Persephone in Winter

                          Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

                               Chapter 8

 

 

They sat facing each other in a room unfamiliar to her.  He had led her

past the library to the back of the house where bright lights no longer

spilled through the towering windows.  It was a room of secrets, dark

and quiet, lit only by shrinking tongues of flame and dying embers

sputtering in a nearby hearth.  She thought it smelled of man-smells,

of leather, tobacco, and the charred wood of a campfire.

 

For a brief minute, just after he took her hand, led her through the

door, and then closed it, she felt as though she was transported back

in time - she in her elegant gown, he in his perfectly tailored jacket,

standing together, awash in flickering sienna.  Now she felt so small,

barely able to reach the armrests of the wide leather chair.  Sitting

forced the open front of the dress higher, nearly to her navel,

exposing everything below it - the soft pillow of her lower belly, her

naked thighs pressing into the leather of the seat cushion, and the

pouting, freshly shaved cleft between them, glistening at its center

with a hint of expectation.  She knew by his smile that he approved.

 

He moved forward in his chair, edging closer to a small, round table

that stood between them.  Lifting an oddly square bottle, he turned

the peeling label toward the fire to read its faded letters.  She

watched quietly as he poured an inch of emerald liquor into each of two

heavy crystal goblets.  The liquid seemed to glow and sparkle through

the many angled facets of glass.  She grew more curious when he

balanced a long, slotted spoon across the top of one of the glasses,

then lifted a single cube of sugar from a small porcelain bowl,

centering it on the spoon.  After preparing the second glass in exactly

the same way, he placed it beneath the narrow spigot of a silver tureen

which stood atop a tiny but steady flame, warming its contents to just

above body temperature.

 

"And the third angel sounded, and a great star, burning like a lamp,

fell from Heaven, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers and

fountains of water; and the name of the star is called Absinthe."

 

He hadn't looked up from his work, and his voice, suddenly so loud and

at the same time somber, startled her.  Not knowing whether he expected

an answer from her, she sat without a word, eyes now wide and glassy in

the firelight.

 

He stopped and looked up across the table at her, pausing a second

between her legs before meeting her nervous stare.

 

"La Fe Verte. The green fairy. Such a contradiction - once so

prized, then so despised - how can such a simple thing be weighed in

such extremes of human desire and aversion? It's only a drink, after

all. Have you tried it? Absinthe?"

 

She had heard the word, but knew little of it.

 

"No," she replied, just louder than a whisper.

 

As he eased the spigot open, warm droplets of water fell, one by one,

onto the cube of sugar, then after wetting it to the core, dripped

steadily into the waiting glass.  Like some sort of strange alchemy,

the green liquid changed slowly to a murky, opaline yellow before her

eyes.

 

"Aside from 'visions borne of the loins of angels', it's said that the

ritual of preparation is much of the seduction of absinthe.  I believe

you know something of the seduction of ritual, don't you my dear?"

 

"I - I never thought of this as a ritual, Simon."

 

"But of course it is - a ritual to be played out, then dismissed until

whatever brings you back to me laps at your little cunt once again."

 

"So, I'm nothing more than a slave to this 'ritual', as you put it?  My

only true existence is here with you, bridged by week after empty week

of waiting anxiously for your cock inside me again?  I'm much more than

that, Simon.  As sure as you are of me, you've dismissed my strengths -

my capacity to love my husband, and much of what I am."

 

She expected some sort of retaliation - a scathing look, or words laced

with enough sarcasm to put her in her place.  Instead, he concentrated

quietly on his work, waiting patiently until a second cube of sugar

completely dissolved into the remaining glass. Then, with a slight

flourish, he added an equal amount of cognac to each goblet, topped off

with a bit more warm water, and extended a glass toward her.  She edged

forward to take it, the heat from the fire on her bare thighs reminding

her to keep them open for him as he moved closer.

 

"A toast - to a young wife's strengths - and to the green fairy, with

strengths of her own."

 

The drink burned her throat, leaving behind a slightly bitter

aftertaste.  She struggled to keep pace with his own progress, emptying

half her glass in just minutes.  As it warmed her from the inside out,

she opened her legs wider and moved forward in her chair, a gesture

made to assure him that her naked cunt was completely, shamelessly,

his, and to show how eager she was to have him use her body in some

new, perverse way.

 

"So, shall we talk a bit about the strengths you seem so proud of

tonight?"

 

His voice hinted at mischief instead of the sarcasm she had expected,

his smile as warm and genuine as her husband's might have been. She

felt her defenses melt away and a sudden gush flow from between her

legs.

 

"Tell me, what do you tell your husband when he asks what we do here?

Where is this inner strength each time he asks why you return, so

desperate to be fucked by another man?  How does this infinite capacity

to love your husband serve you when he looks deep into the eyes of his

sweet wife as another man's semen leaks slowly from the depths of her

belly?  Does he see it, this strength of yours?  Or is it regret, pity,

or even depraved lust that looks back at him?"

 

"I've told you before, Simon.  I tell him as little as possible.

There's no need to make him suffer, no need to punish him more than I

must each time I ask him to bring me here."

 

He studied her expression as she spoke, examining the smallest of

gestures, searching for truth in the arch of a brow, or the corners

 

of her mouth where full lips met to reveal fleeting glimpses of those

things she tried hardest to conceal.  Now no longer comforted by his

sympathetic smile, she clung in vain to her strength as it slowly

slipped away, her resistance broken, her pride violated by his knowing

grin.

