Featured Erotic Story

From the Forthcoming Victorian Supernatural Erotic Thriller: Sorcerer’s Proposal

After dinner Emma retired to her room, but she had plans for another investigation that evening.

She listened for movement in the corridor. She heard the other women return to their rooms, and then, about half past eleven, she heard footsteps striding from Miss Moarsala’s room down the passage towards the stairs; in half an hour, Madame Moarsala’s tribute would receive the Count, and as Emma watched out of her window, seeing the lone figure cross the courtyard towards the high tower, it struck her that this young woman carried no baggage or accouterments, had not changed into any particular outfit, but simply strode to her rendez-vous in her usual dark dress, her long black hair falling about her shoulders.

But it was not Fata Moarsala for whom Emma had been listening. Instead it was the quiet foot falls, perhaps of a maid, passing her door a quarter of an hour later. The footsteps continued to the end of the corridor, paused only briefly and then returned.

Emma waited only a few seconds, and as soon as she judged that the figure must have started back down the stairs she quietly unlatched her door and looked out.

There, outside Miss Jaleed’s door at the end of the passage, was a broad wicker basket. And in the basket sat a hessian sack.

Emma crept up to it, and leaned down, examining it. The bag was about the size of a large woman’s purse, but it bulged with unknown contents. She pressed her fingers against it, feeling what might be inside, and the contents twitched and recoiled.

The sack could contain nothing larger than, perhaps a cat, or a piglet, or a baby. It twitched again.

The mouth was tied in a crude knot, and Emma swiftly slipped this open, lifting the fabric to peer inside.

Two scared eyes looked up at her, its little nose twitching urgently. It was a rabbit.

Emma had spotted that a back door from the kitchen led out into a small yard, little more than a light well for the main castle buildings, and she had seen through the open door chicken coops, from which the servants fetched fresh eggs, and hutches. The rabbit, presumably, had been brought from there.

She scooped the creature, timid and tame, from the bag, and softly carried it back to her room. She closed the door quietly and put the animal gently down on her bed.

It eyed her warrily, and then loped away towards the bed head, hopped down onto the floor, and vanished under the counterpane, seeking security in the darkness.

But Emma was not concerned about the rabbit. She was more interested in what Miss Jaleed might now do. And, having been awake until dawn Emma was sure that she could stay alert all night if she needed to, and so she picked up her cheap novel, placed a chair by the door, and sat down to read and to listen.

She did not have to wait long.

At midnight the door at the far end of the passage opened. There was rustling of sacking, and then footsteps slowly advancing down the corridor. The steps stopped outside Emma’s door. There was a pause. And then the figure strode away, towards the stairs.

Emma waited a few seconds and then followed. She stepped as quietly as she could down the stone steps, following the swish of skirts and striding footsteps towards the great kitchen. There several lamps still burned and she could see at the far end of the room a pale glow of moonlight from the open back door. Miss Jaleed, denied one animal, had gone to fetch another.

But Emma paused at the threshold to the kitchen, nervous of other movement there.

From a side room, where lamplight still burned, another figure entered the kitchen. Young, male, his footman’s jacket discarded and his white shirt sleeves rolled up, he held a pair of black shoes in one hand and a brush in the other. He had been working late, and must have seen the figure passing through the kitchen.

After a minute Miss Jaleed emerged from the yard. Still in her scarlet gown, with black gloves and a black veil, she now carried a small sack in one hand.

The sack kicked and twitched.

She saw the man, but ignored him. She simply closed the door and walked back across the kitchen.

But he was not going to let her leave.

He dropped the shoes and brush on the side and sidled across to block her path.

She slowed, and he walked towards her. He said something that Emma did not understand, probably in German.

Jaleed bowed her head and stepped to swerve around him, but he moved sideways and spoke again, sneering.

Emma did not have to understand the words. The hands-on-hips bravado, the leering tones. She knew what he would be saying. Hello whore; you’re here for the master; but maybe tonight’s my lucky night. If those weren’t the exact words, then that would be the sentiment.

Jaleed minced back away from him. She dropped her head further, almost in a bow, meekly.

But the man was not to be dissuaded with coyness. He stepped forward and reached up to grab her veil.

