Dreamweaver meets The Theurge - Troum-atized cont...
The Bandersnatch
Troum-atized cont... by The Bandersnatch
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[5:00 am Circaëa Gemynd’s Id Hell]
Le Comte raises from between Circaëa thighs, lightly kissing
her mons, leaving a trail of bread-crumb-kisses to the oasis of her
belly button, plumbing it’s depths with a French kiss, and finding its
saltiness free of lint. His lips continue their trek up her sternum,
across her clavicle to where her Adam’s apple would have been, until
his pulsating bitte strikes Circaëa’s thigh just above the knee, and
glissades up to her vulva like a guided missile, to strike with a soft,
and wet, “smack”.
Beseeching with her sapphire eyes, she shakes her head, “No.
In the Blesséd Virgin Mary’s name, don’t do this… Feed. Kill me,
I’ve made my peace, but don’t do this to a virtuous woman.”
Le Comte feels his control of his physical body slipping away,
so he withdraws his consciousness from it entirely. Circaëa begins to
hope that Aramis will relent, as with a thousand-yard-stare he spends
several minutes battening down his mental hatches, against and upon his
body’s actions.
When his violet eyes eventually refocus upon her aquiline face,
Circaëa sees regret, but not mercy. Viciously she strikes, cracking
the bridge of his round French nose with her forehead, but
unfortunately he staggers back instead of falling down, which would
allow her to step upon him like a stool and free her arms. “Damn!”,
she spits.
Eerily, Aramis grins at her impishly through the two garnet
plumes of blood that fan out over his lips and chin from beneath his
busted nose. Most of it he licks off with his broad pink tongue, the
rest he wipes off with the back of his hand. “Stay back!”, she warns
as he closes in on his captive. With her competent Megapolis Police
Department training, she kicks to keep her rapist at a distance, but he
catches her blows with savateur’s blocks upon his outer thighs. After
a minute of such sparring, le Comte gathers up her legs, with handholds
in the pits of her knees. “Let go of me! I don’t want you!
RrrrrrAAAAHHgh!”, she shrieks in rage. Though Dreamweaver struggles
with every fibre of her being, Aramis bench presses her legs high above
his head and hangs her, reminiscent of the Japanese S&M isu zeme style,
from the kneepads hidden beneath the top of her boots, upon hooks above
the door.
Le Comte ducks under his swaying captive, stepping up the step
leading out of the forge, and into the barn. Blood rushes to the head
of our furious heroine, hung as she is shoulders-to-fanny at a 45°
angle, as if frozen in the middle of a front flip. Shortly her lips
get heavy, her ears turn dark red, and she begins to feel numb as if on
the precipice of fainting. Strong, long fingered, alabaster hands
gather her long raven’s wing locks pulling up firmly upon her hair
until her mouth hangs agape. Le Comte reaches down and strokes
Dreamweaver’s cheek, tacitly ordering the undine ‘Ophélie’ from his
body to possess his victim, and evenly redistribute the blood pressure
so every cell gets oxygen and is kept alive, which the undine does
reluctantly.
Circaëa knows that Aramis did something to alleviate her
discomfort, and is almost hysterically bemused by her rapist’s
concern.
Her sapphire eyes leap to scrutinize, the shell pink drooling bitte
that suddenly knocks insistently upon her bubble-gum pink lips.
Dreamweaver can’t seem to help herself as she automatically licks the
salty spume from her lips. *He smells sooo good* she thinks, her
abdomen flutters in hungerous response. His prick feels like velvet
upon her soft lips. Her tongue pushes against the hood of his hard
cock with only token resistance as it forces its self just within the
confines of her ovalled lips. “Ōmmph!” His pre-cum’s sweet
saltiness
causes Circaëa’s mouth to water. With a nearly inexhaustible stream of
pre-cum, Aramis manipulates his bitte to polish her lower teeth,
dipping deeply into her left cheek, distending it a couple of inches,
skittering it back across her lower teeth, to thrust his shell pink
phallus deeply into her right cheek, distending it too in an erotic
billow. “Aaaghk. Llugh. Llugh.” Circaëa, burning with shame, thinks,
*If it weren’t for the grip on my hair, I’ld bite his dirty, filthy,
dick off! Oh God! Why are you letting me be turned into a whore! I
don’t want to like this!!*
As Dreamweaver takes her first true swallow, the diabolical
Comte uses his free hand to massage her sensitive wrists one by one,
kneading her inner forearms, and gliding down to her inner upper arms,
before thrusting his seven inch bitte gently into her pursed mouth
another inch. None of Dreamweaver’s phantasmal lovers had used her
mouth so. Only prostitutes would willingly put a man’s nasty cock in
her mouth. If it interfered with God’s plan to spill ones seed upon
the ground, surely it must be trebly sinful to fornicate and use a
woman’s mouth as a womb…
“Ahhhhhhhh!”, exclaims Aramis as her lips tighten around the
inch and a half diameter of his saltant bitte, as she unconsciously
suckles upon him despite her pulled hair. Like a gentle, irresistible
oceanic wave, le Comte rolls his hips forward in a belly dancers thrust
to tickle past her uvula, and into the back of her throat. “Gaaach.
Aaaach. ’Ulk. ’Ulp. ’Ulp.” Le Comte waits patiently for her throat
to adjust to his rapacious invader, though the autonomic gag reflex
tightens her throat around his pulsating shaft rapturously. With yet
another forward roll of his hips he buries the last two and a half
inches of his bitte into the back of her throat. Dreamweaver barely
notices as Aramis sinks two of his cum soaked fingers up to the second
knuckle into her puckered little asshole at the same time.
