Mystical Treefort 4 Decadence in December
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Thumper Ch. 02 free porn video
Previously…
We meet Damian and Abby, and incubus and his mate. Following a visitation, Damian’s victim, a woman whose marriage has fallen apart, unexpectedly thanks him. Damian’s master is none too pleased.
***
Damian sat in the darkened dormitory room in one of the tri-cities church colleges. On the bed, a girl of nineteen writhed, hair splayed on the pillow and across her face. He hadn’t touched her this time, but his very presence caused her hands to scuttle like spiders to her groin. They hitched up her nightgown to her navel and then resumed their journey to the downy nest between her legs.
Her breathing quickened as her fingers worked.
‘Come,’ whispered Damian after several minutes.
The girl’s movements stilled and she swung her legs over the side of the bed. With tentative steps, she approached Damian.
‘Help me,’ whispered the girl. Damian knew that she was not speaking to him. ‘Please. Save me.’
She knelt before him and trembling fingers unfastened Damian’s jeans and lowered the zipper.
Damian slipped the jeans from his hips and took the girl’s hands. He pulled her towards him until she straddled him.
She lowered a hand to grasp him as her hips descended, her nightgown tenting around their privates like a shroud.
With a muffled cry she impaled herself on his length.
Damian could feel the blood trickling from her.
‘I hope you’re happy, Asmodeus,’ he whispered.
***
Silence lay like a heavy blanket over the darkened house. It was well into the witching hour — the hour when regret, self-reproach and self-recrimination came out to play, when the memories of carefree youth and innocence clashed against the realities of middle age and guilt.
The woman sat in her darkened office, scrolling through photographs on her laptop. Her husband had long since gone to bed, eschewing the customary good-nights and sleep-wells. She couldn’t blame him.
He probably thought she was going over her company’s accounts, rather than reviewing the photographic evidence of their lives together. Just as well. She didn’t particularly want him to know this maudlin side of her.
She’d arranged the photographs chronologically. She was nothing if not orderly.
There were several photographs of their time at the university, taken by fellow students whose post graduate successes had sent them far afield. She prowled their Facebook profiles and wondered what might have been had her own life’s trajectory not been so predictable.
It wasn’t as though Britt wasn’t successful. She was by any standard. She had the accolades, the money, the car and house. The fact was that she married soon after graduation and settled in the same town where she’d studied. One thing had led to another without those unexpected detours that often provide the fondest of memories. The one ill-considered detour that she had permitted herself had been succumbing to her business partner.
They’d been working late, putting the finishing touches on a business proposal. It was the culmination of weeks of long hours, of huddling together at the computer, of take-out at their desks after the cleaning staff had left. They were on the cusp of their greatest success. Both felt it. The exhaustion left them giddy. A fleeting moment of contact had evolved into a touch, then an embrace, and finally a headlong rush into lust. Then blessed release.
Then embarrassment.
Finally shame and guilt.
And thus it was that one the eve of her greatest success, she had written her single greatest failure.
And that was why she now looked at photographs, as though these frozen moments of happier times might suggest where things had gone so off the rails.
Wedding pictures. Honeymoon pictures.
They’d been so young then, though the notion applied more emotionally than chronologically.
She scrolled. The photographs had long since been committed to memory.
She sensed his presence behind her. After several months, she’d almost convinced herself that she’d imagined that night in the living room, relegating the sensations to the nocturnal imaginings of a needy unconscious. Now she knew it was not so. The hairs on the back of her neck stood and she shivered.
She didn’t turn around. Instead, she clicked the mouse button and advanced the picture.
Just when she thought that perhaps she had imagined the presence, she felt a pressure, light as the tread of a spider, on her shoulders. Her heart raced but something in her welcomed the touch, so reminiscent it was of that night in the office, so needed after the months of physical deprivation.
The sensation moved from her shoulders down her arms and back again, leaving trail of goose pimples in its wake.
She felt a stirring in her loins out of all proportion with the touch that had evoked it.
If the light pressure had been a hint, the weight now on her shoulders was a statement. Her breath hitched and she sat frozen but for a finger that clicked the mouse button.
