Suggested Audio Lube:
Lil Louis & The World French Kiss (Innocent Until Proven Guilty Vocal Remix)
You have been summoned this dusk. Her Majesty the Dark Queen requests your attendance in her own personal boudoir and has every intention of tearing down every last one of our defenses with her Medusa-like gaze. There is a disorderly queue forming to take counsel with our illustrious Dark Queen, desperate to bask in her startling rays of perfection and quench the clotted crimson honey which pours forth from each of her pores, but this night it is you who has been selected to gather her exclusive nectar. As Keeper and official first publicist for our Monarchs, it is with pride unparalleled that I assume voyeuristic positioning at a (relatively) safe vantage while the madness of our Queen of Hearts is courted and I can almost smell the sex already.
You arrive at her personal chamber in state of disarray having been called upon to step into her darkness. There are no words which accurately convey the mesh of pride and consternation you feel right now. She is unerringly gracious and dignified, but you are under no illusions that this rendezvous shall not be about small talk and mutual bouts of respect. We appear to conveniently forget that we are primal creatures, hunters and killers the lot of us. It is our birthright and, no matter how hard we attempt to downplay our animalistic trappings, here we shall be forced into acknowledging our part in all this. It ain’t gonna be pretty.
Your entrance is duly noted as you sheepishly slink inside her inner sanctum. The shower jets cease in an instant and you discern the padding of her feet on the cold floor as she steps out to inspect herself in the full-length mirror. You creep, delicately across to a concealed vantage behind the crack of the bathroom door and commence to leer at the most flawless piece of ocular confectionary ever concocted. Lady Die is a most magnificent creature, fashioned by the Gods, her pelt wraps around her like mink and every thread is golden. From her flaxen locks to her painted toes she is pure yearning perfection. And she knows you’re there…
Oblivious to her enlightened state you scoff in all that your lustful peepers can feed, studying her fibers meticulously. They slay in every conceivable way. Her back profile alone is ample to frost the glass casing around your heart and her glorious peaches snuggle like homesick puppies, supported by pins which appear never to end. Light flickers from her pelt but then dissipates as though not able to penetrate her salacious darkness. Maybe it’s not necessitated, her radiance is at one with her inked blackness and is generated through each screaming pore in her flawless pelted blanketing.
Of course it is through touch as well as sight and scent that we form our opinions and that first brush against Lady Die’s exclusive fruits alone is ample to shepherd forth globules of stuttered ecstasy. Attempting to use your fluttering lids is fruitless by this juncture and even your sense of smell is off-kilter. You only have touch right now, enveloped in nothing, you have accessed everything. It may appear to be a mere formality now but she can teach tantra through affording you the opportunity to court her madness, walk the thin line of terror and leave everything you have come to know strewn behind you.
Our Queen of Hearts presses against your aching framework, leaving no unturned stones as she feels with a thousand fingers. Akin to a siren her call is inescapable, your lust palpable and your lifeforce already devoured. Each muscle you tense only serves to invite her more and her snappers begin to tug impishly at your chest hair, while she looks up at you with her emerald sentinels, requesting continuation. In actual fact your rejoinder to her plea is irrelevant as she straddles you alpha-style, constricting any hope of breaking free from your submissive shackles.
She binds both your wrists around the sturdy headboard, keeping you spread-eagled and exposed like a wayward fly in her web of cruel seduction. Her mouth has found inroad to your pubic trail and grips the metallic button of your pants, tongue negotiating and unfastening as she forges a path further south. As the denim pings open and your monster rears from the confines of your jockeys, she vaguely licks the tip of your sex, then plants the softest kisses along your pulsing member. The lionesses eyes meanwhile, haven’t flickered from your own as she desires to witness every twinge and turn it into another.
Her beautifully manicured nails tease the jeans from your hips and send them careering off the bed thus they provide distraction no more. As she slips the first of your testes into her oral pouch, you feel yourself teetering at the very summit of your excitement and readied to blow your creamy stash skyward. Its right-hand counterpart joins it directly after as she gargles your delight and your urethra feels as though ready to split wide open. As if this wasn’t torment enough, those slender digits have made their passage back and are scratching away at your clenched asshole, pleading for entry. Again…your answer to her request simply matters not.
Only one pushes through the bronzed barricade and heads straight to the forgotten G-spot, commencing milking it for all its worth. Every howl of hollowed disapproval incites her to harrow deeper and your prostate feels as though awoken from a lifelong slumber. Jesus…this feels good…it FUCKING SMARTS…but it feels good. Her own groans are chords of demonic intent as her hairless quim begins a dance of its own. You feel her wetness soaking through your last line of defense and, using the digit jammed into your asshole she pulls you forth, slopping Monster sliding in between her succulent southern lips and and nestling into her cloying darkness.
She thrusts your sopping palms onto her stiffened mammalia, cupping each as she begins extraction. You grasp for dear life, honey drooling freely from your summit as your whole body convulses. Lady Die is on bronco duties, matching your throes stride for stride as she guzzles your release balm. Clarity of vision affords a sight which causes both your orbs to roll back in your skull. She bleeds, there is a smattering of cruor over her torso which appears to be clotting and spreading. Each ventricle is wide open and her sanguine sauce seasons your exhilaration to the point where you finally tap out.
It feels like you’re under for a number of hours, ensnared in a most macabre phantasm from which there appears no escape. When you do finally come to, you are greeted by a veritable menstrual massacre. Your entire mid-torso is caked in cruor and yawning lacerations criss-cross your groin like bloody kisses. There is a single rose stem with barbaric thorns laying on the pillow beside your head, and its intoxicating aroma causes you to cum hard once again involuntarily. The ecstasy has subsided and been replaced with dull aches and weariness. There is no discernible plan b, your hands are still bound and you lay there marinading in claret pools of dashed delight. You’d better engage the grey matter fast as, should she return to her lair, there will be no reprieve second time out.
Sin most wickedly,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
First Knight of TOK
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014