 

"You speak of your husband's punishment.  What of yours?"

 

"Mine? Mine is seeing the pain in his eyes when I return to him.  Mine

is knowing what he thinks of me, and knowing no matter how I try to

prove my love for him, that he questions it when I take him inside me,

even as I whisper his name over and over when I cum. As painful as it

is, at times I feel I deserve much worse."

 

"And what might the proper punishment be for a wife that cheats not

just once, but openly and regularly sluts before her loving husband's

eyes?"

 

She sipped the remainder of her drink slowly, using the time to think,

knowing a certain answer was expected of her.  The taste of the warm

liquid seemed less bitter now, and she scarcely noticed as much of what

she was began to slip easily away into Simon's confident grasp.

 

He knew her answer would not come easily, and he took pleasure in

watching her labor to invent a suitable punishment that was sure to

please him.  He went to work creating a second set of drinks,

pretending to be absorbed completely in repeating the ritual, one much

like the one she fought to deny.

 

But still she sat quietly, afraid any punishment she might devise would

be impossible to bear, yet not severe enough to satisfy him.  So she

waited, with cuntlips pulsing and wet, until she took the second glass

from his hand and drank.  He sipped his glass, while she drained hers

in long, deliberate portions, all the while feeling his eyes on her,

watching him devour her body from mouth to cunt as a predator studies

its prey before feasting.  Suddenly, all defenses, pride, modesty, and

shame melted away in a single swift rush.  The need to offer herself

totally, to become nothing more than an object used for the carnal

whims of anyone who might want her, became so overwhelming, that she

trembled as though balanced on the brink of a terrifying abyss.  Her

nipples hardened urgently against the fabric of the dress, and her

hands found the insides of her spread thighs, stroking the smooth flesh

as near to her naked cunt as she dare go without his permission.

 

He rose and went to her, cupped her chin in his large hand, and tilted

her face up to meet gaze.  He waited a full minute, savoring each

tremor of her body, each second of lust and indecision helplessly

revealed in her wide eyes.  When she didn't answer, he answered for

her.

 

"Might I offer a deserving punishment, one guaranteed not to leave you

wanting?"

 

His words seemed so distant, his hand so hot - almost electric -

against her face.  Whatever punishment he offered was something she

would gladly take from him, fearlessly, even greedily, if it was to

become the key that would unlock his every expectation.

 

And then, somehow, she was on her feet, walking beside him, her hand

wrapped in his, the urgency to give herself to him never fading.  As he

led her into the darkness at the back of the room, a soft amber light

began to glow overhead, revealing the framework of an imposing

structure, until then hidden in obscurity behind her chair.  The

scaffold was made of polished mahogany beams, a foot thick from floor

to ceiling.  They rose from a large matching base, raised a foot off

the floor, with a short step in front.  As they climbed the single step

together, she struggled to make some sense of their destination's

purpose.  The precise fit of the intricately carved trim and the

flawless sheen of its finish brought a surprising image to her mind -

that of a pulpit, where a clergyman might go about the task of

unburdening those with impure thoughts and deeds.  She shivered,

ashamed of the bizarre association, but within seconds the absinthe

shuttled her thoughts elsewhere and the image was lost, forgotten in

less time than it had taken to form.

 

She offered up each arm, one at a time, as he fastened her wrists in

heavy loops of cloth attached to the inside of each vertical beam.  Her

heart pounded as hidden ratchets within the beams stretched her upward

until only the balls of her feet touched the smooth mahogany floor.  He

stood before her, a foot away, admiring her body, letting her know with

words graphic enough to make her twist slightly, impatiently, against

her bonds.  As he spoke, he unfastened each of the four catches down

the front of her dress, letting it fall to the floor after the last was

opened.  She knew what he saw would excite him - her body hanging naked

before him, the light from the fire flickering over her satin skin.

She opened her legs shamelessly, unconsciously setting her hips

forward, writhing with lust for him, but completely helpless to find

relief until he wished to give it.

 

After disappearing into the shadows, he appeared before her again

stripped to the waist, his bronze chest gleaming high and firm above

the sinews of his flat, chiseled stomach.  In his hand he carried short

length of bamboo, no thicker than a pencil, a yard from end to end.

Careful not to brandish it as a weapon, he held it low against the side

of his thigh as he approached, allowing her to feast her eyes on his

bare torso, then, as he knew she would, lower her eyes to the swollen

rope of flesh straining at the front of his slacks.

 

She gasped when he brought the end of the stick close to her breast,

then again, repeatedly, as he moved it slowly back and forth over the

puckering nipple.  A short, sudden tap across her breast made her cry

out in surprise - a second more forceful strike brought a louder squeal

of pain.

 

"Please Simon - not this - you're scaring me!" she pleaded.  He

responded with repeated blows, each slightly more forceful than the

last, each making the darkened room ring with her shrill response.  The

bamboo fell across her breasts again and again until they were fiery

with heat and pain, until finally tears swelled along the lower lids of

her eyes, then spilled over both cheeks.

 

Just when she began to sob openly, he stopped.  Then his hands were on

her, cool lotion beneath them soothing the nagging burning, caressing

the tender nipples back to life with expert care.  He fondled her

lovingly, cupping the firm meat of her breasts with hands both strong

and forgiving, until the fire in her belly began to grow again, her

cunt again seeping with desire.  She had been terrified, but she had

 

taken his punishment, and now, puzzling as it seemed, she welcomed it.

