Shadow Girl (14 page)

The pleasure soars, inflating her to bursting point.

‘Are you choking on him?' taunts Jenny. ‘Is she filling you to the brim?'

‘Yes . . . Ohaaaw . . .'

‘You're such a docile little player. So quick to debase yourself.'

Incredibly, the words are enough to tip Sandra over and she goes off with shrill sounds.

‘See what a bawdy broad you've become? I don't even need to touch you. But perhaps you can put up a semblance of resistance against the gruff, swarthy sea captain who found you hiding on his ship. He is a gambler, holds up a dice and puts a deal to you. If you throw a six you must submit to him in any way he chooses. If you throw anything else you walk free. You throw a six. He is rough around the edges and doesn't give tuppence about romance. He yanks down your jeans, rips off your panties and sends you belly-flopping on the bunk bed, not bothering to undress you further. Then he comes down on your arse with his massive tool and churns your guts to mush in the blink of your teary eye.'

‘Ooooh . . . Ooooh . . .
Putain
. . .' chokes Sandra, arching and contorting herself, halfway to being blown to bits by the humping sea wolf. The vision is so vivid she feels the breath of her blunt rider on her neck. Feels his grip denting her, crushing her skin.

‘He works you to your wits' end then pulls out and calls the quartermaster. They strap your arms up to the galley rafter and sandwich you between them. And then they roil you up till your belly bam-whams. And stir you back to life till you're arced on the brink. And then they swap places and pull out all the stops, with you bursting hard and crying out for more. And when at last they've had their fun, they leave you gutted and gasping on the bunk with come leaking out of your ears. Then the captain gives you the dice again. Same deal, he says. If you throw a six, he gives you to two more of his men. Anything else, you walk free. You throw a six. And spend the next hour fornicating with the first mate and the boatswain. And even though they too are only here for their kicks and kinks, you cannot help coming and coming like a bitch in heat.'

Kept on a ridge of highs by the randy pair and their spicy sandwich moves, Sandra has been twisting like gum, shedding heavy grunts and gushing hard again. She clutches distractedly at Jenny's thighs.

‘When you get to roll another time and land one more six, you begin to suspect the dice is loaded. The question is: do you care?'

The coarse moan issuing from Sandra leaves no room for doubt. Still, Jenny presses for an answer.

‘Do you?'

‘N . . . Nooooo . . .' exhales Sandra, consumed by her lust.

‘Do you want to keep rolling the dice?'

Sandra bucks in assent, her eyes wild.

‘Do you want to keep sucking off those men? Getting rammed by those complete strangers?'

‘
Oui
. . .
Ouiii
. . .' she breathes hoarsely.

‘Would you flaunt yourself to the first Joe that came along?'

‘
Le premier
. . . Yesss . . .'

‘Would you be arse-toyed by the first foxy Jane?'

‘
Par
. . .
Par n'importe quiii
. . .'

‘By anyone? Right here if I asked you to?'

A whimper of agreement.

‘You know what this makes you? Don't you?'

Sandra closes her eyes and throws her head back, cheeks burning with her own spiralling desires. She is still so freaking horny. Her brain, her body, are ravaged by this ache. This is a complete, utter surrender, she knows that. But she does not give a ship rat's arse. She rasps out her answer with the same desperation she has been pumping her bastard boss and the master gunner, the second mate and the rigger and even the swabbie.

‘
Une salooope
. . .
J'suis une petite salope
.'

‘A proper little slut indeed. The best, most juicy, most libidinous of her kind. Wild and totally uninhibited. Back-arching, arse-wriggling, clit-ready and panties with no fixed address. Your mind has betrayed you for what you are. Shameless. Depraved. The queen of sluts.'

‘
Oui
. . . Oooh God . . .
La reine des salopes
.'

‘The dice never lies, does it? You'll always throw a six. You'll never have enough. Always thinking of the next cock. Or the next clit. Or the next arse-fuck.'

Jenny looks down upon her with a look of triumph. Reaching back, she buries four fingers into Sandra and resumes fattening her insane demon.

‘Now suck me again,
salope
!'

Eyes. A pair of eyes are floating in the ether above her. Sexy, searching, iridescent — and full of reproach. ‘You have been quite busy since I left,' they are saying. ‘Weren't you supposed to wait for me? I always honour my contracts, you know. Always. Instead of which you have been whoring around.'

She is overcome by shame and looks away. ‘You . . . You left me,' she stammers. ‘I wanted you to stay. Wanted you to hold me. To kiss me.'

‘Kiss you?' If eyes alone could sneer, those certainly would. ‘And why would I want to do that? Kiss a slut? Sluts are not for kissing. Sluts are not for holding.'

