Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

 

                                Prologue

 

Elyse waited patiently by the open trunk of the car as the boy placed

the last bag of groceries inside. She found herself smiling, for no

particular reason.  The sun was warm on her face, and a slight breeze

played with her hair, tickling her cheek, teasing her in and out of her

daydream.

 

The soft knit of the light sweater fell away from the firm swell of her

breasts as she reached to close the trunk lid, then settled smoothly

over them again as she turned to the boy to tip him.  She caught him

staring and blushed, almost having forgotten how a boy might be

distracted by the slight sway of a woman's bare breasts and nipples

beneath the ordinary white turtleneck.

 

Looking over the boy's shoulder, her smile widened, and she waved.

Steven had disappeared at the last minute, and now came bounding across

the parking lot clutching a small bouquet of wildflowers.

 

"For you, my lady," he announced as he bowed, raising the offering as

though she was royalty.  "You!" she said, giggling.

 

The boy watched them play.  He saw the sparkle of happiness in her eyes,

and the kiss that Steven planted on her lips, then turned away to give

them their privacy.  There would be a day in his future as well, he

thought as he walked back to his eight hour shift, a day when he would

see the same sparkle in the eyes of the perfect girl, the girl of his

dreams.

 

They drove with the top down.  The immaculately restored Triumph

convertible took each turn as if it had just come off the production

line, hugging the road with familiar security as they left the highway

behind, traveling the winding lane that led them home.

 

Elyse stretched her arms upward, the fall air rushing through the

spaces between spread fingers.  Weeks ago the leaves had changed from

summer green to blazing yellows and reds.  Now a fresh layer of red and

brown covered the roadside as the last of the forest harvest fluttered

reluctantly to earth.

 

Steven glanced at her as he drove, smiling at her playful gesture.  He

could see where the sweater revealed the soft skin of her belly as she

stretched, and the shape of her breasts and nipples under the white

knit.

 

"I've never seen you leave the house like that," Steven said, breaking

a long silence.  Elyse grinned at him with satisfaction and stretched

higher, relieved that he had finally noticed.

 

"I thought you might like it," she said, her face now tilted upward

into the wind.

 

"I'm sure the boy at the market liked it," he answered with a hint of

irritation.

 

"Mmmm, I didn't think about that.  I suppose it's harmless enough.  I

doubt that I've corrupted him for life."  She laughed and turned to look

at him.  As she lowered her arms, a falling leaf met her outstretched

hand and tangled itself in her fingers.

 

He kept his eyes on the road ahead, refusing to return her look.  "What

I'd really like is that my wife not expose her breasts to every

teenager in town."

 

Suddenly the joy of the crisp air and fall colors was drained from her.

She sat next to him, hands in her lap, shocked into silence.  "I - I did

it for you..." she said quietly.  She stared at the leaf, turning it

over and over in her lap.  It was perfectly shaped, but brittle and

brown, without color or life.

 

Hidden away in the woods at the end of a gravel lane, the sprawling

house's presence was surprisingly overwhelming to anyone who might come

upon it by chance.  A wedding present from Elyse's father, the summer

"cabin" as he called it had belonged to his father as well.  Though

made of large logs taken generations ago from deep within the same

forest, its sheer size and modern interior made it anything but the

diminutive description her father was so fond of.

 

"I'm sorry," Steven said as he turned the key and the car's engine

died.  "I love the way you look; I love everything about you.  You know

that.  It's just that I don't want everyone in town staring at your

body.  I know you did it for me, but it's a small town.  Someone may take

it the wrong way.  If everyone thinks you're flirting, well, who knows

what might happen?  It's embarrassing."

 

Elyse stared at the leaf, now turned to hard branching veins as its

petrified flesh crumbled into her lap.  "I know," she told him.  "It was

silly - I just didn't think about the consequences.  I'm sorry."

 

Steven leaned over and kissed her.  "Don't be sorry.  Besides, you can

show me your nipples, at home, any time, in fact, all the time, if you

want."  He grinned, hoping to get the same response from her.

 

She did her best to show him the grin he wanted.  As she returned his

kiss, she felt his hand on her breast, his fingers teasing her nipple

beneath the thin knit sweater.  She kissed him harder, the sounds of the

woods bringing her alive again, making her wet for him then and there.

His belt opened easily, and in seconds her hand closed around his

erection, stroking it, pulling it free into the wilderness she loved.

 

"Not here," he said finally.  "Let's go inside."

 

"Here," she moaned, as she lowered her face to his lap, reaching for

the hard tip of his sex with her tongue.

 

"Elyse," he said abruptly.  "What's gotten into you today?  What if

someone should come by?"  She took an inch of him, then another, into

her mouth. She knew he wouldn't resist; she was sure he couldn't, once

she began to move her lips and tongue over him.  When he cradled her

head in his hands, she melted inside, and closed her mouth even more

tightly around him.  "Please," she thought, "show me, show me what you

want me to do to you, show me how you want me to suck you, how you want

to fuck my mouth, oh god, please show me..."  But he pulled her face

away from his lap, her soft hair tangled in his fingers, her eyes

pleading for something he didn't understand.

 

"Inside," he whispered.  They sat, trembling, staring into each others

eyes.  Elyse nodded, and, with a smile Steven didn't recognize as one of

consolation, felt his hands slip from her hair.  The air had taken on a

sudden chill as she helped carry the groceries to the house.  Winter was

coming.  If only she had worn her jacket.

 

That evening Elyse sat curled up in a big overstuffed recliner by the

fire, her nose buried in a book.  Her robe had worked its way open,

revealing a delicious, smooth expanse of thigh, as well as the deep V

between her breasts.  Steven sat across from her on the sofa, his papers

scattered over the wide, rustic coffee table. Now and then she glanced

up at him, checking to see whether he noticed each time she shifted

positions, letting her robe open another inch.

 

"Damn it!" he muttered.  "Where in the hell - Elyse, have you seen part

of my manuscript?  A loose page maybe?  Something with a lot of

calculations on it?"  He still hadn't looked at her.

 

She knew how important his paper was to his future - at least she

thought she understood.  His explanation was always a little cryptic to

her, all that math and those strange symbols.  She did understand that a

college professor would always be just a college professor if he didn't

distinguish himself in his field.  Publish or perish.  She had heard him

say it so many times, as though she might have somehow forgotten the

clich‚.

 

"You're tired," she told him, her voice as silky and inviting as she

could make it.  "Why don't you come to bed? We'll look tomorrow."

 

"But it was just here!" he insisted.  "Maybe I left it in my office."  He

rose and left the room, never glancing at her open robe.  "For Christ

sake!  Damn it, damn it, damn it!"  His curses echoed from the open

doorway down the hall.

 

Elyse sighed, put her book on the floor beside the chair, gathered her

robe around her, and went to help.  She stood at his office door,

listening to him rant and watching him tear though stacks of papers.

"It must be here!  It has to be!"  He still hadn't looked at her.

 

"I'm going to bed," she told him finally.  "You coming?"

 

"Soon," he told her, finally looking up at her.  She had let her robe

fall open again.  She was naked under it, and smiled when she saw him

staring at her body.  Steven paused and sighed, as though he was annoyed

at being caught ogling her.  "I'll be up soon," he said evenly, still

shuffling through a chaos of white paper.

