Blood by the Cross (Morathor/Hamadryad)

[Morathor]

1563

The Manse Delacroix was a rather new building, scarcely twenty years old, erected in the heart of Paris at tremendous expense. Many considered the heavy gothic architecture more suited to a cathedral than to a Baron's mansion, but perhaps it made for an easier transition from the countryside castle that Lord Delacroix had all but abandoned.

It was hard to say if the Delacroix who had commissioned the Manse was the same one who governed it now. No one had heard of the Baron's death or any ceremony of succession, but the current lord of the manor could not have been more than thirty--or if he was, he was very blessed indeed. Some people reported that he had confided in them, that he was the same Baron, and that the secret for his youthful appearance was this or that; or that it was his father who had commissioned the castle, when he was a boy of ten, or five, or before he was born; or that he was a bastard or some sort of interloper who had taken over the Baron's name and title with no one the wiser.

These claims never held up, of course; the men who made them (and they were almost always men) had never even been invited to the Manse. Of course, even without demanding to see proof of invitation or correspondence, anyone who had met the Baron could have told you the claims were false. Not because Delacroix would not have shared the details, but because no one would ask. Those who had spoken to Delacroix (and these were almost all women) would tell you that there was simply no prying into his affairs. When they were around them, the thought would banish itself from their minds. (Some might admit that most thoughts left them when they were with the man.)

And so Baron Delacroix was a remarkably public enigma. No one knew his age, or even his name; no one knew his family's history or how he maintained the enormous fortune that allowed him to throw extravagant parties, sometimes as many as twice a month. But everyone knew about the parties, knew they were more lavish than the King's own (although people were of course, careful not to say this where their words might reach His Majesty). Delacroix provided the finest food, wine, opium and entertainment to his guests.

What most nobles did not know, or rather did not notice, was the amount of labor that went into preparing these parties. But the commoners noticed--there were always job openings at the Manse Delacroix. The pay was not much, but it came on top of room and board, and that was enough for most to take the job.

It was enough for most to overlook the rumors, of servants disappearing. Of course, you could ask any of the staff and they'd tell you, oh yes she was sent off (and it was always a she) to the old castle, out in the countryside. The master only goes there sometimes in the summer, but they like to keep the place in good shape just in case, no mystery there. No mystery, save perhaps for why she had been transferred so suddenly, without a chance to say goodbye to anyone.

The servants tended to overlook that, for a roof over their heads, a meal in their belly, and a bit of coin in their pocket. They couldn't afford not to.

 

[Hamadryad]

Adalene rushed through the dimly lit halls, the Baron always preferred having the torches burned low. The poor lighting circumstances weren't the greatest for maids such as herself, however, as she often found herself tripping on loose planks, stone, or tearing her skirts on upturned nails. But today it wasn't the prospect of tripping over rough terrain that made her stride through the Manse at a quickened pace, it was her first meeting with the Baron himself that made her move so quickly. The young maid had worked in the Manse for nearly a month by now, but she'd not once seen the Baron who the other maids often whispered about. She'd heard all the rumours, all the stories, but as a cynic they had little effect on her. Though it was strange how it was only the new maids who spun tales and gossiped about the Baron, or the Manse itself as the older maids who'd been here for far longer barely uttered a single phrase to the newbies unless it was a command.

The maid swept the thoughts aside for now, she needed to concentrate on the meeting that would soon occur. She went over the procedures in her head, what to say, how to respond to questions, she had to make a good impression of course. How else was she to get any higher in this job? Perhaps if she made a grand presentation of herself today she would soon be promoted to a higher tier of maid. The girl had dressed to make such an impression. Her black and white outfit was freshly washed, pressed out to look all neat and new. She'd taken the gamble and decided the Baron would be into newer, more risque styles and chose the top with the looser cleavage to better show off her breasts. She had a bust to brag about, even though she was only sixteen they had grown to be quite sizeable. She'd paid great attention to her face, ensuring her makeup was evenly distributed across her pale skin, her eyebrows neatly trimmed to form a nice curve over her cute doe-like pale blue eyes. She elected to show her pious side, and her small iron cross now dangled joyfully atop her chest as she quickly moved through the halls.