‘I'm not a slut,' she protests, without conviction.

‘Oh but you are, honey. You are. The most consummate of her kind. A tramp, a floozie,
une petite catin
, without a shred of morality. Look down.'

She does — and discovers she is cowgirling a hunk of a man with a scruffy chin and a golden ring in one ear. The muscles are rippling on the man's stomach. She feels a surge of desire and sinks her nails into his chest.

‘And look behind you.'

She complies eagerly, only to see a long line of sailors waiting for their turn, their faces lit up with prurient expectation.

The eyes are mocking, and triumphant. They have also turned shadowy, their sparkle swept away by an ill wind. And they seem larger, beautiful but cruel, clothed in long eyelashes. A woman's eyes. Then a face grows around them, like a cloud pattern in a sunset sky.

Jenny's gloating features fade in.

‘Wakey-wakey, Sleeping Beauty.'

Sandra emerges from her troubled sleep. It is dark outside. The torches on the wall are oases of soft light in the gloom of the chamber.

Jenny, who is bent over her, brings a hand to her forehead.

‘You're still hot. Good. Your demon is making itself at home.'

Sandra looks at her friend through a misty veil. Yes, Jenny must be right. There is still this pulsing between her legs. An itch she wants to assuage.

Her hand moves to answer the prompt. She is more swollen than usual and still so pleasurably damp. She is a pussy hair away from being fully aroused again. She shudders in gratification as she cups her palm over her clit then runs a hesitant finger around it.

No. She needs a break from all this. Doesn't she? Fuck. Everything is so confused. Her creature's vibes have warped her thoughts. And the beast is only half asleep, waiting for the next opportunity to gorge itself.

She senses how bloated it has become, how hopelessly captive to its demands she is. Her body is not hers anymore. It is a knotted web of pleasure with a mind of its own. A tangle of long feelers, coiling and uncoiling lazily in the evening's shadows. Resting before the next lascivious assault.

‘There is no time for hanky-panky,' says Jenny, steering Sandra's hand away. ‘Sit up.'

Jenny's tone brooks no argument and Sandra does as she is told. The bed around her is absolutely soaked, like her. She becomes aware of how thirsty she is. Her throat is parched, her lips dry.

‘Here. Drink this,' says Sandra, holding up a big glass of water as though she had read her mind. ‘You need to rehydrate.'

Sandra takes the glass and downs its contents in one long draught. She comes back for air, marginally restored. Jenny pours her more water from a large jug.

‘You're quite the squirter. That's good. Drink up.'

Sandra is not sure what is good about it. About wetting the sheets like that. She's never done that before. She knows little about it other than what she picked up in vague asides in the odd conversation. Female ejaculation, she thinks it's called. Is that what it is, really? It doesn't seem thick or anything. But whatever it is, it spurred her on each time she came, she remembers that. Like her creature thrived on this release. Got more frantic with each of her strange liquid hollowings.

She downs half the second glass.

‘Drink up everything,' insists Jenny.

She complies and gets another refill straight away.

Ten minutes and four more glasses later, her bladder feels precariously full. She must have drunk enough to fill a small barrel.

But Jenny has brought up another full glass to her lips.

‘Please Jenny, I'm good now.'

‘You're good when I say you are. Drink up.'

Sandra knows it is useless to resist. The golden collar seems to have drained the last vestiges of her will. She forces down some more liquid.

‘All of it.'

She keeps going, some overbrim trickling down at her mouth corners.

‘Excellent,' coos Jenny. ‘You'll be properly primed for your next session. Ready to gush and goad your demon's appetite.'

Sandra places the empty glass next to her. Her next session? She is grateful already. She realises with dreamy longing she cannot wait.

She also realises that she wants to pee. Desperately.

‘Can I go to the toilet?' she asks. She feels that she
has
to ask. That her fate has taken yet another turn. Set her on a new, ambiguous tangent — one in which she has no control over her body. No say.

‘No time for that, I'm afraid,' says Jenny.

‘Oh please. I so badly need it.'

‘Your fantasies are mine,' comes the sweet reply. ‘So is your arse. So is your bladder. You do as you're told, honey.'

She bites back a groan. But she has no choice. She must do as she is told. In spite of her pressing need, she finds perverse satisfaction in the thought that she is at Jenny's mercy. That she must obey without question. She knows this is a terrible, shameful abdication but there is something hugely gratifying in the asking. In the begging. The demeaning. She is turned on by this.

‘Get up and cross your legs. That should help you hold it in. Whatever happens, you are not to relieve yourself, do you hear?'