In some small way, she had paid a price for what she had become, and at

the same time shed a burden that followed her here.  And now his hands

were welcome and comforting as he stroked her so intimately - those

beautiful, strong hands that took her in ways no other man could.

 

"I love you, Simon," she uttered in her smallest voice.

 

In an instant, he backed away, scowling as though she had intentionally

hurled the most obscene of insults at him.  Seconds later the bamboo

slashed across her stomach, sending a searing bolt of pain through her

body. She screamed and pulled back from him as far as the bonds would

allow, her mind a slurry of absinthe and agony.  Again and again the

slim crop whipped across her belly, doubling her over as she shrieked

in pain.

 

"How can you love me?" he snarled as she hung limply from the scaffold.

"You love your husband, remember?  Or do you?  Where are those

strengths now that you're so proud of, so sure of?  Gone!  So quickly!

So easily!  So confident that you know yourself, that you understand

what you are!  The faithful wife, the perfect lady, always so certain

they're more a part of you than the drooling harlot inside, screaming

to escape.  You deny it, lie about it, every minute of every day,

totally convinced you're in complete control.  And when you discover

that the control is an illusion, and that the illusion can't

possibly be sustained, what do you do?  What?  You seek out a phantom

to host your demons - a phantom with cock big enough and hard enough to

chase your demons into the shadows until they come clawing at you

again!"

 

He paced before her as he ranted, spitting the words at her as she hid

behind a curtain of tears.

 

"Look at me!  Don't look away!  Look at me!!!"

 

He took two long steps toward her and took her chin in his hand,

turning her face roughly to meet his piercing stare.

 

"You're a whore in a pretty wrapper - just like everyone else.  It's

time you admit it!  It's time to confess - to me, to your husband, and

to yourself!"

 

He waited, staring into her bloodshot eyes, his torso now etched with

lines of tensioned muscle glistening in the soft light as rivulets of

sweat trickled over him.

 

Suddenly, she could see herself as though she was watching from across

the room.  The curves of her body glowed with the color of firelight -

breasts, thighs, belly, all smoldered with a lust that demanded, then

raged for its existence outside the prison she had built for it.  It no

longer made sense to contain it, to block its escape with more guilt

and pain.

 

"W-whore..." she whispered.  "Yes - whore.  A pretty whore..."

 

He took her face gently in both hands and beamed at her.

 

"Yes, a very pretty whore," he answered.

 

He moved closer, between her legs, and she opened them for him eagerly.

When she looked down, she found he was naked, but only wondered for a

second when and how.  Then, as he held her in his arms, she felt the

warm fullness of his cock slide inside her, not pausing for an instant

at her slick, gaping entrance.  He fucked her slowly, just as she liked

it, never retreating far enough to empty her, but always filling her

completely with each precise, powerful stroke.  When she closed her

eyes, images of men formed in front of her - men from her past, and men

she didn't yet know.  They waited impatiently in line, erections

jutting forward, swollen and throbbing, driven to near frenzy by her

promise to service each and every one.  Then his lips touched her

neck, opened, and sucked, while the line of men behind Simon looked on

restlessly, stretching endlessly back into the darkness.

 

 

 

 

 

                         Persephone in Winter

                           by Night Writer

 

 

                            Chapter 9

 

 

Waiting in the chilly car was no easier this time than the last.

Consumed with agonizing images of his wife with the dark stranger, he

sat unmoving behind the wheel, staring into the darkness, hoping to

find an answer there, but finding only more anxiety and pain with each

passing minute.  "What kind of man allows this?" he argued silently to

himself.  "What kind of wife does this to someone she loves?"  He should

leave her - start the car and speed away from this revolting house that

held her.  A simple act, and the pain would be gone - but only to be

replaced with the pain of losing her.  "Allow her this, and keep her,"

his rational side argued back.  "One night of physical pleasure, now

and then - something that makes her alive, exciting, and loving when

she returns to me."

 

And so the battle raged, silently, in the darkened car - for an hour,

perhaps more, until running in circles exhausted him.  With each blink,

his eyes became more difficult to open again, until finally, he

couldn't open them at all.

 

 

                                  ***

 

 

He sat beside her, ten rows back from the stage in the cavernous opera

house.  The lights were still up, and the audience murmured with

anticipation of the first act.  She was as radiant as he had ever seen

her - hair swept up as if magically held in complex patterns of shining

swirls, each strand perfectly in place.  The neckline of the simple

black dress exposed much of the rounded globes of her firm breasts in a

daring display of flesh.  She held her program in one hand while

gently stroking his thigh with the other.  Finally she looked up from

the small print and smiled.

 

"Thank you for tonight, darling.  You know how much I've wanted this."

 

Her hand moved to his lap.  She ran her fingers slowly over the front

of his pants until she felt the beginnings of his erection, then gave

it a light squeeze.

 

"Ladies room," she whispered as she lifted herself out of her seat.

 

She made her way along the row as three couples stood to let her by.

Then, just as she reached the end of the row, he watched in horror as

her fingers trailed lightly along the obvious erection of the young man

standing in front of the last seat.  She looked back over her bare

shoulder and winked, then quickly disappeared toward the rear of the

theater.  At first the others seemed not to notice her perverse

teasing.  Then, still standing, they slowly turned to look at him,

faces frozen in blank stares as though waiting for his response.