At first she was confident of the meeting, she was sure it would go well. But then as she got closer and closer to the Baron's chambers the whispers of the other maids grew louder in her mind, all the tales of the Baron's cruelty, his mysterious nature or the foul things they said of maids who no longer enjoyed servitude to the Baron. They couldn't be true, could they? She doubted the other newer maids had even seen the Baron, as they always gave conflicting stories of his looks and attitudes. But maybe they had, maybe they weren't telling lies to gain favour with their coworkers. The thought sent a shiver down her spine and her pace began to lose its haste. Finally, the large delightfully carved wooden doors of the Baron's chamber stood erect before her. Her heart throbbed in her chest, and though it was hard for her to bring herself to do it, she finally sent her knuckles to fall upon the door in a quick quiet knock. She awaited for her master's call to enter, at which point she would walk in to look upon him for the first time.

 

[Morathor]

Her knock was answered by a melodious voice. "Come in." As she opened the door, the man continued, "It's Adalene, isn't it?"

The Baron's chambers were darker than even the rest of the Manse, lit not by torches but by rows of candelabras along the walls, plus one on the writing desk that stood opposite the door. The desk was piled high with books and ledgers, two of them open in front of the heavy oaken chair that was, at the moment, vacant. Against the wall behind the desk, between two of the candelabras, was a tall bookshelf, packed tightly with what looked to be more ledgers.

To Adalene's right was a second door. She did not have to go through it to know where it led; a month in the Manse had given her a good enough sense of where she was, and besides, she had seen the other side of it. It led to the ballroom, the very one where the Baron had hosted one of his magnificent parties the night before. Adalene had been called on, very briefly, to bring wine to some of the guests; she had not seen the Baron, but the head maid had intimated that the Baron had seen her, and had as a result inquired about her, requested to meet her. She did not seem to see this as a good thing.

On the left half of the room, the wooden planks gave way to smooth stone tiles--black marble, with swirls of light grey. There was a recess in the floor, in the near left corner, with steps leading down into it. From the vases, towels, and bottles massed around it, as well as the dampness of the floor at the bottom, it seemed to be a bath of sorts. It was easily large enough for five people to lay in it at once.

Of a similar size was the bed in the far left corner. It was enormous, round, and draped with shimmering crimson sheets. Just looking at them called to mind an impossibly smooth texture sliding across the skin. This was especially easy to imagine, as the sheets had slid from the two figures laying in the bed, showing quite a lot of milky skin. The discarded finery around the bed told Adalene these had been guests attending last nights party, who had apparently attended the Baron a while longer.

But the Baron himself was nowhere to be seen. At least, not until the door swung shut behind Adalene--not with a creak and a bang, but with a quiet swish and a sharp click. And then the Baron, or a man she had to assume was the Baron, circled around in front of her.

He had to be over six feet tall, a tower of a man. At first glance, the paleness of his hair might have put doubt into the rumors of the Baron's youth, but on closer inspection it was a pale, glossy blond, nearly white--not silver, but platinum. It hung in loose locks, shorter at the front around his temples, falling to the nape of his neck in the back. His features were indeed youthful and delicate; one might go so far as to say girlish.

It seemed Adalene's choice of a risque dress was a wise one, if the Baron's own garb was any indication of his tastes. His white silk shirt hung open, completely exposing his chest and stomach. Although his physique was lean, each muscle was so clearly defined it might as well have been cut with a chisel. Combined with the paleness of his skin, only a thin sheen of sweat distinguished him from a work of marble, lovingly sculpted by some Florentine master. Below the waist, the Baron wore black breeches, and no shoes.

Large brown eyes, nearly black, peered down at Adalene from his pale face. A gentle smile played on his lips, but those dark, inscrutable eyes made his mood impossible to decipher. Finally he said, "Welcome, Adalene." His low, steady tenor seemed to invoke a clarinet, more than a human voice.

 

[Hamadryad]

The maiden froze as the voice sounded from somewhere in the room, goosebumps immediately forming on her skin. Her muscles clenched and she found herself unable to move, his voice just had such a powerful quality to it, and it struck her like lightning. She took in his looks as he moved to stand before her, noting how handsome he was, and quickly dispelling the thought as inappropriate. A thousand thoughts raced through her mind, were the maids telling the truth, the whole truth, not just partial truths? She hoped not, she didn't want the cruel stories to be true.

