Tales from Arondell: Sodom - Chapter 1

Chapter One

Nathanael Scarlett

My eyes fly open and my heart sinks. Madam Verune looms over me, her shale hands on her hips and a perfect white-blond eyebrow raised. She's elegant and regal as always, even in her displeasure, dressed simply in a black silk bustier and full skirts.

Great. Just fucking great. My half-blind gaze flicks to my youngest Companion. The sweet Netherkin lass, Lola, hangs back behind Fierra, her flame-haired girlfriend. Her fair cheeks are flushed and her dark eyes downcast. Lola always does that when she sees me naked, and I'll admit her shyness is endearing. It's one of the many qualities I adore in my beloved Dove.

I sigh wistfully and reach for my engraved tin of smokes. The Madam frowns at me, pursing her painted lips.

“What?” I feign ignorance and stuff a cigarette into my mouth, but I leave it unlit. I know what's coming next. “Can't a man enjoy a bath and a smoke in peace?” I idly toy with the battered, old tin. We both know that's not the case though, and her frown deepens.

“You know what.” She leans forward, presenting me with a delectable view of cleavage, snatches the tobacco roll from my lips, and promptly crushes it beneath her shiny black boot heel.

What a waste. I grunt in disgust, and toss my cigarette tin aside. Good thing that shipment hasn't arrived yet. Then I will be pissed off. A fine Jawbone cigar is hard to come by.

“What do you want, Verune?” I sigh and scrub my fingers through my messy hair. It's been days since I styled it last, I need a good shave and my goatee needs a trim. But with my slave and his siblings moving here, in between longer, increasingly dangerous shifts at The Tankard and little Brigit getting sick, I don't see the point in dressing up. Or taking care of my appearance any more. Not when something bad could happen to Zae and his family.

At least once they're settled in here I'll have reason to stress less.

I throw a longing glance at my cigarette tin. Damn woman. Now I really want a fucking smoke. Why do I keep letting her do this to me? She isn't my Domme any more, and she isn't my mother...

“You shouldn't be Dream-walking, Nathanael,” she scolds me and crosses her slender arms. Fierra nods her agreement and steps back, slipping her arm around her girlfriend's waist.

I pull a childish face at them. “There's a lot of things you say I shouldn't do, Verune. Because it's 'bad for my mental health'.” I fold my hands under my head and stare at the shadowy ceiling, counting the cracks and cobwebs covering the ancient stonework. It's better than thinking about how much I need a fucking smoke. A drink and a long, slow shag would be nice too. But who knows when Zae's coming home, and Bella isn't mine. Yet.

“Remember what happened last time?” Madam Verune's sharp tone drags me back to the present, and I glance at her.

“Look, Verune, I appreciate the concern.” Out the corner of my eye, I catch Lola stealing a quick glance at me. Her cheeks turn pinker as she drinks in my features. Then her gentle eyes lower to my loins. I swallow hard. I love it and loathe it when she looks at me like that. Like she still wants me, even though she made her choice five years ago, and it's so damned confusing!

Her gaze lingers. Heat and pleasure sweeps through me, reminding me of her sweet lips, her warm thighs, and the delicate cherry I never got the chance to pluck.

My cock stirs, stiffening painfully beneath the water. Damn. I have to get out of here. Find out how far away my Love is. I want him. I need him. Now. Ignoring Fierra's hungry smirk and Lola's deepening blush, I hoist myself out of the pool. The slate tiles are cold against my flushed, wrinkled skin.

“But I'm fine, despite what you believe.” I snatch up the towel I flung over the rickety stool – the only piece of furniture in here – and quickly dry off. My attempts to convince the Madam make little difference though. She's been resolute in her opinions since the day we met, and that was a long time ago.

I bend to retrieve my cigarette tin. Knowing Verune, she might decide to confiscate those too. All in my 'best interests' of course. “I just needed to-”

“How can you honestly care for a woman you don't even know? Haven't even seen before?” She studies me with astute amber eyes.

Not this shit again. I pinch the mangled bridge of my nose, and shove another cigarette into my mouth. She can try to snatch this one from me. “I knew you were going to say that.” I pause to light up in front of my Companions, without even asking if they want one. I know, where are my manners?

“Besides,” I suck in a lungful of gratifying smoke, and release it with a heavy sigh, “the situation with Zaenack began no better. At least, not according to you.” I jab my cigarette at Verune, and wrap the towel around myself. Cutting off the enticing view. Unless I'm mistaken, Lola looks disappointed. Almost, anyway. I sigh again.

You could've had this, darlin. If you wanted it. You still could. I let the thought hang in the air between us. I know Zae certainly wouldn't mind, whether it's only once or many times.

But what about my Dove? I grimace. I love her. I need her in my life. I'm getting too old for hot, meaningless sex. My slave and I both want something more. I drag thoughtfully on my cigarette, studying Lola, and flick ash onto the wet tiles.

She turns away from me, hiding her lovely face behind her long black hair and Fierra's shoulder. At least she doesn't run out of the room. Not like the last time she threw off mixed signals.