 

He stood and worked his way past them.  Each of them, one by one,

watched him with a blank stare until he reached the wide aisle. As he

passed the young man on the end of the row, he brushed against his

enormous erection and flinched, quickly pressing into the seat in the

next row to escape further contact.  But the man kept the same

expressionless stare as the others, his bulging cock the only evidence

of his wife's playful seduction.

 

The lights began to dim as he reached the back of the theater.  The

four sets of double doors that led to the lobby were now closed and he

fumbled in the dark to find an exit.  Once found, the door opened

easily in his hand, almost as if it had been expecting him.  The lobby

was deserted.  Scarlet padded benches lined its perimeter,

only a short while ago laden with guests in all their finery.  Now they

were empty.  A large chandelier burned brightly overhead, each of the

hundreds of pieces of sparkling crystal hanging silently as though

frozen in time.  To the left and right, two wide curving

stairways led to the balcony and restrooms.

 

He climbed the stairs on the right, eager to find his wife, but

fearing what may lie ahead.  The carpet accepted each footstep,

collapsing just enough under his weight, then rebounding, as if

impatient to send him on his way.  At the top of the stairs, an empty

foyer greeted him, silent as a tomb.  After pacing in front of the

ladies room, he entered cautiously, glanced quickly left and

right, only to find it empty.  After a hasty retreat, he crossed to the

men's room and entered.

 

"Good evening, sir."

 

The tuxedoed man standing a mere two feet to his right stood straight

and still as a statue.  His face was pale and as translucent as tissue

paper, and as Steven met his stare, he recognized the same blank,

unblinking eyes as the guests downstairs.

 

"I - uh - I'm looking for my wife."

 

"In the men's room, sir?"

 

"No - I mean - well, she left her seat twenty minutes ago, to go to the

ladies room."

 

"Ah, the ladies room is outside, to the right, sir.  I suggest you wait

for her there."

 

"But, I have, and she's - well, she's not there."

 

The man's eyes narrowed, as though trying to peer through Steven.

 

"Is your wife prone to straying, if I may be so bold, sir?"

 

"Straying?  I - no, no she isn't."

 

"Well, many women are.  My own wife was a prime example.  So

unpredictable, so strong-willed, such - unquenchable desires."

 

The man's expression relaxed, his eyes now those of a knowing

confidant.

 

"Look, have you seen her?" Steven asked finally.  "Black dress, brown

hair, very pretty..."

 

"Ahh, yes. I do believe I have.  But she couldn't be your wife, sir.

She was..."

 

He stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes now drifting upward as he seemed

to savor the memory.

 

"Why?  Why couldn't she?  What do you mean?" Steven asked in near panic.

 

"I had a wife once, a very pretty one, much like yours, if I may say

so, sir.  She had tastes, for, well, certain things I couldn't

provide.  I returned to our home one day to find her enjoying a ride on

a rather well-endowed young man in our own bed."

 

The man stopped, looking at him expectantly.

 

Steven, suddenly feeling the urgent need to relieve himself, turned

away and stepped up to the nearest of the gleaming white urinals

lining the long wall of deep scarlet.

 

"She wouldn't admit it, at least not at first.  They seldom do.  But, to

be very candid sir, men of size and savagery are what they dream of."

 

As Steven emptied himself into the white porcelain, he shivered when he

noticed the attendant sneak a glance at his exposed penis.

 

"Men like us sir, civilized men, men born without the, well, sufficient

'equipment' that such women desire, must often stand aside when a lady

finds that our sensitive devotion is no match for a good fucking.  I'm

sure you would understand that, sir."

 

"Look, have you seen my wife or not?" Steven shot back, now unnerved by

the attendant's suggestive banter.  The man seemed suddenly older. A

mixture of arrogance and amusement filled his eyes, but his face looked

tired, aging years in the few minutes they had spoken.

 

"I'm sorry sir.  I must have been mistaken," he answered, with a knowing

smile.

 

Steven pushed by him and fled into the hallway.  The warm glow of

the wall sconces was now extinguished, leaving him in darkness.  Behind

him the attendant's laughter spilled from the men's room, booming

louder and louder between each gasping breath.  A light flickered in

the distance where the stairs met the darkened hall.  He moved toward

it, then quickened his pace, running, running, the plush carpet sucking

at the soles of his shoes, his heart pounding, head throbbing,

propelled forward only by his terror and the hideous laughing behind

him - running, running, his eyes slowly adjusting to the flickering

light ahead, until finally he reached it and stopped, panting, dizzy,

and swimming in sweat.

 

Below him, hidden by the bend in the winding stairway, music was

playing, but not the lush music of an opera.  It was thin and nasal, as

if made by an old Victrola.  He took the first few steps cautiously,

then, driven by curiosity, descended until he could see into the lobby

below. The chandelier was gone, the dim light now coming from a few

flickering gas lamps clinging to the far wall.  The room was filled

with Victorian furnishings - satin armchairs, sofas and loveseats

trimmed here and there with fringe and lace, all arranged atop an

intricately decorated oriental carpet that stretched away into the

darkness.

 

"Ahh, there you are.  I've been waiting for you.  You're very late."

 

A woman stood at the base of the stairway.  She looked up at him with a

slim, bare arm outstretched, her fingers beckoning.  Suddenly the room

was filled with women, as though their flesh was precipitated from thin

air during a blink of his eyes.

 

"Come, come, mon amour - I won't bite.  Unless you want me to."

