Heat.

It filled the dark room with a palpable weight, hanging on the air, moist and vaporous, caressing the flesh and drawing from it intense tears of perspiration. Panting inhales filled empty lungs with its heavy taste, glazed the throat with its thickness, while dry exhales were momentary freedom from the oppressive cloud of calidity.

It was everywhere.

Darkness crept along the walls of the ritual chamber, broken only by the tawny flame of a single light flickering upon an ancient candelabra. The umbra moved as though liquid, as though alive, swaying and writhing with agitated aggression in its lust to consume the light.

"Cuceri... acest corp... lipsit ...de valoare."

Words were moaned with rasping agony. The woman who spoke them cried out as her body was jarred over and over again, yet she forced her eyes open to stare down at the splayed book her face hovered above. Upon all fours she rode the jagged slab of onyx stone draped by crimson cloth, the altar of the Carnal Prince, as she was ruthlessly violated by the man who knelt behind her to the sounds of slapping flesh and grunting gasps.

"Lacrimă... din ea ...sufletul... meu." She panted between pleas, fingernails chipping against the infallible stone as she sought to cling to something...anything...for support. Thin strings of saliva spilled from her arid lips and splashed across the empty pages, joining the salty puddles of sweat that gathered at the inner hinge.

The buildup was growing faster, stronger, racing toward that ultimate crescendo. She struggled to continue as the lecherous impact stole her breath and threatened her resolve. How she wanted to simply give into his invasion and revel in the elation of such rough coitus. "Distruge-ma..." She uttered weakly, "... creaţi-mi."

It was then that the crimson webbing that laced her throat flared to life, instilling in her a surge of raw energy that strengthened her tenacity and revived her sense of focus. The dark magic of the ritual was starting to take effect, and with that came a massive swell of vigor that infused itself to her limbs and flesh. The lonely candle danced violently, though never expired; mirroring the brutal insurgence of the man who debased her.

"Luaţi acest.. pofta din-" She stammered, the incantation interrupted by a breathy series of moans, piercing testaments to the cruel beauty of her submission. She tightened her arms and steadied her legs to maintain the vulnerable pose upon hands and knees, and continued to stare down at the open, empty book as she fought through the ragged gasping that dryly lacerated her throat. " Luaţi acest... pofta din carnea... mea şi da la altul!"

The rhythmic drum of his body against hers had grown so quickly that there was little discerning where one collision ended and another began - a masculine machine whose piston would not be denied. His strong hands clenched her hips, her buttock, to hold her steady.

She bit her lip to keep from screaming as the first wave of racking release riddled her, erupting from inside to douse his turbulent phallus with its slick glaze. The world was spinning with lustful chaos, engulfing and overwhelming her mind and body.

And upon those empty pages words began to form.

But not just any words, she noticed as she forced her eyes open to stare down at the phenomenon forming below her, but the words that she called out between her passionate cries. A slow and sensual smile parted her dry, panting lips.

The spell was working.


************************************************** **************

Propped against the door to her classroom Parisa would have found the ancient looking tome, its antiquated cover bound by a crimson ribbon that was tied into an excessively large bow. Every step that carried her toward the book would tingle with a veiled sense of excitement, which one might find odd considering that she could not even see the title from where she stood. There was a small card tucked into the binding, so apparent in its idle stand that it nearly begged for her to pluck it and read.

Dear Parisa,

As you know I rarely make my way from the bookstore out of fear of being recognized and persecuted for my unsightly difference, though I did dare to make my way last night once I found this book. It instantly made me think of you. I hope you enjoy it, and when you are done if you would like to perhaps sit and discuss it over coffee I would be more than happy to entertain you.

Sincerely yours,
A~

The next morning she awoke from a series of dreams that had left her restless and disjointed. Every past sexual encounter she had ever experienced had drifted through her semiconscious state.

Sadly the less pleasurable ones were more numerous than their opposition.

Disturbed by regrets she showered and scrubbed vigorously, attempting to wash away the remembrances of her first boyfriend's awkward fumbling and her latest memory of the principal's sweaty grip, What had she been thinking?

Breakfast was a yogurt and coffee, normally spent perusing the stack of papers she'd brought home. But, today she found herself drawn to the crimson ribbon wrapped book that sat on her coffee table.

Curiosity rode her. Stripped her of her restraint. Demanded that she comply.