She was so consumed in thought she didn't respond for several seconds, and forgot her courtesies. Adalene gasped as she remembered, dipping her knees and bowing her head in a curtsy before speaking "Yes, my lord," to confirm her name before quickly thanking him for his welcomes.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord", she said shakily next as she kept her head bowed. Her body betrayed her nervousness as she shifted subtly on her feet, goosebumps spread across her normally smooth and pale skin.

 

[Morathor]

Delacroix almost chuckled to see the girl freeze up, if only for a few seconds. Less than a minute in his presence, and already she seemed helplessly overwhelmed. How delightful. Still, he held in his laughter. He didn't want to give her the wrong impression. Or rather, he didn't want to give her the right impression just yet. He wanted to play a little longer.

When she lowered her head, and could no longer see his face, his eyes narrowed as he appraised her hungrily. His lips curled into a predatory grin. She was beautiful, but he had already known that--and how dare the head maid keep such a lovely creature from her master's eyes for so long. But now what Delacroix was noting were her clothes and makeup, how she had decided to present herself to him. She had clearly taken great pangs with her appearance, and he could hardly find fault with her vanity. Why shouldn't the beautiful be vain? He certainly was, and did not apologize for it. Besides, Delacroix was far more interested in the fact that she had put in all this work to impress him. That was good. She was a perfect cocktail of dread, desire, and a desperate need to please. And he was very pleased.

The cross was... not a problem, and he hesitated even to call it a challenge. It was a diversion, and a welcome one at that. Like the ties on a lady's bodice, the delay it caused would only give him more time to savor her. Delacroix wondered, idly, if she had been advised to wear it when meeting him. Surely none of his more experienced staff would have bothered to warn her; even if they thought it would do her any good, they were all far too broken to care. Too beyond saving to ever attempt to save another. But, he knew there were rumors, among the newcomers, among the common folk of Paris. He enjoyed them, encouraged them even, but he hadn't heard any of them that might suggest one should confront him with crosses. If that was the case, he couldn't say he minded. But it might simply have been for show. It didn't cross his mind that she was simply devout enough to wear a crucifix as a matter of course. Not when she had chosen that dress.

He reached out to cup his hand under her chin, lifting her face to gaze into her eyes. His expression had reverted to the gentle smile from before. His fingers were slightly cool against her skin, and incredibly soft. "You've been with us for a month now, yes? How are you settling in?" He pulled his hand away from her and turned his back to her, but with one finger beckoned her to follow him as he approached the bookshelf. "Tell me a little about yourself, Adalene. Have you always lived in Paris? Do you have any family?"

 

[Hamadryad]

Adalene flinched slightly as his oddly cool fingers stroked her chin, it was a hot summer's day after all. She kept her eyes from meeting with his, something about them just put her off.

"You are correct, my lord," she said shakily as Delacroix turned around, prompting her to follow him. She eyed the room once more briefly once she was safe from his gaze, and then quickly looked his form up and down. He had such a slick and calculated way of moving, he was such an odd man, though she couldn't quite finger why.

"No, my lord, my family lived in Normandy, though we weren't Normans," she explained as she moved delicately behind him, checking her steps to ensure she didn't trip in the dim light. "My mother and father and I moved here because father got a job painting churches and ballrooms," she continued, "Though, father hurt himself when he fell from a scaffold, so I had to find a job to help out him and mother" she went on, it soon became apparent that the girl had a way to rave on. If not stopped by the Baron, she would continue on to detail her father's back injury, her mother's grief, her mother's loathing of her daughter's new job, even their small little two room home in the poor area of Paris. She would gain confidence in her speaking, losing herself and forgetting who she was talking to.

 

[Morathor]

His laughter interrupted her as he pulled a book off the shelf. His tone was a little more mocking than he had intended, but he couldn't help it. It wasn't often he heard rambling like this. It was the cross, he was sure.

Most people knew. From the moment they saw Delacroix, heard his voice, or felt his touch, they knew what he was. Not consciously, not intellectually, not in any way they could put into words, but it seemed they could feel it, deep in their souls. He'd experienced that feeling himself once, long ago, and he'd had a long time to think about what it actually was that he'd felt, to put it into words. It was, he had decided, the absolute, irrefutable certainty that there existed something beyond humanity, beyond human control or even comprehension, and that it did not care about him.