 

An hour had passed before he woke her from a light sleep as he slipped

into bed beside her.  She felt his hand cup her breast, then move slowly

down her belly, finally probing between her legs.  Pushing away the numb

calm of an hour's sleep, she turned toward him and placed her hand

along the side of his face.  Another minute, and he would kiss her, then

move closer, working his hips forward tentatively, as if asking

permission to enter her.  She would find his penis and hold him, playing

with him lightly, coaxing him nearer, assuring him with her pounding

heart and loving touches that she wanted him inside her.

 

He made love to her with tenderness and precision.  She knew every move

so well.  He would wait hours for her to cum.  On the rare occasion when

an orgasm eluded her, times when merely enjoying the closeness of being

one with him was enough, he seemed relentless.  It shamed her to think

of the times she had pretended, offering up a quiet sigh of a climax so

he could finally enjoy his own release.

 

She stroked his chest and shoulders as he worked, his erection reliable

and tireless, pushing into her with machine-like predictability.  He

would lean closer to nibble on her neck soon, then find her ear with

the tip of his tongue.  So loving.  So caring.  So careful.

 

Elyse studied his face until his eyes closed.  Concentrating, she

thought.  Trying to please me.  Trying to make me cum.  As time passed,

she stared past Steven, into the darkness of their bedroom.  He loves

me.  He loves me.  He loves me.  She would make the practiced sigh, tense

her body, then give up a crescendo of moans, her sign to him that he

had satisfied her, and all was right with the world.  Elyse wondered if

he counted her moans, analyzed them with the precision of the mathematics

that had become his life.

 

He loves me.  He loves me.  He loves me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                          Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

                               Chapter 1

 

 

It wasn't quite as though she was cheating.  He had known for some

time.  And she knew he knew.  She couldn't help crying out a bit louder

when she came.  She had always been quiet, her small throaty moan

rising on those few special occasions when she seemed especially wet.

 

Now she came with mouth wide open, filling the darkened bedroom with

unfamiliar words, telling him over and over how she wanted him, how she

loved his cock inside her.  When she straddled him and played with her

breasts, or rose on her knees offering him entry from behind, he knew

another man took her that way.  Yet, they went on, week after week,

knowing but not admitting, too fearful to let the words pass between

them.

 

She was the first to break the silence.

 

"I have to tell you about him."

 

He couldn't look at her.  He wouldn't.

 

She watched him look away, then glanced at the phone.

 

"I don't love him.  I just can't say no to him."

 

His spine turned to stone at her words.  His hands trembled, breath

coming in thin packets that racked his chest.

 

"I want to stop.  But when he wants me - "

 

Steven jumped when the phone rang.  His eyes went to it, then to Elyse.

She ignored the insistent warble, now pale and oddly neutral as she

searched for his reaction.

 

She was slim and fragile in the cotton sundress.  Enough light poured

through it from behind her to reveal the outline of her breasts and

waist.  He guessed she was naked beneath it, then was sure of it as

she approached the phone.  She pressed it to her ear, listening,

motionless, familiar lines of bare thigh revealed through the

translucent cotton.

 

Elyse held the receiver out to him, knowing he would take it.

 

He listened, still frozen in place, while the voice delivered options

and ultimatums.

 

"She still loves you, you know.  She comes to me for something else, a

sense of possession, an unresolved sensual necessity. You can choose

to allow her this, or flee, freeing yourself of the pain and her love.

The decision is yours."

 

The voice was precise and confident.  He could see she knew it well.

Her eyes were wide with anticipation and excitement.  The voice told

him everything, what was, and what was to be.  And Steven knew that a

part of her already belonged to the voice, but not the part that loved

him. Could he share her flesh to keep her shining eyes?

 

"Your decision is one that's easier to agree to than to live with.  But

then, agreeing is only the first step, is it not?  Can you take the

second?  Only time will tell. And time is growing short.  So, to test

your stride, the second step, if you're up to it.  Simon says ..."

 

At sundown, Steven followed his wife into the warm rain of the shower.

Elyse offered herself to him, head back, erect nipples waiting for the

soap in his hand against them, then down her belly, smooth slippery

skin made fresh for her late-night lover.  Her thighs tightened at his

touch as a soapy river raced over them, swirling into the drain below.

She turned her back to him, and he studied the lines and valleys of her

shoulders, filled now with frothy white as he passed the soapy cloth

over them.  Finally, gliding down the deep crevice of her back, his

hands now free of everything except the scented soap, he cupped and

lifted the soft but firm globes of her ass, circling over them, feeling

the weight of them in his hands.  Her legs opened.  She leaned against

the shower wall, her open slit reminding him of his duty.

 

Simon says...

 

The soap made her slick and wet between her legs.  Had it been that way

before he touched her there?  Did her back arch a little when his soapy

fingers drifted into the space between fleshy cunt-lips?

 

After a quiet moan, her words - bitter, breathless, agonizing.

 

"Will you give me to him?  Will you clean me, dress me, take me to him?

Will you love me after I take another man inside me and cum,

screaming under him, knowing I love you more each day?"

 

His answer was not with words, but with actions.  He dried her with the

large towel, careful not to dwell where more questions would come.

 

 

 

 

 

                          Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

                              Chapter 2

 

 

The house was one of many hidden behind dense hedges and wide iron

gates along the endless avenue. Finding it was painfully slow. The

camera's cold, glass eye found them, internal elements shifting with

precision, then stared unblinking at them through the windshield for

what seemed like hours.

 

At first they sat in silence in the waiting car - her heart racing with

forbidden surrender to another, his with apprehension, and finally

terror. She was delicious in the cool evening light. He had never

seen her so radiant - the creamy white skin of her neck gracefully

arched over a tempting hint of heaving breast revealed at the border of

the modest neckline.

 

The dress was delivered earlier that day, a plain black box with a

single red rose attached.  Steven was curious but quiet upon its

arrival. She placed it on the bed unopened, smiled, and put her arms

around his waist.

 

"He always dresses me.  Oh, it's not what you think.  No garter belts

or lingerie, none of that.  He puts me in the most tasteful clothes,

something different each time.  Very chic.  Very expensive.  Afterwards

he takes them from me and destroys them."

 

"He thinks that little of you?"

 

She smiled, resting her head on his chest against a bounding heart.

 

"No - he thinks that much of me. Each time, I'm what he wants

me to be.  Each time is special.  And after, it's gone forever.  Me, the

place, the time, the dress - it's his creation, unspoiled, and forever

unshared by anyone."

 

Her words still echoed in his head as they waited in the dark car.  The

dress fit her like a glove, a black, velvet glove. He marveled at how

the fabric could be so thin, and yet so opaque.  It moved as though it

was a part of her, revealing fleeting lines of breast, hip, and thigh

with the slightest motion of her body.  Down the front, a single row of

soft, tiny, black buttons, an inch apart, ran from neckline to ankle.

He had watched her button each one, an agonizingly slow process.  She

had taken her time, smiling up at him after every two or three, as if

to say, "Imagine how long it will take him to get to me, to open me up,

to peel me like a piece of wet, juicy fruit."

 

The heavy gates swung inward on smooth, silent hinges.  He hesitated,

his foot hovering above the pedal, now uncertain whether he could guide

the car through the entrance, then along the densely wooded drive that

would take her to him.  She sensed his reluctance and turned to him.

He fought for breath as she leaned closer, her trembling body draped in

exquisite ebony.  The fine, delicate swirl of her ear bore sparkling

clusters of emeralds that flirted with the light between perfectly

placed strands of hair.  She took his hand.  Her smile was weak but

genuine.

 

"Now that we're here, I can't ask you for this.  I can't bring myself

to utter the words, to sound so selfish, or to hurt you."

