Slave To The Demon Page 8

  Skriker grinned wickedly, his eyes flashing. He morphed partially as he reached for her, his claws springing from his fingertips; he hooked one of them into the front of her fishnet shirt, tearing it asunder. “Take off your clothes,” he growled liquidly, his claws retreating as he sat back on the stool. “I want to see you peel every scrap of fabric off of you, but leave the boots.”

  Rose obeyed. She stripped for him, unhooking her bra first and letting her breasts tumble free; the soft full globes gleamed with a think sheen of sweat in the flickering candlelight. She unzipped and shimmied out of her skirt next, turning her back to him and slipping the garment down over her ass, showing him the full firm globes of her butt as she did it, letting the tight velvet pool onto the floor at her feet.

  She kicked it aside and turned again, and she stood before him, panting, tall and proud, her heart hammering like a primitive drum. He sat back on his fuck stool, the blond Nordic god that so many women had lusted after as they watched him create his own masterpiece in blood and violence in the confines of this very cage, and nodded his approval. “Good. Now play with yourself, Angel. Rub that sweet little clit and plump those titties up…make them sweet, make them wet. But don’t come—if you come, you will sorely regret it.”

  Rose was trembling fiercely, her breath quivering in her chest, making her breasts heave. He was upping the ante he wanted her to pleasure herself now…but, oh, what control she was expected to have! He was grinning like the fiend he was as he stripped off his wife beater and exposed his stunning physique to the candlelight, and Rose wondered bitterly if she could hold back at all, at this point.

  Nevertheless, she did as he asked; she lifted one hand to caress her breasts and slipped the other between her thighs. She could feel him watching as her long fingers slipped and worked, watching as she pinched and stroked the perky rosy tips of her tits, her face suffused in ecstasy, her cheeks and throat and breasts flushing a soft warm pink.

  She moaned, a sweet desperate sound, and leaned her head back, closing her eyes; her fingers were slick with hot fluids as she sank them into the warm slick channel of her pussy. She could hear Skriker going back into his bag of tricks, pulling things out, but she didn’t care…she didn’t. This felt too fucking good—

  “Rose,” Skriker breathed near her mouth, and she opened her eyes, the spell broken. He was taking her wrists, clamping a pair of leather wrist braces onto them; the bands hooked together in the middle, leaving her bound and unable to separate her hands. He snapped the lead of her collar back onto the D-ring; hooked a finger into the ring and yanked her close, his tongue raking across her cheek as he did it.

  “Now,” he murmured. “We’re gonna play a game I like to call Pretty Pony. You are going to prance for me, just like a slick little pony, until you have worked up a sweat. I want to see those gorgeous legs come up good and high…and every time they don’t come up high enough, you’re gonna get a little flick from the crop.”

  He released her, and still gripping her lead, he strolled back to the stool and sat on it. He flicked the riding crop through the air, snapping it across her breasts.

  Rose jumped, crying out, and immediately began to prance.

  She pranced around the cage, bringing her knees up as high as she could, her heels clopping beneath her like a delicate horse’s hooves. Periodically, Skriker struck her across the backside with his crop, barking at her to prance higher. She lifted her head high, squealing each time the crop snapped across her ass or breasts, deliciously excited and wetter than ever.

  As she pranced, Skriker slipped stealthily from the stool and unzipped his jeans. He withdrew his cock, so fierce and red, and striking her once more with the crop, this time across the cheek, he yanked her lead and drew her back to him.

  Rose cried out shrilly as he heaved her forward across the bar stool that he had used for so many of his sensual escapades, including his very first. Her sweat-wet breasts slapped the cracked vinyl of the seat as she landed on it. He was behind her in a split second, spreading her thighs wide, his big hands pushing the mounds of her buttocks apart. She cried out lustily as he entered her; her pussy was so wet that it squelched as he drove his tool home.

  He heaved her up and shoved her forward, and only with enormous control did he not knock the stool—and her over. Rose was balanced atop it on her belly, her legs spread wide behind her and her lover and Master between them, his cock crammed wholly into her dripping sex.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and cried out blissfully as he brutalized her cunt once again, grunting, “Angel,” and “My pussy…mine,” periodically as he rutted inside her. The vinyl seat of the barstool squeaked beneath her, slick with the sweat that poured from her skin.

