May 29, 2015

Friday Free Read: Rhythm and Blues

Rhythm and Blues takes place in the world of Blood and Fire, alongside my other supernatural erotic stories Lotus Petals, Angel's Keeping, and several other Free Reads on this blog. As a standalone, it can be read without prior knowledge of the other books, but if you've been following the Blood and Fire tales, I hope you'll enjoy another glimpse into their dark world.

I met my black-magic boy on the Mississippi River. There was a jazz festival in Memphis, a weekend's liberty, release from the ugly house in the backwoods smelling of whiskey and garbage. I hadn't told Frank I was going, and he'd throw a shit-fit when I got back. I let one of his bar buddies fuck me for fifty bucks and hitched my way to Memphis, stopping halfway over the Dolly Parton Bridge to lean over the railing, smelling the wild green-and-copper scent of the air.

At nineteen, I was already an irredeemably broken thing. If I tipped myself into the river, nobody would care except strangers to whom I was only an unnamed girl with so many mysteries.

Well, my brother would notice. His anger would burn like a bonfire as he planned the punishment he'd give me for leaving him, right up until he shifted into dumb recognition that I was never coming back. He'd ease the grief with cheap whiskey and cheaper pussy, and I'd slip out of his mind.

There wasn't a word deep or ugly enough to encompass how I felt about Frank.

As I stood there, wind whipping through my dirty brown hair, I found myself crying and laughing all at once. No wonder death was attracted to me, hunting me by my crazy glee.
The jazz performances were held in the bars along Beale Street. That's where I found him: under the dim orange lights, I caught him glancing at me from across the floor. I shot him a wink and nodded towards the stage, where the band danced through a smug, sultry piece. The boy looked Cherokee, I thought. Sharp features framing serious eyes, and when he smirked I grinned to see confident, sensuous lips. His black hair was pulled into a ponytail, and I let myself admire him as I mulled over my drink.

The problem came when the bartenders switched. The new lady caught my fake ID and called security to boot me from the bar. I swore at the bouncer, flipping him the bird before turning my back to wander off in a huff—I forgot about my black-magic boy...for a while.

I found my way to Lee Park on the Mississippi. Most folks didn't care for the smell, but I was entranced with the mellow, indifferent song of the river as I sat, marveling at its bigness.


I looked up—it was the boy from the bar. As he sat down, though, it was clear he wasn't that young. The planes of his face looked a little sharper, though no less handsome; his eyes were the color of burnt umber.

"Hey," I replied, extending my hand. "I'm Ronnie."

"Connor," he said, taking it. Something pricked me and I snatched my hand away—a little bead of blood welled up on my knuckle.

"Oh, sorry," he murmured. Raising his hand, he showed me a jointed knuckle-ring, styled in the shape of a diving owl. The head and beak formed a sharp point over his fingernail.

"Nice," I murmured, despite the scratch. "Connor doesn't sound very native."

"It's easier," he explained.

"Than what?"

He gave me a smile—his teeth were perfectly white, perfectly straight.

"Onacona," he said. "White owl. You like the river, Ronnie?"

"I love the river," I gushed. "I've never seen anything so pretty in my life."

The small talk was silly but still charming. Like the river, it meandered.

"Do you have a cigarette?" I asked after a few minutes.

"I've got some dope..."

He dug a baggie out of his pocket and rolled a joint. I liked the way his dark eyes glittered, like stars were hidden behind his pupils.

He lit up the joint and handed it to me. The smoke was smooth, sweet, and sort of spicy.

"Wow," I said. "Nice."

"A little personal touch," he said with a wink, before taking it back. He brushed his fingers past my ear. I felt cool metal brushing my earlobe, his pretty ring.

"Wow," I muttered again. As he dropped his hand from my hair I saw he'd snipped off a lock of it with the little razor-point.

"What are you doing?" I murmured.

"Just a little black magic, Ronnie."

"That doesn't sound very native, either."

"It's not," he purred. "That, I learned elsewhere."

Was he serious?

I passed the joint and as our fingers brushed against one another, I caught my breath; the contact sent blissful electricity through me.

He gave me an even smile. I thought something changed...but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. His hand slid to my thigh, sending a rush of ticklish pleasure through me.

"Veronica Danvers," he whispered.

I giggled. "How'd you know my last name?"

"Lucky guess."

I closed my eyes, letting a tiny moan escape me. I needed this man to take me. As his fingers walked down my spine, I straightened. They tapped down my vertebrae, but with my eyes closed I could imagine them fawning over my tits, tracing down my skinny hips, and cupping my ass. I took a deep breath and exhaled with a moan.

"Why'd you come here?"

"For the festival."

"Why really?"

"My brother," I muttered.

"The one with the short, black hair?" he said.

"Yeah," I said. "How did you know?"

"You hate him so much," he mused. "You want to kill him."


"You've thought about how to do it. The cheap knives in your mother's drawer."

"Yes," I said. "But how—"

"Did you know owls are omens of death?"

I couldn't follow his questions. I wanted his hand between my legs, fondling my pussy and feeling how wet I was.

"Owls are guardians of the dead," he went on. I felt his breath on my cheek and I could smell him: spice and vibrant native florals, aromatic sage and sandalwood.