The pressure — it felt like hands, had to be hands — slid from her shoulders to the slope of her breasts.
Click.
She peeked at the picture. The couple smiling in a bar, their white teeth blazing against tanned faces. Her hand rested delicately on his forearm. They’d gone at it like teenagers that night.
Click.
The hands moved over the curve of her breasts and pressed flat against them. Her nipples tingled under the pressure, and she could feel them hardening.
She noted with disgust that the hand over the mouse trembled.
Invisible fingers squeezed her nipples, sending a current to her core.
She couldn’t let this happen. Her body had betrayed her once before. Not again.
With a quick movement, she swivelled the chair to face her attacker. Of course, she saw nothing, just like the last time. ‘What are you?’ she demanded, unsettled by the tremor in her voice.
She felt hands on her thighs, spreading them apart. She resisted for a moment and then allowed her legs to part. She cursed herself for her weakness. She closed her eyes and tipped her head forward, hoping to conceal her face behind a curtain of hair.
* * *
Damian sat in his car for several long minutes upon his return to the farmhouse he shared with Britt. The house had sheltered him and Kat for many years before Britt had entered his life. Now Kat was gone, recovering in Europe among members of an ancient demonic branch. For the first time, these four walls and roof provided more than shelter. They were home.
He struck the steering wheel and whispered a curse as the scene replayed itself in his mind.
Damian had absented himself from his polite suburban victim through the rest of the winter months. He had to admit that he’d been disquieted by her thanks and by Rosier’s visit. In answer to the latter, he sought sustenance among the many young and impressionable university students who populated the tri-cities area. Young, sweet, and hormonally compromised, university students never failed to give Damian a satisfying meal. Occasionally, he would claim a girl from one of the church colleges, if only to keep Rosier at bay.
Britt had been justifiably distressed by Rosier’s visit, recognizing in that moment how fragile their lives together were. He’d answered her questions with a calm that belied his own apprehension. Yes, Rosier was a demon, and yes, Asmodeus was his boss, prince of hell and demon of lust. And no, it wasn’t a good thing to have come to their attention.
So Damian had redoubled his efforts to be an agent of discord, sowing the seeds of lust among those whose purity and goodness would be the most tainted by it. He hated himself for it, but Rosier had not returned. After a while, the lives of Britt and Damian reverted to a semblance of normalcy.
Several months after Rosier’s visit,
Damian returned to the wealthy suburb. The woman had been in the back of his mind since then like an unanswered challenge. He decided that he’d gone too easy on her.
He approached the house and noted that the little had changed in the woman’s response to his projections. There was still a need, a barely concealed hunger, overlaid with frustration.
He observed her from the door of her home office. The light of the screen played on the attractive geometry of her face. Her intelligent blue eyes betrayed tiredness and the firm set of her full lips indicated something else entirely — anger tempered by grief.
Wakefulness presented some problems to the incubus, but potentially greater rewards. The approach had to be careful. Some incubi, Damian knew, went in with guns blazing, whether their victim was asleep or awake. Damian preferred subtleness, insinuating himself by deliberate degrees into the consciousness of his victim. It was the difference between bludgeoning a hapless fish and setting a hook. He preferred the latter. Set the hook and play, letting out line and reeling it in. Granting the illusion of freedom before withdrawing it. The end result was the same, but it was an infinitely more rewarding game.
The waking mind behaved differently. It was more difficult to pass off sensations as dreams, for example. Then again, the waking mind produced a more potent fear. It was a different flavor of helplessness.
Damian entered the office and positioned himself behind her. He watched over her shoulder as the woman’s life passed before his eyes. Wedding photographs featuring the woman and her new husband, both beaming. The couple in the Caribbean — their honeymoon perhaps?
A photograph of the couple at the beach at sunset, leaning against a palm tree, embracing. Damian wondered about the photographer. Did he feel like a voyeur while the couple shared this simple intimacy? The couple certainly seemed oblivious to the photographer’s presence.
He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. Surprisingly, she didn’t flinch, raise a hand to touch the spot, or turn around. He marvelled at her self-possession. Her index finger remained poised for a moment over the mouse button and then clicked.
