Love and Death
The darkness is tangible. It surrounds her; envelopes, and embraces her. She
is lying on her back. Underneath her she can feel a hard, firm surface. Cool.
She tries to move her arm, which is flung back over her head, and finds she
cannot. Her wrists are tethered. Then she tries her right leg. But her
attempted movement is answered only by a tug at her ankle, telling her that she
is pinioned and spread wide. Her knees are flexed, and she tries to stretch, to
straighten her legs. But she can't; she is secured firmly in place by a collar
round her neck.
The cool darkness caresses her skin, and she realises that she is naked. It
snakes between her wide-parted thighs, over her pussy, wafting slowly across her
belly, round and over her breasts, her neck, her chin, her lips, her forehead.
Her heart is pounding. Something tremendous and terrible is happening. To her.
What?
She knows, but she cannot remember. Her feelings are in turmoil. There is an
expectancy as large as doom. Not all bad, but with fear as part of it, fear and
- what? - is it promise? There is something wonderful at the edge of her
consciousness.
She becomes aware of her throat. The back of her neck is arched over a wooden
pillow, so that her throat is taut, as though being offered.
But why?
To whom?
Pools of light come into being, slowly. They expand and flower into
softly-glowing light-presences. These luminous places do not abolish the
darkness; merely interrupt it. But they show enough for her to see
black-hooded figures seated in a circle round her. As the light reveals them,
she becomes aware of soft conversation and laughter. Little by little this
ceases. From within the cowls there is the glow of dark eyes, she is aware that
they are intent upon her, and she hears the soft chanting of prayers.
The pounding of her heart swells and quickens. Now recollection is coming. She
is starting to know. Her taut exposed neck; the prayers; her naked openness -
in a trice she is fully present and aware.
This is the day.
Her day.
She is on the altar. The sacrifice. The offering to the God.
The pounding of her heart seems to occupy her whole being. Not quite all of it,
though. From deep within she is aware of something - what? What is it? It is
quiet, still, and hesitant, and draws back, as though not wishing this. Is it
her soul? Holding back, like a beautiful slave brought to market? Perhaps it
is. It seems to be struggling -- in protest -- begging for mercy --
But these pleas are unsaid. For she is gagged and cannot speak - though the
incoherent sounds in her throat convey her meaning to the dark devotees around
her. It is as though her muffled cries for deliverance give them energy, for
the chanting becomes still more intense and beautiful.
The sound carries her up, holds her helplessness, exalts it. Love and fear come
together in an intense union, which gives birth to a deep, yearning hunger. She
feels so completely open -- unbearably unlocked -- the space within her cries
out to be filled, with a hungry insistence.
A tall woman approaches the altar and stands by her head. Her hood is doffed,
revealing the glowing pallor of her face, whose beautiful planes are highlighted
by the severity with which her jet black hair is drawn back. Her eyes are like
dark stars, that seem to draw her inexorably, and into whose depths she feels
she could fall for ever. Hands unloose the collar, and gently massage her neck,
easing the discomfort. The calm face, with its high forehead approaches her
own. She feels hands on her shoulders, moving behind her neck, to the back of
her head and then forward, loosening the gag's restraining band, and gently
easing the leather fullness from her mouth.
"Thank you! Thank you!" she breathes.
The woman smiles and bends down until their lips meet in a union which is
astonishingly gentle and soft. The warm juices of their mouths mingle, and
their tongues dance caressingly together. The woman's hand is on her breast,
circling round each in turn, the heel of her palm brushing across the nipples,
sending messages of unfulfilled longing through her body, into her loins, and
down to her calves and feet. The spring within her starts to flow, and the
silky warm juices insinuate themselves into her cleft.
She feels giddy.
And then as though she is floating.
She starts to lose herself.
The woman stands erect, and speaks.
"She is ready," the words are quiet, but deadly.
The chanting ceases, and there is a profound silence.
Suddenly in the doorway in front of her, framed between her parted knees, there
is a tall dark figure, also in a hooded cape. His darkness glows. It is the
Prince of Darkness. He stands quite still. Erect.