She could no longer resist the urge. With a frustrated huff she complied with the desire and sank to her knees before her table. Carefully, cautiously, as if it might bite her, she untwined the ribbon and stroked a hand over the ornate cover.

She blinked to awareness, unsure of how much time had passed. Her knees held a faint ache that whispered to her of the length of her knelt position.

Her breath was coming in sharp little whimpers, her skin slicked with sweat. Nervously she flicked her tongue out to moisten her suddenly dry lips.

She meant to rise, check the time, continue about her morning routine but found she could not.

She needed to open the book. To read from its pages.

Her stroking hand slid over the spine as she lifted it toward her, the embossed letters of the title titillating her sensitive fingers. With a reverential air she held her breath as if the revelation of the book's name were a secret that deserved her worship.

Turning it toward her she jerked. As if slapped her head reared back as the name upon the spine emblazoned its way across her senses,

PARISA.

The book fell against her table with a loud THUNK as she scrambled back from it on a frustrated sound of pained anger.

Furious, she gathered her purse and her coat, slamming out her door and leaving the tempting literature behind. Unable to comprehend her anger or its source, she vibrated with the intensity of one spurned.

Later, when she'd arrived at the school she would question the violence of her reaction and attempt to assign the ragged emotion to hormones or some other explicable phenomenon.

The afternoon had progressed at a halfwit's pace. Frustration seared her patience as the mood of the morning still held her within its thrall.

Distraction ate at her. Her responses to her students, normally attentive, were weak and weighted with mild irritation.

Finally, dismissal time came and went and she finally found herself truly alone. With a frantic edge to her motions she gathered her things, determined to get home immediately to...the Book?

Was she really rushing home because of it?

The realization made her laugh awkwardly out loud. She'd never been this excited about any form of entertainment before.

"Miss Robinson, is this a bad time?" The hand that had been raised to deliver a polite knock on her doorframe was held uncertainly as the Principal eyed her curiously.

"What? Mr. Hardwicke! Of course not! I was just--the students just departed--..um.. something they'd said had amused me!" She sought an explanation.

"Oh, I see." Though it was clearly evident in the set of his jowls that he was unclear. Stepping through her door, he closed it behind him and made his way towards her, something held in his hand.

Normally this behavior would have incited her. Irritated her that he sought to find her alone again. Their one and only encounter had been at the last holiday party when she'd had a few too many and had given in to his constant pressure. It had been a miserably unfulfilling experience and she hadn't even bothered to fake it. She'd been left with a distasteful regret ever since that had simmered into resentment. She made it vividly obvious that she was uninterested in him and yet he still attempted to get her attention. But this time his approach brought with it a different reaction: she found herself less inclined to even notice him, her gaze locked upon the claret red tickets in his hand. Mesmerized by the delicious shade of them.

"Miss Rob--." He took a deep breath, "Cami. I know that we haven't really spoke since our last ..encounter. I was hoping you'd be interested in accompanying me to the Petrushka showing."

He was nervous, aware of her disdain but hoping that he might make up for the hasty end of their last "date." The tickets he waved to emphasize his request appeared to pulsate with a liquid claret light, the wine red washing over her and calling to the nearly frantic mood she'd been in all day.

Heat.

Unable to catch her breath she ran a finger along the buttons of her blouse as she leaned back against her desk. She noted the fall of his eyes to her display and could easily read the lust that she inspired.

She wanted ... the Book.

"Only if you want to, of course..." He choked on a coughed sound of uncertainty. His eyes running over her body and remembering vividly the pleasure it had given him.

She wanted the heat. Nearly panting now with the desperate urge to catch her breath she murmured, "I want.."

Eyes closed against the vision of him, she brought a knee up, foot placed upon her desk, her hands pulling her skirt high to reveal the lacy froth that clothed his current fascination.

It was obvious that he could not imagine his good luck. His excited eyes flying up to her face as if checking to see if this was a joke. Hurriedly, before she changed her mind, he stepped into the inviting V of her legs, his sweaty hand fumbling with the buckle on his pants, as he moaned, "Oh yes, Cami. Let me give you what you want."

He wasted no time on freeing himself and pulling her panties to the side. He pushed eagerly inward, surprised to discover the easy liquid glide.