Circaëa’s senses reel, as she’s filled in a way she’d never
been filled before. His filthy cock is delicious. Mouth watering, lip
smacking… delicious. She feels that she is such a filthy slut to love
the taste of a man’s dirty prick this way. Guilt flagellates
Dreamweaver, when suddenly Aramis grinds his pubic bone into her face,
as he clutches her hips, lifting her to an 85º angle to his lips,
tossing her upper thighs onto his shoulders, and driving his tongue
with ruthless élan into her defenselessly exposed chatte. Circaëa
couldn’t have jerked and quivered more than if she had stuck her tongue
into a light socket. “Mmmugh! A’aaahhhHHHHH!!!”, she squeals around le
Comte’s bitte. With slow, sinuous figure eight hip rolls, and the
sea’s undulating tide of a tempo, Aramis fucks Dreamweaver’s face while
flexing his shell pink phallus, rap-tap-tapping deep within her
throat. Circaëa feels le Comte’s two balls within his contracting
alabaster nut sack, slide up and over her nose. The first jet of le
Comte’s cum shoots powerfully directly into her gullet. The second
spurt is caught in her throat with a held breath, immediately followed
by a third stream which back flows in a foamy milk-white ring around
her sucking lips to erupt from both her nostrils like white rivulets of
lava over her upper lip. The hot cum trickles down into her eyebrows,
and onto her forehead, before falling in white strands into her long,
raven’s wing black hair. The scent of Man, with his nasty scalding cum
on her face trigger’s her own taboo but delightfully wicked orgasm.
This is followed quickly by a second orgasm as Aramis removes his
twisting fingers from her tight little anus, slowly and roughly, as if
he were removing a cork from a wine bottle.
Like a Dāka while in their Tibetan Yabyum embrace, Aramis
centuples
their ananda by pouring their prāņa, their qi, into a closed
69 shaped
circuit, and thus joyously unleash their kundalini serpents. Both of
their minds shatter during their ‘little death’, as they pass through
sacred Samādhi, before returning to earth from their blissful
orbit.
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[5:30 am Penthouse Suite, Parc St. Charles Hotel, New Orleans]
One peak is crested by another, as le Comte’s multiple orgasms
roil through him, and he is forced to withdraw his glistening face from
between Dreamweaver’s sopping thighs. As is common in the Chinese
alchemy of longevity, Aramis cums without ejaculation turning their nei
tan, or inner elixir, into one shared chin tan chiao, The Golden
Flower/The Elixir of Life.
Carefully he withdraws his angry red bitte from Circaëa’s
ravaged and raw throat. “Wwhhhhh… Aaaaahhhh”, she sighs.
She lies luminous upon the bed, eyes closed, the tip of her pointed
pink tongue, caught between her bruised pouty lips. Le Comte kisses
his way from between her thighs, past her belly button, up to one perky
breast to the other. And back. And forth. And back again.
Peppering kisses along her graceful neck with Aramis’s mouth a-
watering, until Circaëa’s pouty-lipped mouth acts as a burrow for his
searching tongue. Aramis rotates his body around the hub of their
kiss. The hood of his angry red bitte stabs between Dreamweaver’s
mons, pushing one puffy lip aside to reveal her steaming wet, coral
pink pudenda within.
Aramis almost gives in to the temptation to plunge into her right then
and there. But no, he slides down her body, his thick, shiny coal-
black mat of chest hair tickling across Circaëa’s excruciatingly
swollen and sensitive mamelons. At her hips, he turns her light 100#’s
over, lifting her heart shaped derrière out of the pool of her cum that
stains the sheets, and onto her stomach. Her petite 5’2” athletic
figure gives life to the illusion that here, oh-so-helplessly lies an
innocent teen who’s air of naïveté is entirely enchanting, which is in
its self a very powerful aphrodisiac.
The sight of her quivering upturned ass-cheeks, with her peek-a-boo
coral pink inner vaginal lips spread wide like the petals of a hot-
house flower, causes his cock to swell nigh to bursting, forcing pearls
of pre-cum to rappel down to her hard, round butt-cheeks.
Le Comte aims his angry shaft at the palpitating, gasping, vaginal
mouth of her irresistible little chatte. With a single swooping lunge,
Aramis impales the helpless heroine to the hilt, stopping only when
their pubic bones bang together in a heavy wet, “Smaaack!”
Harmonizing “Aaaaahhhhssss” fill the room. But Circaëa’s moan shares
more in common with a sigh…
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[5:30 am Circaëa Gemynd’s Id Hell]
After the kundalini equivalent of two grand mal seizures,
Circaëa groans in relief as le Comte lowers her legs, to the dusty
floor of the barn. Immediately upon tacit command, a gnome grabs
Dreamweaver’s ankles, pulls her legs apart and then back, bending her
over. Her round, hard, heart shaped derrière lifts in erotic
invitation, her perky mamelles quiver enticingly with every hoarse
pant, as Aramis steps up eagerly behind his Joshu. He pulls her by her
flanks against his burning ardour, until his rampant cock pops from
between her sopping wet mons, and out from beneath Circaëa’s pubic
hair. “Unnnnggggggh!” she grunts, as the hood of le Comte’s hard shaft
massages her clitoral shaft firmly from beneath. “You fucking
Bastard!!!”, she hisses.
