Isabelle tensed, her core trembling before an explosion of white-hot pleasure rippled through her, a loud moan escaping her lips. She rocked her hips as best she could, practically fucking herself on his tongue like a heathen, but no shame filled her.
Only bliss.
Finally, the tremors of pleasure subsided, and the vines released her from their grasp as they retracted back into Jean-Phillipe’s body. Could she have imagined it? No, certainly not with the red marks circling her wrists, matching the meandering trail that crawled up her body.
Jean-Phillipe smiled, another wicked grin, caressing her inner thigh with the back of his hand.
“Now sleep, darling, and remember me in the morning.”
Before she could say a word, the dreamscape claimed her, plunging her into its murky depths.
CHAPTER 4
ISABELLE WAS ON HER hands and knees, a touch at her chin urging her to look up.
Henri knelt in front of her, nude and caressing her cheek with his thumb, his face plastered with a surreal smile that was much too large. Hands were gripping her waist, and she turned back to see Pierre with a similarly eerie grin, also nude and guiding his cock between her legs.
“What…” she began, but was interrupted by a hand at her neck, urging her forward again.
“Pretty girl,” Henri said, pressing his thumb to her lower lip before sliding it into her wet mouth and petting her tongue. “Our pretty little plaything.”
She sucked on instinct, circling her mouth around his finger, a tremor shuddering through her with the moan that left his lips.
He removed his thumb and replaced it with the tip of his cock, prodding at her pursed lips until she opened for him. In one brutal thrust, he was in herthroat and she was gagging, barely able to contain the bile bubbling in her stomach as Pierre slipped into her from behind.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, her eyes burning from the strain in her throat and the tension in her cunt as Pierre started thrusting, fingers like knives as they gripped into her flesh.
It was all wrong, the strange smiles, the foul manner in which they used her, the fact that these two men were both here in the first place.
What had happened after the midnight confessional?
She grasped for Henri’s leg, but jerked her hand away, the flesh white hot and burning her fingers where she’d brushed him. When she looked up, he was transformed, a beast where a man had once been. He clutched the back of her head, bringing her harder down on his cock as sharp talons tore into her hips from behind.
His skin was an otherworldly blue, though his eyes were as white as the full moon, blank orbs which stared back at her without emotion. When he smiled, it was as if his face were split in two, fangs glinting in the candlelight. A jolt of fear burst through her as she tried to scramble away, but there was nowhere to run, the beast sliding out of her mouth and slamming back in, her head dizzying from the force of his thrusts.
Crooked horns burst from a mane of dark hair, and feathery black wings sent a gust of air over her, prickling her skin with goosebumps.
He gripped her head, sliding further down her throat until her breath was cut off, her eyes wideningwith realization. As the room faded to black, she heard an eerie laugh echoing through the space, her mind emptying until there was nothing left.
Isabelle awoke with a start, sweat beading on her brow as she stared at the ceiling. Her eyes darted around the room, certain there was an intruder, her heart rate only slowing slightly when she realized she was alone.
Alone and nude, sunlight streaming in through the window and revealing the swirls of reddish-brown still staining her body and sheets. As she swiped her hand over the dried blood, she tried to distinguish dream from reality, though much of it was blurred.
Pierre and Henri? No, they certainly had not been here, would not have done something like that.
The strange man, Jean-Phillipe? Hehadfollowed her home and done things that made her flush with shame. But had she been imagining all the peculiarities? The forked tongue? The tendrils of thorns?
They couldn’t possibly be real, and yet how could she explain the red marks encircling her wrists, the trail of pinpricks leading up her body?
She pushed her way out of bed, hurrying to the bath, eager to remove any memory of the evil man. As the tub filled with spring water, she wondered what she would do if she saw him again. She shouldgo to the temple, certainly, and tell the faith warriors what had happened.
But the thought of sharing the vulgarity of the previous evening made her cheeks flush with embarrassment. What if they blamed her? She knew how people talked about her, living all alone outside of town. Improper for a woman to be isolated like that, without the protection of a man.
And what if shehadinvited the attention of that monster with her lustful thoughts?
Isabelle stepped into the water, trying to ignore the memories of Jean-Phillipe’s head between her legs, his tongues curling around her center in just the right way to make her squirm, the thorns pricking her skin so lusciously, better even than the cilice still chained around her thigh. The helpless sensation which had ignited her body with arousal, even though she knew better than to succumb to it.
Goddess, what was she going to do?