As his sweaty palms found the mold of her ass and his hungry mouth descended upon the swell of her breasts above the lace of her bra, Cameo kept her eyes tightly shut, the claret red of her vision interrupted only by the burning shape of the Book.

It was anybody's call on which one of them was more surprised when she came screaming and crying, "YES!" there upon her desk.

It was the anger that drove her.

Her fist curled tightly into a hard ball of rage that she was able to control into a manageably polite knock upon the door of the ragged little cottage here in this distasteful area of RhyDin. She'd never visited their home before and she was dismayed at the location. Her pampered background had allowed her to live beyond her means and she'd never really paid any attention to how the pittance of their pay might effect the average person's life.

There was no answer and frustration billowed.

She needed to talk to Parisa. Her plan was to confront her about this mysterious "A" and demand an explanation. Why she felt so entitled to an answer was not examined. The book, wrapped in a claret silk shawl, was awaiting her back at her own ravaged apartment. She hadn't wanted to part with it but she didn't dare bring it with her. What if Parisa insisted on having it? Jealousy burned a savage tunnel down her throat and caused her stomach to clench.

A noise came from the background.

Curious as to the steady beat of sound and hoping it would reveal Parisa and some answers, she followed it. Arriving around the edge of the oddly constructed cottage that had been standing unaccounted for number of decades. Its odd shape made moreso by each previous tenants attempt to improve it with odd additions and mismatched pieces of building material.

As she rounded the corner she was stunned by the expanse of garden that unfolded before her. No flower garden this, but vegetables and fruits, herbs and spices. And there before her, shirtless, was the desireable form of Weland Covington.

Lust exploded. Her body burned with the desire to know his. She wanted to touch. To lick. To caress. To scratch. To bite.

Ohhh, to just taste.

She moaned. Suddenly faint with the intensity of her reaction.

Weland's features exhibited first surprise, then welcome, and just as quickly: concern.

"Cami?" He moved quickly toward her, the shovel forgotten in his haste.

She felt a keening whine build in her throat at his nearness and as he hesitantly placed a hand on her shoulder and her arm, she fell against his naked sweat soaked chest.

"Cami!"

His body was lean and strong from hours tending to his own food. She fit easily within his grasp and could not contain the sound of pleasure that erupted as he held her gently. Hungrily her lips parted to allow her tongue to swipe along the glistening skin before her.

She felt him stiffen in surprise, jerking her out away from him but still holding her. Even as his brow furrowed and he began to question her strange behavior, she launched forward again to capture his mouth with her own.

She wove her body about his, her tongue thrusting into his, the taste of the secret recesses enough to draw another moan. She climbed him in her desperation. A leg hooking his hip, arms twining about his neck. Pulled taut against him, she ground the throbbing aching center of herself against him like a cat in heat.

He resisted, "Cami, what-?" Trying to angle his head back from hers, his hands on her arms tightening to push her away again. But she clung. Despite his protestations she could feel the growing existence of his own arousal and she deliberately rode herself against it encouragingly. "Weland please, I want you. I need you."

And with a groan his mouth crushed harder against hers, his tongue thrust back. The hands upon her changed the direction of their pressure. She rewarded his capitulation. Angling his hand, now compliant, down over her body to reveal that her skirt had hiked up high upon her hips. As his calloused hand found the naked hot flesh their moans wove together.

"Yesss.."

Breathlessly she broke the kiss, but only long enough to inhale raggedly and entreat him, "Take me Weland...here now." She pulled at him, trying to lower herself to the ground, "in the dirt."

She arrived at the Teas'n Tomes, breathless. Anxious for something. What she didn't know? But tension poured from her as it tightened her chest and brought her near to gasping.

The claret book clutched against her breast she needed answers and she was determined to find them.

The mysterious "A" had become a holy grail and she could not stop until she found him.

Dressed in a sensible skirt, with a slip beneath, she was unnerved by the sudden pulsating heat between her thighs as she entered the bookstore.

While before every red had appeared as the claret of the book, now everything not red had faded to a dulled black and white. Scrubbing a nervous hand over a skirt she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and was horrified to see her button-down shirt was untucked, haphazardly buttoned, her hair unbound, make-up undone. She'd never left the house like this before, and yet through it all, her body pulsed, throbbed, and demanded.

Pupiless eyes of creamy white, wrought from carnal ardor's famine watched as Cameo sacrificed her purity to be so sinfully desecrated within that shop.