Aramis’s strong hands caress up her torso to slide his hands
beneath, and over her mamelles, forcing her fecund mamelons to pop up,
and duck behind, each set of his fingers over and over. Dreamweaver
doesn’t notice the rocking motion le Comte has set up until his rigid
prick catches on the lip her vaginal mouth, before bouncing outside and
tickling her clitoral hood again. “I pray you burn in Hell for
this.” “I pray you are correct mon déesse petit.” At that, Aramis
pulls back just far enough during his rocking for Dreamweaver’s
flowering cunt to wetly suck his bitte’s hood between her lèvres
vaginal. She fights and Kegels, and wiggles, and tiptoes with every
fibre of her being to keep him from entering her most sacred and
private chambre. There, oh-so-slowly gravity forces Circaëa’s
pubococcygeous muscle to roll tightly over his burning bitte like a
condom. When the hood of le Comte’s cock pops through the tight mouth
of her vagina she wails, “N’uuuuuugggggnnnnnnnnnnnnhhhhh!!!” *God!
Save me!!!*, she silently prays. She feels so alone, with no one else
to turn to.
Le Comte remains as still as a statue with Dreamweaver’s chatte
clamped around the hood his saltant bitte. Circaëa tries to break
Aramis’s nose with the back of her head. But le Comte sees her
telegraph her blow, and so removes his left hand from her left mamelle,
to catch her head by the hair, pulling it back upon his left
shoulder. As she loses her purchase she despairingly
cries, “uh’AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!”, as she slides inexorably down upon his
pulsating prick. Aramis cuts off her shriek abruptly, removing his
right hand from Circaëa’s right mamelle, and smothering it in the
swampy wetness of their conjoined loins, before forcing his fingers
into her mouth. “Aaagggck! Aaggck! Hhhaaack. Aaammmmnnnmmm.
Uuuunnggggh.”
Dreamweaver’s head swims with the shamefully tasty flavor of her own
tangy salty-sweet cum. And then, the only thing she’s aware of is the
hard hot rod of le Comte’s cock filling her uterus. The reality of a
lover’s… a defiant corner of her mind shrieks at her, *No! Rapist’s!!!
*… Phallus, deeply embedded inside of her is so much better than her
fantasies that her legs give out.
As Circaëa nearly has the vapors, Aramis holds her completely helpless
against his muscular frame, savoring the enveloping soft, wet, warmth
of Dreamweaver’s little chatte that is so tightly wrapped around his
aching-with-desire bitte. Lovingly, gently, le Comte begins to rock
them both, massaging the tender tissues at the mouth of Circaëa’s
womb. Circaëa resists by biting Aramis’s fingers as hard as she can,
but she doesn’t quite break the skin as he adjusts his grip to keep her
mouth pried open and sucking on his fingers.
“Uhhh…”, sighs Dreamweaver as le Comte begins a sinuous right hip
bicycle thrust and roll, “Uh. Uh. Uh.”, before switching to a left
hip bicycle thrust and roll, “Nuh. Nuh. Nuh.”, and into a slow, but
deep and arabesque, figure eight hip rolls, “ŌooooooooOOOOOHHH…”
Aramis massages nearly all of the surfaces of the soft spongy walls of
Circaëa’s little chatte that he can reach with his cruel bitte. Long
strong fingers slip out of Dreamweaver’s mouth, dance lightly down her
throat to pluck and pick at her sweaty and swollen mamelons. “Ah.
Ah. Ah. Ah. Aaaaaah. Aaaaaaah. Aaaaaah. AH! AH! AH!”, gasps
Circaëa. Le Comte begins to take his victim in earnest, plunging
deeply with smooth, rhythmic thrusts. Aramis’s True Sight, vrilles
through all of her pretenses and feints, allowing him to take full
advantage of the exploding recrudescent hedonism of Circaëa’s repressed
carnality. Her vulnerability is made all the more total as he
alchemically centuples her sensitivity to his touch and his scent, and
to her own passionate senses as well. Aramis’s angry prick repeatedly
chisels soft furrows into each wall of Dreamweaver’s hot, wet, and
sticky honey-pot. Head bobbing with each rapacious thrust, Circaëa’s
raven’s wing black mane flies and falls, and makes a sweat sticky veil
for both rapist and victim. She feels her muscles turn to jelly, as
her entire abdomen and pussy melt from the emanating heat and friction
of her bizarrely gentle rape. A tiny corner of Dreamweaver’s mind
quails at realization that she, or rather her body, does like the
beauty, and skill and forc…power of her taking. *No. Don’t lie. Not
to your self.* Loves it. All that and more. The taste, and the
scent, and the feel of this… glorious animal, and every sensation he
elicits from her unwillingly responsive flesh.
Dreamweaver loses all control of her body, and would fall if
not held up by le Comte, when his knowing and talented fingers pavane
across the arch of her abdominals and into her crotch, to caress, pick,
and pluck her clitoris, as he possesses her completely and fucks her
silly.
Aramis plays her body magnificently, leading her adagio into her first
crescendo of uninhibited orgasm.
“Ah. Ah. Ah. Uh. Uh. Uh. Uuuuuhhhhhh. Uhnnnnngh.
Uhnnngh! Aaahhh. Aaaaahhhhhh! Ah’AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH…!!!”, she
tarantaras. Circaëa briefly achieves one-with-Godness & nothingness
simultaneously.
Dreamweaver’s awareness returns in time to the feel of grooves
being dimpled into her cheek as le Comte’s two pointed canines leap
over her jawbone, and spill down her throat toward her wildly pounding
artery. In a very hoarse, heart-felt whisper Circaëa beseeches, “In
Christ’s Name, No…”
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[5:45 am Penthouse Suite, Parc St. Charles Hotel, New Orleans]
“Rrraaaaaaaaghh! Unnh. Unnh. Unnh. Uh! Uh! UH!
