Slave Wife (12 page)
Authors: Frances Gaines Bennett
He stood on the little church’s small porch and watched the cranes lower the diminutive cottage onto the new block foundation. He’d really wanted stone but, aside from the outrageous expense, it was the rare stonemason who built foundations in this day and age.
Evers had definitely come through though. The fanciful early Victorian farmhouse was a wedding present to a neighbour’s great great aunt by her father. After a few too-fecund generations it was abandoned to disrepair and decay.
LaVeau chose a top
Off in the distance, at the spot the track from Evers’ farm emerged from the thick trees, a small lone figure half in shadow caught LaVeau’s attention, interrupting his musings. The sun was overhead and he shielded his eyes against its fresh spring brilliance. The person stood stone still like a piece of statuary or a woodland creature frozen in time the instant before taking flight.
With scripted precision, a cloud darkened the sun. Absent the glare, the figure stood out startling brilliant against the deep green. She wore a short dark skirt and a long sleeved white blouse whose edges blended with her skin’s remarkable pallor. Her small white heart of a face was circumscribed by a living cascade that rippled and hovered in the wind in a fiery halo.
“No! No! No!” he inaudibly expostulated. A wave of anxiety and annoyance jostled his pleasure. The girl’s unpredictable spying would create intolerable problems.
“C’est rien. It’s nothing.” His aunt’s lilting seductive voice murmured in his ear. “Don’t worry. She won’t bother us. I’ll take care of it.” Her warm sweet breath caressed his earlobe. “I promise.” As if in verification, the girl disappeared back down the road.
Languorous calm damped his disquiet. LaVeau had no doubt she could do it. His attention returned to the cranes. Yes, the cottage was charming and he was going to enjoy it. He turned on his heel. But what he’d really wanted was the church.
As he’d told Elaine, it was quite a story. A young preacher, new to the town, had taken over when the old preacher died. The cleric gave impassioned sermons that roused his old-fashioned flock. During one such exhortation, the high ceiling directly above the pulpit gave way and crashed down on the preacher’s head, breaking one arm and one leg and covering him with urine soaked plaster and an angry and bloody family of racoons. While the preacher recovered, it was discovered that the racoons had taken up residence in the enclosed loft, continuously performing all their natural functions to the detriment of the building’s structure.
The preacher returned and once again gave an impassioned diatribe. After the service, the disturbed son of a parishioner, outraged by something never determined, broke into the preacher’s home, stabbing the poor man repeatedly and his wife once while his three infants lay sleeping upstairs. The man ran off, leaving the preacher’s kitchen drenched with blood and the preacher unwilling to ever return. He moved his family out of state the minute he was released from the hospital.
The church stood empty while the congregation searched, with great difficulty, for a replacement. During an unusually strong windstorm the cross was ripped off the steeple and blown into the top of a tall tree, later to be rescued by a local fireman. When the church was opened to reattach the cross, the carpenter and a prominent parishioner found the walls covered with hundreds of symmetrical blotches of blood.
Contentedly LaVeau’s eyes swept the white wall’s russet stigmata. Actually the marks were stains seeping from rusted nailheads. Why had they appeared when they did? No one had bothered to find out, guilelessly assuming the church was cursed. And now no one ever would.
He’d finally found a local woman willing to enter the church to clean. “Never after dark,” she admonished.
“Of course,” he soothed her while silently applauding. He needn’t make a bit of effort to keep the locals away at night.
Then she asked repeatedly if he didn’t want the walls painted and was scandalized when he said he’d leave them as a piece of history – even more so when he told her he’d not even touch up the pale mark where Jesus on the Cross once hung.
LaVeau ran his hand along the warm backs of the few remaining pews as he strode toward the altar. The dark altar, pulpit and pews, obviously lovingly handcrafted by long dead woodworkers, shone deep into their harmonious grain with a glow only found in old oft-polished wood. He stood behind the communion table and looked out over the muted space. “Ready?” he asked his aunt.
“Certainment,” she replied with a toss of her long raven tresses.
Blood. The white cloth draped diagonally across the communion table ran with syrupy blood.
Initially, he’d thought slitting the rabbits’ throats would disturb him. In fact, the sensation was fabulous, even orgasmic of sorts. The effortless movement of the razor-sharp knife through the pink flesh. The clean edges of the gaping wound exposing large deep arteries, squirting sanguine with each throb. The splashes of blood onto his skin – even his erect phallus – left bare by the open monastic robe.
As life pulsed away from the creature and into his hands, into him, the dead rose up around him, called irresistibly by his power. A small cemetery had been on the property. He saw it clearly under the field’s harrows.
