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by Vita Anne Hoffman
Category: Erotica/Paranormal Erotica
Description: Feared, reviled, and cursed from birth-to-death with muteness byb her father's clan, half-breed Sea Siren Sprite Fer-de-lance has emotionally armored herself against the abuse of the world. When silver-eyed feral-black-haired Saracen Bellaclava, the fearsomely nicknamed jackal demon, cunningly arranges Sprite's temporary adoption into his clan's secondary Demesne in order to punish her for her insolent rejection of him, can Saracen, indeed, break her? Or will Sprite triumph over Saracen? Will she submit ? or will she remain Insolent to the bitter end?
eBook Publisher: New Concepts Publishing, 2011 2011
eBookwise Release Date: August 2012
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [399 KB]
Reading time: 235-329 min.
Like a ferocious untamed beast, Saracen Bellaclava paced the spacious confines of his suite, blind to all the surrounding magnificence. The enormous sleigh bed covered in plum satin. The dark lavender paper on the walls. The pair of eggplant divans. The sundry oak accent pieces, hand-crafted and intricately-carved, from the wide cheval mirror to the bookcase-lined wall, and even the intimate corner dining nook.
Absolutely none of it registered.
And, as he once again retraced that monotonous silvery-carpeted route, he was equally deaf to the profound quiet that his agitated passing disturbed. For nearly twenty-four hours, he had thus stalked his room and waited to pounce on a certain not-so-unsuspecting prey.
He came to one of the room's three doorways, the one connecting to her chamber, where he, acting as lord of the Bellaclava Demesne during his brother Luc's absence, had hastily installed--then abandoned--her. He had, in effect, imprisoned her next door to himself so, as her jailor, he could have access to her. So he could break her insolent nature. After all, Sprite's blood was tainted, but she refused to act accordingly. She refused to bow to her betters. Especially to him.
And now, through fortuitous circumstance, she came to be within his family's secondary Demesne at a time when he was in charge, when he could reign and rule over her. The abrupt recollection of this unlooked-for-turn-of-events, when Sprite had so easily fallen into his clutches one short day ago, made him salivate.
That lucky chain of events had begun when Lord Luciferno Bellaclava, Saracen's elder brother, had very recently bartered sanctuary to--and then fallen for--a beautiful, mysterious mortal woman, Desta Chevalier. Ultimately, however, Luc had had to buy the right to keep Desta as, according to an old ElfFeyen tradition, Caemon Fer-de-lance, crown prince of the Northern Region of Aurora, in fact had a prior claim to her: therefore, Luc had traded a not unwilling Catya, their spoiled baby sister, the firstborn Bellaclava female, for Desta. And, to balance this trade of a mere mortal for an immortal princess, cunning Saracen had demanded a bit of recompense from the Fer-de-lance. He had insisted upon Sprite, to sweeten the deal.
Thus she had also been made part of the trade, albeit a provisional one. She had been summarily handed over to the Bellaclava Demesne upon Luc's pledge that she be well-treated and, if possible, bonded with an ElfFeyen willing to overlook her tainted bloodline. Then almost immediately Luc and Desta, newly joined, had traveled through a portal from the Twilight Realm of Earth to Aurora, leaving Saracen temporarily in charge of the secondary Bellaclava holding. Leaving Sprite in his tender care. Only she had not once stirred from her room.
Insolent, as always, he silently snarled. But no more.
With terrifying ease, Saracen kicked in their interconnecting door. Sprite, he instantly saw, sat in a deep armchair, knees drawn to her chest, arms locked around her legs, and her chin propped on her bent knees, like a crab drawn into its shell. When he stormed into her room, she immediately uncurled herself and stood, confronting him with her hands fisted on her hips, acting as if she were six feet tall instead of a slight, petite, but imposing five feet, two and-a-debatable-quarter inches in height.
