“Fate sits on these dark battlements and frowns,
And as the portal opens to receive me,
A voice in hollow murmurs through the courts
Tells of a nameless deed.” - Ann Radcliff
Zorie
A few yards beyond my table, the beach sloped down from the wide patio. The sea lay before me, still and blue. Dining out under the stars at Pee Wee’s, at the East Point of Darwin, had to be the most romantic setting, ever.
The barest shush of waves meeting sand reached my ears, above the clink of tableware and the laughter and speech of other diners.
I smiled and took another sip of my chardonnay, leaving a wet, red, lipstick mark on the edge. The glass, when held high and jiggled, made a wobbly and watery filter through which to view the scenery.
A pity I was here by myself.
Fuck all the others and their nightclubs, binge drinking, and fawning over men. At least now I knew a coach tour with a bunch of other Australians was my ticket to Hell.
Not that I wasn’t a little drunk and before my mains arrived too. A record, surely?
A flock of birds made a V overhead, silhouetted against the yellow and orange dusk sky as they headed for some trees to roost in. I stretched back my neck to follow their flight.
After this, it would’ve been great to go on a beach walk but a single female out strolling in the night would be like dangling my leg in a pool of crocodiles. I feared assault. Who wouldn’t?
Tried being wild once and paid the price. Experimenting with kink meant opening yourself up to men who might not be all they appeared to be. Youth had equaled stupidity. Now I was cautious, thought ahead, but still tried to be myself, enjoy life, and avoid the wolves.
Pee Wee’s was named after a local bird. The meals here were pleasant, delicious, and everything I’d hoped for. The setting stayed gorgeous. The evening settled into a sort of muted exhilaration as I sampled entrée, dinner and then dessert. Perfection, except for the four men at a table on the left. Bold-as-hell types. One of them seemed to be making jokes at my expense, which made my gut crawl. The sort of men who’d send me a cock picture online to introduce themselves.
I sent guys like that a wet pussy picture – a cat in the middle of a rainstorm. Then I blocked them. Real life made it harder to block but the meal was great and so I thanked the waitress effusively when she brought the bill. Good karma cancelled out the bad.
At the entrance, a shadow warned me, as did the footsteps. I moved in toward the maître d’ enough to let whoever it was pass by to reach the door, only to be shocked by a man’s hand on my bare neck.
Weighty, warm, and the touch spread an inexplicable thrill through me, a shock wave of awareness.
Everything stilled, silenced.
The maître d’ looked over my shoulder, with a crease forming between his eyes.
Fingers caressed my nape. It was a violation of my private space, an assault, but I’d barely opened my mouth when I felt lips brush my ear. Again, that thrill coursed through me and I found I’d closed my eyes.
“I knew you were one. Come to me outside. The black Range Rover. Say nothing, to anyone about this.” The murmur was as riveting as his touch.
This man, a man I couldn’t even see, he’d made me wet, instantly. I was alight with desire. My labia had plumped, my clit had swelled, and my nipples had tightened until they pointed into my bra as if made of aching, living rock.
I craved the man behind me to the point of my brain shutting down.
Walking outside was my only priority.
I found the vehicle and the door opened for me.
Alarm bells, there were alarm bells ringing in my mind, sirens, all that, but distant and irrelevant. I shut them down.
“Did I not tell you? She’s here.” His voice was languid and deep, his laugh insulting. “Come, sweet girl, into my evil lair.”
“Evil lair?” Someone chuckled.
Their laughter didn’t deter me at all because he, his will, was inside my head, like a solid force calling to me.
I climbed in and arms enveloped me. The men began to remove my clothes. I came once before they were done, when he touched me, merely massaging my slit and touching me over my panties.
The vehicle cruised, rocked, growled over the road, and stopped somewhere. Though removed from the car, I couldn’t register my surroundings. There was too much emotion raging, too much pleasure and torment.
I’d focused down on my body and had stayed there, feeling.
They played with me, poked me, pulled me onto their laps, bit and sucked on me, penetrated me with fingers and tongues.
I was a sweaty, naked, panting, and annihilated thing before one of them even took off his pants. When he was poised above, with my legs bent at the knee and held as far apart by two other men as was physically possible, I shuddered at the thought of what was about to happen. His hard cock rested at my entrance. When I groaned out one long, throat-caught breath, the little movement of my body combined with my extreme slipperiness, and the head of his cock slipped inside me, a minuscule amount.