RRAAAAAAGHHHHH!!!!”, Le Comte roars as his humanity is tossed away
piece-meal like ashes thrown in the air from a bon-fire. Ruthlessly,
animalistically, Aramis tattoos his desire against Circaëa’s hard,
round, upturned little heart shaped derrière. Even with Circaëa’s
consciousness within ætheric space, the mingling of their soul’s auras
has her body responding with a matching incendiary ardour to le Comte’s
own. Her hips rise involuntarily to grant deeper access to her
uterus, in an unrestrained attempt to satiate her soul’s carnal
hungers. Her peak arrives like an ambush, which bows her back
sharply. As her ching is transmuted into The Golden Flower, she bites
her lip bloody before mouthing a howling tacit shriek as she becomes
the epicentre of a titanic Telekinetic explosion.
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[5:45 am Parking lot, Parc St. Charles Hotel, New Orleans]
The pedestrians on the street duck in startlement as an
explosion rocks the N’Awlins Parc St. Charles Hotel. On the east side
of the building, the windows of the Penthouse Suite are blown out in a
charivari of tinkling, and scintillating, glass, along with a long
black haired nude figure. By bonne chance, no one in the parking lot
below is seriously injured. Patrolwoman Adele Devereaux, radio’s in
the disturbance immediately, calling for the paramedics as she hurries
to the rescue.
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[5:45 am Circaëa Gemynd’s Id Hell]
Le Comte jerks the remaining consciousness away from his
corpus, causing it to drop bonelessly like a marionette with its
strings severed. Aramis supports Circaëa’s weight, as the final
tremors of her third orgasm unkink her wobbly limbs, and work their way
throughout her body. “Non Mademoiselle?” “Hmmm?” “You said, ‘In
Christ’s Name. No…’, Oui?” Dreamweaver nods in affirmation, not quite
certain what is going on. Aramis enjoys the feel of Circaëa’s tight
little chatte a final time as, his softening bitte bobs with a final
bow and retreats from the lady’s presence.
Dreamweaver closes her eyes, as they roll in her head, with the
nigh-abrasive final passage of le Comte’s lance over her uterus’s
hypersensitive tissues. Of its own volition, her vagina Kegels around
his prick as it tries to detain its departure. Violent quivers of
pleasure radiate from her loins, causing guilty horripilation along her
arms, legs and neck over her utterly hors-de-combat flesh.
Le Comte reaches above his captive to release her from her
galling restraints. Scooping her up in his arms, he pulls his angry
pink bitte completely free of her equally angry coral pink pussy.
Lucid rivulets of cum pour over Dreamweaver’s round fanny and down the
both of their legs. She’ld beat the crap out of him if she had had the
strength. Instead, she rests her head on Aramis’s broad chest clinging
to his shoulders, as he spreads his owl’s wings. They beat powerfully,
lifting them off of the ground and through the roof of the barn.
Aramis eases Circaëa’s ætheric self back into her body before
he returning to his own. Le Comte finds himself disoriented in the
bottom of a deep, gnome created, Comte d’Nawlins version of the classic
Wile E. Coyote crater. A silhouette of a face peeks over the crater’s
edge, blocking out the glimmering stars. Using another service, Aramis
tacitly commands ‘James’ to Teleport him into the bathroom of Circaëa’s
Penthouse Suite.
Dreamweaver’s eyes open gummily, in a difficult effort to focus
upon her surroundings. Her suite greets her like London, after two
weeks of the Gerrie’s Luftwaffe bombings. She never gets used to
getting not the faintest glimmer of mind from le Comte, but is
unsurprised to find him completely dressed in a new outfit and
immaculately coiffed, quietly regarding her nakedness in critical
appreciation. Her sapphire eyes challenge his calm violet gaze as she
reaches slowly for the phone that’s been knocked upon the floor. When
he doesn’t react, she leans over the bed and snatches the phone up
punching 9-1-1. “Hello? Hello!?” “Nine-one-one, please state the
nature of the emergency.” “Hello? Yes! Yes!” With a hate-filled
glare she checks on the placid Comte. “This is Circaëa Gemynd, I’m in
the Penthouse Suite of the Parc St. Charles Hotel and I’ve just been
raped!” All of the bruises, and unused muscles throb and ache in
punctuation. “He’s still here!” “He’s still there?” “Yes!!! Send
the police right away!” “Alright Ma’am, stay calm and get out of the
apartment immediately and get to safety. The police are on their way.”
Wrapping the bed sheet around her nakedness, the cleanliness of
which escapes her notice, she leaves the phone off of the hook as she
edges toward the door, staying as far away from le Comte as she
can. “You’re going to jail you Bastard!” He smiles at her wanly,
shaking his head in the negative. With a tacit command he orders a
sylph to keep those on the other end of the line from hearing his part
in their conversation. “Non. I’ll be long gone by then.” Shaking her
head vehemently, ‘No.’ “I’m not going to let you get away!” Aramis
responds with a mirthless laugh. “I’m not going anywhere mon déesse
petit. The Sun’s coming up and I will be no more.” She shakes her
head in disbelief but says, “Good! It’ld serve you right!” Le Comte
nods in agreement. Looking out of the splintered windows he muses
wistfully, “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a sunrise…”
From out in the hallway a cacophony of voices complain bitterly about
the fused doors of the elevator.
Quickly, she slips through the door and into the hallway. “Hurry!