He couldn't stop his avid, wholly unsettling examination of her, a head-to-toe scrutiny that he justified as part of his natural disgust--or, more honestly, his lurid fascination--for a half-breed. They were both of them ElfFeyen, of the lusty race from Aurora, the Realm of Magic and Light. However, Saracen was bred of one of the purest, truest bloodlines, that of the Bellaclava, rulers of Aurora's prosperous temperate Southern Region. He was a royal, second in succession to the throne after Luciferno, the Bellaclava crown prince.
All of this made Saracen Greater ElfFeyen, while she, Sprite, was Lesser ElfFeyen by way of an unsanctioned liaison between Dagher Fer-de-lance, a true blooded royal, and Sienna, a lower caste Sea Siren.
And as Saracen scoured his glittering, silvery gaze down Sprite's petite frame, he scornfully marked each trait of her fouled heritage. Her stature, tiny, compact, but definitely feminine, came from her mother. Most Greater ElfFeyen females were tall, statuesque, voluptuous. She, however, lacked a lusty bosom, a lush derriere.
Saracen found himself idly wondering if any ElfFeyen male--certainly not he, although he had recently stolen the privilege of several intimate gropes and been surprisingly aroused--could be long satisfied by such meagerness, by little tits that could only partially fill the cup of a large hand?
Doubtful, he uncharitably smirked. But would her nipples, he speculated, be a dusky coral? Or some abnormal shade, say crimson or maroon, in keeping with her parentage? Although disgusted at such ruminations over an unwholesome half-breed, he nevertheless continued with his unflattering assessment, mindful to be more detached, less lascivious.
Sprite's unusual coloring was also shamefully attributable to her mother, the Sea Siren. Her thick kinked-and-curled mass of unbound hair fell well below her shoulders and mimicked the waves of the sea in a beautiful shade of foam-and-sun-gilt sandy-brown. Her eyes, Saracen had witnessed on several occasions, were also as changeable as the sea. Different emotions altered them from sea-green, to blue-gray, to pewter. Calm bestowed them with a lovely clear Caribbean blue, while agitation--anger, irritation, fear--changed them to stormy shades of gray.
And, now, as always in his presence, Sprite's eyes darkened to the deep, dull, almost black-gray of the oceans in turmoil.
He smiled, a mean tug of his lips, at this weakness of hers, nastily relishing that she could never keep her emotions hidden from him. In response to his twisted little smile, she scowled, the expression clearly articulating suspicion and annoyance. Her expressive frown drew Saracen's attention to her face, and he purposely hardened his heart as he studied each feature, so delicate, so finely drawn that she appeared angelic. Aye, she was unearthly fair, he judged, with her high cheeks, sinful mouth, pretty faintly freckle-dusted nose, and thin dramatically arched eyebrows.
And, not for the first time, he reminded himself to beware the lure of her siren's blood. Though diluted, she could still enthrall. His resistance, however, wavered as he considered Sprite's last, most damning attribute. Her dainty, graceful ears ... with their slender, tapered, fairy-like points, a fey trait if ever there was one!
Saracen swallowed hard, not in disgust but in desire. It had been his own sick curiosity that had, during the tense meeting not more than twenty-four hours ago between her people, the Fer-de-lance, and his, the Bellaclava, driven him to force Sprite to reveal this genetic defect which had always before been hidden by scarves, or headbands, or hoods. What had once been Saracen's secret, irrational craving to see her ears now had turned into a worse one: to touch them! To lick at them with his tongue!
Mentally cursing, Saracen suppressed that awful urge. Instead, he snarled at her. After all, he had had a reason for busting into her quarters.
"Until Luc's return from Aurora, you, half-breed, are to serve me, not sulk. Accept that fact."
Sprite remained motionless, as she had ever since his violent entrance. She listened to his cold pronouncement with dread, but managed to conceal her fear behind an indifferent head tilt and an insolent quirk of one slender eyebrow. However, her brave heart quailed at his reminder that she was, in effect, in the hands of her worst enemy, an exalted ElfFeyen royal, as ugly in spirit as he was beautiful in face and form.