 

Her eyes were liquid and wide with sympathy.  But was there a fleeting

hint of excitement in the flicker of her dark lashes?

 

"I can only tell you that it's happened, that it's something I can't

escape.  Something in me needs this, something so powerful I feel I'll

self-destruct if I don't see it through.  I don't understand it. I

can't answer your questions.  But I can love you. Is that enough?"

 

He flinched when she squeezed his hand lightly, then took the wheel and

drove through the open gates without a word.  She turned away without

apology, looking straight ahead as he drove on.  The tear he waited for

never came. He knew the road ahead was the only way to keep her.

 

The gates vanished into darkness behind them as the car crept along a

broad curve, lit only by muted lamps hugging the driveway at regular

intervals.  He heard her small sigh as she settled back into the seat,

her eyes now staring miles into the night.  Guessing her thoughts

tortured him as he peered ahead into the blackness.  Was she already

with him? Did she know his plan?  Was she eager to escape his costume

for the night, to be naked and used in a game of their making?  Or was

it the anticipation of the unknown - something that would push her far

past boundaries not yet crossed?

 

The house rose like a glowing fortress, awash in the blue-white of

countless lights spread over the sprawling grounds.  The hulking

Georgian manor, spacious entry court, and winding drive were carved out

of the surrounding dense vegetation that contained the light within it,

keeping the property in near-daylight long after sunset.  A wide portico

supporting six massive ionic columns dropped to the level of the

circular driveway through a series of gleaming white marble steps that

sparkled under the intense light.  He stopped the car in front of them,

peering into the rows of tall, arched windows lining the front of the

massive two-story structure.  Taking his hand again, she looked as

though she belonged there - elegant, beautiful, a precious gift to

be enjoyed, treasured, possessed.

 

"Wait for me?"

 

"I'd rather not.  I - I don't think I can..."

 

"No, my love.  I'm not asking.  He is."

 

"But, he never said anything about having to watch you with him.  I

couldn't take that. Isn't this enough?"

 

"He doesn't want you watch us.  In fact, he won't allow it.  I'm his

and his alone when we're together.  But you must show that you're

willing to share me, to give me to him whenever he wants.  Bringing me

 

here to him, and later returning me to our bed is the only gesture he

demands.  You have to give me willingly.  It's sex, not love.  I love

you.  I always will.  Please show him you'll wait."

 

She was out of the car before he could answer, making her way up the

rows of steps.  As she turned just briefly to glance back at him, he

noticed the flush across her face, and her hardened nipples straining

against the delicate fabric.

 

She rang the bell at the door.  He watched her as she waited patiently,

hands at her sides, the slim curves of her body on display in the

finest detail under the intense light.  Even so, the black dress clung

to her body in ways that would have made her unrecognizable to him from

the back, had she not just left her place beside him minutes ago.

 

The door opened.  She took a step forward.  His arms encircled her, one

at the waist, the other moving up her back until his fingers dug into

chestnut curls, pulling her closer.  She lifted her chin and opened her

mouth to him.  He covered it with his, suddenly pleased that her

response was so eager, that she would so savagely invade his mouth

while her husband watched.  His hand moved lower, palm now gliding over

the hard flesh of her ass, naked under the wisp of black cloth.  She

moved close against him, her legs closing around the muscle of his

thigh.  Her hips tilted into him, then again, and again, as the kiss

became more frenzied.

 

Steven watched them from the car, the kiss, his caresses, her thighs

clutching the stranger's leg, hips grinding against him in heat.  And

when he thought he could watch no longer, they stopped.  Two large

hands appeared on her shoulders.  He was speaking to her. She was

nodding, slowly, mechanically.  His hands disappeared again, retreating

down the front of her dress, busy, doing what? From the back it was

difficult to tell.  His hands reappeared on her shoulders, this time

pulling the dark material to the sides, then down, over her arms, until

her bare back glistened in the floodlights.  Elyse stood before him,

naked to the waist, her hands now busy below his belt, her actions also

hidden from her husband's sight.

 

She knelt, now on her knees below him, her hands still busy, still

hidden from her husband by waves of shining hair.  Her small fingers

closed around his cock, smoothly running the length of it as the tip

grew wet before her eyes.  She closed her lips around it, the ball of

flesh hard and warm against her tongue.  She welcomed the familiar

taste of him, and let him know with eager but careful teasing, sucking

and licking just as he had taught her.  But this time it was different.

She was wet, and loved the feel of him in her mouth as she had on each

occasion, but now she felt her husband's eyes upon her.  Would he allow

her this one passion?  Was he strong enough to accept her physical need

for another and be party to it as well?  She loved Steven desperately.

He nourished her soul.  But Simon fed her cunt, and her mind refused to

consider having to choose, should it come to that.

 

Steven watched them from the car, stomach tied in knots, glancing away

each time doubt began to overcome him.  Although he saw nothing but his

wife on her knees in front of him, her flexing back naked in the night

air, agonizing images filled his head - her lips sucking greedily at

the stranger's cock, her hands busy, milking, coaxing the semen from

his body into her waiting mouth.  He fought the temptation to escape,

to turn the key and drive away.  But he knew her well enough by now to

recognize the genuineness of her love for him and her need for this

stranger's hold on her.

 

At that distance, it was difficult to make out the man's features.  The

skin of deep bronze against the crisp white shirt, shining jet-black

hair pulled back, bound into a short tail, all suggested a man of Latin

descent.  And the voice on the phone; he thought he detected a slight

accent beneath the intimidating, articulate voice.  His display of

total control as Elyse knelt before him, her naked breasts offered to

him as Steven imagined her caressing a stranger's cock with her lips

and tongue, all against the backdrop of the brilliantly lit mansion

presented a surreal and painfully erotic scene that mesmerized him. As

much as he needed to look away, he found he could not.

 

After a minute, maybe two, the man reached for her, pulling her gently

to her feet.  His hands appeared again, this time lifting the dress

back over her shoulders, methodically fastening the open buttons, one

by one.  The demonstration was brief but effective.  Elyse understood

the intent all too well, but wondered whether the show of power was

excessive, considering the emotions her husband must already be

juggling.  She also knew that power was everything to Simon, power and

control.  He would insist on an offering, a sacrifice, from her husband

from the start.  To witness her submission from behind, with few

details, forcing Steven to imagine her mouth on Simon's cock, to ask

himself if her nipples hardened when she touched her lover, to agonize

over what Simon saw as he looked down over her bare shoulders and firm,

young breasts - all this was what he would demand.  Simon took her

hand, and as the mansion swallowed them she warmed inside, knowing she

had not heard the engine rev or the car speed away into the night.

 

 

 

 

 

                          Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

                               Chapter 3

 

 

She sat some ten feet away from Simon in the walnut-paneled library.

Glasses of brandy rested on identical cherry tables beside each richly

upholstered wingback chair.  He was unusually quiet this evening,

taking time to savor the rich, dark drink, allowing her to nearly

finish her own generous portion.  She expected he would talk of her

husband, and was apprehensive about betraying her love for him, even

with unshared thoughts.  Instead, he sat and watched her, his fierce

eyes drinking in her slim body, harboring clues to her fate later in

the night.

 

"Do you love me?"

 

His first words startled her, both with their suddenness and their

content. She hesitated, trying to guess the answer he wanted from her.

 

"Simon - I..."

 

"Do_you_love_me?  A simple question - four words - none more than four

letters."