The Evers’ – or rather the wife’s, whatever her surname was – ancestors were among them. He recognized the pale skin, the flaming hair and the delicate features. No blue eyes. The blue was long gone, replaced by black death. He saw a face in their midst – the exquisite image of the girl but older, more fully womanly – and he called her to him. “Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Catherine. I am the girl’s grandmother three times removed.”
She lifted an ethereal arm draped in a faded sleeve toward his aunt. “As old as she.”
“Come to me,” he told her. Even in death she feared him and he inhaled the emotion like an intoxicating drug. But she could not resist.
His aunt, Marie, stood at his side, vibrant and engaged as always. The blackness was a cloak at their backs but uninterested. It wanted living fodder. The dead, though they had their uses, it nebulously opined, mostly took, not contributed, sustenance. Only Marie’s insistence managed to gain its acquiescence to this desire. LaVeau recognized that truth but didn’t understand how or why. At this moment he was too flush with power to worry.
With a thought he disrobed the woman, exposing the sensuously female shape. He commanded her onto the vividly coloured tabletop and she went, her translucent outlines quavering with the candles’ flames. Her fine body lay below him, a strange optical chimera. LaVeau could see through her thickness, white and fleeting as hoarfrost, to the lovely lines of her back and buttocks, which stood out pink and fully formed merely by contact with his gruesome labours. Indeed her backside had sucked the tabletop clean and become substantial as a result.
He stretched his arm and touched the radiant corona surrounding her from head to waist. The titian hair was fine-spun like its living counterpart, in fact became softer as his power fondled it. He touched her colourless nipples and they flared pink between his fingers. He observed detached but with great exhilaration as life flowed wherever his fingers touched. He knew it was a state of short duration. What would be the price to truly bring back the dead?
But her mound was warm and trembling with a fear and also loathing that ruffled his power as he laid his flattened hand upon it … and he was going to use it. He wanted to feel hot life flood her cunt as he entered her. The monk’s robe fell to the floor behind him and he stood tall and narrow, his soaring penis abounding with potentiality that surged into his every cell.
Small scratching and rustling sounded outside, stopping him and twisting him physically and mentally toward it. But he saw nothing and immediately his aunt’s voice was in his ear, soothing. “C’est rien. Only the wind in the trees. Continue, please.” Though his inner turbulence did not entirely still, he turned back to the woman.
LaVeau only had to stretch his long legs to be atop her. Her cold skin warmed as his connected to it, her breasts softening beneath him. And he entered her. The transition was spasmodic, a burst of life into her tissues far more thrilling than a normal orgasm. Vibrant power, male at once emitting and devouring her female, epicureously consuming her awful aversion. The sensations did not localize in his genitals, only thrillingly centred there as her vaginal walls stroked him. It was power and it was everywhere, swelling and subsiding, rolling through his body and beyond, sparking the very air around him.
He lifted off her and sat back, raising her insubstantial hips and pulling her pelvis tight against his. Her cervical dome came alive as he beat himself against it. His long arm extended toward her breast and he squeezed, her pain adding to his pleasure. Then he sank his hand deeper into her chest. The long skeletal hand wrapped around her heart, feeling it gain strength in his grasp. He smiled down into her terrified black eyes and squeezed again.
The seminal ejaculation was far more thrilling than anything ever before. His animus ignited her flesh with a jolt so instantaneously enervating to him as to simulate the ecstasy of death.
Five and a half years in the past.
The girl stood on the corner of Rues Bourbon and Bienville chatting with New Orleans’ politicians as they made their pilgrimage into the mouldering and rather non-descript old two story building. She was not a stiffly sprayed blond of the 1980s or 90s, the cameraman mused as he peered at her through the video display, but one of the interchangeable pretty young naturals of the new millennium that NBC garnered from its local affiliates and groomed for the Today Show, exhibiting all-American good health and soft, shoulder length tawny brown or chestnut locks.
The live feed’s location was carefully chosen not only for the historic background provided by the French Quarter. For eighty years, Arnaud’s Restaurant and jazz club had provided the discreet petit dejeuners that greased the city’s political machine. And what more enticing spot to discuss the effects of looming Y2K on one of the
US
’s most colourful, jaded and insular cities?
As luck would have it, on this day the august body was joined by the state’s tall, dark, handsome and very photogenic Democratic US Senator. The girl coyly engaged him in a fortuitous national photo op. The cameraman watched her not so subtle flirtation, noted how her fresh femininity quickened as the Senator engulfed her from above with his masculinity and luscious
Breathlessly – her titillation was conspicuous even via the camera – she stepped closer and placed a hand on the elegantly grey clad arm … and suddenly she dropped screaming to the filthy, uneven sidewalk, her hands clutching the wispy chiffon skirt that seconds before had floated tantalizingly in the gentle breeze.