 

Her voice seemed to penetrate him, her words made all the more

intoxicating by an elegant French accent.  A sheer black camisole

barely contained her lush, heavy breasts, and covered her slender

curves only to just above the navel, leaving the slightly parted lips

of her sex completely exposed.  He was drawn to her, slowly, a step at

a time, until he stood before her, close enough to inhale the light

scent of perfume carried by the heat of her body.  She moved closer,

her arms around his waist, her hips thrust firmly against him. Her

face was oddly familiar; sparkling green eyes set above a perfect,

delicate nose, full red lips with a hint of mischief at the corners of

her wide mouth, and flowing loose brown curls dancing over her bare

shoulders.

 

"What do you want from me?" she asked.  "There's nothing I won't do

for you - anything you can imagine, anything you've ever wanted, but

were afraid to ask for. Anything."

 

As he stared at her, he was unable to stop the images that flooded

his mind - she, on her knees, hungrily deep-throating him, her mouth

like a velvet glove around his cock as she looked adoringly into his

eyes - he, easing his cock into her ass, her hips hunched into the air

as she begged him for all of it at once, faster, harder, grunting

with each brutal thrust.

 

"Mmmm, such an evil man," she said, grinning as though she could

read his mind.  "Come."

 

Taking him by the hand, she led him through the crowd of scantily-

clad sirens, pausing for a few moments when one of the women

approached, gliding to a stop in front of him.  A tall blonde,

tanned to perfection, wearing only a tiny red g-string and

matching six-inch heels, unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hands

longingly over his chest and belly.  A petite Asian girl, nude except

for a white lace choker and white thigh-high stockings, opened his

pants, pulled his erection into the flickering orange light,

knelt before him, and licked him once, a long, slow caress from

balls to the head of his cock, planting a soft kiss on the sensitive

tip before wandering away.  Some just came to look, some to fondle his

throbbing erection, smiling with satisfaction when they heard him

moan or gasp uncontrollably.

 

In a dark corner, lit only by the slightest traces of shifting light,

she turned to face him, then gracefully lowered herself to a long divan

against the wall.  Spreading her legs, she used both hands to open the

plump lips of her sex, offering him a view of her clitoris, now hard

and wet with arousal.  He stared openly, standing over her, his exposed

erection jutting forward, swollen so large that it seemed as if it was

not his own.  She gazed at him adoringly as her fingers teased the

slippery bud of flesh, spreading her juices over the length of it until

it glistened.

 

"Please, mon amour - don't make me wait," she purred.  "I'm everything

you want, everything you've ever wanted.  There's nothing I won't do

for you - nothing, nothing my love, nothing at all..."

 

Taking her by the shoulders, he pushed her down into the soft, velvet

cushions, then, dropping quickly onto her, he shoved his cock deeply

into her in a single thrust.  A sudden warmth rushed over him, a

welcome and delicious blanket that enveloped them both, a cocoon that

held them so closely that her soft pale skin found, then caressed him

everywhere.

 

She sighed, closed her eyes, then opened them again and looked at him

expectantly.  Oh, yes, mon amour, yesss, fuck me, fuck me Steven, fuck

your little whore."

 

He plunged into her wildly, battering her with his cock, the images

returning to his head, images of so many acts of perversion yet

untried.

 

"Oh God, yesss - this is what I want - this is the way I like it Steven

- oh Steven, oh Steven I love you so much..."

 

The change in her voice took him by surprise.  Gone was the sultry

French accent, in a split second replaced by an all too familiar voice,

a voice that for years had uttered a soft goodnight from the

pillow beside him.

 

He stared in horror as the face beneath him became his wife's, hidden

beneath a thick layer of black eyeliner and garish blood-red lipstick.

Drained of all color, her complexion faded to a blue-white mask, a

grotesque blend of clown and corpse. The warm blanket surrounding them

turned cold, shaking him with violent chills.

 

"What's wrong, Steven? Why won't you finish me?  Fuck me with your

big, hard cock until you make me cum for you, Steven!  Empty your balls

into your little whore!  Don't you know it's what I need?  I like it

Steven!  Oh God, I love it hard and nasty, Steven!  I love it - I love

it - I love it - I love it..."

 

He panicked, fighting desperately to free himself from her, her legs

now tightly grasping him, pulling him roughly into her with frantic,

rhythmic spasms.  With a sudden lurch, he broke free, rolled away from

her, and landed on the floor.  When he stood, she was laughing, her

wide, painted mouth now almost unrecognizable, the dark eyeliner now

running in long streaks over her face.

 

"That's just like you!" she jeered.  "Be a man, Steven.  For once in

your life, be a real man, not a god-damned pussy!"

 

He backed away from her as the other women began to gather around them.

She continued to berate him, her eyes full of venom, her legs still

spread wide, flaunting the gaping, red slit that still dripped with

her juices.

 

"If you can't do me, Steven, I know someone who can!  In fact, I know

lots of men who can!  Lots of men, Steven! Lots of men!"

 

The echoes of her threats chased him as he turned and fled, made worse

by the growing laughter of the other women.  Her words formed a cadence

that matched the throbbing in his head - 'lots of men, lots of men,

lots of men, lots of men'.

 

Running and stumbling in the dim light, he finally found the set of

wide double doors leading back into the theater.  He grabbed the handle

in a panic, afraid of the worst, that it might not open.  When it

opened easily, he rushed through it, relieved when it silenced the

horror that chased him.

 

Now dark and empty, the cavernous theatre's musty smells and deathly

silence surrounded him, the refuge mocking him with an ominous

foreboding.  Heavy curtains hung across the stage, the glowing

footlights throwing deep shadows up along the regular folds that ran

from stage to ceiling.

