Lynn Jae Marsh
Say the words, Lady. Say the words.
The invisible hand was at her breast, bringing the nipple to ripe firmness.
Say the words with me.
Lania shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the drowsiness. The dream seemed so real, yet so unreal.
The voice, coming through the mist, spoke again in her ear.
Say the words. You know you want to.
The voice coaxed her, urged her, the hand returning to her breast.
Lania Mills, Princess of the Whitelings, shook her head again, fighting against the unnatural languor. The last vestiges of the dream faded and she was suddenly awake.
She looked around, trying to get her bearings. The room was dim, the furnishings in muted light. The only item clearly visible was the green blinking of a computer screen.
Far in the distance, she heard the clank of metal on metal. She searched the darkness. She could make out the outline of a stone staircase with many massive steps.
In those few seconds, a breeze teased her skin. Looking down, she saw that she was nude. It was impossible, but true. Wherever she was, whoever had brought her here, had also taken the unspeakable liberty of undressing her, and of shackling her, with arms pinned high over her head, to a brick wall.
The clanking grew louder, then stopped. At the sound of a door opening-she envisioned a skeleton key jangling from the lock-she peered into the darkness.
The room grew bright with sudden white light. At the top of the twisting staircase, a man appeared with a large hound prancing at his heels.
"You bastard!" she sneered.
Lania struggled against the chains, the handcuffs biting into her wrists.
The man in black leather ignored her, descending the stairs, taking his time, as if a nude woman chained to the wall of his home was a common occurrence. When he reached the bottom step, he lingered, his raven gaze sweeping over her.
"My coven will kill you," she said, straining until the chains snapped taut.
He ignored her. He adjusted the handcuffs, inserting cotton padding to protect her wrists. He handled her impersonally, his controlled motions indicating his anger. Turning, he strode to the computer. He inserted a diskette, and then punched in a few numbers on the keyboard. The hound raised its head, its plumed tail swaying.
"This is a new low. Even for you. Even for a warlock," she spat out the words like a curse. Uncaring of the pain, she leaned forward, her muscles tight and flexed from the effort.
Without looking up, the man in black leather spoke.
"Stop that before you hurt yourself," he said.
"I assume that's why you brought me here."
"You know better than that."
"Then why?" Lania asked. "Why risk the wrath of my coven to do this?"
"Take a good look around."
Lania did so with eyes mocking.
"I don't see anything but a foolish warlock who's going to be sitting under a mushroom real soon. I call upon my sisters, heed my wishes."
Lania closed her eyes to begin the incantation that would turn the tall, dark, and handsome warlock into the most toady toad that this plane of existence had ever seen.
"It won't work," the still tall, dark, and handsome warlock said.
"It won't work. You cannot spellcast. You're in my realm."
"You've called me that twice already. My name is Steele-Jock, if you prefer."
Lania fitted together the pieces of the puzzle. The man from her dreams was Jock Steele, Jock "Lucky" Steele, the warlock prince of the Darklings. She knew little about him except that he was rich, eccentric, and dangerous, especially to witches, especially to her, the witch princess of the Whitelings.
"Mr. Steele," she began.
"Call me Jock. We're past formalities."
His voice lingered on the last word, sounding sexy and enticing.
"We are," he said. "Do you think I don't know? Who you are, what we will be to each other?"
He walked towards her with the swagger of a devil's scion, stopping within a hairsbreadth. He let his eyes feast on her body, from her full breasts-high and proud, the nipples dark and tasty-to the triangle between her legs-snowy ash and intended to please a man or a warlock.
As if he couldn't control himself, he reached out to stroke the soft curve of her face. Her eyes spitting fire, she jerked away. He laughed softly.
"We know each other?" she asked, the skepticism heavy in her voice.
"Intimately," he said with ghost-like amusement.
His hand swept lower. She strained against the tender touch of his fingers.
"No-more-games," she gritted out. "What-do-you-want?"
"Think about it," he said. "What could I want?"
He brought his hand back to her face. He snapped his fingers like a magician. All he needed was the trademark white gloves and a handful of silver glitter or pixie dust.
A strange dreaminess crept over Lania. She was asleep, but not asleep. The languor grew until she was outside of herself, as if she were watching the rapid zip of scenes in a movie. It had begun.
Say the words. I'll give you everything you want. If only you will handfast with me.
Why torture yourself? Why torture me?
"Torture," Lania murmured.
No, not torture.
He freed himself from her silken arms. She moaned at the emptiness of her world. Sweeping off his cape, he stood before her, his cock jutting proudly. It was large, yet it swelled larger, a pulsing thing that was mesmerizing and forbidden. She smacked her lips.
"Is this a dream?" she asked.
"More real than a dream, yet not," he replied.
His hands roamed over her body, enjoying the feel of skin on skin. Stretching her legs apart, he caressed her inner thigh. His movements were slow, unhurried, deliberate. He fingered her, causing her body to arc with delicious delight.
Lania shivered, rocked by the sensations.
She rubbed herself against him like a frisky cat. She wanted more of the fabulous sensations. She grabbed him, pulling him on top of her. At the same time, he thrust himself into her, ramming her.
She struggled against the enchantment, fighting as it sucked her in deeper.