He’s here! He’s in here!!” An authoritative feminine voice
orders, “Stay right there. Miss. We’ll have them open in a minute!”
Dreamweaver adds her considerable Telekinetic strength to their
efforts, but she only succeeds in rattling the entire elevator shaft.
A gnome steps out of the metal of the elevator doors, gives her an
apologetic shrug, and walks heavily into the room. A brusque male
voice complains, “They’re stuck but good! We’re going to have to go
get a torch! Stay put! We’ll be right back!” With streamers of
colorful curses the elevator wobbles jerkily back down to the ground
floor.
Circaëa peeks through the door to see that her rapist hasn’t gotten
away, she is disturbed by what she sees. His normally healthy looking
alabaster skin tone, has degenerated into a sickly greenish grey.
A momentary fear makes her heart flutter, but she screws up her courage
and allows her natural heroic impulse to guide her. “What’s wrong with
you?” “Hmmm?”, his eyelids lift heavily to look her way. “I believe I
mentioned that I’m starving to death. If you’ld do me the honor of
allowing me to die with a little dignity, I’ld greatly appreciate it.”
Arching his eyebrow, “A little prĭvacy please.”
It is all she can do to keep herself from screaming her head off about
his violation of her privacy, and about what he’s done to her dignity
and security. But she painfully rebites her already wounded lip. She
debates within herself about needing him to face Justice, and letting
the son-of-a-bitch die. But then, it occurs to her that he could very
well be the instrument of Justice, considering that she feels that she
deserves to be put-to-death for her murderous crimes.
Before she can regret her decision she stalks over to her attacker and
thrusts her wrist under his nose. Raising an eyebrow archly, she asks
him contemptuously, “Well…!? My blood not to your taste now!!?”,
daring him to invalidate her ordeal at his cruel hands.
“Perfectly. Have you made peace with your God…?” She nods in
understanding, “You mean, am I ready to die?” ‘Yes’, he affirms with a
nod. “That’s fine. If you don’t do it, I’ld just wait until you
weren’t watching and I’ld leave anyway.” Le Comte barely refrains from
rolling his eyes over her wasteful attitude towards her life.
Somewhat bitterly he reminds her, “Isn’t suicide a Mortal Sin?”
The young Theurge prays, *Mon Déesse Aradia, I pray thou protect us…
For yours is the ecstasy of the spirit, and too the joy on earth; for
your Law is love unto all beings. Help me keep pure my highest ideal;
striving ever towards it; letting nothing stop me nor turn me aside…
most especially my own self.*
Dreamweaver closes her eyes. Like a whip, Aramis snaps to attention,
fangs extending, his jaw nearly disjoining as he clutches his heroine
to his breast. Circaëa’s eyes fly open during the pregnant pause, and
then the bliss of The Kiss, overbears her senses almost triggering yet
another orgasm, as the bed-sheet falls from nerveless fingers…
In a silk cascade, the white bed-sheet slurps like a very long soft
tongue over her distended clit and vulva. The trigger has become a
fuse, very hot & very short, and like a cannon shot she peaks. Her
orgasm is so powerful as to curl her toes, the wracking spasms of which
pull her feet entirely off of the carpet for a moment or two. Mindless
ananda engulfs the young heroine as her shriek
of “AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!” is reduced
to “**************************!!!”, a wordless, soundless, nigh gurgle
of indescribable pleasure. *Sogood.SooooGoooood.Soogoood.SoooOh!
Ooooooooooooh…!!!*
Her mind re-knits its self back into awareness relatively quickly.
Still Aramis’s lips are at her throat, and the carnal joie-de-vive
continues. She’s dying in every meaning of the term, with a rapturous
and eager visage. When droplets of her hot cum reach the mid-point of
her inner thighs, it tickles them and so she rubs her thighs together,
inadvertently igniting her unnatural inferno into another orgasmic
conflagration that completely consumes the remains of Dreamweaver’s
endurance and mind.
This last kundalini epileptic fit leaves Circaëa a one hundred pound
mass of quivering gelatin, as the Emhiate Theurge rolls her vitæ, her
mind, and her soul all at once.
The hot, foamy, salty mead fires gulp after gulp down le Comte’s
gullet. The variant is nearly as potent as The Yellow Emperor’s Elixir
Vitæ due to the multiple alchemical refinements and concentrations of
Circaëa’s endorphins. He thinks, *Should she live, she’ll find herself
twenty-four years old for the next fifty years before aging again.*
Nothing has ever tasted so delectable. When the spray ends, he sinks
his fangs into Dreamweaver even more deeply intending to suck the
elusive life’s-blood from her body. Over and over he tries, but not
another drop is forthcoming. Eventually, his undine’s tacit, bitter,
and ceaseless complaints that she’s not going to be able to do her job
it he doesn’t, *STOP!!!*, registers with his rational mind.
Fangs and claws retract, the sound of a welder’s torch and smell of
sulfur, help focus his attention to the here and now. With a loving
lick his bite marks vanish, healed completely. He kisses her all over
and makes it better… With but a moments more delay, the very well fed
Comte has Ophélie once again clean the cum off of Circaëa and
everything else. He collects the bulk of Circaëa’s clothes and finds
her purse, making certain that it contains her wallet. With a tacit
reveille, that calls all of his minions to him, Aramis casts a Glamour,
a disguise via the aura, so as to appear as a short, sandy haired
Emergency Medical Technician with brown eyes. He then commands another
service from James, and with Dreamweaver, Teleports to an empty
stairwell at the Saint Charles Hospital. Scurrying out of the door in
a rush. “I need some help over here! I’ve a white female in need of a
rape-kit!” Handing Circaëa off to the nurses, he quickly loses himself
in the crowded hall.