Delacroix had responded to that certainty, all those years ago, with awe and wonder, but he had seen many other reactions. Fear, lust, confusion, exhileration... often a mix of several emotions. Whatever they felt, their little minds were invariably overwhelmed by it. He still remembered what that was like--like that precise and infuriating point of inebriation where one was drunk enough to struggle with words and thoughts, but sober enough to know it should not have been so hard.

But the cross changed everything. That pitiful trinket, which likely held no meaning to the girl, was doing all in its power to save her. It wouldn't be enough, of course, but it was making things a touch more interesting. Her mind was still clear enough to babble about her parents and Normandy and her squalid little cottage. And she might still have understood, on some level anyway, the situation she was now in. He had noticed her unease, her tension, the way she avoided his eyes. Did she have some comprehension of what she was faced with, or was she thinking about the rumors? Perhaps it was simpler than that. She was a young, poor girl, clearly aware of her beauty, in the private chambers of a powerful man. This could easily go very badly for her.

And, of course, it was going to.

"What a dutiful daughter," Delacroix said, supressing his earlier mocking tone, making a show of earnest admiration. "Your parents must be very proud of you. It's funny, though, that you should call me 'my lord,' when..." He turned to her with a smile, opening the book and thumbing through the pages. "Do you know this, Adalene? Matthew chapter six, verse twenty four, 'nemo potest duobus dominis servire, aut enim unum odio habebit et alterum diliget, aut unum sustinebit et alterum contemnet.'" He stepped into arm's reach of her, eyes still on the book. "'No one can be a slave to two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other.'"

He looked up at her as he closed the book with a sharp snap, eyes fixed on her necklace. His tone shifted as he spoke, into something tense and slightly threatening. "One must pay god all due respect of course. But to walk into my chambers wearing another Lord's heraldry around your neck..." He shook his head as he walked past her, circling around to stand behind her. "Especially when you have chosen your dress to draw attention to it." Of course, that was far from the only thing her dress drew attention to.

He reached up, to the back of her head, running his fingers through her hair, cool fingertips tracing along her scalp. "It makes me wonder who you hold to, Adalene." As his hand neared the top of her head, he closed it into a fist, clenching her dark locks and jerking her head back slightly. He lowered his voice nearly to a whisper. "If I am your master, you'll take it off."

 

[Hamadryad]

The girl snapped to reality with Delacroix's cackling. Suddenly, all the feelings of dread and anxiety flooded back into her twofold. She went to speak, to apologise for her rambling but the Baron beat her to it. The maids heart dropped and sunk ever lower aa he spoke, that limb freezing fear returning to her.

She flinched to his touch as he slid his fingers into her long black wavy hair, neatly tied back into a large high ponytail. Out of view, she closed her eyes and prayed she wouldn't lose her job over a foolish choice of attire. She had just wanted to seem pious, but clearly it was a mistake.

Suddenly, her head was jerked back by the hair, a small whimper escaping from her as the Baron issues his command. "O-of course, my lord" she stuttered in fear, shaking hands reaching upward to unlatch the cross at the back, struggling heavily. Finally though, the latch released and Adalene dropped the chain, allowing the cross to clutter to the floor. She felt naked now, as though she had lost some layer of clothing.

 

[Morathor]

Nothing happened as she fumbled with the necklace, when she unclasped it, pulled it away from her neck. Even as it slipped from her fingers, nothing changed. Only when the tiny piece of metal hit the floor did the fog roll into her mind. It was a thought, or a feeling, too immense to think and too intense to feel, and it made everything fuzzy.

Everything except the Baron. Whatever it was flooding her mind, it was about him, and while it was a struggle to process the world around her or to organize her thoughts, focusing on Delacroix was easy. The feeling of his had in her hair was crystal clear as he released his grip and began to stroke her scalp gently with his fingertips. When he spoke, now in a satisfied murmur, the sound cut cleanly through the fog. "Excellent."