  Their mingled bodies glistened with pure, unadulterated lust, and Rose moaned out as he commanded her to come, a drawn-out animal sound that resonated though the Beelzebub Club like a vocal tremor. “Yes, my Angel, my whore,” Skriker sighed behind her, his rod slipping from her throbbing honeypot. He walked around to where she hung over the stool; the furniture placed her face at crotch level, and she marveled adoringly at the monstrous beauty of his sex with its huge purple-red head, the veins of his shaft standing out in prominent relief against his normally pale skin, all slick and glossy with her juices.

  A silvery pearl gleamed at the tip and Rose made a greedy noise in her throat as he took her head in his hands and guided her lips toward his tool. Her hands, still bound before her at the wrists, scrabbled forward to touch the base of his cock; her fingertips pressed into his frosty blond pubic hair as she opened her mouth wide and swallowed him, sucking her own juices from his shaft. She milked him for every drop, swallowing, gulping, her vagina in spasms once again as she licked his rubbery flesh squeaky clean.

  “Good girl,” he sighed as she released him, licking her lips as she gazed up at him, adoring him, worshiping him, her Demon Master. “Good slave. I love every dripping part of you, Rose…every inch of your flesh. Mine, forever and ever. Thank me for my gifts to you.”

  Rose blinked lazily up at him. “Thank you, Master,” she mumbled, her mouth pleasantly numb from being stretched by his plump knob. She was thankful. Truly.

  He tucked his device back into his jeans and rezipped before easing her off the stool. He pointed to the seat, all slick with sweat, and grinned.

  “You have dirtied my stool, whore. Lick it clean.”

  Rose promptly did as she was told, licking the smooth vinyl clean of her own sweat. When she was finished, he took her lead and led her from the cage, across the club floor and down the little hallway that led to the Beelzebub’s private apartments.

  Harry, the werewolf who owned the Beelzebub, had built a comfortable private space for Skriker, his adopted son and prize meal ticket, to relax and prepare both before and after a fight. There was a nice leather sofa, a hot tub, and an upright shower, all of which the Halfling bad boy had used for sex as well as relaxation on numerous occasions over the years. Rose herself had made love to him a few times on the sofa after hours, bouncing in his lap as her ravenous pussy devoured his fleshly gift.

  Tonight, he led her to the shower and guided her into it, unlocking her wrists and taking the clamps away. “Wash off,” he commanded her. “Then come to the hot tub. Don’t dawdle.”

  He turned the spigot and the water came down on her, refreshingly cold after the heat of the candlelit cage. She turned slowly beneath the cool gush, reaching up to unpin her hair; it fell in long soaked ribbons over her body, shimmering as the water slipped over it.

  When she got out, refreshed and invigorated, she found Skriker sitting naked in the hot tub, smoking a cigarette. As she climbed in, moving through the hot bubbles, the water sloshing around her curvaceous hips, he jerked his head and gestured toward a corner of the tub.

  “Go sit over there,” he ordered. “And behave. No snotty Angel talk, please.”

  Rose lowered herself onto the exact spot he had commanded and, oh shit, what a bastard he was…the jet
came right up beneath her throbbing cunt. She looked up at him with what had to have been obvious desperation in her eyes and he grinned wickedly.

  “You know the rules. You don’t come till I say come. You are going to think I am the bastard of the century after this…every girl I have ever done this to would agree, and you’re gonna have to take it like a soldier and not come.”

  He had gone out and retrieved his bag of tricks while she showered, and now he leaned over the edge of the hot tub and rustled around in it. He pulled out rope, a ball gag, his rubber-tipped nipple clamps (and when Rose saw these, her heartbeat sped up to such a hammering she thought it would burst). He commanded her to spread her thighs, lift her feet up on the hot tub seats, so that her knees were high and her pussy was full, and open beneath the water, just above the jet upon which he had commanded her to sit.

  He tied her legs open, lashing her knees to the edge of the tub. He brought her arms high and tied her wrists behind her head, allowing her breasts to be lifted high. He stuck his fingers into her mouth, hissing, “Open!” and she obeyed. The gag went in, pushing tightly into her mouth, and her nipples hardened instantly at the thrill of her words being choked off.

