Me:He might be our best meal of the century, so we should make him last.
Darius:You speak words of wisdom. But I am sure he has more than one climax in him. His cock is primed and ready to spill its seed ...
Me:Very well. But if he only explodes once, it will be off with your head!
Darius chuckles and returns to his ministrations on Sir Cyril’s manhood while I slide his hose down over his knees and run my hands over shapely calves covered in peach fuzz. Unable to help myself, I pierce his lower thigh with my fangs, hoping Darius will not mind if I deviate from our plan. I sneakily draw a small mouthful of blood as Sir Cyril moans and his hips start jerking above. Darius holds the knight’s cock aloft; and I watch, mesmerised, as a stream of thick creamy seed shoots forth, coating his lips and outstretched flicking tongue.
Darius:Mmm, most luscious. Would you like some?
I am torn between blood and seed, but his spurting cock looks heavenly.
Me:If I may.
I open my lips, and the savourful seed gloops into my mouth and warms my throat. Darius strokes the shaft, giving me more, and then takes the pulsating rod backagain, gulping at it. We drink at the knight’s fountain until we have sucked him dry. I am surprised at the amount of seed that burst forth; he must be a very fertile man. A boon for any young woman wishing to have many babies. The thought depresses me.
Standing, I face the goateed knight and happen to see his expression as we are almost the same height. He is a smidgeon taller. I am expecting to see gratefulness because we have given him such ecstasy, but instead, he looks ... murderous.
Me (warily):Our knight is angry ...
Darius (chuckling):He will be even angrier when you ride him, and I drink from his neck.He rubs his hands in glee.
I personally think that we should erase his memory now and let him go, as I do not want to ride a knight with murderous eyes. But Darius seems intent on keeping to our plan, and I desire more of Sir Cyril’s blood, even if he wants to kill me.
Chapter 17
Will | London, present day
I can’t believe this. It’s our first day at the indoor rehearsal spaces in Bankside, and Hester is fucking late!
However, it’s not noticeable to anyone but me.Yet.
Around twenty-five to thirty people—including the actors, director, producer, designers, and stage management—are milling around the room, which is equipped with mirrors and props. The dimensions of the Globe stage have been taped out on the floor for reference. Over to the far side, a table is set up with stainless steel tea and coffee urns and several packets of biscuits for morning tea.
Excited chatter fills the air. It’s usually energising, and I should be fired up. But instead, I’m stressing out and getting angrier by the minute. Hester is spoiling this for me because she’s. Not. Fucking. Here. Where the hell is she? I should have insisted we come together.
The young bearded director, Jordy Watkins, strides pastand claps me on the shoulder with a jovial ‘All right, Will?’
I straighten from my position against the wall and erase my scowl. ‘Yeah, great. Thanks, Jordy.’
I think he’s going to stop and chat, but he takes off to greet someone else. So I slouch against the wall again and pretend to read my script, keeping one eye on the door.
Chelsea, the stage manager with a severe black bob, begins taking our attendance. Then to my relief, Hester slips through the door. She scans the crowd, assesses what’s happening, adjusts her tote bag, and walks casually into the room. There are hellos and nods for her. She’s ticked off the list, then looks around, as if searching for someone. Her gaze lands on me by the wall, and our eyes lock for a second. The rest of the room seems to fade away.
Hastily, I drop my eyes to the script, ignoring her warm smile. But it’s harder to ignore the way my body responds to it. Grrr, stop looking at me, woman!
The next time I risk a glance, Hester’s back is to me, and she’s chatting to a couple of the other female cast members. I can’t help giving her the once-over; she’s looking particularly fetching this morning in a sage-green jumper and skinny jeans that show off her long legs and slim hips. I gaze at her silky auburn hair, remembering how I buried my face in it long ago. Not fair. She usually has it plaited. Why is it loose? What has she been doing? Do I really want toknow?
Jordy claps his hands briskly from the front of the room. ‘Right, everyone, welcome. I’m sure you’re as eager as I am to get this Shakespearean show on the road.’
There are nods and chuckles. Hester flicks her hair back, and I see she’s relaxed and smiling too. No doubt because she’s seen the rehearsal schedule we were emailed. Today is only a script read-through, plus meeting the design team and looking at their sketches for the set and costumes. Easy and fun.
I drag my attention from Hester and listen to Jordy as he runs through his concept forTwelfth Night.
‘As many of you already know, I’ve decided to give the production an Elizabethan theme since our opening night is the twelfth of January. The medieval Twelfth Night feast is the traditional Feast of Fools, where servants and nobles swapped roles for one day and celebrated the Court of Misrule. So think mistaken identities, topsy-turvy chaos, and festive energy. You’ll all be wearing traditional costumes from Shakespeare’s time with some modern twists for ease of movement. The design team has come up with some stunning but comfortable dresses for the female characters. And yes, there will be doublets and hose for the male characters and for those of you in disguise.’
There are light groans from the men and laughs from thewomen. Hester’s lips curve as well.Oh yes, I know how much you like a man in tight hose.
‘So as you’ll see by the schedule, I allocated this morning to our first go-through of the script. This is where we simplyreadwithout worrying about acting so you can hear the rhythm of the words.’