 

[Hamadryad]

Adalene's brow furrowed in confusion as her mind began to fall cloudy, thoughts beginning difficult to process. She raised a few fingers to her forehead to find that she had started to sweat slightly, she hadn't noticed in this haze she found herself in. But there was one thing clear - Delacroix. All her thoughts led to him, or originated from him, he was the only important thing in her mind. She felt those thin cold fingers gently probing through her thick black hair, sliding across her scalp. It felt so clear, so relaxing, so good. Gulping, she closed her eyes and embraced the feeling as her limbs relaxed.

 

[Morathor]

Delacroix sighed with satisfaction as Adalene seemed to relax slightly. "That's good... my obedient servant." His fingertips slipped down the back of her head, past the base of her skull, tracing her spinal column. He slipped his hand around to the front of her neck, three fingers gently wrapping around her throat as his forefinger reached up to lay across her chin, settling his fingertip on her lower lip as his thumb traced her jawline. She was so soft... so wonderful.

His other arm snaked around her waist and he pulled her gently to him, pressing her warm back to his bare chest. Through her dress, she probably could not feel the same coolness of his skin as she did with his hands, but neither was there any warmth. He leaned his head forward, burying his face in her hair, his breath rolling through the dark locks and over her scalp. He shifted forward and planted a gentle kiss to her temple.

He pressed his palm against her waist and slid it up her stomach, shifting to the right as he reached her rib cage. Soon he was cupping her hand over her breast. Because of the low cut of her dress, his thumb and some of his palm settled on her bare skin as he squeezed her gently, experimentally. She was quite impressive... he lowered his head and gave her another kiss, this time high on her cheek, just below her eye.

 

[Hamadryad]

Adalene made no resistance as the Baron explored her body. Her heart thudded in her chest, her flesh flushing red with warmth as that warm fuzzy feeling filled her. She kept her eyes squeezed shut as his cool lips brushed against her skin in delicate kisses. The baron's hand crept up her flat stomach, sliding over the smooth fabric of her dress and creeping up onto her soft and malleable bust. The room around her faded into nothingness, all she could think about was him.

But then was a thought, a sudden grasp at piety as he begun to squeeze her breast. "M-my lord," she uttered breathlessly as she tried to softly pull away from him, "this is not proper". She knew it was wrong, to do such a thing with a man out of wedlock, perhaps he was testing her? Seeing if she was impure? She couldn't take the risk, she couldn't disappoint him.

 

[Morathor]

Adalene's attempt to pull away seemed half-hearted, even with the feeble strength of her slim body. Delacroix didn't even really need to tighten his grip to keep her in place.

He did it anyway. Fingers dug into her breast, the nail of his pinky leaving a slight tear in her dress, and his hand tensed slightly around her windpipe. He didn't completely cut off her air, but he certainly made breathing hard. "Proper?" he hissed into her ear. "I decide what's proper in my house, Adalene. Don't you think that's proper? That a man be master in his own home? That a servant in that home submit to her master?"

Then he eased his grip on her throat and bosom, sliding his hands instead to rest on Adalene's shoulders. He kneaded them gently, then began to shift his hands back and forth, dragging the neckline of her garment with them. First he would expose one shoulder, then cover it again as he slid her dress to the other side to bare the other. All the while, gentle, cool kisses traced their way down her cheek and throat.

 

[Hamadryad]

Adalene whimpered as he took a tight grip, a slight pain tinging in her breast as his nails dug in. The tearing noise of her dress seemed far off and irrelevant to her as she whispered again, still out of breathe, "A-apologies, my lord, you are quite right," she uttered. Relief washed over her as he loosened his grip, delicate hands shifting to her shoulders and toying with her dress. The warm air brushed against her smooth, pale shoulders as the Baron examined them. She shivered as the cool lips danced on her flesh, prickly goosebumps often emerging as the lips took their leave.

She felt so exposed, powerless, yet it was beginning to feel so right, like she truly wanted this. Wanted him. Her arm found itself drifting upward, probing upward for his hair, to probe her little fingers through his scalp as he had done. She leaned back into him, head resting against him as he continued to kiss her. Finally, her mouth opened to take a sharp breathe, that cute little hissing sound emerging from her maw as she sucked in some air. The maid was beginning to succumb to her sudden lusts.

 

[Morathor]

"I'm always right," he murmured in reply. Delacroix gave a soft, contented groan as she pressed herself against him. Oh, she was perfect.