The woman kneels. Soft chanting. He pulls back the hood. Divine pallor. Jet
black hair. Aquiline nose. Menacingly full lips. Eyes diamond hard and deeply
inviting.
He moves, His cape swinging with easy grace, and He steps proudly down to the
foot of the altar. She gazes at Him. He is imperious. Lordly. Loving.
Merciless. Her adoring feelings overwhelm her, and her heart is soft with
yielding desire. Oh, to extend her arms to Him. Ah! If only. He smiles. The
lips draw back. The teeth. Ah, Goddess, the teeth. Glinting white jewels.
Long. And sharp. Her skin tremors.
His hand is on her calf. Cold. Electrically cold. She quivers. Her gathering
arousal swells. She hears a whimpering noise. It is her. She aches for him.
How can she bear the ache? Both hands stroke the backs of her thighs and each
calf. And again. Firmly. One fluid movement and he kneels between her knees.
Icy hands on her inner thighs. She groans in an anguish of longing. He leans
forward to kiss her breast. Her nipple rises like a young shoot between the
fullness of his icy lips.
His hand is on her throat. Caressing. Unbearable. At a glance from Him, the
woman stands to unfasten the clasp of His cape, to swing it away. He reaches
over her head and frees first one hand, then the other; liberates her lovely
long hair. Her breath is raggedly out of control. Her joyously liberated hands
run over His palely glowing body, His head, His neck, His back, His strong,
slender buttocks Fingers tangle in His silky black hair. Beside herself with
yearning for Him.
His cool fingers caress her cheek. Move across her lips. Behind her head.
Pull her to Him. He opens her lips with His. Their tongues embrace. Hers so
warm. His so cold. He withdraws. She can hardly bear it.
She feels His lips at her throat. Caressing. And the teeth. Gently raking.
Preparing.
Cold hardness at the threshold of her melting sex. Velvet-hard coldness.
Throbbing hard. So cold. Warm fingers, feminine fingers touch her pussy lips,
and then draw them apart. Wide apart. The hardness withdraws.
Oh no!
Please no!
Then she sees the tall cloaked woman behind the Prince, her Ruler. A delicate
hand with long, aristocratic fingers reaches forward to the stiff, throbbing
shaft, and gently draws back the foreskin. At the same time she can see the
other hand between his legs, the finger-tips lightly grazing over his scrotum.
The stiffness surges and thickens. Gently he lowers himself once more. Now the
head is bare. And huge. The tender, warm fingers draw her pussy lips apart
once more. Wide. And still wider.
Once more she feels the cold breath on her throat. And then the lips -- cool
and full. And now the teeth. Oh Goddess, the teeth!
She is wailing in an anguish of desire and longing.
And at last! At last! The taut skin of her throat is punctured, and with one
slow, irresistible thrust -- oh so slow -- but so throbbingly -- so compellingly
strong -- He is inside her. As though He has always known the way. Fire and
ice. Very heaven. She is penetrated to the innermost kernel of her soul. She
cries out, her voice ringing with voluptuous joy.
And then. He moves. She feels the exquisite pain as His teeth pierce the taut
skin of her throat -- and at the same time she cannot but yield to the long,
slow thrusts of His sacred cock penetrating her centre, right to her innermost
soul. The slow withdrawal, and then the gradual re-entry which seems to touch
every surface, culminating in a fierce ramming drive, so that her whole body
quivers.
He drinks. Her blood. She feels the flowing out. A delicate ebbing. And then
the inflow, the slow current of iciness, as his essence is exchanged for hers,
needling along her intimate pathways, and through her whole being. Her life
blood and His deathly power intermingle.
He is moving with more urgency now. He will not be gainsaid. His lips are on
hers once more. Moist with the liquid of her life. She feels his passion. The
swelling surge within her. The freezing jets like daggers as he gives himself.
And the response. Her heart, her soul, her body, an ecstatic fusion of all
three, gather and surrender in her climax. Which is endless. Now she is lost.
Gladly lost. Death has entered her and she has welcomed him, given herself to
him. He is her and she is him. Now and for ever.