She straightened immediately and stepped swiftly back – no longer stepping softly and weakly. Now her back was straight, her chin raised; she slipped the bag onto the long kitchen table in a deft movement and flexed her fingers.

The man did not notice the change in her posture. He just advanced, goading her in German again.

Emma’s instinct was to step forward, to call out, to intercede to help the menaced woman. But she stopped herself. She could see Jaleed’s posture, and her movements. This woman was not backing away in fear. She was leading the man deliberately, walking backwards diagonally across the kitchen.

Emma looked to see where Jaleed was leading the fool, and she saw a solid wooden work surface and, in the corner, a heavy butcher’s block bristling with the handles of cleavers and filleting knives.

The footman leered and laughed as he advanced.

Only when she reached the wooden work board did Jaleed stop.

The man gave a growling smile, pleased to have cornered his prey. And he reached forward again to pull off her veil.

She leaned back. He leaned forward, jeopardising his balance.

Jaleed’s arm swept up, catching his wrist and pulling as she sidestepped, her other arm striking his shoulder and pitching him forward – throwing his own body weight forward and plunging him face-first into the wooden sideboard.

As bone crunched and the man cried out Jaleed swept on, a single fluid movement swirling around to whip a flashing knife from the butcher’s block, then her arm arcing round again towards the man’s head.

As he looked up her hand swept down, and the hard butt of the wooden knife handle crashed against his cheek.

He slumped back, cracking his head on the wooden surface, and crumpled to the floor.

Jaleed raised her foot and stamped down hard on his belly, winding him.

As he lay at her feet, gasping for breath, the blood from his broken nose pouring down his face, she stood over him, turning the blade in her hand, watching the light glint from it.

Now Emma’s instinct was to help the man – reeled in like a fish and bludgeoned by a foe whom he had thought his helpless prey. But she had little sympathy for him, and was curious to see what would happen next.

Slowly Jaleed crouched down. She took a handful of hair in her empty hand, pulling the man’s head back. And then she let the point of the knife drift forward towards his face, then down to his throat. Slowly she cut, breaking the skin, just deep enough to draw beads of blood, drawing a line from one ear down across his throat and to the other ear.

She said nothing, speaking no words. But her meaning was clear: she could have cut his throat, and he should be grateful that she had not.

Then she stood, cast her knife dismissively aside, picked up the small sack from the table and strode towards the door, her scarlet dress and black veil billowing around her.

Emma was in her path, and to clatter up the stairs would have given her away, and so she stepped aside, into the pitch-black side passage where Jaleed could not possibly see her.

But as she stepped out of the kitchen Jaleed suddenly halted, and turned her head, staring directly at Emma, several yards away in the darkness. She grunted, nodded, and said, “Bil hana, aanesa Emma.” And then she swept up the stairs and back towards her chamber.

– – –

The Count, meanwhile, had found himself the victim of a less painful but also unexpected violence.

As Emma and Jaleed retreated from the kitchen, leaving the battered servant to rue his error, the Count was pinned up against the bedroom door of the room in the high tower.

As soon as he had entered Miss Moarsala had leaped out of bed, wearing nothing but a white cotton under-shift, her dark hair hanging loose about her shoulders, her nipples standing erect from her pert breasts.

She had been laying in bed, waiting for him, impatient, and when she grabbed him by the chin and pushed him back against the door he could smell her musky scent on her finger where she had been fingering herself.

She had kissed him, hungrily, alternately nipping at his lips with her tongue and plunging her tongue greedily into his mouth. She had unfastened his jacket and waistcoat, shirt and tie, and the fly of his trousers, all without pausing, and her fingers gripped him, stroked him, scratched him as she pushed away the fabric. She pushed herself against him, pressing her breasts against his chest, feeling him swell against her belly, and panted as she kissed him.

But after fifteen minutes her frustration was building further: she wanted more, and she did not want to wait.

She took his hand and dragged him to the bed, pushing him down onto his back, and she grabbed the waistband of his trousers and underwear and pulled them down, dragging them off his feet with his shoes.

She stared up at him, her wild eyes wide, her mouth open as if in a silent laugh, and then she plunged down, taking the full length of his hard cock deep into her, until his helmet pushed into her throat and her lips strained to envelop the base of his shaft.

