though Selyf trudged on ahead, Trysta stopped when she arrived near a group of children building a bonfire. It had been many years since she'd attended a solstice celebration, but the memories flooded back as she watched them tossing kindling on top of dried leaves.

"They're jumping!" someone cried from around the bend. "Children, come and watch! They're jumping now!"

Trysta's heart leapt with nostalgia. "They're jumping," she repeated. Catching up with Selyf, she pulled at his sleeve. "Come with me. We must watch."

"Watch what?" he scoffed as she dragged him around the base of the mount.

Finding the jumpers was an easy enough task—one must only look for the biggest bonfire around.

"Where are you taking me?" Selyf went on complaining.

The bonfire was spectacular. She'd guess it was nearly as tall as she herself. Alongside Selyf, she stood on the outskirts of the assembled group.

"Jumping the bonfire is a solstice tradition," she explained in a hush. With Selyf invisible to human eyes, she didn't want onlookers to notice her speaking to herself.

The first of the jumpers, a man in his prime, geared up to hoots and hollers from the crowd.

"What on earth is he planning to do?" Selyf scoffed as the young man ran toward the flames. At the very last moment, he lifted his feet off the ground and leapt across the fire. When he tumbled down unscathed on the other side, the crowd applauded.

Selyf clasped his hand to his heart. "Why would anybody do such a thing? These humans must be out of their minds!"

"It's a tradition," Trysta replied with a shrug. "They jump the bonfire for good luck, and to rid themselves of negativity." With a chuckle, she mused, "Perhaps I ought to give it a go. I could use more good luck than anyone here."

"I'd sooner tear my hair out than watch you risk your life," Selyf replied. Taking her by the hand, he led her up the mount.

"What a shame that would be," she teased. "I quite like your hair. It's almost as black as mine."

He looked to her and raised an eyebrow. "It's blacker, thank you."

The mountain's atmosphere was highly social. Couples and families milled about as they hiked upwards. When they arrived at the sacrificial site, they found the stone grown over with lush greenery, and the greenery swathed in breeding couples of all species. Selyf scoffed at the sight. "What is this meant to be?"

"The goddess is fertile, and solstice is a time for handfasting," she said, indicating those couples whose wrists remained tied together even after their ceremonies.

When a girl and a boy looked up from their passionate embrace to give her a sneer, Trysta pushed Selyf into a rock overhang grown with ivy.

"Best we conceal ourselves," she advised. "Let the young people get on without us old folks staring at them."

"Old?" Selyf laughed. "I would hardly call you that."

"Perhaps not chronologically," she agreed. "But I often feel I've lived many lives in this one. Sometimes I feel very old indeed."

She watched through the ivy as the couples on the mount rose to their passions. Her sense of envy fought with wonder. "I want to be like them," she confessed. "They look so happy together."

"Enraptured," Selyf agreed. Placing a hand on her kneeling thigh, he asked, "Are you prepared for the sacrifice?"

How could she respond but to laugh? "Are you?"

When he turned to meet her gaze, his eyes seemed to smolder like the bonfire below. Without words, he kissed her lips and she surrendered to the burn. At midnight, she'd take him inside herself and his magic would carve a new course through her body.

"All right, you lot!" a matronly voice called out across the peak. "Break it up, will you? The wee ones are one their way for the fire wheel!"

As couples across the mount moaned, Trysta withdrew from their kiss. The crowd from the base of the hill ascended to the top, armed with torches and straw-stuffed wheels.

"Oh, there's more to your wretched human celebration, is there?" Selyf teased.

With a chuckle, she said, "Yes, there's more. You see those wheels they're holding, filled up with straw? Each farm brings one up to the top of the hill. They light the wheel on fire, and roll it down. If the wheel is still burning when it reaches the base, that means the year's harvest will be rich."

"That's a rather ridiculous belief," he replied as they came out of hiding to join the crowd.

"As ridiculous as your goddess of light ritual?" she teased in a hushed voice.

"Point well taken."

The villagers cheered as they lit their wheels, and the aroma of burning wood and straw filled the night air. They rolled their blazing wheels down the hill, and children followed suit by running or rolling along after. The chattering adults pursued the children, and the young people trailed along. In time, there was nobody left on the peak but Trysta and Selyf. Still, bonfires burned below.