Sandra nods and gets up hurriedly. Then stands there, covering her nether bits with both hands, fidgeting with her groin muscles. This seems to calm the discomfort somewhat, though at the same time excites her more. Delicious little waves are again vamping her. But Jenny cuts this short before it gets too far.

‘We've got to get going. We have a long night ahead of us.'

Get going? Sandra seems to recall Yaouen saying she must not leave the tower. Something to do with a protective spell. But so much has happened in the last few hours. So much has flowed under her bridge. His voice sounds so flimsy, so distant.

‘Didn't Yaouen . . .' she begins.

‘Forget that old bore,' cuts in Jenny. ‘We're out of here. You want to have some fun, don't you? I know I do. And there's someone who wants to see you. Someone who's got plans for you. Big plans. Put this on.'

She takes a sleeveless blue tunic out of the shopping bag then hands it to Sandra.

‘No need for panties or anything, they'll just get in the way.'

Ordering her to raise her arms, Jenny proceeds to slip the tunic on her.

‘You look good enough to eat,' she approves, eyeing the sweep of fabric cupping the breasts. ‘And I'm sure you taste twice as good as fairyfloss.'

The tunic does not belong to the triple X variety and barely hides Sandra's private parts.

‘Perfect spring wear, wouldn't you say? Covers the essentials but reveals enough to drive anyone with a whisper of testosterone crazy.'

She takes Sandra's hand and leads her to the lift door.

‘Perhaps I should finish my tale,' she adds, as she steps into the cubicle, pulling Sandra in her wake. ‘We got sidetracked earlier on, what with all the moaning and bucking.'

She has slipped her hand under Sandra's tunic and is gently caressing her.

‘And it would help you understand why we are getting along so brilliantly. You don't mind me talking to you while we're walking, do you?'

Sandra is unable to string two words together. Delightful spasms are running up and down her back.

‘Good answer, sweetie. You're such a good friend. We connect on so many levels.'

She gives Sandra a provocative sidelong look.

The lift door opens onto a cobbled street and they step out into the coolness of a star-studded evening.

Sandra's eyes are drawn to the night sky and she blinks a few times. She has no idea what time it is, but the fresh air is a welcome change and takes some of her mind off her pulsing needs.

She looks around. There is not a single soul to be seen, bar the obligatory street tabby that slinks away round a corner as soon as it spots them.

Holding her hand, Jenny starts up the street, towards the old covered market.

‘So, as I was saying before you went frisky on the massage bed, I had great fun with my baker boy. After we wreaked sweet havoc on his shop — you should have seen the floury mess! — I took him to my love nest, gave him a black mask to wear and we had sizzling sex all night. With him tied up mostly, and me torturing him with my crop and velvet lips. His stamina was amazing and he must have fired his pistol ten, maybe twelve times. Nah, make that a baker's dozen. And in case you're wondering, this wasn't just the effect of his youth. The mask was enchanted. A handy little device that was — and a legacy from my mother, a half-fairy queen from the Northern Lands.'

Jenny pauses. She appears lost in reminiscence. Then comes back to her tale.

‘There is a lot of her in me, I've been told. She was noted for her beauty and seduction skills. Never knew her, though. The good woman died in childbirth — specifically while having me.'

There is a brief blur in her eyes.

‘Forgive me, I'm straying from the point. The mask had a regrettable side-effect. Come morning, a part of it would contract around the neck and choke its wearer. So Baker Boy went out with a squeeze and a bang. I consoled myself with the thought that he popped his last load with a smile on his face and a cock as rigid as a week-old French baguette. There are worse ways to go.'

Sandra visualises a male member the length of a baguette but this time has trouble finding appeal in the thought. Jenny is purring on.

‘Now, I was not going to let a small detail like that interfere with my fun. A trusted servant discreetly committed his body to the waves and before the week was out I had a new toy-boy, a sailor from afar. He was fun, in an exotic, full-tats sort of way. He smelled of faraway lands and entertained me with his swashbuckling accounts of high seas adventures. But after a night of kinky moves, he too fell to the curse of the mask. Squeak.'

The hand holding Sandra goes for a quick squeeze, to emphasise the point.

