Dreamweaver meets The Theurge - Troum-atized
The Bandersnatch
Troum-atized by The Bandersnatch
[4:00 am Circaëa Gemynd’s Id Hell]
Like a butterfly escaping her chrysalis, Circaëa Gemynd
wriggles her ætheric self free of her body once more. Awaiting her is
an odd angel in musketeer’s garb, whose halo tilts at a humorous
angle. He smiles at her fondly in reproach, whereupon she turns to
flee. At the speed of thought she painfully splats herself on the
inner wall of le Comte’s Circle of Protection/ Retention. Aramis
grasps her firmly by the shoulders, pulling her back against his broad
chest. Nuzzling her graceful neck through her very long black hair, he
whispers, “Mon déesse petit, is living so very hard?” Though dazed,
she instinctively strikes at his mind to make him let go, but it isn’t
to be found. Dejectedly, guilt begins to smother her, “I’m a
murderer! I deserve to be punished. I deserve to die… I don’t want
to go back. Please don’t make me!” Turning her in his arms, Aramis
kisses away her tears, “Non. You’re not a murderer. You do not
deserve to die. You’ve killed, it’s so, and you shall be punished.
But not by me.” In response to her questioning eyebrows. “Mon Joshu,
I’m here to torment you.” “Huh? Ummph!”
Her Telepathy had never before failed to automatically
translate foreign languages and phrases like the Japanese S&M
term ‘Joshu’, for “female prisoner”. Aramis preempts further questions
with a sudden powerful beating of his owl’s wings. It takes but the
blink of an eye, to return to her Father’s homestead nestled in the
Appalachian Mountains. Circaëa seeks signs of her Gran’pa Aliester
Mathers, or her Pa, Malachai, but neither appears.
Le Comte sweeps into the woodshed, her expected place of
punishment, and lowers his victim to her feet upon the dusty
floor. “I don’t care what you do,” she deludes herself, “just don’t
make me go back.” Without reply, he twirls her about and tugs her
sash from her waist. “Don’t. Move.”, Aramis commands. Circaëa hears
the rustling of cloth. Her fertile imagination sets her on edge,
casting furtive glances about the carpentry shop. A minute later, le
Comte whispers in her ear “Step over to that door.” Nervously she
heads toward the Forge, but stops at the threshold.
With slip-knots on either end of her own sash, Aramis raises
both her arms high above her head, and hangs first one wrist and then
the other, over the implement hooks on the inner side of the forge’s
doorway. With her hands and elbows upon the doorframe, her eyes fly
open in shock, as a pair of stony hands grasp her ankles and jerk her
feet below floor level to her ankles.
Ducking under her arm, le Comte circles around to stand before
his lovely victim. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,
Mademoiselle.” Roving his eyes thoughtfully over her athletically
costumed figure he asks, “Mademoiselle, what is your name?” “It
doesn’t matter anymore, I’m Dead.” “Non.” She sighs, “I
was ‘Dreamweaver’.” Tsking, “Non. You are Dreamweaver.” Gently, he
gingerly removes her ferronniere and necklace, with their starburst-
patterned pendants of meteoric iron. “Why do you wear these? They
seem to glow every now and again.”, and hangs them on a hook.
With a small gulp, she admits, “I make the ferronniere glow
when I use offensive powers, and the necklace glow when I use defensive
ones.” “And why is that?”, he inquires. “To make Villains think that
I focus my powers through them.” He ruefully smiles, “Hmm. Not bad.
It’ld be very unfortunate to waste such cleverness.”
Stepping close, le Comte grasps either side of her face and
kisses first one eye and then the other, before drifting down to her
soft pouty lips. Confidentially, Aramis informs Circaëa, “I won’t be
trying to kill you, but I might not be able to help it. So please be
careful of what you wish for…” “But I want to die!!! I have to!”
“We shall see…”, with a silent mental command, le Comte orders
his gnome to pull his victim’s legs backwards a full step, and spread
them to the eight o’clock and four o’clock positions to bend her ‘ebire
me’, similar to the Japanese S&M rope-bending style. As Circaëa’s face
thrusts forward, Aramis French kisses her furiously, passionately, and
hungrily before they break panting. She doesn’t understand why she
finds him so attractive, why he smells soooo good. She has only had
phantasmal lovers, lovers of her fantasies, which were real enough to
touch her, to please her, and psychosomatically take her virginity. So
most ‘mortal’ lovers, when compared to her fantasies, would only leave
her wanting…more. But le Comte’s Emhiate nature, subconsciously wraps
all her favorite fantasies into a fabric of Aura that he adorns as a
mantle. This Aura’s every subtle clue fires her imagination, which in
turn fires her whole body, making her acutely aware of his maleness
that causes her whole body to flush.
