(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story contains a child under the age of 18 who in no way participates in any sexual acts.)
*
Was she a succubus?
Was that the strange enchantment that came over him when he'd devoured her pussy? He'd lost all track of time and space and thought with his face buried between her legs. A thousand demons could've stormed his fortress and he wouldn't have had the wherewithal to remember his name let alone defend himself.
But would a succubus scream 'Enough'? A succubus fed on pleasure and Liam knew he had delivered plenty.
Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind he'd felt the tremors of her body, known the tightening grip on his tongue for what it was. He'd simply been unable to stop, unable to consciously lift his head from her heated core. She was mana on his tongue, paradise in his mouth. In the long, lonely centuries of his existence he had never tasted a woman so divine, so consuming -- so innately succulent he'd forgotten even to breathe.
Now she disturbed his sleep. She disturbed his every waking moment. For all his meditation in the temple he found no respite from the brutal image of her splayed and chained across his bed, wanton, ready.
Had he ever seen a face so fascinating, breasts so ripe, legs as well turned and endless? And her bald, sweet quim...melting and sweet, so achingly beautiful stretched open to his gaze. She had been silky, pristine under his tongue; he doubted if hair had ever sprouted there.
Liam picked up his mead and hurled it across the room, watching the pale liquid bleed down the stone wall. He couldn't go on like this. This insistent vision, this carnal obsession, threatened everything he held dear.
To lie with a vampire...
Had he pledged and undergone the twelve trials only to be reduced to this? A man whose brains had toppled below the waist, led astray by his hungry cock. He was better than this.
He watched dispassionately as Carlos entered, salvaging the tin mug from the floor, swiping at the cider with a rag.
"Get out." The menace in his voice had his servant quaking with fear. Carlos disappeared as quickly as he had come.
Liam knew what his servants were thinking. How could he not when their minds were in turmoil, their thoughts screaming in the frigid silence. They wondered, no, they debated, why he had allowed her to live for so long. The fact of her devastating beauty had been noted, repeated as if of vital import to every available ear. Miserable gossips the lot of them.
One yardsman had dared to question if he was going soft -- not out loud, of course not out loud. The man was too afraid, too cunning to voice the sacrilege. He'd been sent packing, unaware of how close he had come to losing his head, but it wasn't Liam's right to take life for the sake of disloyal thought. Treachery had to be active, palpable before he could act on it.
Cunt struck.
They all thought it. And he...he knew the description was dangerously apt, too close to the bone for comfort.
But there was a deeper truth. Her abilities posed a conundrum. A man of God and science had a duty to test and conclude; an obligation to unravel the questions she broached.
"Master." The interruption brought a black scowl to his face. He turned to see Carlos hovering nervously in the doorway. "There is an emissary from Holfendren to see you. He brings a Lawman and six others. They have captured a witch."
"Damnation," he thundered. "Tell them to burn her in the customary way. There is no need to pester me with trivialities."
Carlos was prone, his nose brushing the cold floor. "She is barely eight years old my Lord."
Liam shot to his feet, icy contempt driving him forward.
Witchcraft was notoriously hard to prove, the accusation more often than not the result of a petty dispute or ignorant superstition. Even so, no-one knowingly risked a witch amongst honest citizens. One so devious could cause chaos.
Incineration was the only solution. If innocent they went to their Maker, content to be spared the toils of misery on earth. If guilty, who would despair the end of a twisted soul? Either way, no harm was delivered.
But killing a child... Killing a child was a swift route to hell. Thus, the cowards had brought the wretch to him. Better he should decide her fate and suffer the consequences.
The girl was ushered before him, quivering with fear. Her eyes were coal black, incapable of holding his. Blaring with guilt they flittered fretfully from side to side. She had dealt in magic; he could see it clear as day without need to examine her mind.
Some obtuse part of him refused to comfort the envoy.
"Leave her," he instructed, neither confirming nor denying their suspicions.