Like a spectator to a train wreck the cameraman let the video run, first catching the Senator’s then the passers-by’s scandalized expressions. For twenty seconds the scene was suspended in human time. Except the cameraman. By mechanical rote born of long experience he zoomed in and he too froze.
The camera’s non-judgemental eye clearly discerned the few seconds during which the girl’s face transformed from agonized distortion to sly seduction, during which she raised her skirt and spread her legs.
Delia had learned more than she could possibly have imagined since coming to
Minneapolis
. And now she was leaving – moving to
Berkeley
in
But that, at least, was exactly as she’d planned. Perfect, in fact. Even the business school had cooperated, formalizing their entrepreneurship program in her third year and bringing in executive recruiters from the very cutting edge company she’d targeted for employment. And they had employed her because she’d busted her ass – in this as in so many other ways – and been in her class’ top five percent. Pretty good for a corn-fed farm girl!
Her bare feet pressed against the smooth, cool wooden dojo floor as she bowed to Sensei, who sat customarily cross legged in the otherwise unpopulated space. Today was her last Saturday and also the day she would qualify for her black belt. She’d busted her ass for this also and it had more often than not hurt far worse than her studies. She began her final kata.
When she finished Sensei didn’t comment, simply rose and glided silently to where she stood with her fists clenched and head bowed. “Kumite,” he said, stone faced, and he too bowed. He attacked, pushing her but methodically, taking her through every defensive movement he’d taught her then requiring she attack and beginning again. Gradually he stepped up the pace until she struggled to keep up. But it was clear to her he was making certain she was adequately prepared to leave him and she was grateful.
Over and over he took her through. She was tiring when he abandoned method and came at her like a street villain. “Typical,” she thought as she intensified her focus.
Then she saw it – a gap in his defences. Or had she? It was gone before she acted. She saw another. Again she let the chance go. She couldn’t believe she was good enough to best him. Or was he giving them to her?
In that measly thought’s space he kicked her feet out from under her. She would have dropped hard to the floor except he held her in the air by a handful – a handful that filled his huge right hand – of her left breast. “Okay,” she thought, striving not to let the burning pain distract her, “anything goes.” She twisted the lower half of her torso and brought both knees up into his groin, or where his groin had been the instant before. He reached down with his left hand, grabbed her crotch, left exposed by her manoeuvre, and slammed her with head-spinning, bruising force to the floor. She slithered like an eel and managed to break free, again suspecting that he’d let her.
A quick sinuous flip upwards and she was on her feet. Now stone-faced Sensei had disappeared and a giant black street fighter faced her, pearly white teeth gleaming at her through his vicious smile. Now the Shotokan order and ritual was abandoned. And he was on her, his huge arms squeezing her against his chest’s dense muscles and against the adamantine pole that rose to his ribcage.
Instead of trying to break his hold, she softened, compressing her muscles, and dropped. As she slithered away like a crab, she saw he approved. But it didn’t stop him.
She also wondered if he’d want her to run if this was “real” life rather than her final test. Instead, though her head along with every joint ached and she’d begun to pant, she faced him. He came for her and she dropped to the floor and kicked. So inelegant but potentially lethal. She did manage to connect, not with knee or groin but with one iron thigh.
It was the first kick she’d dared attempt in this mode. He was so fast she’d worried about her vulnerability. Correctly. With a brilliant smile he reached down as effortlessly as picking a bouquet and plucked up one ankle. A simple, excruciating twist and she was on her belly, fighting to protect her face and head from the solid surface.
His weight on her back was no surprise. She’d known how it was going to end. Her lips twitched into a wry smile. He’d still get a surprise or two.
“You’ve made excellent progress.” His warm words kissed her ear. One forearm pressed against the base of her skull – so easy to snap her neck – while the other moved down her body in a long, slow caress that ended in the stripping away of her gi bottom.
Like the first time. She remembered the rape vividly and found herself feeling grateful for it. The aftermath had been worth it. In fact, she’d often wondered if it wasn’t destined.
The length of his naked penis pressed against her behind’s firm flesh then pressed again, falling neatly into the long crevice between the rondelles. Arousal surged into her belly, engorging her vagina in preparation. As he drew off of her, she wondered if he’d allow her to fuck him back. Then the ramrod was forced into her anus.
She gasped and for a moment he stopped. She knew why. This was no longer a virgin hole. The big black dildo had preceded him, many times in the past four years. He chuckled softly then lifted her like a rag doll to hands and knees and pulled her deeper onto the thick, far-reaching shaft.
It hurt at first, hitting nerves and obstructions deep inside her. She let herself go – ended her fortitude and let herself scream and writhe.
