Death's Slut

The girl entered the room, her eyes seeking the figure of her new Master. As she approached, she loosened the robe she wore, allowing it to drop from her supple body as she walked. His robed arm raised, a bony hand emerging from the sleeve. The finger extended and then curled, beckoning her to him. The hooded faceless figure watched his toy, and as he watched he remembered the night he first arrived at this castle.

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Valentina was one of the thousand interred in the castle by Prince Prospero. The Red Death raged throughout the countryside, killing all who contracted the plague. Prospero, the arrogant devilish fiend he was, had convinced himself that he was safe, that he could keep death from his doors. He brought a thousand souls into his castle, sealing the gates after all had entered. Many of these men and women shared his same depraved tastes, engaging in activities that might make even the most experience concubine blush. They brought with them not only their servants but also their innocent and nearly-innocent friends and wards, those young bodies that they had long wished to sample.

Valentina was one of the nearly-innocent. Only one man had thrust himself between her slender thighs. Only one mouth had suckled and chewed at the tender flesh of her breast. He had not been invited to the castle, and she felt lonely without him. How she managed to withstand the depravity of the castle guests for the six months before the Masked Ball is unknown. Perhaps she prayed daily. Perhaps she locked herself in her chambers. All we know is that she remained un-touched during this time, almost as if she was saving herself for that special moment.

Maybe it was the mask that hid her face during the ball that allowed her to give into primal urges. The sensual music played by the musicians may have helped. The incense burning all throughout the castle surely was a boon. The heady scent filled every nostril, stirring urges long since forgotten in even the oldest of the bodies. Valentina felt her body tingle as she danced with servants and Lords alike. She felt a tightening in her bosom as even the wicked Prince Prospero danced with her, holding her body tightly to his, grinding his groin against the silk of her gown.

She was unaware of the appearance of the stranger at the ball. By the time the red-hooded figure appeared, she was in the third of the rooms, the green one. You may remember that a series of six chambers, each of a different color, led to the final room, decorated in black. Each room was filed with revelers, and by this time most were in states of undress and engaging in acts of depravity. Valentina was among those people, and at this time she was with her guardian, Lord Donatello, a portly man of nearly 60 years. He had lusted after her alabaster skin for nearly a decade, from the moment she first arrived at his home at the tender age of 12. And now, finally, at the age of 20, with the help of the music, the incense, and lots of fine wine, the maiden was his. As his back rested on the finely carpeted floor, the naked Valentina was repeatedly impaling herself upon his manhood.

The Lord could not remember a time when he was trapped inside such a tight channel. He groaned loudly as she rode him, her juices dripping from her onto his skin. His hands would reach up, grabbing her firm full breasts. She cried out in pleasure each time his fingers pinched and twisted her nipples. Every time she cried out, those velvet walls tightened even more around his manhood, so, of course, he pinched her quite often. Occasionally another would join their union. A tongue or finger would enter one of their puckered anuses. A breast or cock would be presented to Valentina's lips and she would greedily take it. Men and women alike would avail themselves of the Lord's open mouth as he lay there beneath the young maiden. Such was the depravity of this party.

When the call went out from Prince Prospero to seize the stranger, the older man and young girl were still in their frenzied mating. This cock filled her so perfectly, she didn't want to leave it. And what man, lest he be a fool, would remove himself from the womanhood in which Lord Donatello was buried? Not he! He couldn't remember a time when he had stayed this hard for so long. And though he was a nightly participant in many of the couplings which occurred in the castle, as well as a voyeur of the administrations of the whip or other instrument of pain by Prince Prospero on a randomly-chosen guest, he had never felt the sense of completeness has he did as his cock slide in and out of Valentina's well-lubricated channel. "If I could die like this, I'd be a happy man," he thought as he watched her face. Valentina's eyes were closed, but her face held a look of intense concentration, her mind consumed by the pleasures of the flesh.

Death watched as the revelers started to fall. The Prince Prospero had mocked him by trying to keep him out. "Silly mortals," thought the robed masked figure, "I cannot be stopped." He paused in his thought as he walked through the chambers, pausing at the entrance to the green room as he watched the young woman riding her hefty stallion. The thoughts of the man reached him, and was strode to where their sweaty writhing bodies were lying.

The man turned his head, the blood draining from his face as he saw that of Death. "No," he said, "take her....". The next words "instead of me" never reached her lips as the blood started to seep from his pores. The Red Death had claimed its last victim as Lord Donatello died, still embedded in Valentina's young pussy. Death watched as the girl, eyes still closed, continued to fuck her older lover. The man's hands were holding her hips, and has the death came upon him, his grip tightened, holding her even more tightly. Her eyes opened and she looked down, a scream tearing from her lips as she saw the mask of death over his face. She continued to scream even as she continued to ride; her body not wanting to give up the pleasure of this cock inside her. The robed figure stood behind her, watching. His will kept the Lord's cock hard. His will kept her body aroused. He took great pleasure in watching the coupling. Although he no longer had the body of a man, he remembered when he was of flesh and blood, and he could almost feel a cock hardening, could almost remember the last time he thrust it inside a willing, or even unwilling, maiden.

Valentina was confused. She should be running away from the man beneath her, from the face of death, but still she rode. For hours and hours, and then for as many days, the strange coupling continued. Her alabaster skin was flushed and wet, her raven hair hung damply down her back, but still she continued with great effort. The robed figure willed her to lean forward, close to the dead man beneath her, and she did without question. He rubbed his bony finger against her dripping orifice, lubricating it well. She cried out as he thrust it into her anus, twisting and thrusting, her mind hearing his command of "cum" ... and she did. And as she came, the body of her dead lover deteriorated beneath her, his cock crumbling to dust and falling from her body. She collapsed to the ground as new words filled her ears ... "good slut... My slut." Valentina fell into a deep dreamless slumber.

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And so, Death found something to keep himself occupied while the country recovered from the ravages of the plague. He had a toy. And he played with his new toy at every possible moment. His bony fingers probed every orifice. He would watch with delight as she thrust herself upon them. Items from the castle were used as well. Pokers from the fireplace. Bottles of wine and other spirits. Even the posts of the beds were thrust inside Valentina's always wet, always willing, channel. He had chosen wisely, for the more Valentina submitted to his desires, the more she wanted it. She indeed was Death's slut.