The Kindness Of Strangers

Cold. The dark cavern in which Maiselle crawled was ghastly cold. Periodically a gust of freezing air would rush into the myriad barred niches, having drawn the eternal damp from the cavern's rock walls along the mile that it had to traverse from outside to the darkest vaults of the cave. The outside...she let out a screeching sound, much like that of nails raked along a blackboard. It was immediately followed by other sounds: howls, bellows, panicked screams from the women who had only recently come here, all of them bouncing off the cavern walls, a cacophony of echoes that no one but the prisoners would hear. She coughed and convulsed, doubled over in her misery. She rubbed her forehead on the uncaring stone floor, and saw her yellowed skin be grinded to dust by her movement. The pain did not register. It had ceased doing so a long time ago. She had guttered out like a candle, a blossom fallen onto a stream of lava. Maiselle was no more: Maiselle only lived on in her memory, and on the rare occasions thathepaid her a visit.

"An angel of mercy descended upon us decadent demons of the aristocracy", he said with only the barest hint of sarcasm in his warm voice. Maiselle had heard worse compliments in her time, yet it would take more than a hasty piece of adoration to impress her. Most men expected the ladies of the court to blanche upon being looked at in a lewd fashion (as was often the case when Maiselle frequented salons and ballrooms), but the man lacked that hungry look in his eyes. At least until now. Maiselle took a deep breath and folded her arms under her bosom, making their soft flesh rise to even grander proportions, taking a candid pleasure out of the flash of mulled pain as her corset dug deeper into her skin. She tore at the lacy boundaries of etiquette, as much as her looks constantly taunted the height of fashion. Where all of the other ladies at court were thin and waif-like, Maiselle maintained the buxom features of a commoner, with enough tell-tale hints of sultriness to confirm this. She also had no need to exaggerate the size of her bosom like the other women: the Lord had blessed her with firm breasts that were a bit too heavy for her height, yet she loved the dramatic effect of the corset. All the more for how a tight waist would further highlight her wide hips, which she wore proudly. Propriety be damned, Maiselle knew what all men wanted, regardless of what colour her blood was.

She shook her brown curls out of her face and locked the stranger's eyes with her own, piercing jade daring dark brown to come up with another fruitless attempt to get some tail. He had a somewhat cultivated ruggedness to him. Only the slightest shade of beard growth stood on his square, powerful jaw, a single deep groove cut into the swarthy skin of his forehead, with his own thick brown hair tied back with a grey ribbon. She also noticed that the lace that came from underneath his grey and jacket was slightly yellowed, which took away some of the beauty displayed by the rich black embroidery that festooned his jacket and breeches.

The man merely leaned back against the wall, looking around the ballroom where some of the other guests were already taking in interest in what Maiselle what do to him, the poor fellow. They had already seen it happen too often, and most women, and some of the men, had grown to hate her for it. Maiselle had areputation, and stories about her hard-to-get behaviour were rife. She would have turned down the steward of the king, commenting wryly afterward that he was "inadequate, even after my tender administrations". The poor man had killed himself a week later, having flung himself into the river Seine. She was rumoured to visit skid row, taking on multiple men at once, and that she would demand to eat all of their seed so that she could go on all night. Of course she had added to these rumours herself in the past, discussing the merits of sodomy where this was notde rigeur, for example. Whether or not this man was familiar with all of these stories, she could not see. He disregarded her show of annoyance and smiled, rather beautifully.

"It seems that a great score of people present here tonight desire to be in your presence, mademoiselle" he said dryly. Maiselle snorted and flashed a feline smile of her own." I like to think most of them would love to be in my presence, but refrain from doing so for fear of being tainted by whatever disease they think I might have", she proffered. "Are you afraid of the taint, monsieur...?"

The man only gave a curt nod, eschewing the hand-kissing and all of the other sickening rules of propriety. A quaint diversion, she thought to herself.