 

As he felt his way forward down the incline of the aisle,

unintelligible whispers broke the silence behind him, fragments of

conversation dissolving so quickly that no more than a single word

survived.  Each time he turned to look back into the darkness, hoping,

or hoping not to find the ghostly presence that spoke to him, row after

row of empty seats waited as though their last audience was centuries

in the past.

 

A low railing surrounded the orchestra pit, now a deep, wide, empty

hollow in the floor ahead. Stopping just in front of it, he could hear

a faint, regular rustling from the stage, hidden behind the towering

scarlet curtain.  Then, between the even 'whish - whish - whish' came

the hushed, staccato, soprano counterpoint - brief little cries that

soon turned to familiar cries of passion, then to frenzied grunts and

moans.

 

He made his way closer, easily scaling the iron railing and dropping

into the pit.  Then came the baritone response, a clean, deep harmony,

sometimes matching, sometimes alternating the beats of her hurried

rhythm, then falling suddenly into a growling crescendo.

 

The lip of the stage was within reach, only a foot above his head.

Placing his fingers over the polished rounded edge, he began to pull

himself up, until first an elbow, then a second arm made it over the

edge.  Straining to lift his weight, he clung to the stage, both arms

stretched out into the darkness, hands grasping desperately for a way

to hoist him higher.

 

The curtain startled him as it parted and moved aside.  He lost ground,

sliding backward until he forced both palms down onto the glassy

surface of the stage floor, stopping his fall just before he

tumbled back into the pit.  There, center-stage, displayed upon a

raised bed-like dais, a thickly muscled, copper-skinned giant fucked

her in slow-motion.  His impossibly immense penis entered her eager

body, then retreated, its pulsing surface dripping and glistening with

her juices, her flat belly distended with each slow, deliberate thrust.

Elyse's slim legs pulled at him, unable to encircle his monstrous

thighs. Her body seemed so small, so yielding beneath him.

 

Then, as though she knew he watched, she turned her face away from her

lover, letting her head roll to one side, staring into the void of the

empty theater, then into her husband's eyes as he hung precariously

from the edge of the stage.  He read so many things in her - on the

surface, pleasure and desire, and deeper, a sadness that penetrated

him, that seemed almost to beg, not for his forgiveness, but for

something more primal.

 

Unnerved by all that he saw in her, he relaxed his hold on the stage,

brushing his arm against the scalding backshield of one of the

footlights.  As the searing heat quickly melted its way into his flesh,

he lost his grip, slid suddenly over the edge, and fell backwards into

blackness.

 

 

 

 

 

                          Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

                              Chapter 10

 

 

The shock that woke him was as though he had been dropped into the

car seat from a great height.  When he opened his eyes, he found

himself strangely energized, in spite of the lucid details of his

dream. Why had he let this man have his wife, over and over? Few

husbands would have been so accommodating, so weak in the face of a

wife's professed sexual encounters.  How could he have brought her

here a second time? Suddenly he knew what had to be done.

 

Neither the manicured lawn nor the marble steps under his feet

weakened his resolve.  He would storm this castle, confront its master,

and take his wife from this place once and for all.  No longer would he

wait for the spoils of another man like a timid peasant resigned to

gathering table scraps for sustenance.

 

It was more anger and desperation than epiphany that drove him through

the heavy front door that opened easily against his weight.  Once

inside, the opulence of the house's interior was lost on him as he

blindly invaded room after room, ready to claim his wife at the instant

 

he caught sight of her.  Pausing at the sweeping stairs leading to the

second story, he looked up into the darkness, listening for the

slightest whisper, a single footstep, any clue that might lead him to

his first and final stand against this devil, this puppet-master whose

strings held his wife in an endless dance of submission.

 

Silence.  The eerie emptiness of the house began to eat away at the

confidence that had taken so long to muster, as though his wife's lover

may even possess the power to take her from this world for a time, or

make her invisible to anyone who might intrude.

 

He pressed forward, past the thickly carpeted stairs, then under the

open balcony twenty feet over his head.  The door before him was

different then the others.  Wider, made of solid hand-rubbed walnut,

its very character carried a warning of what may lie inside. 

Imagining the overwhelming strength necessary to force it open, he

placed his hand on the cold, black, iron latch, pressed downward,

and felt the door swing silently inward.

 

Elyse hung from the scaffold, her body drenched with sweat, her legs

and belly still convulsing as Simon suddenly robbed her of her orgasm.

She felt his cock leave her, withdrawing as quickly as it had entered

her, and she struggled to capture it again, thrusting her narrow hips

at him in a futile effort to trap the hard, golden rod of flesh between

her legs, to somehow will the plump cockhead back inside her hungry

cunt.

 

In her mind's eye, the line of men before her advanced, each of them

ready to take her, each somehow promising her a release of equal

intensity.  She saw them as bare-chested satyrs, erections wagging

eagerly in the air, wet with a layer of glistening pre-cum from the

long wait.  The shifting shadows of the flickering fire obscured their

faces, but displayed every muscle and sinew of their bodies, each

slightly different, but perfect in every physical way a man's body

could be imagined.

 

She moaned quietly as her vision became more real to her, now narrated

by her own inner voice. 'All those men - all those perfect men - all

of them for me. So many of them - big, hard, throbbing - so much sex -

all for me - for me - all for me...'

 

Her body burned for them. Every nerve screamed for their touch.  If only

the bonds about her wrists would pull tighter, raise her off the floor,

suspend her before them, her legs helplessly open, inviting invasion.