Le Comte warns her, “Dreamweaver, I believe that torture is worse than
cold-blooded murder, and that rape is just one form. My… apologies.”
Ducking back under her arm, he steps around behind her, pausing to
admire the view. Her 5’8”, 135# figure is stretched, and arched
gracefully in that carhop pose of the 50’s. Though not see-through,
Dreamweaver’s royal blue spandex jump suit is skin-tight, accentuating
her lovely derrière, like a blue Valentine’s Day heart turned upside
down.
Circaëa cannot remember the last time she couldn’t read
someone’s intentions. The uncertainty is much worse than she
anticipated. She’s swamped by the waves of his desire’s heat as he
steps up behind her, so very close yet just short of touching. She
sees his long alabaster fingers reach around the right side of her
head, and pull her long cascades of raven’s wing black hair to hang
entirely behind her left arm.
It surprises her that her Telekinetic Force Field isn’t protecting her
more. Villains seem to *always* grab for the hair and sash. Usually
they’re left unable to pull them and that is when she gets in some of
her best shots. “Take your filthy hands away me! Don’t touch me!”
Aramis stops stroking her gorgeous calf-length hair.
Le Comte easily finds the tab to the zipper of her cat suit.
With the lightest of tugs the zipper roller coasters down the back of
her neck, over the edge of her shoulders, into the vale of her shoulder
blades, diving like a waterfall to her coccyx. The front and back
edges of her cat suit curl back like the rind of fruit exposing the
healthy light peach color of her flesh. “What!?… d’Chardrey wait!
Stop!”
With a mirthful chuckle Aramis relies, “Oh come now, I’ve not
even begun to touch you yet…”
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[4:05 am Penthouse Suite, Parc St. Charles Hotel, New Orleans]
Le Comte raises like the stereotypical movie zombie from the
recliner. He staggers gawkily over to the bed, falling next to his
deliciously helpless heroine. He takes a few moments to allow his
lingering gaze to devour her gently rising bosom, and nibble further
down inch by inch over the rest of her muscular curves. Now, with a
great deal more control, he swings his leg over her thighs and pulls
himself up to a sitting position astride her loins to closely examine
her beautiful aquiline face. Le Comte reaches down and begins disrobe
his victim. His houri. His nymph of paradise.
Straddling Circaëa’s waist, Aramis feels as if his fingers could not be
clumsier than if they’d been turned into sausages, as he directs their
efforts with but the smallest portion of his consciousness. Her dun
jacket had slipped off easily enough, but he’d already popped two of
the buttons off of Circaëa Gemynd’s blouse. His impending exhaustion
begins to loom higher and higher. Le Comte lifts Circaëa’s limp torso
completely off of the bed while pulling on the damaged article in
frustration. It shreds in a “Shrrriiip!”, as it’s torn away, ruining
it entirely.
Circaëa flops bonelessly back upon the mattress. When her mamelles
jiggle, then quiver to a stop Aramis’s throat goes dry. As his hunger
heightens, his very humanity ebbs lower and lower. His angelic victim
increasingly looks less and less like a person, and more and more like
an hors d’oeuvre.
Bending low, le Comte’s fangs neatly nip through her white lacy bra’s
front closure. Her fragrant scent fires his desire, and his mouth
begins to water. In a frenzy, Aramis slithers back-wards to the foot
of the bed, while his manicured nails, claw maniacally at her dun pants
suit. Pants, and white lace panties, turn inside out as they’re
shucked from her slender athletic legs. White ‘fuck-me’ pumps
teasingly, maddeningly, play tug-of-war with Circaëa’s pant’s legs,
until with a final violent jerk, they seem to scurry as they’re fired
under the dresser and the bed respectively.
The vision of his angel shocks Aramis into a misleading semblance of
sanity. Dreamweaver lay in a raven’s wing halo of her waist-length
tresses, on the bed before him. Her slender arms lay reposed above her
head, her slender legs dangle at the knees, slightly parted off of the
edge of the bed. Her wispy, silken, ebon pubic hair adorns her loins
in the shape of an old-fashioned clothespin, the teeth of which frame
either side of her lovely little chatte, with it’s shyly peeking lèvres
vaginal and shocking coral pink papille clitoridien. Literally
growling with need, le Comte climbs up and over the supine Circaëa like
a stalking cat. Once again straddling her waist, his trembling hands
eventually, reverently, spread the severed bra’s cups to expose
Circaëa’s increasingly swollen bubble-gum pink mamelons.
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[4:05 am Circaëa Gemynd’s Id Hell]
Dipping down beneath her slender arm, once again Aramis circles around
his prey. Le Comte peers down into her beautiful sapphire eyes, when
his violet gaze automatically skitters down over her aquiline features,
her long graceful neck, to halt at her pert exposed breasts. Her
bubble-gum pink nipples crinkle and harden with pride, at the attention
of the most attractive man she’d ever seen. “Please don’t do that!
