Enter the fourth world - a world of lust and shadows, where anything can happen.
Obsessive passion and dark ecstasy mark these seven stories of paranormal desire from eroticist Lisabet Sarai.
An undead couple hunts for beauty and youth in the history-drenched streets of Prague. A sex addict meets his fate in the embrace of a seductive monster. An innocent writer offers her body and heart to a century-old ghost. A spiritual seeker succumbs to temptation in the arms of a fearsome and greedy goddess. A kinky, blood-drenched threesome unfolds in a luxurious Bangkok penthouse. These tales conjure the magic of sex, and its dangers. Expect to be unbearably aroused and occasionally terrified.
Do not expect happily ever afters.
Warnings: This collection includes violence, blood, death, extreme BDSM, and some M/M interaction.
I don't like to think of them as prey. That feels too cold-blooded. Juliana says that I'm sentimental, but after all, we rarely take their lives. They surrender to us their youth, their vitality, their beauty, a few memories. In return, we gift them with a taste of ecstasy, even if they will recall it only dimly. That, and a lingering darkness. For the rest of their short days, they bear the mark of our touch on their souls.
No, I prefer to consider them as pets, or perhaps as toys. We do, indeed, discard them when we become bored. How many have we lured, over the centuries? I cannot count. Indeed, it disturbs me to think about this, for I cannot summon the face of a single one.
We will hunt tonight. I stand at the arching windows of our flat, watching dusk paint the Vltava in a thousand shades of gray. Across the river, the spires of the castle rise in graceful silhouette against mauve banks of cloud. In the background, Juliana plays Lizst. Her fiery restlessness is apparent in the music. She doesn't want to wait any longer.
Long ago, we learned to sate our physical hunger with the blood of dumb beasts. Yet this was not enough. Gradually we came to realize that we could not survive without tasting the fascination and the fear of human victims. We need their rosy, yielding flesh, their scents of musk and salt, their quickened breathing. We crave the worship we see in their eyes, the willingness—no, the eagerness—to surrender their entire selves to our unearthly beauty and power.
We are addicted to the drug of humanity. I find this both ironic and somehow satisfying, this understanding that regardless of our invulnerability and near-omnipotence, our destinies are inextricably entwined with those of mortals. I sometimes wonder if God is likewise dependent on man (or vampire). Do we provide the same validation for His existence? Do we assuage the same kind of lust?
Juliana tells me that I am too philosophical.
“Master Carl?” My eyes trained respectfully on his scuffed boots, I stand back to let him enter. The door swings shut behind him.
He fists my hair and forces me to my knees. My cock surges inside my pants.
“Don't speak unless I ask you a question, boy. Understand?”
“Yes—yes, Sir.” I feel vaguely guilty bestowing that honorific on anyone but my true master. Keeping my gaze straight ahead, where an impressive lump distorts his worn dungarees, I catch a whiff of gasoline and old, sour sweat. His hand goes to his fly. I hold my breath, my heart slamming against my ribs.
“So you want me to cut you? That's what you said, right?”
“That's right, Sir.”
He peels the zipper down and hauls out his massive, uncut cock. “Suck me first. If you do a good job, maybe I'll get out my knife.”
I have no opportunity to reply. He mashes the head of his dick against my lips, pushes them apart, and drives his rod down my throat. When I sputter and choke around the rigid plug of flesh, he draws back a bit, letting me gulp air into my lungs. Then he rams back in, but this time, I'm ready. I suck at him like a kid with an ice cream soda, swirling my tongue over his bulb and tickling the ridge beneath.
He groans a bit. His blunt fingers clutch my shoulders to hold me still while he thrusts. He's found his rhythm now, a hard, fast plunge followed by a slower withdrawal. My lips cling to the sleek, steely bulk of him each time he retreats.
Despite the funky smell of his jeans, he tastes clean, a bit flowery, as if he used perfumed soap. I'm reminded of them—my real master and mistress—and all at once I'm on the edge of coming. I tense, knowing that's not permitted and my abuser senses the change. He's a serious Dom, despite his tough demeanor, attuned to his submissive's reactions. His hesitation gives me the chance for a deep breath and the urge subsides a bit, though my cock still throbs every time he fills my mouth.
I let myself pretend that the cock I'm sucking belongs to my master. He's longer and more slender than Carl, but I don't doubt he'd be equally rough. Cruelty is a habit for him. Closing my eyes, I picture him looming over me, his raven curls tumbling over his brow, his lips stretched in a taut grimace of pleasure. I've never tasted him, never touched him, but I know his skin would be cool and silky. His cock would be hard as a marble tomb.
Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/Fourth-World-Erotic-tales-monsters-ebook/dp/B00Y23HXW4/
Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Fourth-World-Erotic-tales-monsters-ebook/dp/B00Y23HXW4/
When I was a little girl, my dad would make up stories for my siblings and me, fabulous sagas about ghosts and monsters, magical races with mysterious powers, heroes on impossible quests, hidden treasures awaiting only the most courageous seeker. I blame him for my lifelong fascination with the magical and miraculous.
Now that I've grown up, I create my own tales of wonder, weaving in generous portions of human desire with its potent enchantments. Lust and power—terror and ecstasy—my paranormal stories will make you believe in magick.
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