"I am the Comte du Froid, mademoiselle Maiselle. And honoured and not afraid to be tainted by your presence, if I may add such a forward comment." She laughed, delighted at the subtle wit which seemed to sneak into every word the Count uttered. She offered him her hand, nails lacquered ruby-red. "The pleasure is mutual, Comte. Perhaps we can taint the entire assembly this evening. It would take some of the weight off my shoulders." She curtsied as he leant down to kiss her hands, as etiquette commands.

But the feeling Maiselle got was far from proper. As the count's lips fell upon her hand, she felt her skin prickling andshe got aroused. It wasn't even the common tingle she would get before she allowed a brusque labourer to feel her up, let alone the feeble fluttering of love's butterfly wings. It was pure lust, a wanton feeling that made her swallow a whimper and heated the inside of her thighs below the deep blue silk and pristine white lace of her dress. It took her some moments to compose her thoughts (and even more so, her yearnings) before she realised the man had withdrawn from her hand, his face full of worry.

"Is something the matter, mademoiselle?" His voice was an animalistic rumble in her ear, and it took all her energy to stop from swooning when his hand fell on her shoulder, fingertips blessing her collarbone with the barest of touches. A plethora of possible answers came to mind, yet she chose the most obvious one, even as she saw little flecks of white light appear at the edge of her vision.

"I've been standing in one place for far too long. Would you entreat me to a dance, comte?"

It seemed like lucidity had come back after hours and hours spent in a trance, but only moments could have passed as she and the count were standing opposite each other on the marble floor, bowing to one another as the first chord of the lithe violins struck, heralding the start of the dance. Maiselle straightened herself and held her hand aloft, just above her face as it was met by the count's strong, warm hand. She clasped it firmly, her hand slippery from perspiration as her senses went completely haywire at the touch of this man. They circled each other, the count's strong calves flexing with each step. Maiselle tried to maintain her aloof poise, still beaming up at him with cold diffidence, but she felt her stature crumble with each moment that crept by, and felt that her craving was on the rise. His eyes held no malice, no scorn, just a heartfelt joy at the dance, the corners of his luscious mouth curled up in a polite smile. Everyone present had the ball had turned to stare at them, and even the chamber orchestra had torn their eyes off their instruments to gaze upon dancing couple. Comte du Froid took a step forward, his body touching Maiselle's, and she could see his strong arms pushing against their velvet sleeves and feel the heat from his chest flow into hers. She felt all strength ebb out of her body, and with a soft moan she let her body give in, her arms going limp and loosing her footing. But the count anticipated and she was held upright by a caress as soothing the a summer sun, and as he let his hands run from her shoulders along to her arms, she felt her strength surging back inside of her. Her feet stood firmly on the floor, and her hands were holding his, staring bewildered in the count's eyes.

When the orchestra stopped playing, followed by an uneasy applause of the assembled blue bloods, the pair was already stepping out of the palace and into the moonlit gardens, Maiselle's curls falling onto the count's shoulders as he led her away from the decadent devils to the heaven she deserved.

Cold. One of the last sensations she could still feel clearly, apart from pain. They both were endless. She lay with her back on the ground, feeling the cold seep into her very bones. And into her bones it went, for a soft crack made it clear to Maiselle that her dress had rotted further, and her exposed skin and dried flesh fell prey to the harsh cold, feeling the glacial bane strike at her ribcage, shooting up the centre of her spine. Such a waste. That dress had cost her dearly. Sunken eyes gazed down at the tatters covering her spindly legs, and bones that once could have been called fingers hitched up the mildewed fabric. The bones ran along husks of thighs, the skin flaking and peeling off under the charnel caresses. A rasping chortle passed Maiselle's rotting lips.

"I'll come with you. I will."

Few words were exchanged as they hurried out of the gardens and toward the grasslands and hills ahead. The cool night air seemed to return Maiselle to her senses, and it was only now that she saw that the count was rather flustered as well. She pressed herself closer against him, kissed him behind his ear.