Don’t look at Me.”, she guiltily blushes. The Hunger and carnal desire
emanate in palpable waves of heat from Aramis, causing Circaëa to
glow. “Please don’t do…this?”, he teases. Oh so slowly le Comte
lowers his expressive lips to her full ones, gently sucking her breath
away. The tips of her mamelons, brush tantalizingly over the silks of
his cravate and shirt and harden more, fecund with blood. Her own
heat, as trumpeted by the arousal of her clitoral bud, has her
unconsciously rubbing her thighs together as his tongue lingeringly,
teasingly, explores her mouth. It takes a few moments before Circaëa
shakes her head “No!”, causing le Comte to reluctantly step back.
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[4:10 am Penthouse Suite, Parc St. Charles Hotel, New Orleans]
Seemingly of their own accord, the cups of Circaëa’s bra leap
to her defense, interposing themselves between her and le Comte’s
rapacious gaze. Aramis falls forward, helpless in mirth, chuckling
into her hair. Various small items all about the room begins to
rattle. Le Comte orders a sylph to spend a service to keep any noise
from escaping the room.
It is not enough. A shiver is still felt throughout the
building as a ripping Telekinetic blast catapults Aramis off of her
body and into the ceiling. It is the undine possessing his body which
absorbs the hydro-shock, and Jackson’s protective armour that saves his
life. He leaves a rough molding of himself in the ceiling as he peels
away wetly, to tumble onto Dreamweaver’s Force Field, and lie stunned.
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[4:10 am Circaëa Gemynd’s Id Hell]
Circaëa looks on in disbelief that le Comte still stands before
her, even though she’d hit him as hard as she could… Aramis looks over
at the fiercely glowing ferronniere, then down at himself, before
lifting his violet eyes up to Dreamweaver’s. “‘Non!’, Mademoiselle…?
Were you speaking to me? Or to yourself?”
Defiantly she raises her head, “You, you… Son-of-a-bitch,
haven’t you ever seen a woman’s breasts before?” At his “What-do-you-
think?”, raised eyebrow, she continues, “If you’re going to kill me,
just do it!”
Aramis shakes his head sadly. To himself he mutters, “Little
bits at a time perhaps…” He takes a step toward her.
Since the direct approach didn’t work, Dreamweaver’s mind grabs
at all the tools, nails, horse shoes, wagon wheel spokes, etc. etc. to
throw at the advancing rapist … but to no avail. Hanging on its hook,
her ferronniere glows brightly…
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[4:15 am Penthouse Suite, Parc St. Charles Hotel, New Orleans]
Le Comte unstuns in time to be battered by every item that’s
not nailed down in the penthouse suite. Shortly, if an item can be
pried up…then it’s not nailed down, and it too flies dangerously
through the air in eerie silence. Finally the brutal pillory ends,
leaving Aramis stunned again, and his exposed flesh covered in cuts and
gashes that would have been a bloody mess, had he the blood to lose.
In the future, he’ld leave standing orders for a sylph to help
divert such missiles.
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[4:15 am Circaëa Gemynd’s Id Hell]
Aramis spends a very long time just looking at his victim, as
she Telekinetically ‘punches’ herself out. She glows with diadems of
perspiration, panting heavily, chest heaving in staggered gasps. He
circles her sloooowly, viewing her from every quarter. When his gaze
lingers over her bosom, Circaëa blushes in mortification, as her pert
nipples harden to present themselves for inspection saucily. Ever
observant, le Comte asks, “Are you ashamed of your beauty? Or that
you’re only mortal?”
“Look. Comte,… uh”, she begins but is forced to pause, as
Aramis’s sudden kiss of her hypersensitive skin, made that way from
being just below the bound wrist of her right hand, distracts
her. “Uhhh.” His expressive lips part just enough to let the tip of
his broad tongue to trace her flesh below the numbing slipknot. “Um…
You don’t have to do this. I know you have a conscience. You know
this is wrong… Ah!” She jerks to her left, as le Comte’s nose and
lips trace troughs for the rivulets of her perspiration to channel
through, down the course of her inner arm to the pit of her inner elbow
where he starts to French kiss her. “Will you cut that out!?”, demands
Circaëa “A’---ahhhhh” chills race from the base of her spine to the
edges of both of her ears. Goose flesh washes in ripples over her arms
before receding, yet the hair on her neck remains standing. “This is
rape! This is evil!! For the Love of God! Please STOP!!”
Aramis’s long lashes lift to reveal inscrutable violet eyes
that meets hers, with a gaze neither hard, nor soft. It is this
exercise of control that is her first glimpse into how dangerous a
creature ‘Le Comte’ is. He stands slowly, only to gracefully duck-
under her right arm and pivot on his left knee around behind her. “For
the Love of which God…” Aramis begins licking, dry cat fashion, the
outer edge of her upper right arm, with his soft, and warm, human
tongue. “…should I stop?”, like a cruel harpist, he scales his broad
dabbing tongue up and down her arm eliciting yet another long ripple of
goose flesh.