He kissed me.  Breathing became hard—I felt like I was hyperventilating, air sucked from my lungs until he let go.

"Are you going to kill me?" I whispered.

"No, Veronica. You're already dead."

I whimpered as his hand left my skin, baffled by how he could not know what he was doing to me. His ravaging eyes were black—entirely black, like shining ink. I realized then what had changed: his canines were long and sharp, now vicious fangs.

"Oh," I said, reaching to touch his teeth. "What are you?"

He laughed and leaned closer to kiss me again. At first it was indescribable bliss—his cool lips, the tips of those teeth grazing my tongue. Again as he pulled away I lost my breath—I choked for air, feeling cold dread in my gut—and a quiver in my loins.

"What am I, Veronica?"

"Death," I said. My pussy throbbed for him.

I moaned against his lips as a swell of pleasure went rolling through my body. I pushed against him.

"Right here?" he asked.

"Yes," I begged.

"On this riverbank?"

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I don't care."

"You're something of a slut, are you?" he jeered.

"I need to feel you inside me," I whispered.

He chuckled. "I knew it." He kissed me again. "Take off your shirt."

I did as I was told and offered him my naked tits. My nipples were stiff and throbbing with pain; the cool night air chilled me.

"Would you do anything I told you to?" Connor whispered.

"Yes," I muttered, choked with emotion. Nothing had ever been more important. He was so casual—so indifferent to my nakedness. I didn't even know if he was hard.

"Take off your jeans," he commanded, and I did. The panties followed and I lay obediently on the sand, opening for him.

He slipped two fingers into my pussy. I arched my back, pressing my cunt against his palm.

He chuckled again. "You are horny, aren't you?"

He stripped off his shirt and started kissing my throat. He worked his way to my tits, nibbling hard, eliciting pain and pleasure. I clutched at him; I wanted his cock. If I didn't get it, I thought I'd die.

"Fuck me," I begged.

He made me whimper as I reached for him. His fangs were wet and erect, and I wanted them biting me. He undid his belt and unleashed the most beautiful cock I'd ever seen: long and straight, hard as it sprang up from naked flesh. He pumped it in his fist, the head sliding through the sheath of his foreskin. I wanted to climb to my knees, take him in my mouth—but I felt pinned to the sand, frozen in intoxicated enslavement.

He got down again, looming. The park around us was silent, as though the very birds and ripples of the river were afraid—but it only fluttered at the back of my mind as I wrapped my arms around his neck. He bit the tip of my breast, making me cry out.

"You taste amazing, little slut," he muttered.

"Are you going to kill me?" I asked again. "...drain me?"

"Oh, no," he muttered, fitting himself in close against my body; I could feel his cock sliding along my cleft. "I'm not a vampire, honey...but I am going to fuck you till you wish you were dead."

I moaned. I'd lost my mind—I didn't care if he left me a brainless husk.

He slid into me, sending a shock of pure bliss through me. I cried out in pleasure, wrapping my legs around him. He bore me down into the sand, making each slow stroke a long, terrible torture.

He gave three quick, sure thrusts, teasing me to a higher pleasure and then slowing, driving me mad.

"Please," I begged. "Fuck me, come in me—"

He pressed down, bringing those fangs right up to my earlobe.

"Do I satisfy the little slut?" he asked.

"Yes!" I panted.

He hitched me closer, plunging deeper. Every stroke made me hysterical, an ecstasy I'd never, ever felt before.

"Please come in me," I whispered against his ear. I was so close. "Come in me..."

He grunted, his eyes still black as pitch with no glimmer of color or light in them.

My orgasm came like a thunderclap, a long, mind-blowing height. I dug my fingernails into his back as I pressed my cunt closer, and then with great, shuddering satisfaction he was coming.

I rode the high for a long, terrifying time. I forgot who I was, where I was—all there was for me was the bright explosion of pleasure, his cock and cum filling me to the brim.

After fucking there was kissing. When Connor kissed me he was breathing in my breath, drinking it from my lungs as I choked. I thought this was it—he lied—he was going to kill me.

"You could be like me, Veronica," he murmured, running that ring down my cheek. You can do've thought about it already...the cheap knives in your mother's drawer..."


I woke up fully clothed. Connor was nowhere to be seen. There was nobody in the park at all; it was abandoned.

I wasn't sure what had happened.

You can be like me.

You've thought about it already.

My head was full of disturbing fantasies. I saw what he wanted me to do: I saw the image of naked flesh and blood laid out in the wilderness, where no one could see. I knew the words to say; I could smell the acrid, sour whiskey and unwashed skin, death lingering over a familiar figure. Connor had drawn me a map. A map to make me like him.

My heart pounded in my chest. I heard the rush of blood in my ears, and when I thought of him—Onacona—I felt arousal bloom in my belly.

The cheap knives in your mother's drawer.

Everything he'd promised me...just a gleam on a blade away.

Want More Brantwijn Serrah Paranormal Erotica?
She haunts his sweetest dreams...
and his darkest nightmares.
Available in e-book and paperback at Amazon


No comments:

Post a Comment

What do you think?