"Are you going to sweep me off my feet and carry me to your castle, my precious upstarts count?" she breathed in his ear. His breath quickened at the kiss and he moved his right hand from her side down to her bottom, grunting as held his hand there. Again Maiselle felt her insides grow weak, what unknown pleasures was this man sparking deep inside of her? The count remained silent, yet he urged her on, further out into the wild. He spoke to her as the walked, told her things about lost loves, an emptiness that he needed to fill, had no choice but to keep filling that void, and it rained silently upon them. Maiselle took in his every word, her mind clouded, seeing nothing but his mouth speaking softly, hearing nothing but the need in his voice, feeling nothing but his body pressed against hers as they braved the beginnings of a storm. And seemingly without drawing breath, she told him of her little needs and candid pleasures. How she refused to surrender herself to an uncouth man, how she preferred to bein control all the time, but would never be satisfied with a meek man she could kick around like a lapdog, she wanted something. But what she needed had always proven to be elusive. Still, as the rain poured down, her dress caked with mud and the outline of her breasts showing through it, it came to her that she may have found it this evening. The count's hair clung to his face, but he still guided her strongly as they found refuge in a cave. Maiselle had not even noticed how du Froid had marched through the rain and to this place with grim determination. But how could she: she had willingly become the count's guest, swept away from her castle by the dark prince.

The count gritted his teeth as he got a fire going inside of the cave. Maiselle was looking down on him, saw his muscles clearly defined under his sodden clothes. She reached behind her back and tore loose the entrapping of her corset with a growl. This startled du Froid who got up and turned around. He was greeted by Maiselle, rubbing the flesh of her pendulous breasts, the rain trickling between her fingers. He could smell her craving, it was almost as if it made the around between them tremble. He held out his hands, taking one step closer to her, but Maiselle saw reluctance in his eyes. She ran her fingertips over her nipples, making them bud and flourish in the cold of the cave.

"Don't hesitate. I want for this to happen." Her voice was low and husky. She saw the count swallow and squint his eyes, as if fighting back tears.

"You have no idea..." he mumbled. Then she stepped closer to him, pressing her naked breasts against him and planting a kiss on his full mouth. Outside lightning flashed, but the thunder came from du Froid's throat as he surrendered his tongue to Maiselle. He felt so warm to her, and she kissed him harder, clawing at his back and breathing heavily. Instantly she felt her arousal become manifest between her legs once more, and had to break free from the kiss as the count let his fingers fall directly onto her folds, parting them and playing with her clit. She arched her back; the count's lips fell between her breasts, exploring them tenderly as his fingers drove her to insanity. She moaned unabashedly, grinding against his fingers, burying his face between her bosom. Her mind felt soft and mushy as waves of pleasure drowned out all of her cares and thoughts.

"Oui, monsieur le comte, feast on me"she purred, rubbing the palm of her hand against du Froid's bulge, which he promptly slapped away. She opened her eyes groggily, looking at her dark prince, and saw him leering at her. A jab of pain made her cry out, and she felt a warm flow mingle with her most sanctified juices between her legs.

The count brought his hand up, and as she felt her pussy throb with pain, he licked the blood off his fingertips. His breath was stocky; he tried to form words but could not find the air to utter them. In a flash, Maiselle was brought down to her knees gruffly, the rocks digging into her knees. A hand took hold of her hair, yanking her head up. She stared at the count, his grin splitting his face in half, dark eyes roiling with some bestial rage. With his other hand he pulled his thick manhood out of his breeches. It throbbed in front of Maiselle, the flickering of the flames playing upon his shiny purple head. Her dark prince said something which she did not hear and she could not reply. He thrust his hardness into her mouth, the shaft rubbing along her lips roughly until it slid down her throat. She could not help but gag, saliva and bile pooling out of the corners of her mouth as her eyes started to tear, tear from the strain of the count's cock and from the utter desolation she felt. All of her dreams shattered.

Maiselle coughed and dry-heaved as du Froid pulled his shaft out of her throat, staring at him with utter horror. He cupped her chin in his hand. He wheezed, veins bulging on his temples and hands. The veins were black.