He pauses, from under her right arm he peers past her lovely
mamelle up into her aquiline face, droplets of sweat shimmer there like
dew, as he awaits the answer to what she presumes is a rhetorical
question.
When her answer isn’t forthcoming, he reaches around behind
her, to grasp her firmly by the far hip with his left hand, and turns
his chest into the upper thigh of her right leg. Aramis begins
tracing Pictish swirl and whorl patterns with his right hand on
Circaëa’s inner right leg from ankle to upper knee. And muted as his
touch is through her spandex costume, the material against her crotch
tightens considerably as her pudendum unfurls more. Soon, le Comte
uses the knuckles of left hand to swhorl against the inner thigh of her
left leg. “No…”
“Yessss!”, Aramis starts tracing Circaëa’s lower ribs with wet
kisses, as his hands massage her inner thighs towards the apex of her
groin with torturously slow alacrity. He continues up, then stops
between her top rib and armpit, to kiss and nibble the space just
behind her mamelle. She jerks in her bonds, away from the almost
ticklish caresses, the mane of her raven’s wing black hair sticking
tantalizingly to her sweaty skin.
Kneeling in front of his heroine, he begins to knead the flesh
of her ribs and lower back. Meeting her sapphire eyes with his violet
ones, he pulls on her firmly, causing her back to arch more, and
presenting her mamelles for his pleasure. Aramis moistens his broad
tongue, then extending it in a much of a point as it will go, he licks,
in a long slurp of just the bubble gum pink mamelon of her right
mamelle, savoring her salty, musky taste. “You Bastard!” With a
glance, le Comte indicates her hard and swollen nipple, “You like
it.” “I HATE it! I hate You!!”
Up and down, as if he were flicking a light-switch with his tongue, he
firmly licks her mamelon. “Stop that! I told you I don’t like it!”
Aramis licks his right hand, before kneading firmly her left breast,
and then continues to use the tip of his tongue to trace the track of
her right aureole, before inhaling two thirds of her right mamelle into
his mouth to French kiss it’s hard and pointed tip.
“I said Stop!”, Dreamweaver tries to hammer him with her
Telekinesis as he switches to Frenching her left breast, but for a
flash of her ferronniere and fatiguing herself entirely, she fails to
stop his feasting.
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[4:25 am Penthouse Suite, Parc St. Charles Hotel, New Orleans]
Le Comte unstuns yet again, finding himself on Circaëa’s bed,
an arm and leg draped over the REMming Dreamweaver. Dazedly, he notes
that his limbs lie atop of her Telekinetic Force Field. With most of
his faculties in the æther, he does his best to mirror his actions in
one, with his actions in the other, to make his physical actions as
effortless as possible.
Aramis presses the length of his body along her own until, some
15 seconds later he slips in under her armour.
In what le Comte thinks of in terms of Alchemy he gathers his
vitæ inside of his sulcus primigenius. This magical furrow around his
centre holds his tum-mo or inner fire behind his navel, which he
launches up the nadi of his spine, down his arm and there he pours it
in a tiny stream through the alembic he makes of the ends of his
fingers. Inches above Circaëa’s skin, he slowly brush strokes with his
hand, over her torso, ribs, and mamelles, dipping his vitæ past her
Telekinetic Force Field and remaining clothes, into her qi like paddles
in a placid lake, painting in lines of ripples from chakra to chakra.
At every chakra, Circaëa’s singing nerves, like taut harp-strings,
causes her whole body to quiver with every pluck.
He is careful not to disrupt her nadi channels, as the mythic Japanese
ninja could. They would use a form of this skill that they call kuji-
kiri, to extend their ki and poke a hole in the etheric body of their
victim, causing them to etherically bleed to death a few days later.
Aramis augments Dreamweaver’s life force with his own, and ‘sun burns’
her Catholic guilt repressed ching, her sexual force. He carefully
breaks the blocks that she’s made to the free reign and flow of her
ching from head-to-toe, so that her flesh is even more hypersensitive
to his tantric touch. Using his regal nose, he plows under the cups of
Circaëa’s bra, spilling them to her sides. Le Comte begins to suckle
and nip at Circaëa’s mamelles, her hard mamelons throbbing in time with
her heartbeat, when suddenly she lies still. Intuition warns Aramis in
time for him to try to roll out of the Telekinetic punch’s way, which
causes it to miss his face. Instead, it catches him full bore in the
chest, and bounces him like a cue ball from the middle of the bed, and
caroms him off of a corner wall and into the bathroom door with a
*Smack!* Le Comte flumps to the floor in a wet heap.