His fingers traced the contours of her body and her flesh responded to his touch. Her breathing quickened and her heart rate increased. He could sense her fear and confusion, and it was good.
When she finally turned to confront him, Damian was almost taken by surprise. She’d allowed his hands free reign, seemingly content with the sensations that they generated. As quickly as arousal had bubbled to the surface, it disappeared.
‘What are you?’ the woman cried, abruptly turning to face him. Of course, she could see nothing, yet Damian was unnerved by the way she found his eyes.
For several moments he stood before her. The photograph of the smiling couple appeared over her shoulder. More so because of the photograph than anything else, Damian felt like an intruder.
Damian said nothing, content to play out some line. The woman`s breathing calmed.
He knelt before her and placed his hands on her thighs. Time to take up some slack. He pushed her legs apart, overcoming some initial resistance as he knew he would.
The woman suddenly rolled back from Damian, the back of the chair hitting the desk. She stood. With quick, agitated movements, the woman undid her slacks, surprising Damian again. ‘Is this what you want?’
Damian shook his head. There was no fear in the woman now, only anger and despair.
She slipped off her slacks, taking with them her panties. She sat back on the chair, naked from the waist down, breathing heavily. ‘If you’re here to torment me, do it already.’
Nothing in Damian’s experience prepared him for this. Visitations were typically a game of resistance and surrender, a carefully choreographed dance between the extremes of pleasure and dread.
She woman moved her hips forward and hitched up her legs, positioning her heels on the edge of the chair and allowing her legs to spread. ‘Is this what you want?’ she asked icily as she presented him her most private parts.
Damian advanced a tentative finger, splitting the labia.
‘Feel good does it, fingering a whore?’
Whore? With rising anger, Damian realized that he was being played for one. With a violent thrust, he buried three fingers within her, curled them up and pulled her violently towards him, lifting her hips off the chair.
The woman gasped.
Damian drew faint satisfaction from the fear that now blossomed in her.
With his fingers pressing hard against the inside of her pubic bone, her lowered his head and drew her clitoris into his mouth.
He wanted to break her, this woman who dared to command an incubus. Teach her that she presumed too much. Fuck her and be done with it.
He pressed his teeth together, trapping the woman’s tender flesh, and then lifted his head, the tender pearl of her clitoris scraping against his teeth and then springing free.
A pained whimper escaped the woman’s lips. ‘I’m sorry.’
Damian fumed. So incensed was he that he broke his cardinal rule. He leaned close to her face, her hair brushing his phantom lips. He spoke with a voice that was felt more than heard. ‘You dare defy me?’ It was little more than a growl. The woman threw her head back, as though struck with a fist. ‘You will submit.’
‘No.’ The voice quavered.
His fingers, slick with her juices, described a small circle within her.
‘No.’ This time, the voice had some steel in it.
He’d heard the word no before, countless times. It was normally a word whispered timorously, uncertainly, even as lust blossomed and the body spoke a different word entirely. Never had the word sounded so much like the slamming of a door.
He probed her mind for even the slightest hint of desire and found none. Even her fear had turned to anger.
Damn this woman. Damian realized that he had failed. He could sedate her as he’d done before, but felt that she would not submit. Not now. Whatever arousal he had hoped to kindle had evaporated, leaving only an unreasoning defiance that would do nothing to sustain him.
The woman squirmed in her chair, seeking to escape the invisible fingers that still impaled her.
A rage filled him. A small voice in his head told him to desist, that he’d lost. Damn her to hell. He maneuvered himself between her legs and grasped her upper thighs, pinning her to the chair. His cock rose to the space vacated by his fingers, its crown splitting the lips of her pussy.
Already a foretaste of a bitter meal filled him, but he didn’t care.
Her breath caught at the feel of his cold member against her.
His hands left her thighs and eased behind her back. He pulled her toward him as he thrust, violently impaling her.
She trembled upon him and her legs opened to him ever so slightly. Damian felt the warmth of her as her defiance evaporated, leaving something entirely different in its wake. Perhaps, he thought, there was hope.