“Mein Gott!” he grasped, in pleasure and surprise, and she pulled back for only a second to grin up at him before plunging back down.

He threw his hands aside, gripping fistfuls of blanket as she took him deeply, again and again, hungrily taking his whole cock as if she wanted to swallow his entire body.

He could feel her tongue, her throat. She didn’t gag, and seemed not even to need to breathe, keeping his whole swollen length in her impossibly long – ten… fifteen… thirty seconds… and then pulled back for only a moment before she dived forward again, and again, and again.

As her tongue reached out to lick his balls he whimpered.

She pulled back and grinned, saliva running from her lips and then sprang forward, scrambling up onto the bed.

She swung her knees one each side of his head, and pushed her trimmed pussy down towards his face.

As she pulled her shift up over her head and cast it away, he gripped her hips and plunged in with his tongue.

She groaned, a long, indulgent sound like a hiss, and she grinned, as his tongue pushed deep into her, and then lapped upwards, and then pushed in once more.

As he lay on his back she rode his face, running her hands up to caress her own breasts as she revelled in the sensation. But she wanted more, and she looked back over her shoulder to see his hard cock flat against his stomach.

She knelt up and turned around, and leaned forward. With her knees still each side of his head and her breasts now brushing his stomach, she took the hard shaft between her lips and plunged down again.

The Count leaned his head forward, straining to lick at her pink lips, but her urgent sucking, taking him so deep, was almost overwhelming. He kissed, he licked, he groaned, savouring the feel of her pussy on his mouth and her mouth around his hardness.

She pushed her hips down, wanting to feel his tongue in her again but not wanting to let go of his swollen cock.

The Count struggled to keep his concentration, but he could not, her mouth distracting him.

Frustrated, she pulled back and rolled off him, and then scrambled back up onto all fours in the centre of the bed.

She looked back over her shoulders, her wide-eyed stare and grimace challenging him.

He took her hips in his hands again, now kneeling behind her, and inched forward.

Her pussy was sopping wet with her lust, and as he pressed in she grunted and pushed back.

He drove forward. She pushed back to meet him, her buttocks slamming into his hips. Again and again, faster and faster he fucked her as hard and fast as he could, and she pushed back with the same unbridled urgency, wanting more, however much he gave.

She no longer looked back at him. She closed her eyes and grinned, delighting in the desperate fucking.

He did not know how long he could keep up the pace. But he looked own at her, at her wild black hair, her slender, athletic body, her firm ass, his cock vanishing into her wet pussy, and he knew he would not have to keep going for long; he could not. In just a few frenzied minutes his cock was aching, ready to burst.

“Ja!” he gasped, and then cried out “Ja!”

He shuddered, but she did not slow, still slamming back against him as he came inside her.

As he fell back, spent, she rolled onto her back, and fixed her eager eyes on him. She spread her legs, and reached down, and now with two fingers parted her lips and pulled up, showing off her swollen clit.

And as he watched, she flicked herself with her fingers, with the same intense urgency with which they had fucked and there, her knees apart, his cum dribbling from her pussy she stared at him as she brought herself to a swift, shuddering orgasm.

She bucked, she gasped and she grunted, and then she lay back, panting.

“Madam,” the Count addressed her for the first time, leaning back, “you are quite amazing!”

But she was not yet finished.

She rose onto her hands and knees, and crawled towards him again. Her hungry stare fell on his wet, limp cock, and she opened her mouth again.

“No, no, madam,” the Count backed away. “A man can take only so much… although you would take more?”

She said nothing, but stared at him with another grin like a silent laugh.

“I am impressed,” the Count assured her, as he climbed off the bed. “But I cannot allow you to exhaust me tonight.”

Her smile faded to a satisfied smirk as she watched him dress.

She let him kiss her hand as she reclined naked on the bed, and then she watched him leave and close the door after himself.

She slid in between the fresh cotton sheets, and slipped deep into the bed, drawing the covers up to her neck and stretching under the sheets, delighting in the luxuriant softness of expensive bed linens. Then she turned over, and closed her eyes, listening to the crackle of logs in the fireplace and the hoot of owls in the woods outside.

To continue reading,
click here to join Mystic Erotica.