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[4:30 am Circaëa Gemynd’s Id Hell]
She can feel the seeping moisture of her arousal on her mons veneris.
Worse, she realizes that if she can smell her undeniable arousal then
it is certain that he can too.
“You taste sooo good!”, purrs Aramis with a slow
smile. “Mmmmmm!”, he hums around her mamelon. “Huuuuugh!”, she
gasps. “Shall I do this lower?” “Nooo…” With that, he mentally
commands his gnome to pull her feet forward twelve inches, so that she
can semi-stand. Absent-mindedly brushing the dust from his cord-du-
rois he stands to kiss the tops of her mamelles up to and across her
clavicle, and further up the length of her graceful throat. Aramis
firmly pulls her hair… “Ahhh!”, so that her chin points straight up,
and he licks and kisses along and behind her jaw. Le Comte sucks at
and nips gently down first one carotid artery, and then up the other,
to French kiss Circaëa right behind her earlobe. “U’hnnh!”, her breath
escapes suddenly.
Aramis keeps his grip on her hair, and slides back up behind
her, to breathe oh-so-softly across her ear. Tendrils of chills wrack
the lovely heroine, her knees fight to keep from buckling. He’s
relentless, as his soft, and warm tongue, cat licks the inner ridges of
her ear, when her unsteady legs shiver futilely, then finally give.
Le Comte flashes his free hand down to catch her, where it
lands against her firm abdomen, his fingers up to his knuckles diving
beneath the front of her royal blue cat suit, where his fingertips
brush the tops of her white cotton panties. As he pulls her back, her
heart shaped derrière’s presses tightly against his loins. He catches
a strong waif of her arousal and heat, which awakens his tumescent
phallus with a lurch, tracing through his cord-du-rois an arch along
her upper thigh, until it smacks the bottom of her fanny’s left cheek.
Dreamweaver’s flick open widely, “Oh!”, as her uterus in answer,
returns his cock’s aroused salute.
Exchanging hands, Aramis switches to Circaëa’s other earlobe,
wetly kissing behind it, before once again cat licking the inner ridges
of it. “Huuuuuugh…”, her long exhalation abruptly catches in her
throat as Aramis thrusts his left hand beneath her white cotton
panties.
Through le Comte’s silk glove, the sword calluses of his palm rasps
pleasurably, in exquisitely painful intensity, over her coral pink
pudenda on its way to cup her mons, in swampy wetness of her crotch.
Le Comte pulls Circaëa even tighter against himself, her pre-cum
squishes softly between his fingers to cover his entire palm and coat
his fingers, from below the second joint down to their tips.
Dreamweaver turns her head to the side to look into her
attacker’s face. In a surprisingly calm voice she tries to reason with
him through gritted teeth. “You’re raping me. Do you understand?
You. Are. Raping. Me. I don’t want this! I don’t believe in sex
before marriage. I don’t want sex without love. And I don’t. Love.
You. I Hate you.
Fornication is a sin against God. Please don’t force me into sin!”
In response, Aramis tugs steadily on her hair, causing Circaëa
to gasp while he withdraws his sopping hand from her groin. With her
chin pointing straight into the air, he grabs her lower jaw wriggling
his pre-cum covered gloved fingers into her mouth, and forcing her to
taste the sweet acridity of her shamefully drenched little chatte.
Circaëa groans a barely coherent, “No…”, around Aramis’s fingers,
involuntarily sucking her salty pre-cum from the silk glove’s fingers.
Le Comte meanwhile, begins nipping wet kisses along the back of
Circaëa’s neck, leaving tingling, phantom lip-tracks before
pausing. “Yes, I am raping you. I must have you…peak, before I feed
upon you. I may even give you that death you seek.
You, however, can not ‘Sin’.” Aramis explains, “I’ve neutralized your
Powers, I’ve bound you, and spread you wide open to my every evil
design... You are so deliciously helpless against what I’m going to do
to that dākinī figure of yours… Stop feeling guilty! I will
take you,
and you will love it! You won’t be able to help yourself, because I
will be fucking with your mind and body… Do you understand?”
Tears of frustration roll slowly down across her cheeks, as she
nods her comprehension, determined not to be party to her own
humiliating conquest, when her disassociation begins to set in.
Soaked gloved fingers slither silently out of Circaëa’s pouty
red lips, as Aramis pulls his rampant bitte from between the siren’s
song vale of Dreamweaver’s heart shaped derrière. He literally
shudders in desire, and has to force his gaze from her mons, that her
pre-cum’s wetness has outlined deliciously to his view of her behind.
Circaëa watches a limpid strand of pre-cum stretch between le
Comte’s fingers and the corner of her panting mouth, before it snaps
back and lands in a meandering path across both her lips and nose.