Delacroix had his pick of high society, and indulged in their company frequently. In his bed at this very moment, in fact, were a Comtessa and the daughter of a Marquise, both envied beauties of the royal court, both utterly lost in the raptures of the flesh. He doubted either of them remembered their names yet, let alone their families. And yet neither compared to this peasant girl from Normandy--they may have been her match in beauty, though not her superior, but there was no competing with the way she worked her fingers into his hair. No whorish moan from a noblewoman could instill the desire Adalene did with her innocent little gasp. Her want was infectious, even to a man like Delacroix.

But before he could give her what he wanted, he would have to take. But surely she wouldn't object. She already belonged to him, after all.

He opened his mouth wide, the teeth of his lower jaw scraping against her skin. They were sharp, impossibly, inhumanly sharp--the only warning she got before he bit down into the soft tissue of her shoulder. Blood poured freely from the wound, aided by her racing heart, and he gulped it down ravenously. As he did, his own heart began to beat more vigorously, flooding his body with warmth. For the first time, his skin felt feverishly hot against Adalene's.

 

[Hamadryad]

Adalene was lost in the moment, heemr mind swimming in all sorts of teenage fantasies about her master. Was this what love was like? She had fancied boys before, but she nor then had ever acted. Never had she been this close to a man before, never been felt in this way. But she likes it. It was all perfect for a long while in his arms, until she felt the scrape of thoaw inhuman teeth.

The maid gasped as some clarity returned to her mind, but it was too late. Pain shot through her torso as the Baron sunk his mandibles into her. She writhed and wriggled and squealed in frightened pain as she tried to escape his grasp, but his grip was vice-like and his strength inhuman. Blood trickled down into her dress, staining the white frills of hee upper hems blood red. She cried outward as tears welled in her eyes.

 

[Morathor]

Even with his teeth buried in her shoulder, Delacroix couldn't help grinning at Adalene's futile struggling. In fact, for her it was surely worse than useless--thrashing against his unyielding jaws served only to further tear her delicate flesh, expanding her wounds and letting still more blood flow. He watched the blood trickle down her shoulder with some interest, the crimson spreading across her pale skin, staining the pristine white lace of her dress.

That was alright. He didn't think much of this dress would survive his attentions anyway.

He didn't drink too deeply. He never did; he preferred to feed lightly from many people. Less risk of killing them, and they weren't too weak afterward for whatever else he had planned for them. And he had so much planned for Adalene. Still, what he did take from Adalene was probably enough to leave her weak and light-headed--as if she weren't already. He pulled his teeth out of her skin and let out a satisfied sigh, his breath now hot as it rolled over her bare shoulder.

"Mmm... my Adalene..." His voice was soft, almost soothing. He licked his lips before giving her a kiss on the cheek, reveling in the salty taste of her tears. "It hurts, I know. It doesn't matter. What is pain to a faithful servant?" He nuzzled his face into her ear and groaned hungrily. "And you are faithful, aren't you, Adalene." It was a statement, more than a question. "You deserve a reward, don't you think?"

Delacroix gripped the shoulders of her dress in both hands and pulled them in opposite directions, slowly, inexorably. The garment gave way little by little, with soft ripping sounds, until finally the neckline was wide enough to slip over both of Adalene's shoulders. Delacroix ran his hands along her shoulder blades, then around to her front. He cupped both hands over her breasts, squeezing them through the bloody dress before sliding it down a few more inches, exposing her pale bosom to the open air. He bent his head back to her shoulder, beginning to lick her clean of blood.

 

[Hamadryad]

The maid didn't resist for long. Soon she felt herself wearied by the loss of blood, the world a fuzzy mess of dizziness. Though, she managed to notice that he had stopped. What was he? Some sort of creature of the night? Was that why he made her remove the cross? She felt in danger, scared, yet also so intrigued. Adalene couldn't believe the implications of her thoughts, Delacroix was just so alluring, despite what he had done. Her weight fell backward into him in her dizzied state, leaning on him heavily. She felt the soft brush of his lips, the stickiness of her blood being left atop her cheekbone.