 

His eyes were locked on hers - dark with savage intensity. Her hand

trembled as she reached for her brandy, only to find the glass empty.

 

"I love my husband.  I love your cock."

 

He stiffened suddenly and leaned forward in his chair, dark eyes

narrowing.

 

"Such language from a pretty wife.  The day will come when I tire

of your hungry, young body.  Poor little thing, hanging on my gate,

used and discarded."

 

He had never spoken to her like this.  Would he turn her away for

giving just one wrong answer?  Should she beg?  Play indignant, or

proud?  What did he want from her?

 

His fierce stare melted into a wide smile.

 

"But how could I possibly discard such a thirsty young woman who knows

so well what she wants, and loves.  Oh, I did very much like the sound

of that - what was it again?"

 

Now she trembled for a different reason.  She felt the coolness between

her legs where her juices pooled, wetting her inner thighs.

 

"I love your cock, Simon."

 

His smile faded a bit, his eyebrows arched, then after a few thoughtful

seconds, he tilted his head to the side with lips pursed.

 

"I love your cock, Simon," she purred slowly, letting her heat warm

every word.

 

He poured another drink, then rose and went to her, half-filling her

glass as well.  She drank it in gulps, not stopping until it was gone.

When he reached for her the empty glass slipped from her hand,

shattering with a pop on the hardwood floor.  Without flinching, he

began to open the dress; one button, then two, three, lingering

deliberately before going to the next, savoring the trail of tender

skin left behind as the front of the dress parted.  It seemed to take

forever, and by the time he had undone the last button, she was

breathless and limp.  She slid lower in the chair over the slick

fabric of the open dress, until her hips passed over the edge of the

seat, supported only by her splayed legs stretched out on either side

of him.

 

"Are you wet?"

 

"God yes, Simon. Can't you see?"

 

The dress had fallen away from her belly and legs.  He studied the

swelling slit between her legs with a puzzled frown.

 

"Show me."

 

She struggled to hold her cunt open to him, her fingers slippery with

the fluids that poured from her.  She had never felt more naked,

more vulnerable.  But that's what Simon did.  Why did it feel so good?

From what dark corner of her imagination had this maddening addiction

Freed itself?  Her husband was just fifty yards away, waiting for her

to return to him, knowing that she would give her body to Simon in ways

that would forever remain her secret.  Was at least a sliver of the

excitement from knowing her husband agreed to surrender her, and would

likely do so in the future?  Was it really his strength, his compromise

to keep them together, or some perverted sense of power over him that

made her dripping wet so quickly tonight?

 

"Play with yourself.  I want to watch your face as you cum."

 

"Please Simon, I -"

 

A sudden ripple of disappointment shot through her.  Her first orgasm

was always the most intense, and riding it out without his cock in her

was something she hadn't expected.

 

"Well, well. You are a spirited little thing tonight.  You've never

hesitated for a second at one of my requests - always eager to play

the slut so unbecoming a prim and proper wife."

 

"I - I want you inside me when I cum."

 

"So.  We regress.  Remember how we play?  Simon says..."

 

She sank two fingers deep inside, then drew them out slowly, one along

each side of the hard, wet button of flesh.  Cradling it between them,

she eased both fingers along her swollen clit, circling over the

sensitive tip every so often with a trembling swirl.

 

He stood between her outstretched legs and watched with satisfaction,

then raised the half-full glass of brandy in the air over her, tilting

it slightly just above her upturned face.

 

"Simon says, 'Open'."

 

Her mouth fell open just in time to catch the ribbon of burgundy that

fell from the rim of his glass.  He smiled down at her as he kept it

coming, soon filling her mouth faster than she could swallow it.  As it

overflowed across her chin he followed with the glass, pouring a thin,

steady stream over her breasts and belly, until it funneled between her

legs, mixing with her own sticky nectar, finally trickling into a

building puddle on the floor below.

 

"Decisions, decisions.  What should I do with such an anxious young

lady?  Should I grant her her wish and stick my cock in her?  Although,

I haven't really heard her beg convincingly for it this evening.

 

Perhaps I should bring her husband inside.  We could watch her face

together, her body twitching as she fingers herself to orgasm in my library."

 

He turned his back to her and walked slowly toward the door.  Would he

do it - even after he had promised not to push her husband hard enough

to endanger their marriage?  He was going too far - she couldn't allow

it - but she was so wet, now suddenly much closer to the brink, still

without his prick filling her.

 

"Simon, please!  I can't - can't hold out - much - much - longer.  I

need you, Simon.  I need - your - cock in me.  I - need - your - cock -

I need - your - cock - I -"

 

He wore a pleased grin as he turned to face her.

 

"Ahh, you have such a way with words - convincing words indeed."

 

His chair was only a few steps away.  He went to it, sat, unzipped the

front of his pants, and pulled his erection through the opening.  Her

eyes were glued to it - so hard and thick, like a bar of bronze

sculpted into a warm likeness of the perfect cock.

 

"Simon says, 'Over here.'"

 

She slid over the edge of the chair until her knees touched the floor,

allowed the dress to fall from her shoulders, then crawled to him on

hands and knees, slowly, with her head down, the way she knew he would

want her.  Stopping between his parted legs, she waited for the sound

of his voice.  He withheld it until he could see her shiver, knowing

that her need to be filled grew with each agonizing second.  He watched

in silence as the small of her long, smooth back arched, her ass rising

and falling almost imperceptibly in a futile effort to bring relief to

the ache between her shaking thighs.  'How long would she wait?' he

wondered.  Hours? - Days? - this fragile, loving wife, cowering, naked

on the floor below, silently begging to be taken by a stranger...

 

She watched her breasts hanging and quivering, engorged nipples

straining toward the floor, and through the space between them the

small tuft of hair matted and dripping with her juices.  In time she

closed her eyes, knowing that the sight of her body's response to him

would only excite her more.  Soon her eyes were clenched tight as she

struggled to concentrate, to become whatever he wanted that night,

at whatever cost.

 

Her body shook in rhythmic spasms.  Ridges of muscle rose between her

shoulder blades, and her inner thighs flexed and relaxed in an

uncontrollable cadence.  He waited for a sign - something new,

something not easily surrendered.  When her tears fell from within

the tangle of hair that covered her face, landing with tiny splats

between his feet, he spoke.

 

"Look at me."

 

Elyse raised her head slowly. Thick waves of hair parted to reveal her

tear-streaked face.

 

"Interesting.  What brings tears to the eyes of a wife as she sluts for

another man?  Is it shame, an overpowering disgrace born from the

incapacity to control her own desires?  Or is it simply pure lust, her

body's final desperate mechanism for dealing with extended deprivation,

fired by a ravenous carnal appetite? Of course, a true slut could

never feel shame.  A true slut would abandon everything for a good hard

fucking, never stopping to think twice about her future, or the future

of those she loves.  So which is it? Tell me, are these the tears of

a slut or sinner?"

 

She searched his eyes for some small hint that this was just a game,

hoping that he would break into a sympathetic laugh, scoop her up in

his arms, and take her to his bed.  Soon she understood her answer was

required, a necessary part of their evening together. But which

answer?

 

"Both.  I'm both, Simon."

 

Her voice cracked and wavered. She could taste the salt of her own

tears.

 

"I-I'm your slut-your slut, Simon.  And-and sinner-and worse, in my

husband's eyes."

 

Leaning forward, he ran his fingers lightly over her face, then cradled

it in his strong hands.  She welcomed the gentle pressure as he drew

her closer, stopping just inches from his towering erection.