Standing there, confronting Saracen, within mere feet of the tall muscled beast, she could easily remember the first time she had come--had, to her woe, accidentally brought herself--to his notice. Two years ago, she had entered this Demesne as the newly elevated personal bodyguard to her beloved half-brother, Caemon Fer-de-lance, when he had sought the ritualistic purchase of Catya Bellaclava, an undeniably pretty and utterly spoiled princess from the prosperous Southern Region of Aurora.
Then, as now, Sprite had been bold with her intense, inquisitive stares. In the capacity of her brother's figurative right-hand, the favored guardian and confidant of his entire life, now publicly proclaimed as such, her gaze had constantly roved the unfamiliar ring of Bellaclava for any hint of treachery. Instead, during that fateful assembly, she had found Saracen, had coolly measured the ElfFeyen royal--his estimable height, breadth, and honed muscularity, his cruelly handsome features, from sensuous lips to harsh cut cheekbones to amazing silver eyes, and, most striking of all, his waist-length feral-black hair, decorated with a single filament-thin silver-beaded braid at either temple.
And, upon that brief but thorough scrutiny, she had concluded that his reputed ill nature, of being sexually wild, rapacious, and inexhaustible, must be accurate. This then was a strong castigation given that the ElfFeyen were a promiscuous, permissive society, if less so for the distaff side. Case in point, most Demesne held formal Ruts, orgies by invitation. Or, occasionally, by abduction.
Unfortunately for Sprite, Saracen had detected then returned her fierce, fixed attention. Their strange, silent interchange had flustered her. Never before had she felt cowed by anyone, whether male or female, Greater or Lesser ElfFeyen, mortal or immortal. No one, she prided herself, had ever ... visibly ... shaken her outward calm. It was, had always been, a survival technique. Reviled from birth, even amongst her father's holding, she had had to learn to be strong, to be tough, to be impervious to physical and verbal abuse. For she was half-breed, born of a Greater ElfFeyen father and a true Sea Siren mother, whose own strain of magic had possibly bequeathed a dangerous, but as yet unknown power to her daughter, the lure of enthrallment with face, body, and voice.
But Saracen Bellaclava, with his keen silvery eyes, and devilish inhuman beauty, had very slowly perused her, had scanned that hot metallic gaze tellingly over her body as if he might possibly deign to consider her-her, the impure shameful child of the Fer-de-lance--for sex. He had made her shiver. He had made her vulnerable. In retaliation, she had disdainfully looked to his crotch, bulging, straining, lurching against the hand with which Saracen had provocatively rubbed himself in a salacious and common gesture of solicitation, and Sprite had yawned, looked away from him, and made sure to never again settle her gaze upon him during the rest of that short, tense, failed meeting. For, in the end, her brother Caemon's overly generous offer to buy Catya had been refused, none too diplomatically.
Sprite's insolence toward Saracen had not, of course, endeared her to him. Luckily, there had been little contact between herself and the second eldest son of the Bellaclava, but those few encounters had always been brutal, vicious, and cruel. At every turn, he called her insolent, sought to humble her, to remind her of her impure blood. As if she could ever forget!
Sprite's cheeks flamed with humiliation as she fought not to recall the latest incident just two weeks ago when arrogant, conceited Saracen Bellaclava had drunkenly waylaid her on her home's very doorstep, just outside the secondary Fer-de-lance Demesne, ruled over by her half-brother Caemon.
At first, he had been verbally abusive. Sprite, with a quick disdainful glance at him, had shrugged off the vitriol and moved away. Then, strangely, her muteness, followed by her obvious dismissal of him, had seemingly enraged, then emboldened him.
Overtaking her with his enormous stride, Saracen had planted himself directly before her, menaced her with his nearness, then muttered more of his ugliness into her ear.