Once again, all she could think about was him. As he spoke, she felt her mind bending to his will, felt herself wanting whatever he had to give, even if it meant the bite again. She knew it was wrong, unholy, yet she wanted it anyway. She didn't respond to the Baron, only giving slight, tired nods, her mouth hanging agape slightly in her trance like, dazed state. Truthfully, she barely felt her dress being torn and pulled down along her shoulders, falling outward and hanging limp at her waist as her sizeable bust cascaded free of it. She felt his tongue, though, so vividly too as his rough taste buds slid across her skin, lapping at her blood and cleaning her of the crimson fluid. She felt an itching inside of her, between her thighs, her body ran hot with lust as her skin flushed a light red.

 

[Morathor]

He reached his hands up to her breasts, giving them a rough squeeze before beginning to knead them more gently. He caught her nipples expertly in the clefts between his fingers, pinching them as he shifted her breasts up and down.

The wound in her throat had all but stopped bleeding; it was as clean as he could get it. He pulled away and licked his lips again, then ran his tongue along her cheek, clearing away the smear of blood he had left before. He slid his left hand away from her bosom, squeezing more roughly with his right to make up for its absence. His fingers traced over her collarbone and up her throat, until he cupped her cheek in his hand and turned her head to face him. His bottomless black eyes gazed into her crystal blue ones. For a few seconds, he simply admired her beauty, the lusty tint of her skin, the feel of her breath against his skin. Then he leaned in to kiss her open mouth, his tongue slithering between her parted lips and dancing expertly around hers.

He slid his hand down from her cheek, around to the back of her neck, slipping it between their two bodies--with the way she was leaning against him, she would surely feel its descent down her back. Soon he was running his hand down the back of her skirt, lifting up the layers of lace to cup her buttock in his palm. He gave her rump a squeeze as his other hand clamped down on her breast. Then, ever so slowly, he slipped his hand down and forward, between her thighs.

 

[Hamadryad]

Adalene sighed longingly as the Baron explored her body. She giggled softly in her tranced state as he took a nipple between his fingers. She'd never done anything like this before, truly, but it all came so naturally to her. Her plump little buttocks pressed backward against his groin as he turned her head aside, their lips locking together and tongues engaging in a loving dance. She felt his now warm hand sliding down her back, lifting her skirts and squeezing the soft flesh of one of her cheeks. Then there was his other hand, which crept down along her flat stomach and between her thighs.

"Please," she uttered breathlessly as it found its way under her skirts, the long flowing hem now lifted up so that her thighs and the moist lips between them were revealed to the world. She gasped as he reached for her lady parts, thick thighs squeezing together as she breathed hot air into his mouth. The maid had no idea of the pleasures yet to come.

 

[Morathor]

He doubted her intention in pressing her legs together was to keep him out--in fact, he doubted that anything as coherent as an 'intention' was left in her mind, but even so he made a point to slip his hand between her legs, knuckles wedged between her flesh. He lovingly stroked the slick curves of her inner thigh. Delacroix pulled his mouth away from hers ever so slighty, only to close his needle-sharp teeth on her soft lower lip. He gave it a short, sharp tug that very nearly drew blood before releasing it and plunging back into a breathless kiss. Below, his hand began to make its way back up to her exposed sex.

He relished the moistness that flowed from her slit, the heat that radiated off it. Such wanton desire from such an innocent girl... Delacroix felt such a rush of power, making Adalene so completely his. He ran two fingers up and down her lower lips, before slipping one between them. He worked it in slowly, twisting back and forth as her body swallowed the first joint, then the second. Finally he drove his finger in to the knuckle with one sharp push that shook her entire pelvis and pressed her rear all the more tightly against his groin. She could surely feel his manhood, hard and eager and straining against his thin, tight breeches.

 

[Hamadryad]

Adalene squinted slightly as the fingers brushed along her delicate lips, the Baron slickening himself with her fluids. She gasped as he parted her lips with his finger, probing at her sensitive wet insides. She felt as though there were butterflies in her stomach as he twisted and turned his finger, playing at her ticklish insides playfully. Then he forced it in to the knuckle. A yelp escaped the maids lips as he plunged into her tight wetness, her lips pulling away from his.

