|
|
0 views
|
0 Comments |
| Edit Post | Edit Colors |
|||
|
~Reign down on me~ A million candles have burned themselves out. Still I read on. -Edgar Allan Poe | |||
|
OOC Well, that needs a whole lot of editing, and the picture just won't stick to the post. I will clean it up later and re-post. You have created quite the set up here, more people should engage!! ..not brown nosing the vampire, just impressed. ~v~ A million candles have burned themselves out. Still I read on. -Edgar Allan Poe | |||
|
... Please preface Out of Character comments with OOC: Setting and storyline is run by the group leader: The Master and Prince of this Realm: VladVampireLord Himself. [image border=3 color=orange]
~*~ The Washout ~*~
“Where the hell am I?” Veloria called out after the voice, her eyes still blurred from the pain pulsing through her skull. “Wait….” She tries to think back to the events leading her here but before she could collect her thoughts a dulge of soft skilled hands swiftly disrobed her. She protests, swatting them away yet wave after wave of relentless caresses finds her ever distracted from thought, just the rolling caresses lulling her into a sing-song of gasps and pants.
The women’s hands like marzipan with trailing hints of fingernails to graze over slickly oiled flesh. Gentle wafts of patchouli and lavender came and went, teasing her senses. Someone lit candles, striking matches in the distance one by one as the glare from the light subsided and the flickering hues danced in its place. She couldn’t remember if she had ever felt a touch like this before, if she belonged here…she couldn’t even remember her name. All she knew now was the ever kneading of malleable meat and the earie voice of the man named Renfield. ...and ...and, she fell back dizzily into the abyss of hands.
The hands seemed to lift her straight off the bed and work themselves under her, spreading her limbs and delving into her softest tissues. Her nipples swelled to perked raspberries under their firm pinches. Soothing oils and gliding palms rolling from her throat, pressing into her chest, between her toyed breasts, along the curve of her belly and down curling around the pelvic bone and into her folds, spreading her wide as the cool air tweaks the skin. Another hand reaches within to pull and pinch her clit in rhythm to the fingers pulling and pinching at her engorged nipples. More warmed oil is drizzled from above as searching fingers continue to pull and pry and tickle, her giggles and gasps fill the otherwise silent air.
Hands. Hands and fingers and hair. Tongues, soft, wet, warm lapping tongues, and cool, cool, breaths. Fingers play over her lips, dragging and tugging, slipping into her mouth, over her tongue and back out. A scalding mouth closes in over hers releasing hot breaths just onto her lips before taking a firm nip at her lower lip. “Aaahhh!” Veloria gasps at the sharp pain, the lip swelling fast. Her head swings back with a moan and the same teeth drag down along her throat, down and past her breast with a full wet tongue blazing a trail before them. Down, down, along her belly. Another mouth engages her now tender lips, placing kisses over the bruise as two more mouths surround each nipple, suckling them deep into their wells. Fingers fall away from her budding clit, slick and wet with threads of want as the mouth and nose and trails of hair slide down her length and dip into her mound. Such a hungry mouth, flickering, darting tongue, pursed lips to suck onto the rise of her clit before grinding its muzzle against the tender flesh. And teeth. Tightening down onto her clit and pulling, tugging, suckling, her mound rising with this tide before those teeth release her clit with a sharp suckle. Her body falls back into the waiting hands with a guttural moan and trembles of wanton flesh. The hands raise her back to the hungry mouth. So many hands… So many mouths.