“Now, unless you've got anything else to say,” I turn my back on them, and saunter into the adjoining sitting room, “I'm going to finish my cigarette in peace.”

Verune hounds me relentlessly for the rest of the night, even though I'd like to get some sleep. Lannie is bringing the girls around in the morning, while Zae and his kin finish moving. But no. The Madam insists there's important business to be taken care of, and none of it can wait.

Sign this, pay for that, review warehouse inventories, answer messages, order new goods... The usual daily bullshit, and she stands over my shoulder, making sure I do everything I've neglected for close to a week. She even offers to shave and groom me! Until I tell her to sod off and give me some space.

It's close to five in the morning when I finally slink away to the Smoking Room – one of the few places where she won't bother me, because of the smell – and collapse into my recliner. The cracked, ancient leather moulds around me, caressing me like a lover's embrace. It smells like my Love.

Oh shit. This is his chair. Not mine. I groan and drop my arm over my eyes. I'm too tired to move. I'm too tired to fucking care, but I'm still a bit horny.

I'd better do something about it I suppose. There's still one more thing that needs to be taken care of. If I don't they'll be hungrier tomorrow, and in my current state they'll only crave more. I don't know why that happens, but it does.

I lower my arm and stare at the dead fireplace. The twin blood-lusting blades, companions for almost my whole life, hang in their place of honour above the mantle-piece. Silently, wordlessly they beg and scream for me. Not yet. I stare at them. I have to do this first.

Listening to the bitter wind warbling beneath the eaves, and the bare branches of an old oak, tap-tapping against the window, I finally open my belt and unzip my trousers.

My semi-erect cock pokes through the gap in my silk shorts, begging to be kissed and touched. If only I could feel my love's warm lips and hot tongue, or the tight clench of his insides. If only I could bury myself in my Dove, tasting her, touching her, claiming her wet little wild-flower, I'd be a much happier man.

I wrap my fingers around my stiffening girth and let out an excited moan. It's louder than intended, but in here with all that noise outside, who's going to hear me?

My strokes are swift and hard, my fingers slick with the juice oozing from my slit. At this pace I know I won't last long, and I don't have the energy to ride the edge of my pleasure. I have to conserve my strength for my starving blades.

Fuck, I'm close. I moan again, my breath escaping my lips in ragged gasps and my mind starts to wander. To Isabella's velvety depths, hugging me like a wet glove. My mouth against her throat, her heart pumping blood beneath my lips. Her frightened, excited gasps swirling in my ears as I bite her. I taste her musk, her ambrosia on my tongue. She's so ripe, so sweet, I could drown in her for days. Her tiny wings beat the air, her body arching, crushing her breasts into my chest as she screams my name, and spills her honey all over me.

“Oooh... Oooh fuck!” I don't even have time to snatch up a handful of tissues. Pearly strings jet across my fist onto my trousers, with a force I haven't felt in weeks. I keep stroking, milking myself dry – oooh it feels so fucking good – and sag into the weathered upholstery.

I stare at the cracks and shadows on the ceiling, waiting until my heart slows and my breathing returns to normal. The sticky mess quickly cools, and I grab the box of tissues from the coffee table. Thank Morpheus I don't have to vacate this chair! It's bad enough knowing I've spilled everywhere, without feeling it dripping down my leg or ass-crack.

Zipping up again, I light a cigarette, bin the crumpled tissues, and take down my swords from the wall. Their need throbs like a ghastly heartbeat beneath my fingertips. In a few moments. I caress their leather-bound hilts and sheathed blades. I know you're hungry.

Carmine and Ebony, both gifts from my long-dead father, have been with me for more than three centuries. Since I was old enough to wield a weapon, which by mortal standards was barely out of childhood. But my kind grow a lot quicker than Transients. We have to, otherwise we wouldn't survive.

I drag on my cigarette, dropping hot ash onto the old carpet, and unsheathe my swords one at a time. I'd better get this done.

Holding my hand out palm up, I drag Ebony's serrated edge across my flesh and close my fingers around the soot-black blade. I grunt as she starts to feed. By Morpheus it hurt those first few times I did this. But now... I've done it so many times I barely even feel it. Just a dull ache and a distinctive sucking sensation, as the enchanted sword absorbs my spilled blood.

Thank the Gods I don't have to do this often. Once every few months, until they take a life. It wouldn't be necessary at all if I could give them, and myself the vengeance we crave. Until I make a new nemesis that is, and I'll always have enemies. Being hated is in my blood.

I repeat the process with Carmine, staining her red like her name. My cigarette hangs neglected in my mouth, and I sheathe my swords when I'm done.

The siren song of sleep hangs over me, welcoming, suffocating, drawing me in. I struggle to stay awake, long enough to crush my cigarette into my ash-tray and hang my swords over the mantle-piece.

With heavy steps, nearly dozing as I walk, I lurch and sprawl across the spare bed tucked in the corner. My head hits the pillow. I dream of Isabella...

Continued in Chapter 2