From afar he observed her surrender to the tome she clenched against her breast, its effervescent heat pulsating against those delicious swells in appreciation of her offering.

He sent them in numbers, wrangling the myriad of emotions that greeted the sight of Cami pressed against those shelves, hand clawing for release beneath her skirt. One man was concerned, another appalled. The woman was frightened and the boy...well he was easy. They emitted these emotions in droves, and in return the Carnal Prince imprisoned them, possessed them, and warped them to his desire...

...to Cami Robinson.

The unholy debauchery was synchronized in its chaos, eight hands and four mouths twisted in salacious harmony to unbound the control of Cami. They devoured her, taking and giving, demanding and pleasing, until she was drenched in sweat and other things, begging for rest. Begging for more.

Still she clung to that wicked bible of blood's shade, keeping it close through every jolt and slam.

He drank of the sweltering emotion, consuming it in raging hunger as it spewed from those entwined bodies and limbs with every passing breath and moan. Their hands were his to touch her with, their mouths and tongues his to taste her, and with dizzying deftness he manipulated their every facility until they were reduced to primordial grunts and growls, basking in the throes of release.

Morning came and the surreal endeavor that left her dripping with the lascivious remnants now poured across familiar sheets, lucidity coming within her own bed. Still there was that scent of cinnamon, though set asunder by the muddled aftertaste of all that she swallowed just hours before. Clothing had been removed, replaced with nothing, baring only succulent skin. Her blood was alive, tingling just beneath the flesh with a fervor that she had never felt before, as though inside she was begging to be freed from the prison her solitude created.

A panic suddenly lit just behind her eyes.

Something was missing.

The book.

...The book was gone.

The gifts were endless.

And endlessly dissatisfying.

It mattered little how much they cost, or how thoughtful their giver.

None of them relieved the restless desire to find her one lost treasure.

As yet another bouquet arrived, her mother sang the upper crust trill of delighted pleasure, "Oh my dear, look at what your co-workers put together." Her eyes widened in a face stiffened and normally bereft of much expression, "This comes from their very own garden. My goodness, what green thumbs."

Listlessly Cami ignored her prattle, her gaze hungrily following the delivery man as he moved to regain his seat in his truck. Her new nurse, the last one had not returned after the scorching night spent in her patient's bed, tottered in with a tray. Her blue-grey hair was rolled up in tight curls, the wrinkled face well suited for the look of soft care she possessed.

A frown marred her fair features as the headache gained a surer footing. Her mother's voice, carrying onward, "Well I can only imagine what good people this Weland and Parisa are, you should invite them over sometime..."

Weland.
Parisa.

Her world upended in a surge of crimson, the sudden assault of red upon her tortured vision sending her scrambling back. The bouquet was stunning, the flowers a riot of pinks and reds....colors she could see.

Colors she wanted. With a lust that was nearly inhuman she ripped the bouquet from her mother's hands, eliciting a startled cry from both she and the doting nurse.

But they were not her book...

...no...not what she desired.

With an enraged shriek she shredded the petals, ripped at them viciously, tore them from their stalks and crushed them in her hands.

She didn't notice her mother's tears and pleading. She didn't notice the nurse's soft determination. She didn't notice her father's fearful arrival in the doorway nor his look of shocked dismay.

As the sedative was delivered from the confident fingers of the caregiver, she fell, twining down amongst the torn petals in a soft heap. Her head rolled to the side as her hand lulled emptily, palm up, clutching at nothing. The red petals fluttered around her as she whispered wantonly, "Please... I'll do anything..."

The Doctor's Visit.
(Rated: Mature Audience)

Patiently he awaited her arrival, keeping busy by once again reading through her chart. He was rather meticulous with his examination and didn?t find anything new, though there were a few details that he had forgotten that he was able to commit to memory. He sat in the chair lacking straps, though when the door opened he stood and turned to watch as the orderlies ushered her in and sat her down. It was Euriya who actually deferred from the use of the straps as the nurse took hold of one and looked up at him. He waited until they were departed and closed the door before fully turning to the patient, once again occupying the comfortable chair. ?I?m Euriya Shilo, Cameo. I was hoping I could talk to you for a bit, would that be alright??