 

"You may be many things in his eyes, but *you've* made this a refuge

from such things, a refuge from all things proper and respectable.

You've asked him to bring you here, and beyond that, to wait in the

wings as I use his wife's body in ways that must test the limits of his

imagination."

 

He paused, his fingers working their way under her hair, circling the

small, delicate contours of her ears, then trailing lower, caressing

cool bare skin at the back of her neck.

 

"I'm not interested in the sinner.  The world is full of sinners. So

don't waste my time with words.  Actions speak with much more

conviction."

 

She sat up, rested her hands on his thighs, and took the solid, golden

head of his cock into her mouth.  Closing her lips tightly just over

the jutting ridge of the glans, she attacked the meat of it with the

tip of her tongue.  She could feel the beat of his pulse as she tested

the hard ball of flesh, pushing hard against it, swirling around the

edges, then gently probing the eye at it's center.  Each precious

droplet teased from him arrived warm and sweet against the back of her

throat.

 

"I don't think I've ever seen you suck me with such abandon, or for

that matter, any wife so willing take another man's cock in her mouth.

Are you as eager to take your husband's in the same way?"

 

She stopped and looked up at him.

 

"We don't - I mean, not like this.  It's different with him."

 

"I see."

 

He sighed, showing his frustration with her evasive answer.

 

"Please, don't..."

 

"Come now.  Whining doesn't become you, my dear.  Tell me.  I insist.

Just how different is this husband of yours?"

 

She lowered her eyes.  Her nipples seemed to reach out to him,

embarrassingly hard.

 

"It's more - more, comfortable with him, I guess.  It's safe, calm,

warm, wrapped around each other in our bed.  I could never - I mean,

it's just not the same.  He'd think - "

 

"You may be surprised what he thinks.  Must a wife who does her whorish

best by night forsake the lady she's become by day?  You think nothing

of offering your body to me for whatever amusement I might invent.  In

fact you flaunt your lust, so desperately, so ravenously, for what you

could easily have at home."

 

"I don't understand it, Simon.  It's not as simple as you make it.  I'm

not proud of this - I know I'm hurting him deeply.  Do you think I enjoy

that?"

 

"Do you?  There is a certain exhilaration in exercising one's

power over another, even if it's someone close to your heart.  The

liberation from feelings of powerlessness can be a stimulating

awakening.  And, as horrifying as you might find it on the surface, the

pain you deliver with a newfound weapon can be both empowering and

arousing."

 

A sudden chill shook her, causing her hands to tremble as she moved

them along his thighs.  When her hands found his erection she closed

them gently around the firm shaft.  She could feel the heat it radiated

before touching him, and imagined it flowing into her fingers, along

her bare arms, then into the core of her body, finally chasing the

chill back from where his words had summoned it.

 

She found herself crying again - suddenly, unexpectedly sobbing,

despite the comforting warmth that poured into her.

 

"Please stop, Simon.  Why can't you leave him out of this?  Why won't

you just fuck me?  I'm begging, Simon - oh God, I'm begging you..."

 

He rose and went to a desk at the far side of the room.  From the wide

center drawer he retrieved a coil of thick, heavy cord.  Her heart

raced when she saw it, partly from fear, partly from excitement.  He

ran a portion of it through his fingers, now careful not to look at

her.  It was woven of black silk, thick as his finger, but hollow at

its center.  Looping it loosely around his hand several times, he

tightened it slowly, feeling it collapse slightly as its suppleness

conformed to the contours of his knuckles and palm.

 

She was on her knees by his chair when he returned.  He reached for her

hand, she gave it, and he helped her to her feet.  Gently but firmly,

he brought her wrists together, circled them three times with the cord,

then once more, passing it between them, finally tying the knot between

her palms.  He again looped the remaining length about his hand and

headed for the wide, open stairs that led to his bedroom.  She

followed, two short steps behind, as much as the rope would allow, her

cunt open, red, and flowing with juices from an hour's torment.

                         Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

                               Chapter 4

 

 

"If only others could see you as I do."

 

He paced slowly as he spoke, eyes feasting on white flesh against the

crimson sheets under her.  The bed, a heavy four-poster with a canopy

frame, was positioned at the very center of the room.  At first sight

it was an imposing structure, a fusion of dark carved woods and

burnished metal in an old-world Mediterranean style.  As he circled it,

he studied her from every angle. Her thin wrists were stretched above

her head, bound by two feet of cord secured to a grille of metal bars

at the headboard.  A tangle of brown hair framed her face, one eye

hidden behind sweat-soaked strands that clung to her forehead and cheek. 

Her open lips waited, red and full, poised, ready at the next

instant to beg him to finish her.

 

'Such wanton elegance,' he mused.  'Delicate shoulders carved from

the purest alabaster...white breasts firm enough to mimic stone, yet

soft enough to allow cherry-red nipples to quiver with each

breath...the flat belly, showing a hint of muscle beneath it, as though

carved by a master sculptor to compliment the sleek lines of her long

waist...legs, white as glistening ivory, chiseled and slim, a thin

layer of satin drawn tightly over stone cut and polished by hands of

passion and grace.'

 

He could almost understand how a husband might prefer sharing such a

treasure to losing her.

 

Small lamps mounted on the inside of each corner of the canopy bathed

her body in blue-white light.  The rest of the room was dark, and the

bright light blinded her to his progress and exact position.  Only

during the few moments when he passed the foot of the bed could she be

sure he remained in the room with her, his crisp, white shirt and

golden cock emerging from the shadows just long enough to rewet her

appetite for him.

 

Minutes later, he appeared beside her at the edge of the bed.  He was

naked, and the sudden sight of him sent a shudder of expectation

through her.  He held a small silver vial, just slightly taller than a

thimble.  Within it rested a thin needle topped with a single black

pearl that seemed to hover above the lip of the container in the

brilliant light.  As he withdrew it, a drop of clear liquid fell from

the sharp tip back into the waiting pool at the bottom of the miniature

reservoir.

 

She shifted away from him as he brought the needle closer.

 

"Are you afraid?"

 

Her eyes told him before she could speak.  "Yes," she whispered.

 

"I could untie you, set you free.  Your husband is waiting."

 

She shook her head without hesitation, as if to chase away any chance

of retreat.  "No!" - another whisper, but one more forceful.

 

The tip of the needle arrived at her breast, stopping at the edge of

the bright pink areola.  With a quick stabbing motion, he tapped the

point repeatedly over the sensitive skin.  She gasped, then began to

moan quietly as the needle danced over the engorged button of flesh.

The pressure was never enough to draw blood, but sufficient to deliver

minute quantities of the drug just below the surface of the tender

nipple.  He returned the needle to the shining vial, wetting the tip

again and again, until both nipples lay wet and glistening in the harsh

light.

 

He stopped, watching the circles surrounding her nipples darken to an

angry red.  She gasped as the tickle of the needle turned to burning

twinges, finally subsiding to a constant, mild irritation that made her

squirm and pull against her bonds.

 

And then he was gone.  The darkness surrounding the bed simply

swallowed him.  She called out to him, begging him to return, to

extinguish the fire that had started at her breasts and now crawled

methodically through her, seizing her cunt with raging urgency.  Her

cries echoed through the room, unanswered.  She cried out louder, slim

legs now shifting to one side, then the other in a futile attempt at

relief or freedom.  The cord around her wrists tightened and held.

Helpless and alone under the intense light, she felt as though she

might suffocate in it's heat, a heat that suddenly seemed to melt her

womb, sending it flowing between her legs like a river of molten lead.