She moaned as he continued to play with her insides, her legs quivering from the enjoyment. And the hardness pressed against her rear through those thin pants, she just had to feel it. A hand slid down his front, toying at the hem of his pants before delving into them, grasping at the hot thickness. The Baron's cock throbbed as she grasped it in her hand, stroking it along the length and getting a feel for its curves and veins, it felt so good. Her head rolled back onto his shoulder as he played with her parts, her hand squeezing around his cock akin to her eyelids closing. Her mouth hung agape, erotic sounds of pleasure escaping it.

 

[Morathor]

Delacroix opened his mouth to laugh, but what came out was instead a hungry groan. He had not anticipated that Adalene would grab him like this. Briefly, he wondered whether she might have more experience than he had given her credit for. But no, if her initial demeanor, or her outburst about propriety had not been enough, the curiosity and wonder with which she explored his shaft would have made it abundantly clear she had never known this sort of intimacy. It was almost a waste; with her looks and natural instincts, she might have made a much better living at a brothel than as a maid. And she almost certainly wouldn't have become a vampire's prey.

But then, she didn't seem to mind. And really, who could appreciate her like Delacroix would? It was for the best, then, that she was his, and his alone.

"You want it, don't you." Once again, though his words asked a question, his tone made it a statement of fact, as irrefutable as the color of the sky. "What would you give up, Adalene, to be filled by this?" A slight buck of his hips slid his shaft back and forth through her grip, while pressing both his cock and his fingers harder against her rear and innards, respectively. "Your virtue, your family, your very soul?" The hand not currently exploring her passage strayed upward, running fingertips over her smooth skin, kneading her breast and pinching her nipple briefly in passing, before settling delicately around her slim throat. He squeezed gently with every breath she took.

"Have some patience, Adalene. You're not ready for that." He slid his fingers nearly all the way out of her, angling his hand down so his knuckles scraped against her thighs. "You're barely ready for this." The last word came out as a hiss as he drove his fingers back into her, upward this time, with enough force to lift her entire body. Her heels were dragged off the ground and he left her standing on her toes. The weight of her body forced her down harder onto him, drove his long, dexterous fingers deeper into her than before. With his thumb he began to flick and part her dripping folds, searching for her most sensitive nub.

 

[Hamadryad]

"Everything," she uttered quietly, her lust pulling at her so strongly that she barely even thought about what consequence her response could have. Truthfully, between his power over her mind and her own insides, melting with desire, Adalene could never have denied the man anything. She didn't even notice the thin line of blood slowly dripping down from her prior wound anymore. The maid felt the throbbing length sliding between her fingers, pumping veins pressing against her flesh as the rod slid back and forth.

Delacroix had said she wasn't ready for it, and how could she deny that? His next statement was just as true. She yelped out in pleasure as his fingers drove deep into her tunnel of love, his thumb playing at her spot as he rhythmically drummed his digits deep inside of her. The maid's hands fell from their positions and fell upon his own pumping hand, grasping at it though not pulling it away. She felt something building inside of her, some sort of tickling tension, it felt so good. She began to cry out loudly now, not even caring if anyone was to hear her.

 

[Morathor]

Now Delacroix did chuckle, elated by her answer. "Everything, that's right. That's good, Adalene. My faithful Adalene..." Of course, what she was willing to give him didn't make much difference--she was his already. From the moment she had stepped into the Manse, she had belonged to him. She just hadn't known it until today. Neither had he, until he had seen her the night before. What a pleasant surprise it was, to find such a wonderful toy in his toy box. And surely it was a welcome surprise for her as well, to suddenly find her place in the world.

Each powerful thrust of his fingers rocked Adalene's body, causing her to bounce up and down on her toes. He slipped two fingers from her throat, still squeezing it with his palm, pinky, and ring finger, and reached up to her face. His fingertips crossed over her soft lower lip and he pushed them into her mouth. He kissed and bit at her cheek, her jaw, her earlobe, sharp teeth leaving red marks on her skin but not drawing blood.

Below, her juices poured freely down his hand and wrist, and as her body became more used to his intrusion, it felt like her cunt would swallow up his whole hand. She was getting so close... he could tell from the tension in her muscles, and the scent of her arousal. She was nearly there. The next thrust of his hand lifted her higher than ever before, the tips of her toes leaving the ground as he gave a hungry moan. His thumbnail pressed sharply into her clit.