She'd become despondent. Listless and unkempt, she went where they told her, ate what they demanded, and showered when ordered to. She spoke to no one. Stared for hours at the walls. When she slept her dreams were without color, as bland and lifeless as she'd become. No longer did she beg for the book's return. No longer did she rant about her betrayal. She only existed. Something inside her had been crushed by the despair of her loss and as she was lowered into the seat across from the new psychiatrist she simply stared at the clasped hands in her lap.

The rich smoothness of his voice, however, penetrated the hazy fog of her current mental state and she lifted her eyes to discover the urbanely good-looking Doctor Shilo. The sight alone was enough to bring a startled gasp but it was as if the longer she stared at him the more his tie bled red, lifting and falling upon the divinely cut chest of the psychiatrist. When the color reached the tip where it pointed to the buckle of his pants she moaned, the explosion of heat at her inner core soaking her panties and even dampening the hospital scrubs she wore with potent liquid arousal, her thighs clenching together tautly as if she sought to hold herself together. The first quiver of an orgasm threatened and she ripped her gaze from him to stare in wild-eyed panic at the door. "Nooo.." She moaned, though not directly in answer to his question.

The pen in his left hand languidly circled between his fingers as he watched her. With trained eyes, he took notice of her affinity for something upon him. At first he considered his pocket square, though the path her eyes took in their downward slide revealed it to be something different. The tie was the next, and it seemed was right on target. Her quivering and shivering form caught his attention next, as did the word that carried from lips permeating alarm. He said nothing for a moment, giving her time to collect her thoughts as he read over some imaginary script in the pad of paper that occupied his lap. Finally he looked up and shed a warm and disarming smile. "Alright, but I have to tell you that I'm sensing something is wrong." He tilted his head and forced concern to flood his eyes. "Is everything alright, Cameo? What's bothering you?"

His fingers. As he twirled the pen she caught the flicker of movement in her peripheral and was unable to ignore the hypnotic quality of it. Mouth slightly parted to emit the panting breaths of a woman on the verge of ...something...she zeroed in on those fingers. Their elegant perfection squeezing the pads along the tip of the pen and her mind was awash with imagining those same fingers dancing along her nipples, tweaking, teasing, taunting, twisting. Her breath came faster. Tugging, pulling,...Faster...Faster.... Pinching..... Her nipples were erect, painfully hard, pressed against the fabric of the patient's scrubs. The rougher weave, a cotton blend against the body used to finer materials, only abraded the sensitive peaks and her breathing became increasingly rapid. Mindlessly she rolled wide eyes toward him, licking her dry lips as she tried to focus, "I. I don't." His concern was charming and she whimpered. She wanted to tuckinto a ball but was afraid the movement would prove too much to the already volatile situation between her thighs. Rigid she shook her head instead, "Nothing's alright."

The Doctor's Visit
(Page 3)

Though he wouldn't have admitted it, the touch of her cheek upon him, pressing against his sock, was soothing, and as she showed this supplicant demeanor images sprang to mind in Euriya's head of Dusky, sweet Dusky, bound and bent across his desk, her tight asshole his curious play thing. The tip of his tongue emerged as his gaze drifted from where he touched her shoulder to the swell of her backside, wondering if she would look the same as his sweet southern belle. Blinking, he extended his legs just as she rested her chin upon his knee, standing tall. This left the his groin just inches from her face, and that thought alone sent him into motion, smoothly side stepping from between her and the chair to start across the room. "Then let me help you." He said, his voice low, smothered in heat. "Let me get you something to quench your thirst."

The rise of his body had her falling back on her rump, her ass falling against her own calves as she released him reluctantly. She too had noticed the proximity of her mouth to that velvety stalk that she wished to worship, the keening sound unable to be contained. A wanton's whimper, a strumpet's sigh, a harlot's hoarse cry. She crawled. On hands and knees she followed his departure, the shame of it lost in the haze of growing need. She was suddenly too hot. Too stimulated. She only made it a few feet before she fell to her side in the fetal position, wrapping her arms about her knees, tucking her chin into her chest and letting her hair obscure the scarlet heat of her face. What was she doing? Crawling after this strange man about to beg for him to fill her mouth, stroke her throat, violate her with his arousal and shoot his cum anywhere he desired. She wanted to be debased. Needed it. And she closed her eyes against its insistence, the pulsating red inner world of her mind throbbing in direct echo with the pulsating need in the slick wet walls of her inner core.