She would let every last one of them have her to find what she needed,

to be fucked brutally by the largest and most powerful of them, taking

her body relentlessly, without feeling, fueled only by instinct-driven

lust.

 

Now and then, part of a face would appear - an eye, a nose, full lips,

a square jaw - but just as it began to resemble a man who was known to

her, it vanished again in shadow, teasing her with its familiarity,

promising her nothing but sex, the jutting cock always in full view.

 

Then, for an instant, she saw Steven's face, first in shadow, then in

the shifting ambers and golds of the firelight.  She blinked, trying to

focus, at first sure that his face was a vision like all the others.

But the others were gone now, chased away by returning reality,

shrinking and fading into the darkness.

 

Steven stood just inside the heavy door, eyes adjusting to the dim

light, staring in disbelief at the wooden scaffold where Elyse hung by

her wrists, her naked body gleaming with sweat, writhing and moaning

beside her master.  Simon stood close to her, his lean, muscular torso

ablaze with light against the black depths of the room. He was naked as

well, his cock still brutally hard, jutting proudly upward, glistening

with her juices.

 

Elyse cried out, suddenly limp against her restraints, shrinking back

in horror, now certain that it was truly Steven's eyes that were fixed

on her.  Simon turned toward Steven in a flash, his eyes red burning

embers, piercing Steven with lances of anger that paralyzed him. Steven

froze, overwhelmed by the impossible scene upon the darkened stage.

Like some bizarre Faustian nightmare played out before him, Elyse and

Simon looked down at him, her Persephone shamed by his presence, his

Mephistopheles enraged by it.  Until that moment, Steven had never

pictured them together; his mind wouldn't allow it.  In the past it had

been off-limits, a place where he refused to let his imagination

wander.  The reality of it robbed him of every trace of confidence and

resolve.  Steven broke free of Simon's stare, turned away, and fled.

 

The walls of the hallway, the grand stairway and balcony overhead, the

very substance of the mansion melted away as Steven made his escape.  He

ran blindly, allowing instinct to guide him through the wide doors and

over the brilliantly lit portico, until he closed his hand around the

handle of the car door, opened it and dropped into the seat.  The engine

started instantly, and before he could regain his senses, the car was

speeding along the winding drive, through the open black gate, and into

the night.

 

Steven drove recklessly through the quiet neighborhood, following

landmarks that had led them to the house, his mind now more machine

than mortal.  It had mapped a maze, and was now un-mapping it,

meticulously calculating distances and turns, mathematically  guiding

him home, away from his horrors.  But at the same time, before his eyes,

he saw them, frozen in time, looking down at him from their stage,

their expressions unmistakable.  Now, in his mind, their looks were

accusing, looks one gave a trespasser, an interloper into one's private

domain.  Elyse's words echoed in his head, an anguished wail that

repeated, over and over.  "Oh God, Steven - No! No, Steven, No! No!

Noooo!"  He had thought the meaning all too clear, but they were still

her words, his Elyse, his love.

 

As Steven turned from the maze of cul-de-sacs onto the main highway,

his cell phone came alive with its persistent, no-nonsense warble.  He

retrieved it and glanced at the caller's name.  It was Elyse.

 

 

 

 

 

                          Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

                              Chapter 11

 

 

"She does love you. Perhaps too much."

 

Simon's voice still carried the same self-confidence that Steven

remembered from the only other time he had heard it.  His thumb hovered

over the "End" button, an instant away from silencing him.  Instead, he

pulled the car to the side of the road, unable to look away from

Elyse's name staring back at him from the tiny glowing screen.

 

"How did you get her cell?"  Steven asked, after a moment's pause.  He

was determined not to let the defeat show in his own voice, but doubted

that Simon would be fooled.

 

"There's no shame in fleeing from a blow to your very heart, a blow

that may keep one from returning to fight another day."

 

"Arrogant fuck!"  Steven shouted into the tiny phone.  His hand closed

around it, now so tightly it dug into his palm like a weapon sent not

to kill, but to merely torture him.

 

"Arrogant, Steven?  Do you see this as arrogance?  Is asking a husband to

rescue his loving wife arrogance?  Is warning her husband that her very

life depend on his actions arrogant?"

 

"What have you done to her?"  Steven shouted again, now shaking

violently with both anger and fear.

 

"Have you've ever taken her for granted, ever disappointed her, Steven?

Think about those times, every one, however frivolous or short-lived.

No doubt at least a few of those times were taken to heart more deeply

than you imagined.  But you know that, don't you, Steven?  Inside, you're

afraid to own them, afraid to count them, afraid they might justify her

surrender to another man.  Don't disappoint her this time, Steven. It

may be your last chance."

 

The phone went silent.  Elyse's name vanished from the screen, the

connection severed.  At that instant, Steven felt the delicate thread

connecting them stretched to near breaking.  Would he hold tight while

Elyse dangled from the opposite end, or release her, letting her fall

helplessly, even perhaps willingly, into Simon's hands?

 

A light rain pelted the windshield, and the darkened streets became

slick, black mirrors, each abstract reflection suggesting the existence

of some unseen world beneath the black asphalt.  A sudden gust of wind

heaved an overhanging branch toward him, then away, it's leaves waving

the way to his new destination.  Steven turned the car around and drove

back into the night.