"Fer-de-lance spawn. Impudent half-breed." And he had leaned closer still, long strands of his feral-black hair brushing against her. "Dare you disregard a Bellaclava prince?"
As usual, Sprite, eyes hooded, head averted, had silently absorbed the abuse. There hadn't been, as he well knew, any way for her to respond except with violence, because she had literally been cursed with muteness from birth. Caught directly before him, forced to listen to Saracen's tirade, Sprite had gritted her teeth and tucked her chin down to hide the fact that her eyes had filled with angry tears.
"Where have you been this night, half-breed?" Saracen had lashed that ugly question at her, had more properly sneered. "I've wasted hours here in wait for your return. The evening wears thin and I've had no like satisfaction."
Of course, she had given no answer.
"Have you come from the bed of some lower caste ElfFeyen? Have you enjoyed a rut this evening? While I've had none? No, indeed, I've not had so much as a taste or touch of pussy or ass." His voice had gotten gruff, hate-filled. He had pressed his muscular body into hers to physically intimidate her. "Did you spread your legs for one? Or many? Did you get your fill, half-breed?"
His rant had grown despicable and accusatory. Suddenly, unable to tolerate another spiteful word, Sprite had pulled back a step from him and had defiantly, unmistakably gestured with a double horizontal wave of both arms: Shut up. No more of this. Then she had brushed by him, not so accidentally knocking his muscled arm as she shouldered past. She had actually bumped him out of her way!
Saracen had chuckled, darkly. "There's a lot of strength in that little body. But exactly how much? I am in a mood to find out. Feel free to defend yourself. Or accept the consequences."
That was when he had spun her around, given her an almost unbalancing shove, then another, and another, sweeping her further away from the entrance to her familial Demesne. She recovered quickly from each, stumbling, regaining her feet, measuring the growing distance to her Demesne, but always facing the bully, who had discovered a new game.
"I'll not let you scamper away until I'm done. You're overdue for a lesson." His silvery eyes had gleamed. A grin, from jackal to prey, had tugged his lips, revealing his one physical imperfection, a chipped front tooth, gotten, no doubt, Sprite had insanely decided, from gnawing at steel.
Instinctively understanding the rules of this "game", Sprite had defended herself in a like manner, intentionally lessening the force of each blow or pummel, only resorting to her weapon much, much later. They had sparred, if not playfully, at least not truly savagely. Sprite had been ever mindful that he was a royal, while she was nothing but a half-breed. As for Saracen, he had batted at her like a lion would a cub, with claws sheathed, but force only partially blunted.
With exaggerated pushes and shoves, not bruising but overpowering, Saracen had roughed her up, pressed her ever backward, then he had unexpectedly laid hands on her, pushed her--splayed her, in fact--against the shadowy side of the immense building. Sprite, not winded, nevertheless had breathed hard, her chest rising and falling underneath the iron-bar-like pressure of his forearm. She had stared into the bright metallic glow of his silvery eyes. They were so hypnotic that she had ceased to struggle in the prison of his arms, the cage of his tall muscled body. His allure had more than rivaled any ascribed to the Sea Sirens.
She hadn't been able to think, or move, or protest.
In that moment, she had suffered the undiluted attention of a true pure ElfFeyen royal. Nothing save the weight of his body had kept her upright against the harsh brownstone wall. A weakness such as she had never experienced had entirely sapped her. When he had begun to caress a hand to her breasts, she had feebly squirmed to be free but only managed to aid his fevered groping. He was incredibly big as he pinned her there, the jackal with his hare. Roughly, rhythmically, he had fondled her with single-minded concentration, then began, after a moment of hesitation, to snake his other hand down into her fawn colored pants.