‘And he too was returned to the sea. But I had taken a strong liking to the lover thing. And to the wild partying. I started throwing huge banquets to bring in more youths to my city. Easier to cherry pick my fancy men that way. Thanks to me, Ys, beautiful Ys, gained a reputation as the hottest place on earth, if you except the crater of Mount Vesuvius. Oh Sandra, you cannot imagine what wicked fun I had! I was as happy as only a totally spoilt, shallow-minded princess can be, devising new ways of snaring my victims. And sweet-torturing them. But' — Jenny gives a little sigh — ‘nothing lasts forever. One day my fate took a hapless turn. This handsome, mysterious stranger rode into town on the high bridge that connected Ys to the coast. Dressed all in red. I should have known he meant trouble. He had this air about him, aloof yet so incredibly beddable. I fell for him as soon as I laid my mascaraed eyes on his strong jaw and crimson doublet. Needless to say, I arranged for him to be seated by my side at the evening feast. He hardly spoke to me, just a polite nod now and then, but when he leaned over — after dessert I think it was — and whispered something dark and sexy in my ear in that deep husky voice of his, I was hooked pure and simple. Ready to be his bitch.'

Jenny stops and turns to Sandra.

‘I'm sure you can understand what a panties-twisting experience this can be. One minute you're sitting there carefree as a fantail having your every whim indulged, the next you're dying to please your man like a common moll.'

A pair of late-night stragglers — a middle-aged gent and his well-dressed partner — drift past them, throwing them curious looks. Jenny ignores them. She starts leading the way again and resumes her story.

‘This was a complete emotional reroute but I did not give a toss. There would be no mask for Mr Redhot. He enticed me to the royal pigsty as soon as I had downed my last cup of chouchen. And then, like a man possessed, he went down on me between Miss Piggy and Mr Porky. Started with the spiciest tongue job south of a bejewelled navel, then banged me crazy in all possible combinations of cock and girl. And all the while the mother of all storms was building up out there, keeping pace with our naughty ructions. But just before I was going to kaboom, the bastard pulls out and leaves me hanging breathless on the cliff edge. Just like that. No warning or anything. I could have died of frustration. I snivel something about how he should work on his timing but all he has to say is he can hear the waves thrashing against the city walls.

‘“Do not worry, my prince,” I pant, “the walls are strong. So are the gates of Ys and only my father has the key to them.”

‘So he melts me with his hot gaze and tells me if I want to hog it some more I have to get the keys for him. I'm dripping with pagan desire and the night is still young, so what can I do? I sneak into my father's room in my half-torn robe and pinch the key from my old man's neck. Then rush back to my lover, my mind full of that next standing fuck he promised. That's when I found out how deceitful men can be. As soon as he gets his hands on the prize, he disappears without a word. And I thought I'd cornered the market on cheating and lying! Next thing I know, the waves are crashing into the city streets and alarm bells are ringing everywhere. The blackguard had opened the gates!'

As the two women round the corner of the cathedral into a narrow street, bells explode into life somewhere above them, echoing the chaos of that night. The rings pound through the air like grenades dropped by spiteful gargoyles, and Sandra falters on the cobblestones, almost gasping from the invasive sounds. By the twelfth stroke, her legs have turned to jelly. But Jenny's grip on her hand remains firm and she has no choice but to stumble on. When the last sound dies out, Jenny continues her tale.

‘I race back up to my chamber for safety and stand there awhile, watching in horror as my world is engulfed by the raging seas. Then I rush to my father and beg him on my knees to save me. We tumble down in panic to the stables and he jumps on Morvarc'h, his magic horse. Then he pulls me up behind him. But the seas are pounding around us and flush us down to the city square. Morvarc'h is flapping his wings ferociously, struggling to keep his nose above water. I look up and see this monstrous wall of water closing in on Ys. We've only got moments left. A voice descends from the heavens, calling upon my father to cast me from his side. I turn around and spot that old killjoy Saint Gwenole, lecturing between the clouds in that annoying nasal twang.

‘“Your daughter has brought shame upon Ys, Gradlon! Get rid of her! Do it quick if you want to save yourself!”

‘And then my father does something terribly unfatherly. He kowtows to the old beard and, with eyes full of reproach, shoves me off the horse into the foaming brine, as they say. The last I see of him is the back of his ermine coat as Morvarc'h soars into the sky, seconds before the monster wave crashes down upon Ys. I don't even have time to scream in fright. I get sucked down by the tumbling waters and everything goes dark. When I open my eyes, the storm has died and the city's gone. And I'm floating on sea currents with a fish tail and an appetite for men that's big enough to make the Harlot of Jericho look like a blushing damsel.'

They walk in silence for a while.

‘Yes, I was turned into your run-of-the-mill sea woman,' broods Jenny. ‘A Mari Morgan. Condemned to roam the ocean and river mouths and trap youths and men to their doom. And I lost my gorgeous looks. Lost my pretty face, my model curves. My lustrous jet-black hair. No fitting end for the daughter of a great king, you will agree.'