He could hear her crawling behind him, could hear the movement upon the floor as scrubs rustled with motion. He moved to the pitcher and poured a glass, the crystalline water filling it with liquid refreshment. Taking it in hand, he turned to find her curled upon the floor, her face buried in her knees, clinging desperately to herself. He let her have a moment, hoping that time might free her mind from the turmoil that infected her, and then slowly made his way over to where she lay. He knelt upon one knee as he arrived, one foot just beside her head, and with his free hand brushed the wild strands of blonde hair from where they veiled her pretty face. "Here." He said as he showed her the glass. "Let's sit up and get something to drink. You seemed parched. It will make your throat feel better."

She knew what would make her throat feel better and nearly begged, though his position mocked her. As he brushed back her blonde hair she had an unobstructed view of the V of his thighs, the heavy weight of the object of her fascination was there but inches from her. Placing a shaky hand upon his bent thigh she lifted herself upward, the picture of a debutante, though this one had a decadent bent as her movement didn't stop, propelling her forward to nuzzle her face into his scrotum. She exhaled the hot breath of need against him, one seeking hand twining around his hip and digging her fingers into his ass, the other hooking his bent thigh and holding him there for the grinding bob of her blonde head.

Again he was startled by her movement, and the instinctive urge to keep the glass from spilling split his focus and kept him from denying her until it was too late. The sudden constriction of her face against his groin, her torrid breath seeping through the material of his slacks, had his cock quickly engorged, growing against the pressure of her lips. He groaned and tried to recoil, but with one hand upon his ass and the other wrapped around his thigh, he was caught with little escape. The weight was there, smashed against her lips through his pants, pulsating with an undeniable desire no matter how much he tried to shield it. "Cameo." He said, his voice a bit shaky but for the most part composed. "You need to stop."

The Doctor's Visit
(Page 5)

Keeping an even trickle of the water was a challenge, but one that he seemed able to complete, though all of that changed with her reaction to the drink. Her obedience, her willing submission to his ministration. Surrendering to his whim. She thrust control into his hand, and with that he found his arousal. That was his lynchpin, after all. It was the entire reason that he took Dusky beneath his wing. Not to train her, but to strip her down until she surrendered everything to him, and there, knelt before him in the obvious throes of orgasm was Cameo, more than willing to alleviate control if only he would violate her the way she needed to be. His jaw tightened, his teeth clenched, and while he did not comply with the thrust of his hips, he did not fight the motion, splitting her lips with the clothed and painfully swollen form of his throbbing cock. He held firm, shoulders tight, spilling the remainder of the water upon her face, soaking her face in the way she wished to wear his cum. "Why?" He asked suddenly. "Why do you want it so badly?"

It was insulting. It was degrading. A mild form of waterboarding this act, the spill of the water splashing into her eyes and forcing her to clench them shut against invasion. The desire to pull away from the violation overridden by the desire to be violated in a much more intimate fashion. The part of her hot wet mouth around his clothed cock elicited a sharp shudder and a hungrily suckling as if she could milk him through the pants. Her hair was plastering to her head, the wetness echoed by the clinging of her pants to her soaked thighs that still quivered as the orgasm refused to relinquish its hold. Growing more desperate, more needy, more frustrated with her inability to truly free him from his pants she finally released her grip on his thigh, her trembling fingers finding his belt as she fought to free it one-handed, the other hand kneading his ass in furious little grabs, "Please. Please. I have to have it. I have to know you. Feel you. Please you." The girlish moans were replaced by a full throated demand, more womanly this sound, "Fuck me. Fuck my mouth, Doctor. Please. Fuck my face. Fuck my throat until you cum." The commanding words descended into a plea-ful whine as she freed the straps of his belt and shuddered at just that simple sight. Her tortured and besotted mind flashed to another desire and she cried beneath the pour of the water, her tears soaking amongst them, "Or punish me. Whip me." The leather belt felt good in her hands and she was lost at the thought of it against her flesh.