Very purposely she licks her lips and nose clean with her pointy pink
tongue, savoring her own unfamiliar flavor.
Dreamweaver’s reaction to adoring the taste of her cum, meets a
backlash of revulsion with herself. She gathers her outrage spewing it
upon le Comte, “Must, you coward!?” she mocks, then continues. “Well
all do what we must…”, Whereupon she orders her physiology which is
normally under her complete control, to first wet herself, then break
wind or shit, & lastly to get sick, anything to break her
attacker’s ‘romantic’ fantasy, but… nothing. Dreamweaver goes numb as
if just about to faint, over her body’s utter betrayal.
“Oui Mademoiselle, must.” Aramis thinks to himself, *She’s right. I am
a coward. Were I really brave, I’ld spare her this ordeal and go lay
down on a hill and die somewhere.*
Circling around to the front of his victim, he ignores her sapphire
glare, to genuflect between her feet.
Reaching between her legs, Aramis grasps the bottom stop of the open
zipper of her cat suit. In one motion, le Comte steps up and back.
Circaëa’s royal blue cat-suit stretches down, exposing first her heart
shaped ass, followed by her thighs, and then her calves as it shreds
there as its being torn from between her legs. Le Comte casually
tosses the remnants of her costume onto the dirt floor of the forge
behind him.
Aramis’s gaze takes in the stark contrast between Circaëa’s peach-
colored flesh framed by the iridescence of her raven’s wing black
hair. Her pert breasts with their bubble gum pink areolas, vie for the
eye’s attention, ultimately losing to the coral pink of her pudenda
that’s outlined so starkly against the wet crotch of her white cotton
panties.
Le Comte deftly unties his cravate, unconsciously folding it before
tossing it across the forge’s anvil. Circaëa’s throat goes dry as the
shiny coal-black curls of his broad chest go ‘peek-a-boo!’ from behind
his pearl white silk shirt as Aramis unties its ties. He removes his
ruby cuff links, slipping them into a pocket of his cord-du-roi, before
pulling out the tails and lifting them up and over his head. With the
softest of rustles the shirt comes slipping off, the highly defined
matador’s muscles of the healthy alabaster flesh of his abdomen and
long torso, which are teasingly revealed first. His black cherry
areolas and nipples are barely visible from behind the thick carpet of
his chest hair. But even that mat of hair cannot hide his well-defined
pects that look as if they’re made from rippling bands of rawhide.
Given the fine coal-black mosquito netting that the hairs on his
alabaster arms make, she’s mildly surprised that le Comte has shaved
underarms. Aramis automatically folds his silk shirt too, before it
flies through the air to join the cravate over the anvil. Le Comte
pulls on finger after finger of one glove with his teeth, before
removing it entirely, and then does the same with the other, taking
time to savor the flavor of Circaëa’s pre-cum, one finger after
another. “Mmmmmm…”, Aramis growls from around the finger in his
mouth. Removing the glove entirely, these too are laid upon the anvil.
Le Comte steps on the heel of one black leather riding boot, pulling
his right leg free. He then repeats the procedure with the left. He
lifts his right leg at the knee, up behind him and pulls his sock off
by the toes. All the while taking his time, he then repeats the
procedure with the left. Aramis pulls the tie to his cord-du-rois,
which fall effortlessly to his feet, revealing white silk boxers, and
legs as fuzzy as his arms.
Circaëa tries to keep her eyes averted, but she involuntarily looks
when Aramis bends over and pulls his boxers down, his seven-inch bitte
rebounds against his washboard abdomen with a loud and wet “Slap!” She
doesn’t know that le Comte is highly skilled in tantra and so she is
surprised that his shell pink cock and alabaster balls are shaved, as
is an arch in his trimmed pubic hair just above his throbbing phallus.
Aramis’s own ardour is evident by the large wet spot on his white
boxers. Rivulets of his pre-cum shine in silvery tracery down the
length of his bitte, which glints as he steps out of his boxers and
toward his victim.
Circaëa shakes her head, ‘No!’, and Aramis stops just a foot away, but
even so, the heat of his desire engulfs her like the crest of a wave,
stoking an answering heat in her own furnace. Aramis oh-so-slowly
reaches down and scoops up his own pre-cum from the tip of his bitte,
upon one finger of his right hand after another, from pointer finger to
pinky.
He brings up his hand as if he were holding up a rose, to spread his
fingers turning his palm to face her, the lucid pre-cum forming silvery
webbing from finger to finger, which he then precedes to lick
off. “Mmmm. Almost as delicious as you!”
Her pouty lips draw into a thin line, as she tilts her head, and with
widened and dilated sapphire eyes, gives le Comte a “Gimme a break!
You’ve got to be kidding!” look.