A figure appeared at the door, backlit by the lights in the hallway. Damian could just make out his features. Haggard eyes and creased face. Careworn and old beyond his years.
It was the look of a man gazing upon the promise of endless solitude. Damian recognized it. He’d seen it in himself often enough.
‘Abby?’
The woman stiffened at the sound of his voice, closing in on herself.
‘Abby? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, George. Nothing.’
‘Who are you talking to?’
‘No one!’
George lingered at the doorway for a moment as though frozen by her icy tone and then silently withdrew. Damian was thankful that the woman’s partial nudity had been hidden by the desk and chair.
Abby. Damian now had a name. Abby and George. Knowing their names made it worse.
Abby buried her face
in her hands and a sob racked her frame.
‘Go. Please go.’
For the first time in eons, Damian had been bested. Hungry and irritated, he left.
He was still hungry, despite the girl at the college. It wasn’t the first time that plans had gone awry, nor would it be the last. On the drive home, the look in George’s eyes haunted him — confused, helpless, and alone. It was a look Damian knew well. Of course, for an incubus, solitude was a fact, but for visitations, demons didn’t exactly figure prominently in anyone’s social calendar. Nor did demons deserve much sympathy, yet Damian reserved some sympathy for the man. Any woman able to spurn a demon as Abby had done would be sheer hell to live with. Damian could imagine the curse of isolation within a marriage.
He quickly undressed and slipped into the bed. Britt lay curled on the edge, naked and blissfully warm. He positioned himself against her, her warmth penetrating him in several ways. He wound his arm around her waist.
Britt stirred and half turned her face to him. She smiled. ‘Howdy stranger.’
In answer, he pressed his lips to the nape of her neck and lingered there, face buried in her hair.
She turned in his arms to face him. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Bad night.’ He ventured no more information. Britt knew fully what he needed to do to survive and he knew better than to flaunt it.
He pushed his legs between hers and held her more tightly.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Just this. Just this.’
* * *
After the presence had left, Abby returned to the marital bed, albeit on the edge, as far from George as possible while still sharing the same space.
She could tell by his breathing that he pretended to sleep, as did she. It used to be that a hand would reach out to bridge the distance between them, but no more. The time for reaching to each other had passed. Wounded hands could not hold.
Abby was now convinced that she was not going crazy. The presence in the study had been real, and it was impossible to ascribe it to the wild imaginings of a sleeping mind. She’d been awake. She’d felt it. In fact, she still felt the pressure against her breasts and a tingling between her legs. She also felt a stirring within her of something dark, passionate, and unpredictable. For the first time in a long time, she longed to have someone within her. Something alive, warm, insistent. It would be so easy to reach across the bed but her hand remained immobile, frozen by uncertainty and pride.
It would have been easier to allow herself to be taken. She realized with a shock that she’d welcome it.
She longed for George to take her. But George wasn’t the type to use force, to impose his will on anyone, and Abby wasn’t the type to communicate need, even if the end result was what she yearned for.
And she’d somehow managed to turn away that… whatever it was.
She cursed her ability to spurn even those who had no cause to obey her. Whatever the cost, release would have been a blessing.
* * *
‘This woman keeps staring at you,’ said Britt.
‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’ Of course, Damian had noticed. On entering the restaurant, he’d stood momentarily frozen as the woman’s eyes had met his. While his eyes may have widened in recognition, hers narrowed. He hadn’t a clue as to why the woman would have been able to single him out among all of the other diners. She had never seen him, after all. The recognition unnerved him.
Britt and Damian were in one of the tonier restaurants in the tri-cities to celebrate their first anniversary. Britt looked ravishing in her form-fitting black dress, cut low on the top and high on the bottom, as a result of which Damian didn’t quite know where to look. Seated at the table, he settled on her eyes.
Truth be told, Damian was a little giddy. As an incubus who had been around as long as he had, every day marked some kind of milestone, good and bad. Of course, the passage of time had erased most of these dates from his memory. This date would forever stand out. This was the date on which he’d entered into a real relationship — or as real a relationship that a demon could share with another. The date on which he’d first received the gift of love, of mutual and unconditional surrender.
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