 

Steven retraced the route to Simon's estate not by effort of memory as

before, but by sheer determination, as if guided by the programmed

instructions of a hidden subroutine triggered by something he chose not

to understand or question.  The mist on his windshield turned to a wall

of water bursting from the night sky.  Flickers of lightning in the

distance now found him, the stabbing electric explosions of light and

thunder following him as he drove.  There was a time when he might have

thought of the weather as a horrific monster, some bizarre extension of

Simon, intentionally impeding his way to save his wife.  But Steven drove

on, unaffected, untouched by demons he had feared for so long.

 

He found the entrance easily, turning sharply into the wide space in

the dark hedges that hid the property from sight.  The drive swept to

the left, still lined by ten-foot hedges, concealing any trace of the

inner grounds from the street.  Steven stopped the car before the huge

iron gate, the headlights suddenly revealing his worst fears.

 

Elyse hung from the gate, her arms outspread, her wrists tied to the

heavy bars.  She was naked, her alabaster skin glowing against the black

night.  Her head hung forward, her dark hair a solid, drenched curtain

that hid her face from him.  Steven stared, fixed to the steering wheel,

 

searching desperately for a hint of life, one breath that might give

him the strength to escape the suffocating fear that had again become

an unwelcome passenger within the car.  A sudden blue-white burst of

light turned the night to day for a split second, accompanied by an

immediate deafening crash of thunder.  Steven's hand rose to shield his

eyes to the blinding light, shuddering as the thunder rocked the car.

Then, focusing once more on Elyse's glistening ivory body, he noticed

an almost imperceptible rise and fall of her breasts, a shallow breath

that became a ray of hope as the raindrops fell, one by one, from her

small red nipples.

 

Steven bolted from the car and ran to her.  He lifted her head and found

her eyes open, staring back at him, as wide and full of life as he had

ever remembered.  "Steven," she whispered. 'Steven..."  She smiled at him

- not the weak, trembling smile he might have expected, but a full,

luscious one, with open lips and dazzling teeth.  Startled for a second,

he moved away an inch, then went to work untying the bonds that held

her to the gate.  To his surprise, they were made of soft, hollow,

velvet cord, and came undone easily.

 

Elyse fell into his arms, her soaked body melting into him, wetting his

clothes until he felt naked against her. She reached up and pulled his

mouth to hers, kissing him fiercely, ravaging his mouth with her

tongue.  Steven felt her hand snake past his belt, fighting to find

his cock, her body now writhing against him. She began to moan into his

mouth as they kissed, crushing her body against his, desperate in her

sudden heat.  Atop the tall pilaster beside the gate, the tiny red light

of the camera winked on and the glass eye rotated silently toward them.

 

 

Suddenly, Steven broke their kiss and held her at arms length.

 

"What is this, Elyse?  Some kind if trick? What is it with you? Do you

need him that much?  That you pretend I'm him, even after he throws you

out?  What's wrong with you? What do you want, Elyse?  You have to tell

me!  You have to decide!  You have to tell me what you fucking want,

Elyse!!!"

 

As Steven spat the words at her, he pushed her away and she fell

backwards, landing in the soft wet grass beside the gate.  Rising up on

her elbows, she pulled her knees up, spread her legs, and grinned at

Steven with the same wanton confidence Simon had shown her during their

first meeting.

 

Steven stared, no longer able to cope rationally with the invading

threads Simon had woven into their marriage, into Elyse, and even into

himself.  He wanted to unravel everything, to return their life to the

past, to the ordinary, to make Elyse the wife she was before Simon's

meddling.  Anger welled up inside him.  'Damn him! Damn her! Damn me!'

 

"So, is this what you want?"  He raged at her, stripping of his wet

clothes, tearing at them as though he was tearing at his own skin.  "To

be fucked?  Like an animal?  Like a fucking whore?"

 

Elyse spread her legs wider, still grinning, quietly inviting his

threats.  Steven went to her, hitting the ground hard with both knees,

landing between her legs.  He took her wrists and pulled them roughly

over her head, waiting for her to come to her senses, to beg him to

stop. Elyse closed her eyes and moaned.

 

"If you want to be fucked like a whore, I'll fuck you like whore!  Is

that how he does it?  Is this how he fucks you, Elyse?"

 

Steven plunged into her, forcing her to take the entire length of him

at once.  Her body shook as he slammed into her again and again, taking

her as roughly as he could, imagining how Simon might have poisoned her

against him.  But with each stroke of fury came satisfaction, and then

excitement.  All fear and uncertainty came boiling out of him, and with

it, filling the space they occupied, came a feral sexual appetite fired

by a bewildering new strength.

 

Then, as their eyes met once more, Steven slowed his pace, moving

inside her as he once did in the comfort and safety of their own bed.

Her grin faded, and he recognized the familiar soft features of the

woman that loved him.

 

"This is what I want, Steven.  I want this, with you, not with him.  It's

what you want too, isn't it?"

 

Steven kissed her, softly at first, then harder, biting her lip,

feasting on her neck, as his pace returned to its former fury.  Elyse

laid her head back on the wet grass and closed her eyes, feeling the

slowing raindrops dance against her face.  She spared him nothing.  Each

moan and whimper was only for Steven now, and she knew he understood

that.

 

"Yes - Steven. This - is what - I want. It's - what I've - always -

wanted."

 

High above them, the camera turned slowly and silently away, the tiny

red light winked out, and the glass eye went still, its watch given up

not with discretion for modesty, but with a sense of satisfying

completion.  And below, two new lives were born in the first rain of

spring.

 

 

 

                                * End *