"We should begin," he said, pulling the tools of his trade from his sack.

She stood beside the mossy stone, tracing her fingers across its soft vegetation. "I'm afraid." She laughed. "I don't know why."

That was a lie, of course. She knew the reason precisely.

"Selyf, I don't want you seeing me naked."

He nodded in response, and pulled a strip of silk from his sack. "I thought you might say that."

For a solitary fay, Selyf seemed to understand her surprisingly well. He watched as she unbuttoned her long jacket. It fell to the ground, revealing the naked breasts he'd worshipped the night before. Under rays of moonlight, he looked on. Her breath grew deep. She always wore layers to ensure nobody would see.

Handing over the piece of silk, Selyf turned his back to her. When she'd fully undressed, she set her body down on the altar. Her skin was utterly bare but for the covering over the aspect of her body she didn't want him to see.

"You can turn around now," she beckoned, though she felt terribly apprehensive about the whole sacrifice idea.

Anything to be in my true body, and a body I could share with Bedwyn, she reminded herself. Bedwyn...wherever he'd gone.

When Selyf looked her over, she felt a renewed sense of wonder. Something in his gaze put her immediately at ease.

Setting his paraphernalia at her feet, he read a long string of words she didn't understand. His voice resonated deep in her body. She felt a tingling sensation across her chest and her arms. Her fingers and toes felt warm, and there were fireworks exploding beneath her silk sheathe. He instructed her to close her eyes. When she did, stars soared across the dark horizon, and she knew they were entering a place beyond the world of here and now.

Droplets of fragranced oil fell across her chest, belly, and thighs like summer rain. When warm hands met her skin, she opened her eyes to find Selyf hovering over her. Her heart ignited.

"What must I do?" She felt dizzied as he traced his hands across the soft terrain of her flesh.

Pressing his mouth to her ear, he said, "Enjoy."

His hot breath coursed through her veins until she felt as though she were floating above the clouds. When Selyf kissed her full on the lips, she threw her arms around his neck. He took her wrists and held them against the mossy altar. Though she wanted to press herself against him, he held her down until she knew to obey. She lay very still as he flipped her over.

Repeating his secret words, he dripped oil across her back, from her neck and all the way down to her thighs. When a cool stream of oil coursed down the cleave of her buttocks, she gasped at the unfamiliar yet delightful sensation. Selyf stood at her side, unbuttoning his cassock, but she couldn't turn her head far enough to get a good look at his body.

Pressing his mouth to her ear, he whispered, "The time has come, Fay Trysta. Are you prepared for the sacrifice?"

"Yes," she said in a breathy murmur. "Please, yes, oh please begin the sacrifice..."

Chapter Six

Setting his naked front against her slick back, he draped his long cassock over their bare bodies. She felt him everywhere at once. His mouth rested against her ear, his chest against her oiled back, his arms on hers. The insides of his thighs met the outsides of hers, but everything else paled in comparison to the raging sensation of his throbbing erection.

He did not enter her right away. He moved only slightly, running the length of his shaft through the tunnel of her buttocks coated in oil. Every move felt more wonderful than the last. The faster he slid against her, the more her hole grasped for him and cried out to be filled.

"Enter me," she begged. "Please enter me."

"I must," he advised. "The time is upon us."

Sinking down on her body, he poured oil all along his shaft. She gasped as it streamed down her ass. The tip of his cock pressed against her hole as she turned to watch the expression on his face. He seemed close to bliss as he pushed his cockhead past the protective ring of her hole.

Her gut blazed as he moved deeper inside her body. Fighting the burn, she dug her fingers into the moss on the altar. She gritted her teeth and opened to give him space. He moved slowly inside her, inching forward and back, little by little. The more he slid his slick erection inside her body, the better it felt.

Trysta rose to another plane of existence. In this alternate reality, there lived only she and Selyf, and everything was perfect.

He pressed his slick chest to her back as she rocked her body against Selyf's cock. He thrust more firmly now, as though he knew by the motion of her hips that the burn had passed. There was only enjoyment, even as he moved in deeper.