"But Lord, is she...?"
"Time will tell," he answered, ending the audience. Let them go home and worry their possible mistake. Let them think twice before they bothered him again seeking answers.
Watching them slink from his home with sycophantic speed, the light of hope was obvious in the child's eyes, only to extinguish with his next words.
"Put her in the dungeon with the woman."
He left before her childish heartbreak got to him, suffering a sickening lurch when he realised his mistake. The woman... He'd said the woman, not the demon, not the vampire, but...the woman.
After the episode of the pained tongue he'd had her moved to the dungeon, shackled to the wall with a foot of chain and nothing but a chamber pot and bucket of water for company.
In many ways this was the answer to his prayers. The vampire had had no sustenance for nigh on two weeks. Starvation was another tool to bring out the beast. The temptation of a young child in the same room should prove too much for her.
And when it did, he would be ready.
The sudden twist in his gut appalled him, the hope that sprang free in his soul -- hope that she proved him wrong.
***
He went to the observation room peering through the narrow aperture in to the dungeon. Knowledge of the woman's splendour had seared its way in to his blood, but fresh sight of her was wondrous. Dazed, he gaped at the scene below him.
Dishevelled, unbearably thin, a smear of dirt across her face not unlike the scar marking his own cheek, she exuded an aura of calm and patience, a quality of peace that had eluded him since their first meeting.
His servants had cloaked her and thoughts of her lush nakedness beneath the blue robe set his heart pounding.
Crying, the girl-witch huddled in a corner as the vampire crooned to her, words so soft he couldn't discern anything but her melodious tone. Slowly the child rose and walked over to the woman. Liam stood with baited breath waiting for the beast to strike.
To his utter surprise the woman pushed the girl's hair back from her forehead, wiped the tears from her eyes and engulfed her in a warm hug. Whispering, they sat together on the stone bench, the woman rubbing the girl's back for comfort.
If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes he would not have believed it. Part of him rejoiced while the baser, cynical aspect that ruled him demanded to know what she was really up to. Her actions flew in the face of convention -- the opposite to everything he knew about vampires. Like the slaughtered lamb on the first night, he wondered if the woman was playing tricks.
Slowly her head lifted, those dark-rimmed mysterious eyes so full of sadness, looking straight at him.
He reeled back as if she'd struck him. How did she know he was there? How could she be aware of him when he hadn't felt her psychic probe? Gathering himself, he strode down to the dungeon to confront her.
Stealth was impossible given the shriek of the heavy portcullis. He waited until the iron grate was clear then entered the room. One solitary torch burned in a sconce high upon the wall, the dank air was frigid, chilling his bones.
The child cringed back behind the woman burying her face in her hands.
"What is it that you two speak of?" he asked, his tone ominous as if they conspired against mankind, against him.
The vampire's unnerving, fearless eyes fixed on his.
"I tell the little one not to be afraid. That no harm will come to her here. That you will protect her and see her safely home."
A dangerous stillness settled over him.
"By what right or presumption do you make such promises on my behalf?"
"Please Milord, the child has done no wrong."
The vampire slipped to her knees, prostrating herself at his feet, her arm pulled back at a strange angle still cuffed and chained to the wall. Midnight black hair spilled over his boots and across the floor -- silk against stone. Sight of her genuflection made him angry.
"Get up!" he roared. Toadying from his servants was expected, but from her...from her it smacked of wrongness...of leverage.
She knelt up and he was treated to an unadulterated view straight down her robe, the tempting push of her pale breasts nestled in blue velvet.
"The child has done no wrong," she repeated softly, obstinately.
No. What was wrong was the sudden urge he had to lift her to her feet, pull open her robe and plunge his swollen cock in to her. To take her here and now. To sate the burning greed in him that grew stronger everyday.
Quickly, he looked away, his eyes resting on the child.
"You have practised witchcraft." It was a truth, not a question.