 

Suddenly, he was there, kneeling on the bed, naked, between her

restless thighs.  He watched her with piercing eyes, his golden chest

shining, his erection thicker and harder than she had ever remembered

it.  Multicolored spikes of light surrounded him, flickering and

wavering as they stretched from his bronzed skin into the shadows of

the darkened room.  His voice seemed distant and out of sync with the

words that formed on his lips.

 

"My, my.  Where has she gone? Mommy and Daddy's good little girl - a

husband's faithful and loving wife - the proud day-virgin and reluctant

concubine.  What would they say if they could see your hungry little

cunt yawning for my cock?  What words could you possibly use to make

them understand?"

 

"Please, Simon...I'm begging you..."

 

"Your answer is the price for my company tonight - and ultimately, the

price for coaxing my cock inside you."

 

"Simon...I don't care...none of it matters...none of it..."

 

Her slim hips rose off the bed as she spoke, pumping uncontrollably in

a futile attempt to somehow capture the swollen purple head that jutted

and bobbed, still impossibly far away.

 

"Ahh, finally, the truth.  None of it matters - it's empty baggage, a

burden you needn't bear.  Here, to be free of it is a simple choice -

your choice - no one else's.

 

He moved closer, finally edging the head of his cock just inside her.

He waited until her cunt tightened around it, then went deeper, filling

her slowly with inch after inch of rigid flesh.  Each time with him was

as if she was taken by a new lover; the unyielding girth of his sex

stretching her, then the solid presence filling her belly, possessing

her more completely than any man ever had, or quite possibly ever

would.  It took an entire minute for him to bury himself in her.  She

wound her legs around his waist, her torso drawn tight between bound

wrists and the small of his arched back.  He sank the last inch into

her and stopped, pinning her to the bed.  Her eyes fluttered and

closed.  Her lips formed a small, satisfied smile.  She had taken all

of him - from the hard, blunt tip nestled snugly against her cervix, to

the thick, flaring root that ground against her as his hips pressed

into her in small, firm circles under his body's weight.

 

She whimpered when he pulled out suddenly, surprised by the emptiness

in her belly.  She opened her eyes again, squinting in the bright

light.  He knelt between her legs, his lean stomach and broad chest

gleaming with sweat.  The aura that surrounded him burned with shifting

color, now pulsing violently with vibrant reds and glowing violets.

His penis seemed immense as it jutted in the air over her, growing

longer and thicker as though reflected in a funhouse mirror.  The room

was spinning.  She closed her eyes.  The bed seemed to fall away,

leaving her floating above it, weightless and calm.

 

He was turning her, rolling her onto her belly.  His hands were cool,

his grasp firm against her naked thighs.  She drew her knees under her,

offering her ass to him.  What she needed came quickly - his strong

hands spreading her, then the hot, blunt presence against the entrance,

pressing forward slowly, boring into her, deep enough to awaken flesh

untouched by any other.  The sensation of the cord about her wrists,

the cool sheet against her face, the sting of the fullness invading

her, all melted into the single essence of what she had become.  No

longer wife, nor woman, nor even flesh - only need and desire,

 

desperate to be possessed, to be taken by hands that would reduce her

to nothing, a zero, dissolving her demons in a sudden rush of Simon's

scalding sperm as it bathed her bowels.

 

The skillful caress of his fingers between her legs sent her into a

welcome abyss, falling and floating at the same time through explosions

of warmth and color, her own cries echoing in the distance as though

they were the urgent calls of some primitive wild animal.  Then the

darkness arrived, a luscious cradle that closed in around her, sucking

away her flesh with a delicious, persistent embrace that slowly

consumed her until only the lush fullness deep in her belly remained.

Finally it too faded, the encroaching blackness stealing even the

nothingness she had become, until it swallowed everything that

remained.

 

 

                                  ***

 

 

The car had become a prison for him.  An hour passed, then two, and

finally a third.  He should do something - go in after her, confront

the man that took her inside, insist she return with him to their own

home, to their own bed.  Why had he allowed this in the first place?

What kind of man gives his wife to a stranger, and then waits for him

to finish with her?  Her face haunted him, so child-like when they met,

and even now, years later, it still cheated the passage of time.  She

remained an innocent Lolita with the body of a mature, ripe woman.  He

knew men desired her.  He saw them look, listened to their suggestive

banter at parties, cloaked in the feeblest attempts at platonic intent.

But she had never given them the slightest satisfaction of a knowing

reply.  She would simply take his hand, or pull his arm closer around

her slim waist, as if to let him know she was his and his alone.

 

The temptation to go to her was overwhelming, so much so that twice he

left the car.  The first time he was able to do little more than circle

the car, then stand by the open door, his eyes searching the tall

windows for any trace of movement.  The second time he could go no

farther than halfway to the marble steps before retreating, all the

while remembering her soft pleading just before she went inside.  Now

he sat staring at his hands on the wheel, weary from questions he

couldn't answer, needing her next to him more than he ever had.

 

Then she was running toward him, her body glowing in the light that

still bathed the house.  The simple white nightshirt rose over her

thighs as she ran. Bare legs and feet flashed, gracefully carrying her

forward, like an angel gliding through the night.  She snuggled next to

him in the car, an arm around his neck, a hand placed peacefully on

his chest.  She nuzzled his neck, her damp hair cool and fragrant

against his skin.

 

"Mmmmm - take me home?"

 

She was asleep within minutes.  He carried her from the car to their

bed. She moved close to him, pressing her body against his, a contented

smile now fixed to her innocent face.  After letting some time pass, he

placed a hand on her breast, moving a finger over her hardening nipple.

She sighed, uttered something soft and unintelligible in her sleep,

then turned from him and sighed again one last time.  He lay beside her

as the hours passed, never sleeping, her gentle breathing filling him

with both fear and desire until dawn.

 

 

 

 

 

                          Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

                                Chapter 5

 

 

He woke slowly, first to the constant hiss and sizzle, then to the

familiar smell of bacon, teasing him from his sleep with a hint of a

perfect breakfast made just as she knew he would want it.  Sleep had

finally come to him sometime early in the morning, but the lack of it

hung about him as he lifted his legs over the side of the bed and stood

to face the day. She had drawn the blinds so he could sleep late, and

waited until mid-morning to start his breakfast.  He would shower

first, buying some time to think about what he might say to her, and

what she may or may not want to share about the night before.

 

To his surprise, she greeted him with her dazzling smile and a kiss as

she brought him his food.  He chose to eat, saving any words till

later, waiting for her to offer up excuses or an apology.  None came,

so he picked at his breakfast in silence as she hummed quietly to

herself while busily cleaning the kitchen.

 

Later that afternoon as he dozed in front of the television, she

snuggled next to him, her small hand stroking his inner thigh.  He

opened his eyes to find her staring at him with a mischievous grin.

 

"Take me to bed and fuck me?"

 

They were words he had never heard her use, but words that caused his

cock to stir in spite of the questions she had still not answered.

"So, it's over - you won't go to him again?"

 

She slid her hand under his belt, gently closing her fingers around his

erection.

 

"I want *you*. I want your cock inside me.  I want you to fuck me till

I scream."

 

Who was this woman?  As uncertain as he was, he found it impossible not

to play along, impossible not to kiss her deeply when she moved onto

his lap, impossible not to fuck her like a wild animal in their bed,

and finally, impossible not to wonder what went through her mind as she

found her second orgasm under him, thrashing and screaming just as she

had promised.