My eyes rolled up as I whimpered and tried to squirm closer to him and impale myself.
Then he shoved in, fucking me like a god. The orgasm, when it struck, was Armageddon and wracked me until my muscles seized up. I lay mindblasted, aching and shivering, while the men discussed what else to do with me.
It seemed as if they’d decided the answer was everything.
Afterward, I was left standing, shivering, in the alley beside my hotel, roughly dressed and kissed before they walked away. My mind was still coming down from the heavens. When I came to the realization that this, now, was real...with my hand propped against the brickwork and sweat still cooling on my skin, heaven became Halloween.
There was cum all over my stomach and thighs, sticking my dress to me. I had no panties.
I was Zorina Brown, a lecturer in biology at the University of Sydney. Upstanding professional career. The world ahead of me. So why had I croaked out a yes when the man had told me he’d see me again tomorrow.
It was one AM. Tomorrow was today.
Had I gone insane?
*****
Mister Black
Finding her after they left her was easy. I could sense my own kind, whereas they were oblivious of my presence. I watched the alley where they’d left her, from across the road. To keep her safe? Probably.
She gave off that aura of sexual availability that susceptible women emanated. It made my jaw muscles tighten, my nostrils dilate, my cock ache to get inside her. Ten years ago, I would have snatched her up myself, taken her back to Greece and kept her awhile. Not now. That wasn’t why I was here.
Ten years ago, I hadn’t realized there were other men like myself. Men who could take control of certain females. Twenty years ago, when my ability had surfaced, I’d been, as the British say, happy as a pig in muck. The power had brought with it an obsession with sex, and what young man wouldn’t exult in that?
When I’d found there were other men like me, I’d been curious but left them alone. We were few and far between, distant predators on this immense planet, along with millions of similar human beings. Why should I care about the others?
I ignored them, until the day I found my London colleagues. They were doing things that would put the devil to shame.
There was fucking women.
There was playing with them sadistically while making them feel pleasure – my favorite, of course.
There was hurting them permanently and sickeningly.
There was terrifying them, and there was killing.
All this, beneath the pretty surface of London.
They were professional at what they did, and I wasn’t an assassin. Neither did I want the attention of the law. I didn’t want to die while trying to be some sort of hero.
My perverted morals were in a twist, and I had personal reasons for my hate. I’d given myself a mission, and I’d gone in search of a softer target. My little pet scientist, Dr. Maddie, had thought I might be ground zero, patient zero, the man who began it all. She thought I was spreading it. I’d reasoned that if that were true, I knew where there should be more of me. I’d haunted Australia and a few other countries, years before.
I’d found Reuben at the restaurant, first, then I’d sensed her. Miss Zorina, or Zorie. I’d heard her tell the waitress to call her that.
Reuben could be my test case, if he was bad enough to warrant it. Tonight he’d proven he was nasty. Even though I’d possibly done worse during my frenzied past, I was sorry for the woman.
I turned that over, trying to see why.
Like all acquired women, she was enjoying what was given her. She seemed attractive, nice...edible.
I snorted. My instincts had a tendency to claw their way to the surface. A pity I had no one to fuck to get her out of my system.
A man approached the alley but walked past. She emerged a minute later and made her way to the hotel entry. Though she looked disheveled, as a guest they’d allow her in. I waited anyway, to make certain. Most would try to be quiet about it, but not this one. At the steps, she smoothed her dress straighter, pulled back her shoulders, and walked in proudly. Was she pretending nothing had happened to her? I caught a hint of anger, of being pissed off, as they called it here.
Anger would be unusual. Pretty Zorie had been tasted by a mesmer – my term I’d invented for us. She should be reeling from the after effects but not in that way. No ordinary man would get anywhere with her now. It was like trying to impress a woman who’d seen the moon, the sun, and the stars, with dull baubles.
This was the third mesmer and the fifth acquired woman I’d found in this country. She felt different. Describing why or how was beyond me, except she seemed like a pointy rock in the middle of a floor of smooth pebbles – a vulnerable, sexually interesting sharp thing.
I smiled at my analogy as I leaned my shoulder against the building, staying in the shadows.
Was I her guardian angel? Probably not. Guardians didn’t want to feed their charges to monsters, or use them as instruments of death...
Or screw them until they screamed.