“Would you like a taste?”, he asks. Lips tightly sealed she shakes her
head violently in the negative, her nose wrinkling in disgust. She
thinks, *He’s trying to humiliate me, and make me act like a whore!
Ewwww! Ugggh!* Her stomach roils at the thought.
“Perhaps later then. *sigh* You however, do look good enough to
eat.”, and with that, Aramis falls to his knees, staring directly at
her crotch. “What are you doing!?” “All the better to eat you…um,
with, my dear.” He shoots her a glance that says ‘You know what I
mean.’ “That’s disgusting! Oh, that’s nasty! I”, she blushes, “pee
down there!” Chuckling, le Comte replies, “Trust me, I’ll figure out
what’s what, my dear.”
With a tacit command he has the gnome raise Dreamweaver’s feet out of
the floor and hands them off to Aramis, who drapes them over his
shoulders and holds her legs in place firmly by the thighs despite her
struggles. Her coral pink pudenda, is so fecund with blood it extends
a full half inch past her mons, outlined starkly against her wet
panty’s crotch. Extending his broad pink tongue, he starts at the very
bottom of her pudenda, just barely touching her there through her
panties. Circaëa begins to pray for help, “Our Mother, who art… OH!”
Le Comte’s fangs easily bite through the crotch of Dreamweaver’s
panties. Cool air rushes past the swampy heat of her loins as
Circaëa’s panty panel is severed and torn away. “in hea… ’gnnnh!”, she
stumbles. She cannot ignore the feel of her rapist’s tongue licking
both of the edges of both of her inner vaginal lips at once. Aramis
daubs saliva liberally over her vaginal lips, before French kissing her
chatte between the inner edges of her outer lips and the outer edges of
her inner lips. “Yummm ambroooosia. Ummm. Mmmm.” Le Comte cruelly
smacks his lips, and slurps, and vacuumy sucks upon her little chatte
with exaggerated volume. Dreamweaver feels her womb’s inner walls melt
with her hot oils. “Stop! This is so sinful… No! Ugh! Plea… ssss!
Ah. Ugh. Sto…aaaahh!”, cries Circaëa as Aramis’s broad tongue finally
parts her inner lips and thrusts past her vulva’s opening and into her
vagina, to softly gouge and boldly explore her pussy’s inner walls.
Dreamweaver tosses her head back, eyes aflutter and mouth agape, with
Aramis’s indescribable ravishment of her innocent young vagina with his
tongue.
In her fantasies, her phantasmal lovers, good missionary Catholics all,
gave her what she craved. But it was like devouring an excellent main
course. It was eating…and as necessary as eating. But le Comte was
serving the hors d’oeuvres, and the a la carte dishes, in addition to
the main course and this, was her first experience with dining.
Soon her thighs and abdomen quivers, with each pluck, suck, and lick of
Aramis’s broad pink tongue between her darker, coral pink, vaginal
lips. “Nngh. Nngh. Ugnnh. Agh. Ah. Ah. Ssss. Sssst. Ahhh. Ah.
Ah. !. Ohhhhh!”
“You’re so beautiful…” whispers le Comte, staring engrossed with the
flowering petals that her inner lips have become. And like the stamen
of an exotic flower, Dreamweaver’s clitoral hood too has spread and
forked. She nearly cums as two fingers of Aramis’s right hand
squiggle inside her vagina, to be joined moments later the middle
finger of his left hand. But mercifully, he stops. When she glances
down to determine why, her sapphire eyes, meet his violet ones. He’s
wearing an impish smile, and a glossy facemask of her pre-cum over his
nose and cheekbones, down to his chin. Her freed legs lie limply over
his broad shoulders. Appalled she sees the tip of his broad pink
tongue, stuck in her pussy just beneath her spread clitoral hood, and
his fingers, deep inside her vagina. Quickly, she hooks her ankles
together and tries to cut off le Comte’s oxygen supply, but he gives
her efforts slight heed.
Aramis stares into Dreamweaver’s cute little chatte, viewing her spread
clitoral hood as if it were the forked tongue of her kundalini
serpent. Its powerful coils drape themselves around his neck, but his
response is to French kiss it with broad, fencing thrusts, along the
length of that kundalini serpent’s tongue. Aramis again begins
stroking into her vagina against every wall, with his fingers.
Involuntary ticks and quivers, discombobulate Circaëa’s design of
choking le Comte into submission with her legs, when her ankles lose
their grip and fly apart. “Oh! Um. Um. Um. Unngh.”
Without warning, Aramis’s expressive lips lock around her clitoris,
sucking hard. He then traps her clitoral bud between the back of his
eye teeth and the tip of his tongue, before sawing in very long
strokes, back and forth over the underside of her clitoral hood, and is
soon rewarded with jerky staccato thrusts of her mons into his face.