Once out of sight, le Comte Teleports into the Chapel on his estate, to
first check on the condition of his prisoner Abigrrl Lens. Finding
Madame Lens secure and comatose, Aramis gives the telepathic order to
his undine to let him know when Dreamweaver becomes conscious.
As Aramis crosses the aisle, he takes a moment to genuflect before the
altar, dropping the Glamour as he regains his feet. Le Comte steps
over to a pillar and, as previously arranged with a gnome, steps inside
to ‘sleep’ the day away.
When dusk arrives, the Theurge steps out of the pillar, puts on his
cope and vestments, and holds Mass. Several vampires, Mlle. Champion
the Loup-garou, and Peter the Templar, a ghost, arrive to attend the
services.
Sans references to Yahweh, this Mass is conducted just like any other
Catholic Mass. Peter assists Aramis as the altar boy. True Sight
allows le Comte to easily keep track of the invisible Templar.
When the rite is completed everyone involved exits the chapel better
able to hold onto, or to get in touch with, their humanity. Not
coincidentally, it allows le Comte to regain a few of the services that
he’d burned the night before.
As le Comte leaves, he turns to lock up the Chapel. Leaning languidly
against the Chapel’s wall the Loup-garou Roxann Champion opines, “You
look like you’ve been jumped by a cheese grater.” “Thanks ever so
much.” She inquires, “So. Who’s the ’skeeter bitch? The one that
smells like E.R. meets junkyard chic? The one you’ve locked in the
tower?” With a smile Aramis replies, “Roxy lady, that would be Abigrrl
Lens.” “Is she the one you were screwing around with last
night?” “How… tactful. In a manner of speaking, Yes. Actually, she
was screwing around with me, but not in the good way.” Mlle. Champion
nods empathetically. “So who’s the new girl?” As he finishes locking
up, he rejoins, “What makes you so certain there’s a new
girl?” “Well… You don’t clean yourself up so if there’s not. I can
always smell the three you usually sleep with when you go to The House
of the Rising Sun. In other words, you smell like a whorehouse. I’m
sorry, a high class whore-house.”, says Mlle. Champion with a wolfish
grin. Le Comte gives Roxann a smarmy sweet smile in return, “You’re
too kind.” She inclines her head in appreciation. “I believe she
likes to be called Circaëa Gemynd. I’ve hurt her very badly
Rox.” “How badly?” “Badly enough that I’m not willing to say, just
yet.” “Yikes! You want to cancel the lesson for tonight?” Le Comte
shakes his head in negation, “No, I really want to learn how to smell
like a wolf.” Trying to break his mood, she reverses their usual roles
as she pokes him one in the shoulder, telling him, “That’s easy
enough. You gonna invite me up for a nightcap?” Aramis shoots her a
stern glare. “Jeeezz…” The glare intensifies even more. “Uh, I know,
No taking the Lord’s name in vain… Hmmm, I’m not doing so well
tonight. Can we start over?” Le Comte grins, “Oui mademoiselle.”
Aramis offers his arm to the muscular Loup-garou. Mlle. Champion takes
the proffered arm, beginning their constitutional on the grounds of the
estate. “Ready?” asks le Comte. “Yep.” With that, he takes them Eald-
walking, stepping into a fairie otherworld, and very shortly, without
incident, step into the ‘real’ world and arrive in the middle of New
Orleans’s City Park, just a short walk to Harrison Ave. “I love it
when we do that!”, purrs Roxann.
With a tacit command to a sylph to act as a hearing and sniffing aid,
she makes it so that his senses are as discerning as those two senses
of Mlle. Champion’s. Whereupon Mlle. Champion waxes pedantic on
what “alive” smells like, and “dead” smells like. What “male” smells
like, and “female” smells like. How one can tell what areas of town
another has passed through. What “fear” smells like. What “horny”
(her term) smells like. What ’skeeters smell like. What loup-garou
smell like. They go through a small catalog of scents for different
sicknesses. They go through another small catalog of scents for those
partaking of alcohol, crack, ecstasy, etc. etc.
After a couple of hours, “You’ve been a good boy, but your heart ain’t
in this. Why don’t I take you home & let you take care of that Gemynd
chick.” Aramis smiles at Mlle. Champion in gratitude. “Thanks
Rox.” “Not a problem. Quiz next month, so be ready.” Le Comte nods
in understanding. The Loup-garou bounds off dragging le Comte along
behind, entering the park, and then, The Greening. They emerge upon le
Comte’s estate. “Here ya go cutie pie!” Aramis gives his friend a hug
and a peck on the cheek. “Take care o’ you Roxy Lady.” “Don’t worry
laddie buck, you’ll give her what she needs. You always do.
Say ‘Hello!’ to the wives for me!” With a small wave and a wink, she
spins on her heel sprouting fur and a tail as she takes an
anthropomorphic wolfen form, enters The Greening, and is gone.
Le Comte considers the distinctions between the two forms of travel.
In Eald, one is journeying through Mother Earth’s Aura and Id, whilst
in The Greening one is traveling through Her Veins.
Le Comte waits for Mlle. Champion’s departure to reestablish his normal
protections, via his sylph, salamander, and gnome of leaving no scent,
sound, nor sign, of his presence or passage. Le Comte tacitly calls
James to get the Springfield Phantom (model I, a S293RM Rolls-Royce
from 1927). The Virtue of Transportation takes the Phantom’s form and
pulls into the drive. Le Comte leaps into a seat in the back and asks
to be taken to the Hospital.