 

Afterwards she lay pressed against him, slowly running her fingers over

his chest and nipples.  She looked so satisfied, no, contented was more

accurate.  He had no choice but to try to make some sense of it.

 

"Why do you do it?" he asked, as he stared at the ceiling.

 

"You mean go to him, don't you?"

 

"You make it sound like a friendly visit when you put it that way.  Go

to him?  Why don't you just say it?  You have sex with him - you go to

let him fuck you."

 

"Do you want me to say that, to tell you in those words?"

 

"I want you to tell me why!  Why can't you tell me what you need

instead of going to another man?  What does he do for you that I can't?

Just tell me what you want - I'll do it - anything, anything at all!"

 

She sighed, then trailed her fingertips over his belly, finding his

spent erection and working it gently between her fingers.

 

"Are you sure you want to know?  I could say things that would hurt you

terribly, and you'd regret asking."

 

"I regret asking in the first place.  But what am I supposed to do?

Sit quietly by while you have sex with this man, and never question

why?  If you still love me, if you want a future together, what could

you say that would hurt me?"

 

Her eyes peered into his, searching for a sign that he meant what he

said, for just a brief hint of inner strength, or possibly arousal.

How might he react if she led him along such a tenuous path?  The risk

was enormous - how could she tell her husband such things?  And why did

the anticipation of his response make her so wet, her belly so

desperate to be filled?

 

"I could say I go because he's handsome, and incredibly sexy.  I

could say he's very wealthy and spares no expense to please me.  I may

even tell you how he satisfies me in bed, that he's a wonderful lover,

that he drives me to the brink of my senses when he makes me cum."

 

She paused, still playing with his cock under the damp sheet, finally

finding it growing hard again in her hand.  She smiled at him, now

knowing he accepted at least some small part of her obsession, that

he loved her enough to find some pleasure in giving her such an

unlikely gift.  And then he turned away from her, shuddered, and drew a

sudden, halting breath. Moving close to him, Elyse stroked his hair

lightly as he lay staring silently into the darkness.  She wanted his

reaction, and now she had it.

 

"None of those things are why I go.  I may never be able to

convince you, but it's true," she told him, almost in a whisper.

 

"True?  You've done a pretty good job of convincing me otherwise."

 

She pressed closer, throwing a bare leg over him, then turned him

toward her again and eased on top of him, her small firm breasts pushed

high up on his heaving chest.

 

"I can't tell you why I go.  I don't know myself.  It's not you.  It's

not him.  It's me.  Something in me - something terrifying and exciting

at the same time.  I love my life with you.  But - I don't know -

something happens there, something that renews a part of me that I

never knew was empty.  And after, I love you even more, so deeply, so

fully, as though I have so much more to give you than I've ever been

able to share before.  I love being with you; just your touch makes me

warm and safe.  I crave your body constantly.  I fantasize about your

cock inside me, and how wonderful it feels.  No other man could make me

feel the way I do when I cum with you inside me.  It's true.  Whether

you believe me or not, I live for you and you alone."

 

She was so beautiful, so convincing.  He struggled wildly with

jealousy, love, and his best attempt at understanding.  But if she

couldn't understand her obsession, how could he, even at his best?

 

In the weeks that followed, he found it impossible to doubt her.  She

found it impossible not to relish her new freedom, and every minute of

every day showed her love to him in everything she did.  Each touch

proved her sincerity.

 

Their lovemaking became a series of adventures, each spontaneous and

more daring than the last.  She stripped for him at night after dinner

as slow earthy jazz oozed from the stereo and the dimmed blue light she

bought only that afternoon silhouetted her body as she twisted hungrily

before him.  She spoke to him graphically, breathlessly, as they

returned from a Saturday visit to the museum, telling him how the lines

and mass of a certain sculpture made her think of how wonderful his own

body looked to her, how it made her hot and wet, so much so she

couldn't wait to have him - so she took him there in the car as he

drove, eagerly swallowing his semen as though it was hot tea and honey.

She arrived at his office late one Friday afternoon flaunting a new

coat, one of luxuriously thick silver and white fur.  She felt the

stares of his colleagues, from bare calf to the upper curves of her

breasts left enticingly exposed.  Their attention warmed her a little,

but she went to her husband without a smile or glance at the others.

In the seclusion of his office, she opened the coat and let it slide off

her shoulders, finally naked before him with a hunger in her eyes that

by now, he knew all too well. They made love on the carpet in front of

his desk, door unlocked, all the while sensing the danger of being seen

by an intruder, overwhelmed by their passion for each other.

 

After a month, Steven had forgiven everything.  'A small price,' he told

himself.  Memory of the mansion and the dark man in it went to the

place where memories go that are not forgotten, but only return with

the most deliberate provocation.  Now, not even the moans

of her loudest orgasm set them free.

 

 

 

 

 

                          Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

                                Chapter 6

 

 

It arrived a month later, delivered by a tuxedoed messenger who smiled

briefly, then returned to the limo waiting at the curb.  The package

was large and black, its length and width secured tightly by a gleaming

silver cable of ribbon.  A single red rose was tied at the center with

a shining knot nestled between clusters of menacing thorns.  Steven

stood behind the closed door for a full minute, not able to take a

step, staring at his own reflection in the glossy surface.

 

"What is it? What's wrong?"

 

Elyse had come up behind him in her bare feet, and her voice startled

him. He turned, holding the package carefully out in front of him as

though it might be radioactive.

 

"Oh. That."

 

He lifted his eyes from the box. Elyse stood there in her robe, her

expression at first calm, then apologetic. She seemed to be waiting

for him to speak.

 

"Please don't go."

 

His voice sounded so small, as though he barely had the air to make the

words come.  He wanted her to move closer, to take the box and hurl it

into the trash and assure him she could never go to him again.  Instead

she looked down at the box as though sizing its dimensions. Steven

shivered as he imagined she was guessing its contents.

 

"You don't have to go. He can't force you."

 

She began to go to him, then stopped after several steps, lowering her

head as she spoke.  Her robe was undone, and parted a few extra inches

in the front as she walked.  His eyes wandered down over the trail of

exposed flesh, the inner curves of her breasts, her flat belly, to the

naked slit between her legs, now freshly shaved and parted slightly to

reveal a deep red, pulsing core.

 

"You don't understand.  He only sees me when I ask.  I thought you knew

that.  It's me.  I have to go."

 

"You don't have to go, damn it!  I love you, but even I have limits!

Just how much more do you expect me to take?"

 

Her expression changed to one of disappointment.  Her eyes were filled

with more sadness than he had ever seen.

 

"I know you have limits.  I suppose I knew you would reach them

eventually, that in the end you would leave.  I need this, and I need

you.  I knew that I couldn't have both for long - or at least I feared

it."

 

"I never said I was leaving - I don't know if I could," Steven said.

 

"Then please stay with me, please indulge me, for at least a while

longer. You won't be sorry. I promise."

 

Her last words were delivered with sultry assurance.  She smiled, and

her eyes brightened.  Unable to think, he extended the box, offering it

to her.  She moved to his side and slid the robe off her shoulders,

holding it open, offering her body to him.

 

"Put it on the bed, then shower with me.  I want to be close to you

before we go, both of us naked and warm and wet..."

 

She offered herself to him under the pulsing jets of water, eyes

closed, mouth open and panting as Steven ran the soap over her body.