He held her wrists. Trysta found this amusing—as if she'd try to escape! There was nowhere else she'd rather be than beneath the slick body of a fully erect magical. He slithered on her and in her like a snake. With every motion, she climbed one more step toward the gates of ecstasy.

Moving quickly in her body, he pressed his lips to her ear and released breathy thoughts upon her mind. As much as she could manage, she bucked against his hips as he plunged inside her.

"You are golden," he said, again and again. "You are golden, Trysta. You are the goddess Sunna, fully embodied."

She wasn't certain if the words were part of the ritual until she glanced down their bodies. Her skin shone like jewels of the Far East. She was golden! She was Sunna, the goddess of light. And suddenly, she couldn't feel her body. It was changing, she knew that much, but she no longer felt Selyf's cock surging in her ass. Her flesh, her blood, and all her organs tingled. She felt as though she were floating, if only because she couldn't feel the moss beneath her chest.

She saw the world from high above. She heard the heartbeat of her mother and felt the tranquility of the womb.

When she emerged from ecstasy to hear Selyf groaning and feel him filling her hole, she growled deep in her throat. With a knowing smile, she pushed her buttocks back against him until he moaned in her ear. His body shook. He held very still on top of her. This was the moment she'd heard spoken of, and it was more perfect than she could ever have hoped. Under the blood-red cassock, she felt utterly at ease.

The dampness of his breath settled in her hair as a familiar voice cried, "Trysta!"

She froze in place. So did Selyf.

Whose voice was that?

Bedwyn ran to them from the side of the mount.

"Trysta?" he repeated. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, oh yes," she panted. How might she get out of this bind? "Fine, my caru." Selyf cringed on top of her, but she carried on, "The professor has helped me immensely tonight. He's taken away my female problem."

"Are you certain?" Selyf whispered into her ear. "We haven't checked yet."

"I have every confidence," she said. She knew her body, knew what had happened.

When Selyf shifted from her back, buttoning his cassock as quickly as he could, Trysta turned on her side. As she faced Bedwyn, she brushed bits of moss from her cheek and her chest, from her belly and thighs, and from the dark hair on her flat new mound.

Tracing her fingers into her slit, she felt its silky wetness for the first time and her eyes filled with tears of joy.

Bedwyn stared. His words came out mumbled and unclear. "I... followed you..."

"Come," Selyf bid. "Take off your clothes, Bedwyn. Everything is all right now. You can be with your cara."

Chapter Seven

With a look of naïve pleasure on his face, Bedwyn barreled out of his clothes.

Trysta took Selyf's hand while her boy was thus distracted. "I have no words to thank you. You will stay, will you not?"

Selyf glanced at Bedwyn as the boy tripped on his pants and tumbled to the ground. Trysta laughed as he dusted himself off and fiddled with jacket buttons.

"I don't understand what you see in him," Selyf said. "But I will stay if you wish."

"There is nothing to understand," she mused. "He's my caru. That's all there is."

Bedwyn raced to the altar like a simple pet dog. He stood before them with a huge smile on his face, hands on hips, and an erection sticking out like a fleshy sword. Everything about him made her happy.

"I'm ready," he said. "What now?"

A smile grew across her lips as she reached for his cock. Its flesh was smooth, but its core firm as a tree. When she squeezed his shaft, he threw his head back and moaned, "That feels good!"

Selyf took Trysta's hands and led her up from the mossy altar. "Lie back on the bench," he instructed Bedwyn.

He lay on the low bench with his bottom at the base and his feet on the ground. Trysta had seen him shirtless many times. She'd seen him naked, swimming, and yet this time his nudity meant so much more. Finally, she could unveil herself and he would see her for who she'd always been inside. A tingle ran through her as she watched his cock surge of its own volition.

With his hands folded casually behind his head, Bedwyn asked, "What next?"

Trysta threw her hands around the professor's neck and kissed him hard. When he wrapped his arms around her waist, she led him to her aroused and confused caru.

Between hungry kisses, she called to Bedwyn, "Hold steady while I lower myself down."

"All right, Trysta." Nothing in his tone lead her to believe he might be jealous that she was kissing the professor rather than him, so she kept on with it.