He grunted, a piercing, deep grunt, a telltale sign that he was in the grip of the ultimate pleasure. He tugged her at her waist, pulling her tight against his short hairs. Rearing back, he inserted himself with all his might, knowing that she could take every slick, shiny inch of him. Pumping until he could pump no more, he flooded her to overflow, until the essence of him ran in rivers from her.
"No," she said.
He pumped her like an out of control piston, bringing her relentlessly to the brink. Their bodies were a tangle of arms and legs and tongues. The silky sheets impeded their movement. He thrust them aside and climbed her, his stiff cock foretelling his intention to mate.
"This can't be happening."
Say the words, Lady.
Three little words, what harm can it do.
Lania awakened with a start, her head pounding from the pain. She knew.
For months, those dreams, those dreams that would wake her up at night, hot, sweaty, unfulfilled. She went to bed tired and woke up more tired than before. Her dreams, what she could remember of them, had been a war zone of carnal need.
At first, she suspected nothing. Erotic dreams were common for witches of her rank. As the dreams became more real, more addictive, she had fought against them. To no avail. He came to her often and against her will. A faceless lover, shrouded in the mist, who knew every one of her desires and fulfilled them all with generous passion.
The realization that she, the ruling sovereign of the High Coven of Whitelings, was the target of a dreamcast, shocked her. Who would dare to commit such sacrilege?
The answer stood before her, relaxed and at his ease, leaning against the computer table with a devil-may-care grin on his face and a lurking smile in his eyes.
"You will pay for this," Lania said. "That I swear."
He uncurled his long frame and walked towards her. He gave no indication that her threat had affected him.
"Pay?" he asked. "For what? Upholding Wiccan Lore?"
"Look around you," he ordered. "Are you blind? Can't you see the signs?"
"I can't believe this. You dreamcast in violation of our treaty…"
"If only you had been reasonable."
"You kidnap me…"
"You refused my troth offering."
"Hold me captive…"
"I had no choice."
"Strip me naked…"
"Chain me to the wall of your … your … your … dungeon…"
"My den, actually."
"All because of some archaic myth from Wiccan Lore. Do you want a war?"
Jock scowled and said, "Why would I want to go to war against my future consort, the mother of my son, the heir to the Darkling throne?"
"Yeah. Right. I wouldn't mate with you if you were the last man-warlock-on this plane of existence."
He stared at her, wondering if she really didn't know or if she was bluffing.
"I don't like breaking this to you, Jock Lucky Steele, but the times have changed. We witches are no longer at the mercy of our biology. I know you find that hard to believe, seeing how you don't get out much. Seeing how you have to dreamcast to get your rocks off."
Jock continued to stare. His look was almost hypnotizing.
"Look," Lania tried again, speaking as if to a schoolboy. "Wiccan Lore is poppycock, a legend, like eye of newt and toe of frog. Modern witchery has advanced beyond that."
"Some things never change," he said. "The handfast of the prince of the Darklings to the princess of the Whitelings has been ordained from the dawn of time. It is your destiny. As it was my destiny to get you pregnant."
Cupping her belly, he stroked the slight roundness there.
"You are pregnant. The dreamcast was potent. In nine months time, you will bear the…"
He wiped the spittle from his chin. The scar at his brow quivered from his anger. From the corner of the room, the hound growled, its blue-black coat bristling.
"Silence, Sklar!" he roared. "I shall deal with this."
"Yeah! Shut up, Sklar, you ugly bitch," Lania said, wondering if her bravado was genuine when she saw the naked savagery on the face of the warlock prince.
"You have been too long with the worldly. You have forgotten our ways," he said, seizing her by her hair. He ground his hard lips against her soft ones. His kiss was meant to punish, to tame, to stamp his dominance upon her as his woman. The fierceness of his kiss brought tears of rage to her eyes until his kiss turned seductive, until he dropped to his knees before her, until she melted under his technique.
With one flick of his tongue, he was in. He penetrated her so high and so deep, she felt as if he were tickling her spine. Then, he began, setting the rhythm, the age-old rhythm. The rhythm that would bring forth her juices, the sweet nectar of her passion. The lick. The suck. The lave. His tongue darting here and there, lighting a thousand fires of desire. She was wind-blown, ripped apart, as the passion took hold of her in its tight grip. Her eyes flew wide. She ground her bud into his hot, welcoming mouth until she had passed over into the abyss of sated satisfaction.
He licked her dry, mopping up every drop.
She sagged to her knees, supported solely by the chains of her captivity. Her breathing ragged, she fought to regain her dignity, to silently enchant.
I am Lania, the reigning princess of the High Coven of the Whitelings. I rule the powerful. I rule the mighty. I am indomitable. I call upon my sisters.
"Marry me, Lania, and save the world."
"Not on your life, you … you … enchanter."
I call upon my sisters of air and fire and earth to join their strength to mine, their anointed ruler…
"Why do you deny me?" he asked.
"I'll do more than deny you when this works."
…to punish this wayward heretic, this oath-breaker, this bastard who has got me pregnant-damn him!-who seeks to return us to the forsaken ways of the ancient ones.
"Lady, why does everything with you have to be so difficult?"
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