When his hand trailed between her legs, she reached up and kissed him,

their bodies pressed together, skin made slick and sensitive by the

thin film of soapy water between them.  When she felt his erection grow

against her, she went to her knees and played with him, running soapy

fingers of one hand along the hardening shaft, cupping and pulling

gently at his balls with the other.  Elyse knew the signs of her

husband's orgasm, and just as he began to thrust his hips, she stopped,

rising to whisper in his ear.

 

"I love your hard cock in my hands, but I can't make you cum tonight.

He won't allow it.  But I can stay here with you, help you enjoy it, if

you do it yourself.  Please - I'd love to see you make yourself cum.

Please my love, for me?"

 

Her tongue was in his ear, then licking his neck, traveling down to

suck at his nipples - and she was moaning, groaning, like an animal in

heat.  Steven's head was swimming with lust and confusion.  He'd said he

would do whatever she wanted - to hell with the man in the mansion - he

needed her here and now.

 

He came after just a few strokes, thrusting and moaning as Elyse

nibbled at his belly.  She looked down just as his semen erupted from

the end of his cock, his hand stroking furiously as his hips pumped

back and forth.  She fought her own impending orgasm, gained control,

then suddenly lost it again as the warmth rushed over her. She

stiffened, still on her knees, thighs pressed tightly together, trying

to shake the involuntary spasms that traveled in waves from belly to

neck.  It was the first time she had disobeyed Simon - he forbade her to

cum the day of their meeting.  She hadn't touched herself - another

first for her.  Why had this happened?  Why had she asked her husband to

masturbate just hours before giving her to another man?  And why had

she cum when he gave in so easily to her suggestion?  She went cold as

Simon's words echoed in her head.

 

     "There is a certain exhilaration in exercising one's

      power over another, even if it's someone close to

      your heart...as horrifying as you might find it on

      the surface, the pain you deliver with a newfound

      weapon can be both empowering and arousing."

 

 

 

 

 

                          Persephone in Winter

                            by Night Writer

 

 

                                Chapter 7

 

 

His attempts to find the mansion were frustrated at every

turn.  The neighborhood's streets formed a maze of circles and cul-de-

sacs hidden from one another by dense but impeccably groomed

landscaping.  Each time he made a wrong turn and she showed him the

way, he wondered how often she had found it on her own.  In the dark,

each private entrance looked alike, until they came face to face with

the twisted bars of his imposing iron gate and the familiar glass eye

of the camera, peering down at them like a mechanical cyclops atop the

towering stone pilaster.

 

As they waited, he turned to her, only to find her staring once again

through the ominous gate into the night on the other side.  She wore

her hair up in a more formal style, revealing tantalizing glimpses of

supple neck and glittering diamonds decorating each ear.  She was a

vision, but not one of his own making.

 

He remembered her gasp when she opened package, and how its contents

overflowed its edges, as though it had suddenly taken its own deep

breath, increasing its volume to double the box's capacity.  The

material was black as night, and reflected the light as though it was

partly metallic.  When she lifted it from the box and held it up in

front of her, it unfolded slowly, its weight surprisingly light in her

small hands.  She dressed herself in private, and he was more than

satisfied to let her do it.  It was his turn to gasp when she appeared

from their bedroom, wrapped in the elegant gift from her enigmatic

lover.

 

The material fit her midsection as tightly as a corset, softening to

cup her breasts in two delicate pouches that barely covered the tops

her nipples.  Four gold catches secured the middle about her like a

second skin.  From hips to floor, the dress expanded in a series of

large horizontal scalloped pleats that trailed slightly behind her as

she walked.  It opened down the front in a inverted V, gathered just

below her belly, widening two feet or more by the time it reached the

floor.  When she walked, the cascades of pleats opened wider to reveal

her legs, from black heels to the very tops of her bare thighs.  The

contrast of one slender ivory leg after another, slim thighs flexing,

thrust through the opening as she took step after step framed by the

dark flowing fabric, was startling, even to her husband of so many

years.

 

'My God - she could have any man.'

 

And then, just at that moment, she had smiled at him, as though she

could read his every thought.

 

Now they sat in silence as the gate opened once again and the car

slipped through it, winding forward into the night.  She sat taller in

her seat as they approached the house, her shoulders squared, breasts

thrust forward, heaving against the dress with each slow, deep breath.

She leaned forward slightly as though she was drawn to their

destination by the same powerful force that equally repelled her

husband.

 

When the engine died she looked at him with love and pity.

 

"The things you must be thinking about me...and yet you bring me here,

again.  You must love me more than I ever imagined."

 

She leaned toward him, circling him with her bare, slender arms, and

kissed him deeply.  Pressing closer, she dropped a hand to his lap,

exploring between his legs as the kiss became more frenzied.  And then,

just as she felt his erection begin to grow, she stopped and pulled

away, looking lovingly into his eyes once again as she straightened a

few strands of hair that had come undone.

 

"You'll wait for me?"

 

He tried to answer.  Trust and jealousy, love and anger, pride and

humiliation, all sliced his insides to pieces, then tore the ragged

wounds in all directions.  He trembled from her lust for him, and from

the frustration of watching that same lust willingly surrendered to a

man waiting to use it for his own amusement.  He just stared back at

her, an elegant vision, alive with fresh, tempting beauty and innocent,

smoldering heat.  How could he say yes, agreeing to let this man use

her eager body a second time while he waited for him to satisfy her?

How could he say no, and risk losing her to this maddening obsession?

In the end, he couldn't say anything at all.

 

She smiled confidently at him one last time.  Her bare legs seemed to

glow in the light that spilled into the car from the house behind them.

The dress had opened wider when she moved away from him, and now

revealed the pale skin of her lower belly and the pouting lips nestled

between the tops of her thighs. He couldn't take his eyes from it, and

she let him look, knowing he saw her ripening cunt, juicy and wet,

ready for what waited for her across the white pavement beyond the

marble steps.

 

Watching her approach the house brought back bitter memories.  A

different dress, a different night, but the way she moved toward her

destination, almost strutting with anxious determination, was painfully

familiar.

 

He appeared at the door just as she arrived and stepped outside to meet

her.  A stray lock of hair hung free at the side of her face, still

undone from her husband's touch.  He tucked it back in place, then

turned her, moving against her from behind.  She tried her best to

contain a brief moan when his lips found her neck, but she failed,

suddenly afraid that the soft sounds she made might escape into the

night air to reach the open car window.  A lean, bronzed forearm and

palm circled her waist, drawing her closer to him, while another hand

freed her breasts from the front of the dress.  Her nipples hardened at

once and throbbed under his fingertips.  She leaned back against him,

eyes closed, lips trembling as she tried to contain a second moan.  He

feasted on her bare neck and shoulder, and she cried out again, louder,

a guttural noise that rose from deep inside her.  This time she was

certain it had reached her husband, but was already beyond caring.

Simon was pleased that she so quickly shed her inhibitions before her

waiting husband, and let her know with a whisper as his teeth grazed

her ear.

 

"Slut."

 

The word sent a ripple through her belly, and she pushed harder against

him, until she could feel the hardened length of his cock against the

small of her back.  From the car, her husband watched as she melted

against the man, her nipples swelling so easily as her cupped her

breasts, her hips grinding into him as her bare legs parted and swayed

through the open front of the dress.  With her third moan, he raised

the car window and looked away.  He had never heard the sound come from

her before, nor had he ever seen her surrender to lust so immediately.

When he finally summoned the courage to look toward the house again,

they had vanished, leaving him alone with his imagination and pain.

 

                          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 *