Standing between Bedwyn's legs with her back facing him, she released her weight into Selyf's arms. He lowered her down on the proud cock surging up from the bench. When his tip met the nectar of her minutes-old slit, she cried out at the pressure.

When she felt too much in Selyf's arms, she reached back to plant her palms flat against the moss of the altar. She turned her head for a moment, and her gaze latched with Bedwyn's.

He smiled and said, "Hello," as though they were acquaintances meeting by chance. When he went on to say, "This is fun, don't you think?" she burst out laughing. With every chuckle came a bright little spasm. The muscles between her legs clamped on his cock like miniscule fingers inside her body. He breathed hard beneath her. The more she laughed at his childlike humour, the more her muscles tremored around his shaft.

Trysta planted her feet firm on the ground as Selyf pressed his face against her breast and sucked. She tried to move on Bedwyn's cock, but found herself in too awkward a position.

"Selyf," she begged. "Will you help? Please?"

He looked into her eyes with an unreadable expression, and for a moment she thought he wouldn't do it. Then, with a nod, he slithered down her naked front and knelt on the ground at the base of the altar. He lifted Trysta's legs over his shoulders.

Grasping her buttocks, he dove at her mound and licked the sensitive bud as he'd licked her nipples. He moved her body up and down on Bedwyn's erection. The more Selyf licked, the more she wanted to move. She bounced on her caru's cock, devouring his shaft as the professor devoured her bud. When he sucked it into his hot mouth, she nearly leapt from Bedwyn's body. Every muscle in her core clenched, and she bore down on the big cock even as she pushed against Selyf's face.

In quick alternation, she plunged on one man's massive erection and lunged at another man's hot tongue. She felt almost guilty, at times, for forcing her mound so hard against Selyf's face, but the sensation was so awe-inspiring she couldn't bring herself to stop.

Bedwyn bucked into her as he pulled and pushed her whole body. She became his plaything as Selyf lapped between her legs like a cat with cream. Bedwyn surged and tossed, screamed and moaned, writhed and shouted. He climaxed and fell back on the altar in a stupor, and still Selyf sucked at the apex of her thighs. He kept at her until she could hardly breathe. She jumped and swore and stroked her wet mound against his face. And, finally, the pleasure became so great, her whole body tightened into a mess of desire.

Selyf sat back on his knees and watched as she gasped for air.

"Thank you," she said, countless times. She couldn't stop herself from saying it.

Bedwyn fell asleep on the altar while Selyf picked up his belongings.

"Shall I help you?" Trysta rose, and nearly fell back down. "Oh, my legs. I can hardly stand."

Selyf offered a knowing smile. "Come. I'll keep you up."

Together, they walked to the four corners of the mount. It seemed impossible that the villagers should still be celebrating at this late hour, yet there they were, jumping their bonfires and enjoying their feasts.

"I can't begin to thank you for everything you've done," she said. "I'm torn, you know."

He shook his head, gazing into the fires at the mount's base. "Please, Trysta. You don't need to say any of this."

"I do," she refuted. Grasping his hand, she watched the fires too. "I've never met anyone like you. You're an intellectual, an academic, a magical..."

"A solitary magical," he corrected in a firm and flat voice.

There was so much more she could say, excuses she could make, but to what end? He understood already.

"Let's make this our reunion spot," she proposed. "Every year at Solstice, you and I and Bedwyn will trek to this place to reenact tonight's adventure."

Selyf kissed her hand before releasing it. "That sounds like a perfect plan."

She wanted to touch him, but realized the time for touching was past. "What will you do until then?"

"Continue my solitary existence," he replied. "I'm working on a manuscript—documentation of the fae in this area. I was told long ago I would never sell a copy on the open market if it didn't include sections on sex and romance. Now you've given me a case studies of sexual transformation in mixed blood fae, and, more than that, an embrace to warm my heart through the long winter nights."

With a resigned smile, he kissed her lips slowly and sweetly before setting off down the hill and disappearing into the night. Professor Selyf's magic changed Trysta's body when nobody else could, but it was the tenderness in his heart that changed her life.

Until next year, Fay Professor, may your days be filled with light.

The End