That intention had so startled Sprite that she had ceased her weak struggling. Her soundless pants, of exertion ... and of something else unfamiliar to her, had lifted her chest into the hard, eager gropes of his hand. The scrape of her stiffened nipple through the thin, crinkled linen of her shirt against his palm had given her a jolt straight from her clenched stomach to her groin! She had been sexually excited!
Dumbly, she had watched his face while he had visibly shed his last bit of reluctance to actually touch her--there--and he very expertly, very capably slid his right hand between her legs.
Saracen had worn a twisted grimace of concentration. He hadn't returned her stare. No, he had focused his narrowed, glittery, silver eyes upon the dark valley between their bodies almost as if he could see where his hand was exploring. The rasp of his own lungs had soughed, had gotten ever more labored and loud. He had experimentally rubbed her pubic hair between his fingers, then smiled at the texture, tugged at a curl.
"Good, good, just as prettily furred as any other pussy."
The low visceral thrum of his approbation had beat in Sprite's sex. Erratically. The sensation had made her heart rate skyrocket. She'd had another amazing spasm of her inner muscles, stronger than any of the infrequent times she had ever masturbated! She had been aroused! By him! By the jackal demon of the Bellaclava! When Saracen had bestowed her a sudden flicker of a glance and a faint wicked chipped-tooth smile, Sprite hadn't been sure if he knew of her body's traitorous response. She'd prayed all the sea gods not!
But he had then dropped his gaze back to where his fingers had paused in their licentious work. Abruptly, Saracen had cupped her with the full spread of his huge hot hand. Her breath had soundlessly hitched, while Saracen had grunted, approvingly. It had been a totally strange experience, that explicit handhold molding her, caressing her, possessing her.
Sprite's head had lolled weakly upon the wall, and a whimper, cursedly soundless, had slackened her mouth. Her vision had dulled behind languid, partially closed lids. In her naivete, she'd curiously wondered: what did he intend to do next ...? She shouldn't have wallowed in the languor of his crude possession. She should've fought him off! She should've kicked and bit and scratched! Instead, humiliatingly, she had wished that she had a voice to beg him to go on. But Saracen Bellaclava, she'd learned, needed no encouragement to persevere, none whatsoever.
"Oh, yes .... " His low, unbroken groan had felt like a vibration in her sex. "I've got you right in the palm of my hand, haven't I, insolent little Sprite? And you're not any different from any other ElfFeyen female, are you? Just a soft, sinful slit for me to fill. Just another willing cunt. Just another piece of tail."
Unexpectedly, his taunting mutter had trailed off, had been peppered with a string of curses. There had been a hint of self loathing when he had continued. "Why, then, when I despise you, could I bring myself to bless all the gods of fornication for this chance to fuck you?" He had shook his head as if to clear it, gasped in a big breath, then cast her a malevolent, glittery-eyed glare.
"Shall I? Shall I fuck you, Sprite?" Goaded by her muteness, he had further slanted his head to hers. His breathtaking demon's face, beautifully masculine, framed with an amazing fall of pitch-black waist-length hair, was almost close enough for a kiss. Anger had dominated his expression, but desperation, or so Sprite hazily judged, had been there, too. "Shall I prove to us both who is stronger? Shall I demonstrate that I am your better? That you must bow to me, as is right and proper? I am a royal. What I will, you must obey."
Then his final cruelty had come. "Aye, I'll do as I please. But I'll only fuck you with my fingers. As an inferior mixed blood, you're too far beneath me for my cock's seed."
Sprite's strange lassitude had begun to wane under the assault of Saracen's contempt. She couldn't allow him to disgrace her in this manner! He was going to digitally penetrate her not because of desire, or attraction, or a true and natural lust, but merely to hurt her. To humiliate and degrade her!
Instantly, with a silent scream of rage, she had unsheathed her treasured knife, the one bequeathed her by her long dead mother, and she had poised it, steadily, closely, to his face. She had only meant to menace him with the blade, its shaft inlaid with mother-of-pearl and inscribed with the sigils of her mother's Sea Siren tribe.