  “Good girl…your tits are learning,” Skriker murmured; he pinched the rubberized nipple clamps over her rosy pink pearls and she squeaked. He slapped her cheek lightly and went for his bag again, pulling out the soft leather flogger.

  He began to slap her clamped breasts where they bobbed above the water, and with each strike Rose winced and squealed around her gag, and the bright red ball was soon slick with saliva. The pain was intermittent, and ultimately exquisite— just as he'd promised at the beginning of all of this, sublime. Yes…yes!

  “You like that, don’t you, you dirty fucking whore,” Skriker hissed. “You like it, and that makes you a piece of shit under Heaven. “His hand moved suddenly to the panel on the side of the tub. He hit a button, and a hard jet of hot bubbles suddenly welled up beneath her. Oh, God. Oh, God! The sensation was unbearable in its deliciousness as the jet hit her labia and clit in just the right way…

  “You’re not coming, are you, Angel?” Skriker asked her; and yep, she agreed, he was a bastard. He loomed above her, hip-deep in the bubbling water, his fierce cock rising just barely up from submersion, his icy hair a wild spiky corona around his head.

  Rose stared up at him with tear-filled eyes as he flicked her clamped tits with the flogger, making her jump and moan, shuddering, fighting back from orgasm. He leaned over her and suddenly drove two fingers into her throbbing vagina, moving them in slow intense circles until she was sobbing, her eyes squeezed shut, certain that she would be unable to hold back any longer.

  Then, as suddenly as they had started, the torturous bubble jet stopped and Rose cried out in relief.

  “Good girl,” he breathed, removing his probing fingers. “Good slave, you have learned very well indeed. I’m impressed. “He unhooked the nipple clamps and caressed her breasts, squeezing gently, soothing them. Rose whimpered and sighed; she wanted his dick and she wanted it now. No cosmic power in all the Universe could have stopped that desire. Skriker unhooked her ball gag and she spat into the water, gulping and gasping. He lifted her face in his hands and kissed her softly, his tongue probing the silken corners of her mouth.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Rose whimpered.

  He untied her, releasing her limbs from their bondage, and leaned over the edge of the hot tub to put his arsenal away. When he ducked back over the side, he was holding a cigarette and a lighter. He handed them to her and she took the gift gratefully, still trembling slightly from the nearness of orgasm. Her vagina still throbbed like a second heartbeat, so achingly sweet and near the edge and not having him inside her was a dreadful kind of loneliness.

  Skriker slipped over to the side of the tub and sank into the water, his jade gaze never leaving her face. “Come here and smoke with me,” he said softly, and she instantly obeyed, pushing eagerly through the water to him. She slipped into his lap and straddled him, lighting up as she did so.

  They smoked, just gazing at each other for a while. When his cigarette was smoked down to the butt, Skriker crushed it out in the cheap plastic ashtray, sitting on the edge of the Jacuzzi and wrapped his arms around her fully, his hands moving up to caress her long back with its beautifully rendered red wings. His dick was still a fierce blade rising up and pressing against her ass crack, and she wanted to rub back against it.

  “I can feel you throbbing against me, Angel,” he breathed against her neck. “Gimme those sweet whore’s lips.”

  Rose ducked her head and they kissed, at first softly, then with a passion hotter than the water in which they sat. Oh, his mouth tasted so good! Her vagina opened even more, blossoming like the flower that had given her a name, eager under the hot swirling water.

  “What do you want, slut?” he murmured against her lips. “You have been a good girl.”

  Rose cupped her breasts and lifted them, and he leaned back, enjoying the view.

  “Best tits in the West,” he said, and winked at her. “And they’re mine-all-mine. What do you want, my fine bitch?”

  “Suck them,” she sighed. “Please.”

  “Please? Just please? You know better than that, Angel.”

  “Please, Master.” She pouted, and his cock twitched against her ass.

  He obliged her with obvious relish, licking the wet, glossy globes before noisily sucking each nipple. As she held her breasts up for his pleasure, he reached between her legs and guided his rock-hard penis back into its chosen sheath.