Aramis scouts out the place through the eyes of a vidette sylph that he
has blow into Dreamweaver’s room. He notes that the transfused blood
has returned a rosy blush to Circaëa’s countenance. Le Comte gives the
undine Ophélie an entire year of freedom upon this mortal coil for her
part in saving Dreamweaver’s life. The caveats are that Ophélie must
stay out of the way of, cannot cause damage nor distress to, any
mortals unless they’re trying to enslave or destroy her. She is made
to understand that even breaking the spirit of this agreement is cause
to rescind her freedom. Ophélie happily agrees to the terms, and pours
out of Circaëa’s pores, to flow into the restroom and down the drain.
Le Comte watches Dreamweaver sleep for a while, before going home to do
research. He leaves standing orders for the sylph in Circaëa’s
hospital room to let him know when Circaëa gains consciousness.
It isn’t until the next afternoon that Circaëa awakes, speaks with the
Doctors and Patrolwoman Devereaux. That evening, le Comte casts a
Glamour that makes him look like a tall nurse with blond hair and blue
eyes. He then has “James” take form of a cab and drop him off at the
hospital. ‘She’ goes unchallenged as she makes her way past the front
desk, and at first opportunity she swipes a tray with various cups of
pills, to give her the cover of delivering them to someone.
An innocent five year old black girl pulls on his dress asking, “Hey
mister! Why’re you dressed like a girl?” Le Comte sits down on his
heels to look the little girl in the eye. “What’s your name
sweetheart?” “Tessa.” “Well Tessa, I’m in disguise ’cause the
hospital won’t let me visit at this time at night, and it’s the only
time I can come and see someone.” “Oh.” “You’re not going to snitch
on me… are you?” “Nooo. Bye mister.” “Bye sweetheart.”, he au
revoirs.
Tessa wanders through the door behind her. Le Comte witnesses the
little child join her family’s death watch over her eight years old big
sister. With a moment of analysis, his True Sight starkly illumines
the black tendrils of the sister’s brain tumor. Irresistibly drawn to
the bedside, the family parts, allowing the ‘Nurse’ to attend to the
comfort of their dying child. He reaches absentmindedly beneath his
shirt to grasp his Or Key holy symbol. Tousling the child’s hair, only
Tessa sees what the ‘Nurse’ is doing when Laying Hands upon her. A
brilliant light fills the room that only two can see, as the brain
tumor begins reproducing only healthy cells. Leaving the relatives
confused, le Comte turns and exits with a small smile and nod towards
Tessa, failing to hide his exhaustion. Tessa’s mother begins to cry
softly, when the little girl walks over, pats her mother’s
hand. “D’ōn
cry Ma-ma, the angel fix’t it. ’Lissa’s g’ōn a’ be all right.”
Aramis slips into Circaëa’s room without further incident. Dr. Gemynd
is asleep, but awakes as le Comte sets the tray of pills on the
nightstand. The mental silence is deafening, and with a psychic cry of
alarm, she summons security. With a vicious Telekinetic blow she slams
the unsuspecting Theurge into a wall and sends him spinning on his
belly into every wall and piece of furniture for a full minute. The
security guard enters the room with his gun drawn.
“What the hell is going on here!”, the guard demands. Circaëa lets le
Comte slowly rotate to a stop. “I’m sorry Officer, the Nurse tripped
and fell, and it startled me awake. It’s alright.” The guard avoids
stepping upon the multi-colored strewn about pills, to offer the Nurse
a hand up, “You okay ma’am?” With the help of a sylph, who provides
Aramis with a deep and sultry feminine voice, “Oh yes Officer, thank
you. I’ll be fine.” He looks over to Circaëa for confirmation and she
nods her head in affirmation. “If you ladies will excuse me…
G’night.”, and the guard lets himself out of the room.
In a mocking voice Circaëa asks le Comte, “Are you okay ma’am?” Aramis
nods ‘Yes.’, in answer, whilst having a sylph keep their conversation
private. “And thou mademoiselle?” “Oh, you know… I’ve been raped!
And there’s no evidence! I’m just peachy!” Tears quickly fill her eyes
and begin to dribble down her face, “I don’t know how you did it… No
bruises. No traces of hair, or skin, or… or… semen. Not even my
own…”, she shivers. “I didn’t want to hurt you. You’ve my sincerest
apologies.”, shaking his head at the inadequacy of the platitude. “I’ld
give you my Word that it won’t happen to someone else… but I cannot.”
She actually believes him, but shaking her head, she gives him an
incredulous look. “Why the fuck are you here!? Are you going to
finish the job?”, she pulls at the neck of her smock, exposing her
throat. “You might as well you Bastard. You can’t be with me all the
time.” “You don’t have to do that.” “Yes I do. I can’t control this,
and people will die if I live. I can’t even stand to kill you, and you
deserve it.” “I certainly may. But it would be a great tragedy if you
were to leave us.” “No it wouldn’t. There wouldn’t be any more
accidental deaths on my account.” “I think I’ve a way to ensure
that.” “What!? How the hell are you going to do that?” “Hell, is not
involved in this one…”, Indicating the tipped over chair, Aramis
asks, “May I?” She nods, “Yes.” Le Comte grabs the chair, placing it
at the head of the bed and taking a seat. “It seems to me from what
you’ve described, that you use your opponents own mind to give form to
your…” “Id Creations.”, Circaëa prompts. “Id Creations,”, Aramis
continues “But what if you were to give their subconscious minds equal
control of the forms they take?” “I don’t know how to do that.” “I
can put a… call it a Binding on you, that would give your opponent’s
subconscious limited control over the form your power would take if it
were to threaten their life.” “You can do that?” “Oui mademoiselle. I
must warn you, if you meet someone strong willed, sociopathic, or
psychotic enough, they may be able to catch you in their own sick
fantasies using your own power against you… Everything from
Psychological Disadvantages, to Susceptibilities, to Vulnerabilities,
etc. etc.” Le Comte lets the ramifications sink in. “But it would keep
you from bringing out an Id Creation from someone that would kill
them. You on the other hand… Well, circumstances could get quite ugly
for you.” “Uglier than the other night!?” “Oui.” *Of course, if your
life if is threatened in turn, you’ld get full control again.*, he
promises her to himself.