He tried to pull away, though was betrayed by his internal desire as strength failed him. "Cameo, you can't." He said sternly, though did nothing to keep her from unsheathing his hard cock from inside his slacks. With the button undone and the rattle of the zipper making its way down, the length of his thick length emerged with vigor, the spade-shaped head angled upward as though awaiting its offering. The undervein was swollen, giving it a stout look to go along with its impressive reach. As the cool air of the room engulfed him he sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, the glass forgotten and dropped to the floor. Thankfully the carpet kept it from shattering, though it was forgotten well before it landed as the hand that held it fell to her head and took a fistful of blonde hair. "You have to stop talking like that." He snarled as the other hand dropped to his unfastened belt and with a jerk stripped it from his waist. He drew in a deep breath, the fingers that held her hair taut keeping her still, disallowing any approach toward the cock that dangled just inches from her hungry lips. "Now apologize." He said calmly evenly, even as the folded belt descended in an arch to lash across the taut offering of her ass with a crack. "Tell me how sorry you are."

The Doctor's Visit
(Page 7)

He pulled back again to lash her ass, but it was something in her words that stayed his hand. Maybe not her words, but her tone. The sincerity. The longing. It was her intensity as she spoke of this book. He couldn't fathom wanting something as badly as she did this book, evident by the way she curled upon the floor and arched into the sting. He swallowed hard as he watched her, breath coming in heavy pants. Images mixed between Cameo and Dusky, how he loved to have her in similar situations, exposed, vulnerable, humiliated and wanting more. He turned away for a moment, just a moment to gather himself, and then came back to her. "Your left index and middle finger, insert them into your pussy." The instruction seemed to come out of nowhere, and yet was followed by the brisk motivation of the leather belt striking her pert backside. "Now."

She thought he was leaving her. When he turned from her. Tears spilled down her cheeks, the pleas stilled in the hollow of her throat, frozen as she felt abandonment richly. It was because of this what when he turned back to give his instructions she jumped eagerly to do his bidding, that pathetic adoration gleaming in her gaze as she waited no time at all to comply, following his command to the letter. The left index and middle finger thrusting into the sloppy wet core of her womanhood. Her back bowing as her head came back and upward on an arching moan of pleasure, the movement rocked her ass into that lash, the stinging red marks on her pale white flesh symbols of her degraded status. She was his pet, his doll, his toy. Anything for him. The pulsating claret hue of the room enclosed around her as she begged as she?d never begged before: "Please Doctor. Please fill me with your cock. Fuck me until I bleed. Beat me, just cum. Please, anywhere, everywhere, I want it. I want it so bad." She stroked her fingers in and out in the wet sucking sound of a greedy little pussy.

He took a step forward as her fingers sank within the well of her aching hole, just a bit closer. In fact, if she were to reach with her tongue fully extended she would be able to touch that beautiful, plump under-vein. He watched as she began to finger herself, eyeing the glistening length of her fingers disappeared inside her body and reemerge a bit damper. The hand that continued to hold her hair in such a painful fist clenched tighter with the growing arousal. Her words filled his ears with desire, with need, and again the belt came down and licked across her flesh. "Now remove them and stick them in your asshole. Replace them with your right index and middle finger." He instructed with a glance at the clock showing the draining time they had left. "Quickly, Cameo. If you want my cum you'll do so quickly."

Her head was wrenched at an uncomfortable angle by the grip in her hair but she didn't seem to care, as she eagerly finger fucked herself. Compliance was a gift she gave freely as those wet glistening fingers immediately ripped from her snatch to reach around the stinging red flesh of her ass and find the puckered tiny hole of her anus. There was hesitation as she plied gently, worked them in and finally slid them deeply, wetly into the sanctum of her ass, her panted cry dissolving in a gulping swallow as she used the distraction of his attention to greedily impale her mouth with the head of his cock. The spade shape parting her swollen and bloody lips, her tongue working to guide that undervein deeper even as she obediently slammed her right index and middle finger into her pussy, fingering both holes in desperate thrusts as she fell forward onto his cock. The only thing balancing her was it and his hand fisted in her hair, she was more than willing to impale her throat with his throbbing length, the sting of the belt bucking her forward to take more.

The Doctor's Visit
(Page 9)

She struggled. Her fingers sliding free from her pulsating cores to grip his hips. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't swallow, she was simply his vessel being filled with the thick spurts of his cum as he fucked her throat as deeply as he could. Wide panicked eyes stared up at him still filled with that pitiful adoration. Her fight was ineffectual and as the pulsating caress of his undervein thundered against her tongue she subsided limply, weakly, finally getting what she deserved. What she craved. What she'd begged for. Her fighting hands twined around him, hugging him to her as she slid limply down his body, a quivering weak toy spent of energy. Surrounded by the pulsating hue of soothing claret.

