I've been wanting to go back and record some of my earlier short stories, and Dichotomies has been itching for my attention. With a new Blood and Fire novel on the way to e-book shelves, I thought it would be a great time to revisit my supernatural demons and their wicked ways.
Do you enjoy Brantwijn's paranormal erotic romance?
Here to Support Lotus Petals or Goblin Fires for
Velvet can be so cruel...
The witch Tarja twisted in her rope bonds with a low, lusty groan. It seemed it could be hours before Braeden would lash her again, and the skin of her back crawled in anticipation. His whip was long and crept along her back like tongues: eight tails in lush purple velvet, like soft, slithering fingers; small steel balls sleeved along the lengths at arbitrary intervals to carry the hard bite of punishment with each stroke. The ache of the balls far outlasted the caress, but each new lash lavished her bruises like a luxurious kiss.
It was her favorite of Braeden's tortures. On nights like this, when the vibrations of ancient power thrummed through the ley lines under their covens' ancestral home, she begged the warlock for this, her dichotomous pain and pleasure.
The muted swish of the whip warned her a split second before the rough snap of the metal balls made her cry out. The velvet tongues slipped along her tender flesh, and the yelp of pain devolved into a moan of delight. Brae lashed her again, flicking the whip at an upward angle to strike her reddened ass, then a third time, cross-wise, to hit the other side. Tarja gave another moan, senseless and aching.
"An' how's our little slut feel now?"
This came not from Brae, but from his partner Devon, a tall black man looming before her in the flickering light of the lamps. Naked but for a pair of leather breeches, he glistened, and Tarja would have killed to run her tongue over that broad, dark chest. Behind him, Theeor, a slim, dark-haired warlock with spectacles, also bore witness to this wicked ritual. He sat naked, lotus-style on a low stone bench, chanting. His cock jutted up, hard and smooth and ready, but his hands rested on his knees and he watched their tableau with unfocused eyes. He played the role of summoner, tonight: gathering and harnessing the energies of the ritual, managing the steady push and pull of ley line magic and the dark power they would create.
The ropes binding her, criss-crossing her body in complex knots, were Devon's doing. His big, smooth hands crafted delicate work: a wide braid of rope ran from the base of her neck down to right above her tailbone, where it split into three lengths to run over and around her hips, and down between her thighs. They reunited around the front, forming a small, hard knot resting over her pinkened pussy, where it nudged and rubbed at her swollen clitoris, tugging her constantly toward climax but never enough to take her there. The braid down the back protected the knobs of her spine from the steel balls of Braeden's whip, which could do more damage then necessary—and disrupt the flow of pleasure—should they directly strike the bone. There were more ropes twining in sandal patterns all the way down her legs to each ankle, forcing her to stand spread for their attention, each foot knotted tightly to a steel ring in the floor. Her arms, tied together from elbows to wrists, hung bound to a similar ring in the ceiling. Devon wove the ropes over her naked torso in a pentagram harness; what else? He'd palmed each plush, generous breast in appreciation when he'd bound her, but in accordance with their rites he couldn't sample them yet. Both he and she must wait until the proper time before taking satisfaction.
While Devon had bound her, Theeor anointed her with oil and patterns in gold dust, and a single thumbprint of blood—the blood of their Master, taken from a crystal vial meant for ink—stamped at the hollow of her throat. This connected her, and all the forces which would converge within and around her, to the Matron of their coven, pouring Tarja's power into the family well, revitalizing the dark blessings on their House. Tarja's wild, sexual suffering would empower the whole coven tonight, and all their holdings.
Of course, she'd have happily done it anyway.
Brae's whip slapped her ass again and Tarja let out a yip. Then came his hand, thrust between her legs, pressing, kneading, chafing the smooth silk of the ropes along the folds of her pussy. Until he gave permission to the others, only Braeden could touch her. Devon remained forced to stand and watch. He'd yet to touch the burgeoning shape of his own cock, straining under his leather, but Tarja could see his eagerness. It thrilled her and made her mouth water. Oh, the things his cock could do to her...
"You're dancing," Brae's whisky voice came at her ear. His hand worked her pussy, nudging the little knot more and more against her clit. He meant dancing on the edge, and she was, but she couldn't go over yet. He wouldn't let her. Their scene must play out to its fullest—must cull the wildest impulses and sensations from them all—before she would be allowed to reach her climax.
Or, she thought drunkenly, her eyes shifting to Theeor and his perfect, pale, beautiful phallus, perhaps several climaxes.
"Dirty slut," Devon said again in his deep, gorgeous tone. Brae gestured for the larger man to come forward and, with his free hand, traded his whip for a shorter crop of thin leather braids and lengths of plush rabbit fur. He handed the new toy to Devon and then knotted his fingers in Tarja's hair, tugging hard, forcing her to arch her back.
Devon slapped the crop across her tits: the sting of the leather sent an incredible shudder down her body and she cried out, "Yes!" Braeden's hand cupped her pussy harder, driving her up on tiptoe, and Devon struck her again and again, making her yip with pleasure each time. Her nipples stung, and even throbbed a little; she squirmed against Brae's palm, desperately wanting to come.
"Beg," Devon demanded. Tarja nodded stiffly—Braeden still held her by the hair.
"Yes, please...pain...give me more pain, Sir..."
Brae's hand retreated and Devon swung the crop underhand, striking her between the legs. The knot, of course, protected her tenderest parts, but the sweet slap against her skin still made her jump.
The heat of arousal grew palpable, concentrating along the lines of the oil Theeor painted on her skin. Slick and electric, all at once scalding and thrumming along with the energy of the ley lines and the beat of Theeor's droning chant. Her flesh stung under the scalding lick of power; at the same time the trail of oils seemed to run cold, chilling. Dark magic at work, flowing through her skin, through her blood.