Le Comte synchronizes their auras, and so surprises Dreamweaver when
her Telekinetic Force Field doesn’t snap to her defense and offer
resistance. It surprises and unnerves her more that she doesn’t
flinch, as Aramis kisses away some of her tears, and wipes away
others. She reaches up and firmly grabs his wrist, pulling his hand
away from her face. She consciously puts up her Telekinetic Force
Field. “No. Stop.” She wonders why she craves his touch, and finds
it comforting when she thinks that she should be revolted. She’s
greatly relieved when he draws his hand away, “Uh… Thanks. Let me
sleep on it.”, and a moment later, “I’m still pressing charges you
know.” Le Comte nods in understanding. “Your Word you’ll not harm
yourself before I see you again?” Circaëa gives him an odd
look, “Sure. You have my Word.”
The next evening with its waxing moon, the young Theurge places a
specially made taper next to Dreamweaver’s bed. At Aramis’s tacit
command a salamander lights it, and from inside his vest, he removes a
virgin parchment from which he casts the following spell:
“I salute thee and conjure thee, O beautiful Moon, O most beautiful
Morning Star, O brilliant light which I have in my hand.”
The moonlight seems to slowly wind its self into a ball in his hand
like an argent ball of twine.
“By the air that I breathe, by the breath within me, by the earth which
I am touching: I conjure thee. By all the names of the spirit princes
living in you. By the ineffable Name On, which created everything! By
you, O resplendent Angel Gabriel, with the Planet Venus Prince,
Michiæl, and Melchidæl.
I conjure you again, by all the Holy Names of God, so that you may send
down power to liberate, heal, and comfort the body and soul and the
five senses of Circaëa Gemynd, she whose name is written here, so that
she shall come unto me, and agree to my desires that she abdicate her
power of Id Creation to her victim(s), would the form it take
inadvertently pose a mortal threat. Let her then be tortured, made to
suffer, yet rescinding said grant of power should her own mind or life
be threatened. Go, then, at once!”
Pointing to Dreamweaver. “Go, Melchidæl, Baresches, Zazel, Firiel,
Malcha, and all those who are with thee! I conjure you by the Great
Living God to obey my will, and I promise to satisfy you.”
Le Comte finishes his variant of the spell from his True Grimoire, by
dropping the stated guardian angel’s powers, as represented by the
twine of moonlight, onto her chest. Slender argent traceries radiate
out from the center of her chest wrapping her in a delicate cocoon,
before they tighten disappearing under her skin, and of her own Will,
Binds her power of Id Creation.
Reaching into his vest pocket he pulls out an apparently platinum
signet ring, set with the largest sapphire Circaëa has ever seen. In
the centre of the sapphire is a slightly raised platinum “D”. “You may
not want to sign anything, when you can use this.” He pops it open to
show her the azure wax within.
She nods in understanding and accepts the gift. “Your Word that no one
will die on account of my Id Creations?” “You’ve my Word that no one
will die accidentally on account of your Id Creations.” She begins to
argue, but is cut off. “I believe I’ve taken enough… I’ll not take
away your Free Will as well, my dear.” Circaëa’s lips form
an “Oh.” “Very well, as long as I’m not a danger.” Chuckling he
replies, “Don’t be silly mon peri, of course you’re a danger. You’re
more like a Devī, than any other mortal that I have ever met.” In
farewell he wishes her, “Adieu, Adéesse, & Blest be.” Le Comte bows
with atypical solemnity, and backs out of the room.
Over the next few days Circaëa Gemynd’s charges against Aramis Xavier
d’Chardrey of Assault, Battery, Kidnapping, Rape, and Sodomy are left
unpursued for lack of evidence, that and d’Chardrey’s consistent
pleading of “The Fifth.” It is very disappointing, but not unexpected.
However, Dreamweaver leaves New Orleans confident that Justice has been
served, even if the Law has not. She’s pleased that she can take
credit for, and some modicum of pride in, the stop that has been put to
Abigrrl Len’s rape/murders. She’s prouder still that in succeeding,
she’s fulfilled her vow to Mrs. Veronica Mills.
And even without being able to read “Le Comte’s” mind she is equally
confident that a repeat of his actions against her towards someone else
is very unlikely, given what she could glean of his personality, even
if it were still a possibility.
Eagerly, Circaëa heads north towards Megapolis to join Captain Rebecca
Harker’s Megapolis Police Department Superhuman Unit as their primary
Forensic Psychiatrist.
The End of a Beginning
Last modified 07/20/00 please send comments and constructive criticism
to Bander...@hotmail.com
From The Banderlair; A Tale of Megapolis:
Dreamweaver meets The Theurge – Troum-atized
By The Bandersnatch
Bander...@hotmail.com
***
This work is copyright © 2000 by The Bandersnatch.
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***
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