As the last drop drained her slowly withdrew, both his cock from her bloody lips and his hand from her hair. He did nothing to console her or see to her needs besides offer the masculine length of his legs for her to embrace. He cleared his throat and spun his belt through the loops in his slacks, the rattle of his zipper closing them around his fading member before refastened at the top. "I'm going to arrange for weekly visits, Cameo. I think that I can offer you the help you need." He lowered his eyes to watch as he buckled his belt, but truly it was to hide the smirk that snuck across the corners of his mouth.

"Yes Doctor." His adoring pet purred, replete. Drops of crimson stained her lips and smeared her cheek in a string of cum and blood. Her ass was a vivid purpling red mass of welts from his punishment. For a moment it seemed as if her eyes gleamed with the same claret hue as she obediently sat back like a discarded doll. Content in her role she eyed him avidly, worshipfully. "Thank you Doctor."

"Weland." Her smile was a confectioner's dream, so many saccharine sweet emotions held upon her lips that it was impossible to chisel through the sugary wall to the truth within.

"Cami!" His surprise was obvious and the heated blush that appeared beneath the camouflage of his beard delighted her.

"Didn't expect to find me here, did you?" She batted her lashes in the age old womanly way, flushed herself.

"No, no of course not." He stumbled as he realized that sharing his hope that he'd never have to encounter her again was tripping his heartbeat up. He kept his gaze awkwardly upon her chin, almost afraid to allow it to fall anywhere else.

"Weland. I actually came here looking for you." Everybody knew how much he enjoyed the history museum and it was common knowledge that on the half day of conferences he could be found moseying around the exhibits lost in the ether of his thoughts.

"You did?" Panic sent his gaze skittering upward and there was something in that knowing smile that had him backpedaling a step. Did she know? Could she possibly know how the dreams of her kept him up at night? Did she know that as he pumped away at his angelic wife just last night that he was picturing her instead?

His groan was almost audible and he coughed around it.

"I needed to apologize." Wide sincere eyes pleaded with him for understanding, "I was not myself...the last time...in your garden."

His collar was too tight and sweat trickled down his side from where it pooled in the pit of his arm. The memory assaulted him and he grimaced out a pained smile, "Cami,Cameo--Ms. Robinson, I--there's no need for an apology..."

She looked hurt. Tears welling up she sniffled in a sigh, "Oh please, Weland, I need to do this. It's part of my healing."

Immediately he felt contrite and pulled an old fashioned handkerchief from his pocket to administer to her with the skill of a gentleman.

A watery laugh escaped as she dabbed at the tears and he realized how beautiful she looked there beneath the soft muted hues of the watercolor depicting the alliance of elves and dwarves, the charter of the first civic union of Rhy'Din posted up beside it.

"Cami." He drew in a deep breath and brought his eyes directly to hers, "You have no reason to apologize. It was a misunderstanding and we can and will move past it."

Her smile was a thing of tremulous beauty, "Oh thank you Weland, you cannot possibly begin to understand how much that means to me."

He smiled in return and tore his gaze from her reluctantly. There were really no words left to him here in this awkward pause and so he sought a social nonchalance, "Well now that that's settled." Adopting an overly dramatic "Swhooh!" and wiping a forearm across his brow.

She laughed and then blushed becomingly, "I should probably let you get back to studying..." She glanced behind her and scrunched up her nose..."..whatever it is that you're studying."

"Whatever it is?" His eyes widened and a brow lifted, his expression animated, "Surely you're jesting."

Her lips quirked as she shook her head slowly, shoulders coming up in an apologetic shrug, "I never paid much attention to this particular era, there wasn't a lot of good literature to come out of it."

He guffawed. "Not a lot--! You can't be serious."

"Well, maybe you could explain it to me." A glance up from beneath the fringe of her lashes, "Over lunch?"

Somehow he'd closed the inches between them, his hand was even now resting upon her elbow and as she looked up at him he felt his gut tighten. A similar experience occurred in a lower region as she hesitantly suckled her lower lip into her mouth, eyes ducking away in preparation for his rejection.

Clearing his throat he murmured, "Soup...or salad?"