The weapon had barely given him pause.
"You don't really want me to stop. And I certainly don't want to stop." He had simply stared into her eyes as he lasciviously inserted a finger into her slit. He stirred at her flesh, rolled his middle finger through her folds, thoroughly slicked himself with her lubrication. Little-by-little a glaze had dulled the keenness of his silver eyes.
A string of disjointed words had groaned from Saracen. "Wet--slippery--ready. All--mine." Yet, as he played with her, the pleasure on his feature's had slowly darkened. Anger sharpened his tone. "Yes, you're dripping like a sieve. You're sopping. Much too wet from simple anticipation. Even of me! You have lain with another this night!"
Sprite's mute denial had been a constant, frantic head shake: No! No! No! She was so weak with building pleasure that her knees shook, and her hand nearly dropped the blade still precariously menacing him.
"Why deny it? I care not for how many others you've spread your legs." He had more forcefully rubbed into her wetness. But a crazed gleam had burned in his silvery eyes, and his mouth had been stretched thin, as if in anger. "No, indeed, it's exciting. I just might take my fill of you after all. I could add my cum to the mix. Use you as fiercely as your insolence deserves."
Sprite, frightened beyond her wits that he might take her by force and not seduction, had acted on instinct. Her knee had flown toward his groin, not contacting, only threatening. But Saracen, too, acting on instinct, anticipating excruciating pain, had shifted, a sharp full-body lurch that had raked Sprite's knife across the bottom corner of his right eye. He had then flinched away from the sting of the blade, extending the small clean cut into a V-shape.
"You've marked me, half-breed." Saracen had snarled, drug his hand from her body, and backed away several steps in disgust. He had lifted a hand toward the dark red flow of blood that spilled down his sharp cheek, but, as Sprite had watched with fascinated fear, he hadn't swiped at or tried to staunch the wound. No, instead he had scented his damp, glistening fingers, coated with her lubrication.
He had actually laughed at her wide-eyed shock right before he had licked at his fingers. "Cut me will you? It's your loss ..." he had exaggeratedly made another lick to the side of his big hand with a very long, mobile, lascivious tongue, "... but this is far from over. Now I've more reason than ever to discipline you. Expect it when next we meet, little sea urchin." He had paused, considered, then spat her one final insulting name. "Unnatural mixed-breed."
With the speed of a hand snuffing out a candle, he had vanished, leaving her with a threat unfulfilled until now when he, Saracen Bellaclava, who despised and reviled and tormented her, was her temporary lord. Sprite gathered her courage, the armor that had protected her from all forms of abuse in her harsh life, and returned Saracen's every intense stare-for-stare.
Her defiance, as ever, fueled his wrath. That same perverse, inexplicable urge to dominate and control her--to master Sprite Fer-de-lance--seethed inside him. Suddenly, he flicked a glance toward her bed. Her un-slept in bed. Upon that discovery, he scowled at her. It was then that Saracen noted the faintest of circles under her stormy sea-gray eyes. Had she sat in that damned chair ever since her arrival, unable to let down her guard and rest? Just as he, similarly, had spent the same period pacing? He cast a malevolent look to the chair she had so quickly vacated upon his violent entrance, and came to a realization, one that shamed him.
"You've been locked in this room, in a strange Demesne, for the past twenty-four hours without food, or company, or welcome." He radiated anger, but it was for himself. He had been so fixated on her, on the fact of her actual presence within the Bellaclava secondary holding, that he had mistreated her, horribly. He had, in fact, ordered that no servant near his apartments, so as to isolate her, to make her dependent on him. Therefore, none had come to her--with clean clothes, a hot meal, or a single word of kindness or welcome.
She, Sprite Fer-de-lance, an impenitent, impudent half-breed, had turned him into an unthinking monster. And she had done so in the span of one day! That being the case, how, he vaguely wondered, would he behave in the course of a week?!