Devon tugged at the ties he'd secured below her navel, and they slipped easily away. She felt the cool air upon the wetness of her pussy, and then, the looming man stepped forward and closed one massive hand around her throat, while the other slid the braided handle of the crop into her desperate cunt. Tarja squeaked against his hold and tried to writhe to him, wanting more, needing more of the ridged leather fucking her. Brae's hands slid around her to cup her breasts and pinch her taught, tender nipples. She could feel his erection prodding demandingly against her ass.
"Electricity," she panted. The magic around them made the air crackles, and blue sparks raced up her limbs along the lines of the oil. "Oh...Brae...Dev...I feel it—"
"Yes, my sweet bitch," Brae whispered in her ear, bumping her hips with his and pushing her harder into Devon's toying play. "Dance more for me...dance like a good girl and I'll reward you with a good, hard, fucking."
He ground his cock against her and she cried out. Through the pleasure, she heard Theeor's expressionless chanting, and it tuned her in. The ley lines, the oil, his voice, the rise and fall and thrill and pain of black magic and sexual energy coursing through her body. She honed in on it, pulling it together, drawing all the powers in her and in the room and in the earth around them into her, envisioning them forming a dark knot in the center of her chest, in the middle of the pentagram of ropes.
"Getting—hotter—" she moaned. "Dev... please...hurry, I want it..."
She didn't see it—her vision had gone a bit blurry with pleasurable tears—but she knew Devon would be looking to Brae for the approval. The leather handle of the crop slid from her, leaving her dripping and desperate for more, but the big man raised up a hand to slip the knot binding her to the ring above. The two men guided her to the floor, positioning her on all fours with her still-bound arms tucked beneath her chest. Behind her, Brae fully unwound the rope between her legs, freeing her for his use, while before her, Devon knelt, unleashing his wonderful, glistening cock.
"Oh, can't wait to feel that soft mouth," he groaned, kneading himself in anticipation. Tarja nuzzled him, shivering; the tension inside of her mounted in every limb, the spell building hard and hot and wild in her body. Dev smelled primal and deliciously pungent, pheromones and sweat and sex. She needed to taste him, wanted to gorge herself on his beautiful shaft.
And Braeden. His hands ran up and down the backs of her thighs, like a violinist's bow stoking the strings. She imagined she would explode soon, if they both didn't take her, if she didn't get the satisfaction of their cocks, their cum, exactly at the moment of the spell's ringing climax.
The electricity crackling and tickling her skin now leapt to theirs as well, and all three of them were united with the rising elemental darkness.
"Now," she begged Devon. "Now, please, I need it now—"
"Do it, brother," Braeden instructed. "Both of us... at once..."
Tarja arched and made a sound of mindless pleasure as Brae thrust his cock into her pussy, Devon simultaneously claiming her mouth. She tasted the salt of pre-ejaculate along the head, and she ran her tongue all around the tight crown to catch every hint of it. Her cunt seized with pleasure around Braeden's shaft, exhilarated with him filling her, fucking her, pumping at her in earnest.
Each movement intertwined; for each push, there was pull. Pleasure and the bright lingering ache of pain made her drunk, and for a time all she could think of, all she could focus on, was pleasuring Devon, sucking him gratefully, begging for him to sate her thirst with his cum; and yielding to Brae's every stroke, opening to him, giving over to him to let him pump his vital seed into her womb.
Ley lines. Earth. Elements. Flesh. Sex. Fucking. She moaned and sank into the dark energies drinking her up, and soon she no longer knew herself as Tarja, witch, one of the thirteen in this House, but as pure magic, head to toe, and bound and linked with the bodies of magic around her.
It all spiraled to a crescendo. Devon's hands gripped her by the hair and he thrust deep into her mouth, over and over, swearing and groaning as he did, and Brae's fingers dug into her hips, holding her hard in place as he fucked her cunt hard, fast, and deep. Then all at once, Tarja felt the first strings of climax being plucked. Almost before she registered it, her body hit its peak and a terrible crash of sensation rushed up through her. Her pussy seized around Brae's turgid cock; as if in perfect response, he drove himself to the very last inch inside of her, until it hurt, and each shuddering pulse of his orgasm poured hot, rich, wicked cum inside her. Twined with them both through the spell, Devon came too: thick, slick, bitter cum spurted in her mouth, and to be sure to take it all she swallowed with quick, thirsty greed. She wanted—needed—every drop, filling her. She wanted more—cunt and throat—she craved more of their vital, primal, virile seed.
In the midst of their heights, they'd channeled and released the energy of the spell, pumping into the well of the coven's power. Their Matron, seated upstairs in the library sipping tea, would sense the change and, pleased, cock an eyebrow. Tarja had seen the expression before. As she and her two warlocks slid apart now, she chuckled to herself to think of it.
Theeor stopped chanting. The spell was complete, his part performed. His cock, pale and perfect, still strained with an almost painful-looking erection. He stood up from his bench, adjusted his spectacles, and crossed to Tarja. Without a word, he grabbed her by the hair and made her sit up on her knees. Gripping her like that, he took his shaft in his free hand and jerked at it. His expression appeared perfunctory, blasé, but Tarja recognized the hungry heat in his eyes.
In a matter of moments, Theeor gave a satisfied grunt, and the first hot jet of his cum streaked across the tops of her breasts. The second got her face; the next landed in her hair. He came profusely, as his brethren had inside of her, and he completed the ritual he'd begun: first, painting her in gold and oil and blood; now painting her, marking her, in wet, slick cum.