“Ooohh” she gasps rushing back into that mouth, wanting that darting tongue back inside her, deeply past her meat and into her pulsing core. She lets out a “please”, as she pumps against the mouth harder and harder. “Oh, please, please, yes….” Her head rolls from side to side as her pleasure mounts. The pad of a finger presses against her asshole as the mouth persists to ravish her throbbing nib. She moans and moves onto the finger with her asshole widely spread by helpful hands. She sucks in a deep gasp of air with that unmistakable groan of release as her body begins to shudder. Another lithe finger curls into her cunt as if to say, “come here.” And fingers and mouths and hands and pinches with kisses all through the night until exhausted, body seduced and spent, cleansed again, and laid to repose in succulent slumber. A million candles have burned themselves out. Still I read on. -Edgar Allan Poe | |||
|
~*~ The Seamstress ~*~
Veloria groaned and placed a pillow over her head at the sound of the brisk knock at her door. Again, the fog, the sweat, the panting and pain, the flash of something bestial, and gone, gone into an abyss of fog. She could not remember, who she was, who these strange people were constantly fussing over her, distracting, enthralling... and ever evasive. Strangest of them was the man, the only man, this Renfield, and his unwavering reassurances that, “The Master will explain… the Master will explain.”, then sucks in his breath with a sinister wheeze. But these comforts, the food, the wine, the attentions of these silent waifs, always cooing and reveling in her pleasures, lulled her into their embrace, forgetting the chilling dread that otherwise consumed her.
The knock returned, briefly coaxing her eyes to open from her lurid dream, but every moment not exhausted by the incessant activities, she found herself drawn back to this terrifying dark muse. Daytime naps had become habitual now, if not just to escape the intensity of the nightly terrors, and to just rest, and rest. Oh, but the nights! When the servant girls would quietly slink away from her and out of sight. When the last of the candles flickered out and that call would start to rise around her, grip her fleeing mind as she succumbs, when he would ravish her soul from the flesh, leaving her rolled onto her belly, fingers curled over the edge of the mattress, her mount full and ready, pursed high in the air for Him to claim, this invisible man, this demon, this curse.
Knock. Knock! Knock!! A wrinkled woman with small white glazed eyes strode into her room carrying small bolts of scarlet fabrics just as her body fell back to the bed. The two girls following behind rushed to her side and drew wet clothes over her skin to comfort her, but the old woman would have no such lollygagging. “It is time.” She said, as both an introduction and finale. And with that she made quick work of prying her from the bed.
This wrinkled wretch of a woman, stiffly poking and prying her form with dry twig fingers, without inquiry or invitation. But with every assault from the sightless seamstress the girls would giggle and kiss, toying with her hair, her breasts, her thighs; fingers dancing along the slit of her ass, sometimes playing deeper, sometimes teasing along the small of her back. And so, the days went, with the crone snipping and sewing with the occasional incoherent mumble. No time to rest, no time to think of Him, not until the sun dripped past the horizon and the eerie red moon arose. Not until the nightly summons where he devoured her, and she gave herself to Him, again, and again.
One chilled morning, as she woke again from her feverous dreams, laying prone and naked on the bed and spent from the night’s exhaustion, her eyes opened to the figure of Renfield grinning at her door, his hands ever churning around each other. She gasped and gathered the damp sheet around her as she bolted upright in the sweltered bed. She did not know how long he had been there, what he had saw, only the gleam in his dark eyes betrayed any knowledge at all. “Your gown is ready for you.” He paused, his eyes boring a little deeper. “Tonight, the Master…” he cleared his throat softly, “wishes to see you at His dinner table.” A million candles have burned themselves out. Still I read on. -Edgar Allan Poe | |||
|
she exits her room in the flowing gown and floats toward the dining hall, knowing exactly where it is even though she swears she's never been there before.
as she approaches a heavy wood door, it opens easily and quietly. she enters. the table is loaded with trays of food, nothing the same. her eyes are hungry, her mouth waters as she scans the food from one end of the table to the other.
she blinks past the candles on the table toward the corner of the room. feeling seen, out comes a wolf, unblinking, licking it's lips. veloria is frozen in place, though she has no desire to scream, which surprises her. she surprises herself again by reaching out but the wolf turns and exits the room.
a voice in her head tells her to sit, so she does. she waits for her host, surveying the feast she's about to partake in, ham, turkey, chicken, pheasant, steak, ribs, brisket, etc. she notices a common feature about the food, but before the words can form in her mind, the door from where the wolf departed opens and the master enters. 
| |||
|
Veloria wakes up with the sudden realization that this roleplay group is a farce, packs her things and goes to create something better, elsewhere. A million candles have burned themselves out. Still I read on. -Edgar Allan Poe |
|
