La Belle Mort

Copyright Nora Quick 2011

     Her sleeping beauty was perfection: his long dark hair brushed smooth across her satiny white pillow, casting the grey pallor of his cold skin into dark contrast. She’d loving cut open his shirt to reveal the sleek lines of muscle over those fine bones, as detailed as the etchings of nature upon his face.

     First rigor was freshly upon him, his cock manipulated to stand hard and firm, jutting from his dark jeans. Candlelight glowed around them, making her blood red gown match the small puncture wounds at his heart. Leaning down, her large breasts pillowed on his stomach as she kissed those wounds that had pierced his heart, teasing herself.

     The hard cock brushed against her and she rubbed it like a cat, feeling the moisture rush from her cunt, her nipples hardening with every pass. Suckling now, she took his heart’s blood, a part of this strange, unknown man into her.

     Blood on her red lips, her green eyes glittered as a rush of excitement came at his helpless state. His nipples stood erect and she bit them; moaning. It was time. Sweeping up her long skirt her pale legs glowed with dark vitality as Lucy moved to straddle him. That cock was as cold and hard as steel, brushing her damp folds. Arousal such as she had never known pulsed through her, and with bitten lips his blood mingled with hers as she impaled herself.

     The dead man filled her, still and cool as marble, perfect beauty eternally set. Innocence preserved spurred her on and Lucy rose only to sink back down, crying out. The pleasure was intense, the cold embrace of death gripped her as she took from him, gave to him, became one with the body. The only sounds in the room were her panting breaths, the wet suckling of her pussy as she pounded over him, shaking the bed.

     Oh, when would Joan come? Thinking that word made her shudder and her small hands pulled at her bodice, pale fingers and rings catching on the lace as she freed her breasts, cupping them, stroking her turgid nipples, riding the dead man to forbidden ecstasy.

     “I thought you would wait,” a husky voice whispered into her ear.

     Lucy’s eyes jerked open to see Joan, and beneath her she felt the dead man twitch, reacting to the power in Susan, a call to the dead.

     She cupped the necromancer’s mocha skinned cheek, drawing her into a kiss, sharing the mingled blood of life and death with her. The sacrifice was enough and Joan’s power flared from her tall, lithe body. Joan’s hands massaged Lucy’s breasts, teasing the nipples as power stirred through the dead man.

     Lucy cried out, jerking with the reanimated man dead man. Tearing at Joan’s black lace shirt, Lucy stroked her breasts and pled for her to join them.

     Joan laughed as her will filled the corpse, cold and hard, but awake and aware now. Lifting her leather skirt she broke from their kiss to straddle his face, pinning that long dark hair beneath her leather boots.

     Lucy kept moving, bouncing now as she watched a hard tongue force its way from a tight jaw to touch Joan’s own wet slit. Again their hands reached, warm with life’s blood and cool from death’s magic, stroking one another’s breasts, teasing.

     The pleasure was too much, the dead man now a slave to their desires, and the thrill of the forbidden filled her with that hard cock now thrusting ever so slightly between Lucy’s legs. She found her climax, screaming with it.

     Joan was close behind, Lucy’s hands were everywhere, drawing forth her lover’s pleasure until Joan cried out, a strangled sound. As her climax passed they held each other while the emptiness of death pushed Joan’s power from the corpse, stilling once more into unsettled peace beneath them.

     In gratitude, Lucy kissed her tenderly.

     Drawing back, Joan pulled a stiletto knife from her boot, crusted with blood. Trailing it over his pale chest, the sharp tip caught a wound and slid home, a perfect fit. Joan smiled. “I meant it, my love, when I said no man who ever touched you would live.”