His tongue plays over her sensitive nerves faster and faster, over less
and less of her clitoral shaft, until he’s nearly trilling against her
clitoral bud. Dreamweaver catches herself unconsciously bouncing
herself up and down upon le Comte’s shoulders, and grinding her
dripping cunt into his mouth.
Aramis brings her right to the edge, only to hurtle her completely over
by withdrawing the middle finger of his left hand from her vagina,
drawing it through her fourchette vulvaire. Teasingly he skitters it
over the hypersensitive flesh of her perineum, before plunging it into
her anus up to the first knuckle. “OH!…ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOO…
AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!”
In the clutches of her vicious orgasm she tries to fling her limbs off
of her body, each in separate directions. Cruelly, le Comte forces
Dreamweaver to perfuse cum from her womb, his tongue mercifully still,
held tightly against her clit, but his relentless fingers piston into
and out of her chatte and her anus, until Circaëa instinctively
clenches vajroli mudra and aswini mudra to force them to
stop, “HMMmmmmph! Huh. Huh. Huh. Huh. Ah!”, she exclaims as Aramis
flicks one broad quick lick, up the entire length of the mouth of her
pretty little chatte, and striking the bell of her clitoral bud hard,
one last time. With perspiration pouring from her athletic figure, she
turns glazed sapphire eyes to her rapist to tell him in a weary flat
voice, “I hate you.” Circaëa shudders violently as her anus, and her
vaginal mouth (that gapes like a vesica piscis), palpitates one final
suckling time from around his retreating fingers.
************************************************************************
****************
[4:30 am Penthouse Suite, Parc St. Charles Hotel, New Orleans]
Looking like mort rèchauffè, le Comte finally stirs. Eyelids
that are as heavy and stiff as butcher’s paper lift painfully. The
Hunger howls, and rails, and rattles its cage. Like a mollett it
pricks his backside into motion, so he falls forward and starts
crawling toward the bed on desiccated limbs. Circaëa’s scent pulls him
blindly along until he finally finds himself between her legs. Aramis
almost kills them both, by yielding to his Hunger and tapping into an
artery in her thighs. But she’s not ready. She has to cum first.
NO. She needs to cum several times so that her blood is as rich as
Russian Easter cookies or, with his Hunger, he’ll shoot her like a beer
and her empty corpus will be discarded like the imploded can…
Without any of his normal grace, he artlessly dives in to lick
and suck, and thrust easily into her with his fingers. His fangs gouge
and gall her loins, but still she cums in his mouth and in his hands.
Circaëa’s kundalini spring uncoils, tossing her about in an epileptic
fit as if she were the epicentre of an earthquake. Later, she’ll feel
as if she’d done a few hundred crunches, but in the meanwhile, le Comte
alchemizes her ching, her sexual force, into chin tan chiao the golden
pill, the Elixir of Life. Aramis drinks in her honeydew greedily,
before lapping at the wounds he’s inflicted between her thighs and
healing them up.
The taste of her blood, is soooo sweet, his fangs extend even more.
Le Comte’s eyes have become almost completely burgundy, The Hunger
becomes a cacoëthes that takes control of his weak flesh, which then
dives at her thigh’s artery. But he drops like a puppet with its
strings cut. Minutes later, when his consciousness is restored, his
mind is still human by a thread. Brusquely, le Comte gathers up
Dreamweaver’s legs and tosses them to the left, parallel to the end of
the bed. Stepping to the right side, he gathers Circaëa’s wrists in
his hands tugging upon her until her clouds of raven’s wing black hair
sweeps the floor with her head hanging over the edge of the bed, her
chin pointing towards his crotch. Fumbling at his cord-du-roi’s tie,
with trembling hands, he shucks down both his pants and his boxers in
one frenzied motion. His rampant, shell pink bitte rears as if it were
antsy in the paddock. Aramis daubs his pre-cum over his phallus’s
entire surface, but gives Circaëa little more consideration than that.
Straddling Circaëa’s face, he pushes his cock against her bubble gum
pink lips covering them with his spume. Her dainty pointed tongue
unconsciously licks at the milk white and salty foam. Le Comte
positions his bitte before the pouty oval of her open mouth and
exploring tongue. Looking down at her, his humanity all but fled,
still he’s able to appreciate her loveliness. With one long, very
forceful thrust, he ensconces the entire length of his throbbing shaft
in her throat. “Aaaaagh. Ulp. Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. Mmmm. Aaagh.
U’unngh! Mmmm. Mmmm.”, Dreamweaver mumbles around his raping cock.
Aramis reaches over to grasp and knead her breasts, as he achingly,
slowly, and repeatedly bottoms out, stopping only when his pubic bone
mashes with harsh desire into Circaëa’s lips. More and more
frenetically le Comte raises his tempo. Slowly he lowers his lips and
tongue to her no longer neglected, reaching, and straining little
chatte.
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