  Oh, God! Nothing could ever be this good. Rose bucked atop him, gliding up and down on his flesh toy as he continued to suck her breasts; the hot tingling wetness of his mouth mingling with the hard thrust of his member was delirious indeed.

  “That’s it, Rosie,” he panted against her bosom. “Fuck that cock…fuck it good. “He gripped her buttocks and held her firm, sliding her up and down atop the throbbing pole of meat. Soon, she was crying out desperately, tossing her head, her fingernails digging into the flesh of his back and shoulders, drawing long messy scratches across his skin. She orgasmed like a freak, tossing her head as the walls of her hungry cunt clenched and unclenched around his throbbing, vein-traced sex, squeezing him to climax and taking more of his seed into her womb.

  They sat there in the hot tub, trembling against each other, for a long time. Skriker pressed his head against her breast and sighed, his big hands moving slowly up her back, and she lazily realized that he was tracing the memorized lines of her wings. She remembered how he had shot his wad across those wings the first night she had offered her gift; how it had been like he was claiming her in his own way.

  “My Angel,” he sighed against her wet skin. “Mine…mine…”

  She bent and kissed the top of his spiky head. “Always,” she whispered.

  He raised his green gaze to hers, and she was surprised to see tears shimmering there. “Please promise.”

  “I already did last night.”

  “Do it again. Please.”

  “You aren’t going to command me to?”

  He was silent for a long moment. “No. I can’t command you to love me. I’m not God.”

  Rose shook her head bitterly and stroked his face. “Not even God can force love, Skrike. Love is…Universal Free Choice. The ultimate.”

  He just gazed at her.

  Her brows furrowed. “I’m never going to leave you, honey,” she whispered. “Never.”

  He lowered his head and laid it against her breast, and above anything, his silence was what disturbed her the most.

  PART FOUR

  ANGEL EYES

  Rosie, Posie, Puddin and Pie

  Kissed the boys and made them cry.

  --Old Nursery Rhyme

  “This is the last night, Rose. The last night, and we’re gonna make it good. ”

  “I know.”

  “You trust me?”

  “That’s a stup
id question, Skrike.”

  His eyes glittered. “We’ll see.” Skriker pushed the throttle on his Harley Dark Custom Crossbones and the big bike screamed through the city, nearly as thunderous as the Camaro had been the night before.

  Rose clung to him, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, her face pressed into the leather he wore, inhaling the smoky masculinity of his scent as they rocketed through the dying twilight of the third and final night of her gift to him.

  She had no idea where he was taking her, and she'd been strictly forbidden to ask. After their beyond-hot tryst in the Beelzebub Club the night before, they had gone back to his place and Skriker had ordered his usual greasy takeout, which he'd scarfed down in front of the TV with Rose lying in his lap, dozing, her still-damp tresses spilling over his legs and knees.

  They'd fallen asleep on his couch together and slept much of the following morning away; this Rose had chalked up to the emotionally draining chat they had had in the hot tub at the fight club before he had brought her home. He had awoken her with more sweet-as-pie sex on the sofa just before noon, an act that had left her melting and wondering about when the next achingly sensual blow would come…when would he dominate her again, leaving her tormented and guessing in the most luscious way?

  His inconsistency was like its own form of fantastic torture…the brutality of his lashings and his bondage, metered out unevenly with the sweetness of a pampering touch. He was keeping her on her toes…no denying that.

  Their sex had progressed from living room to bedroom, and he had finally left her lying entangled in his bed sheets, her limbs all sweaty and sticky, and had gone out to “run an errand”. She had fallen asleep again, and after what had seemed like five seconds of quiet sleep, his voice had come breaking through the night of her subconscious, commanding her to rise. By then, a dusky late afternoon was turning the September sky bloody—the same color they had been when Rose had set out for his apartment three days before.

  He'd ordered her to dress in heels, a short black leather skirt, a black lace bra that left little to the imagination, and her old reliable leather motorcycle jacket. He had told her to leave her panties at home, and by the time she had slipped onto the Crossbones’ leather saddle behind him, the naked tenderness between her thighs had already begun to grow moist.