"I am so hungry for your juices Maiselle, you have no idea...I long for an angel of mercy" the count spat her with the voice of a monster, rife with sarcasm. He pulled Maiselle of the floor by her ears and kissed her hard, his tongue snaking into her mouth. With a screeching scream Maiselle bit down on his tongue and she could taste she had drawn blood. The count withdrew and roared, then flung her aside like a rag doll, making her slam against the cave wall. Then darkness overtook her.

A great fire danced in front of her. Beautiful flames danced around, circled each other, as if at a ball. The fire licked her. The heat pleasured her. She blinked and tried to caress the fire licking her between her legs, but drew back her hand, wincing. The fire had bit her. She tried to focus her eyes, trying to distinguish the roaring pyre in the background from that between her legs. And saw the count licking along the edges of her folds. Her head lolled a bit, and she tried to find the strength to scream. Pitch black eyes gazed at her, angry eyes. The tip of the count's tongue passed his lips, landed on Maiselle's most precious part, making her tremble with lust. He grinned as he licked her, hands with black nails grabbing her thighs. He drew breath andsomethingshot deep inside of Maiselle, darting against her womb. She gasped for air and lifter her back off the rocky floor, but had to fall back. Pain shot through her body as the tongue pried loose all of her juices, making her pussy throb. The count's hands ran up her body, massaged her breasts. She purred, not sure what had happened, but how she loved his special tongue. She tried to place her hand on his head, but it was slapped away again. He bit her, there where it hurt the most. Despite the pain she pushed harder against his mouth, adoring that tongue, loving it, loving it...

Then she felt himsuckon her and she snapped back to the here and now. No words could explain what this felt like. She felt her body go limp and her pulse rage. Le comte squeezed her nipples hard and she saw white droplets forming on them as she felt weaker and weaker. A sucking sound came from her folds as the count withdrew his tongue. He straightened himself, the fire blazing up behind him. Wails suddenly came from everywhere, and Maiselle saw other women, horrendously looking women. Their skin looked like parchment, their bodies emaciated, hair fallen out. Then count yelled at them, telling them to shut up, then turned his full attention back to Maiselle. She could see every vein in his body bulge just under his skin, black as coal. He rubbed his hardness against her folds, which was still immensely wet. She could not help it.I have fallen for a decadent demon.

When he thrust inside of her, Maiselle could not move a muscle. The count thrusted slow and hard, making her body shake, but she could not do anything against it. With each thrust, she felt her body be drained, and the count moaned harder, breath rasping, veins throbbing on his temples. His shaft filled her completely (perfectly), and she closed her eyes as pleasure seemed to replace her vitality. The other women cried out, seemed to bemoan her. "Give it to us Comte, we deserve it more, we have served you!" they stammered, but he did not hear it. His tongueuncoiled from his mouth, licking at Maiselle's nipples as he dug his nails into her sides, drawing blood as he lifted her off the ground. Somehow she felt the strength to moan, to moan at du Froid's cock hammering at her, pleasing her, killing her. Milk seeped from her nipple, lapped up by the count's serpentine tongue. His thrusts became faster, more shallow, and as Maiselle closed her eyes and laid back she felt his seed spurt deep inside of her, and then the quiet time descended upon the cave.

Maiselle woke up like she had so many nights ago, and still felt the same revulsion at what she saw. Her breasts had sagged to milkless bags, her skin still the same yellow hue, a dried up corpse that refuses to die. She had screamed that first night after the count had left her lying close to the dying embers of the fire. The other women had come out, had fought each other meekly to lick the count's godhead from her folds. She had let them pleasure her, but as soon as the last drop of the elixir had been sucked away from her, they had left her to her own devices. All that was left was a memory and solitude. She pawed at what once had been pink flesh between her legs idly, half-expecting it to spring back to life, but it did not. Another cold gust of air made the last struggling strands of hair move, and therehe stood, carrying a beautiful blonde girl in his arms.

"Another angel of mercy" she rasped. And she sobbed. But no tears came, not even whenhe laid her down beside them, and parted her thighs, black fingernails gently grazing her skin. Maiselle closed her eyes, folded her bony fingers on what was left of her stomach.

"Enjoy her, my decadent demon."