He ran one hand into her short hair and gripped, only momentarily managing to gain a handhold that wrenched her neck backwards until his hand slipped to her shoulder. Fingers strong enough to break boards dug into the soft tissue and held her fast as the other hand explored her body. His much greater height gave him unlimited access even with the slightest forward inclination. Her pendant breasts were his first target, alternately brutal and erotic. He squeezed hard enough to bruise and caressed with warm flat fingertips. Her nipples constricted into rigid, exquisitely painful points.
Sensations poured over her from uncountable directions. The flattened palm slid across her tensed belly and at last found her vagina. She’d yearned for those thick fingers to manipulate her while his broad cock probed her sensitive anus. Letting his shoulder grip support some of her weight, she lifted one hand from the floor and pressed his fingers against her clit and deeper. When two fingers passed through the receptive portal, every cell convulsed in a violent orgasm. She heard his guttural laugh.
This final time when she left the dojo, the black belt rolled tight in her backpack, she remembered the past. This time, though, her head was clear and held high and her body felt marvellous. “Time to party.” She slid into her old car and headed for the house.
Anna, wearing a short, thin summer dress that showed off her lovely legs and pretty bouncing breasts, came running out to greet Delia when she pulled up in front of the brick bungalow. Delia fondly studied the girl and the old house. Both had meant so much to her. A stream of memories – it seemed a day for memories – passed through her mind’s eye. She remembered the first time she’d actually seen the little square structure – when she’d finally emerged late the morning after her rape. She’d stepped onto the porch and seen gravestones and thought she was hallucinating.
In reality she’d looked out onto the
nearly 100 green acres of
Anna took Delia’s backpack and trailed her up the porch stairs. As soon as they stepped through the front door, Anna set the backpack on a small table and dropped to her knees, ankles crossed, hands behind her back, head bowed to the extent allowed by her high leather collar. Delia touched her rosy cheek. “Remove your dress.”
Carefully, leaving ankles crossed, Anna wiggled the dress from under her knees, lifted it over her head and resumed her position. Underneath she was naked.
“Present yourself.” Delia watched the girl’s cream and pink breasts drop softly beneath her pliant body as she leaned forward and gripped her pale moon posteriors. Delia circled as Anna spread herself open for inspection.
She touched Anna’s anus and the girl quivered. “Pretty little asshole.” Delia roughly spread the pink puckers, forced two fingers inside and squeezed. A small squeak popped out but the girl remained rigorously immobile.
Delia smiled. “Oh oh! Bad little doggy.” She pulled the girl’s head upward by the silky hair and pushed dirty fingers between the beguiling lips. Without being told Anna licked them clean. “I’m going to give you some special things to wear to the club.” She caressed the soft breasts with her fingertips then crushed a nipple between iron fingers. Anna winced but this time made no sound. “These need some pretty purple decorations. Go get two big chime balls and a big butt-plug. You may choose your own punishment.” Delia released the nipple. “Go on. Bring them to me.”
The girl crawled off. Delia watched the tender flesh cross the small, warm, comforting room with both pleasure and sadness. Too soon this would all be far away.
That first morning played across her mind followed by so many other mornings, afternoons and nights. On that morning she’d discovered her true nature … and begun another dimension of her training.
Delia had been thunderstruck, carried away, by the revolutionary sensations pouring through her as she raped Anna. To her immense surprise, the other girl’s, M.A. was her name, presence didn’t stop her. Rather she added in ways Delia could never before have imagined.
M.A. faced Delia, her meaty thighs straddling Anna’s face. She glanced down. “Lick, bitch.” Anna obeyed, straining her mouth against M.A.’s clit. She noisily licked and sucked, bleating incomprehensibly at every thrust of the massive dildo.
M.A. lifted her t-shirt over her head and crushed her giant, billowing breasts against Delia’s smaller and firmer ones, pressing her lips to Delia’s and her tongue into Delia’s mouth. With astonishment, Delia found her arousal increase. And she felt a powerful instinctive urge to squeeze M.A.’s breasts. So she did, leaning forward and kissing M.A. back while she kneaded voluptuous fistfuls. M.A. moaned lustily and Delia heard Anna gasp for breath under a sea of soft flesh.
The image was still vivid in Delia’s mind. Three female figures merged into one primal, effluent organism surging and heaving with sound, action and feeling like a carnal rollercoaster ride. Up and down, back and forth, higher and lower, internal and external sensation rolled in an unceasing, congruous torrent through their fused bodies.
It was M.A. who came first in a wrenching spasm that almost – but clearly not entirely – smothered Anna. In quick succession, Anna screamed, her face buried against M.A.’s pelvis. Delia believed she was too disconcerted to cum but something about the group gestalt pushed her over the edge. The big black rubber dick started the orgasm deep inside her but before she knew it every cell seemed filled with tearing ecstasy. She’d had few orgasms and certainly never one like this.