The Ravishing of Clara

Clara was waiting. Her long ginger tresses were carefully coifed in the fashion of antebellum ladies of the South. Tiny ringlets bounced over her elegant, porcelain shoulders. She shifted the shawl to cover her bare shoulders, and pulled at the fabric of the scarlet dress. It was a poor attempt at covering the large amounts of cleavage her corset had pushed to the surface.

Her giant hoop skirt was cumbersome but pretty. Every few minutes she lifted up the hoops to gaze at the lace pantaloons and tiny black shoes. She felt a bit naughty standing in the parlor before her mother’s antique looking glass, gazing at this Clara from another time. A lady of the South would never bare her ankles to anyone but her husband, and certainly not in the front parlor of her parent’s house.

Yet, even in her state of costumed bliss, Clara could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. James was over an hour late and God only knew what kind of horrible trashy costume he would have come up with. And he had promised her a party to remember. If she had known he would be so late, she would have gone with her parents, but it was too late now. She remembered how James had wanted this to be her best birthday ever.

“Can’t believe your birthday is on Halloween,” James had cocked his head of curly black hair at her, “You should come out with me C.”

He was so lazy he couldn’t even use her full name. Clara had started to tire of him. But she had lost her virginity to James when she was sixteen, and old habits die hard.

“Okay, James” she had glowered at him from beneath her thick lashes, “But it had better be good.”

She couldn’t seem to get comfortable, the hoops prevented her from sitting down, and the corset kept her back straight. She walked over to the settee and mused over the proper way to sit down, when the doorbell cut through the terrible silence.

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” Clara mumbled.

Her skirts swooshed about her, and her curls bounced as she bounded towards the door. She squinted out onto the porch at the masked man before her. Could it be James?

“Trick or Treat,” the deep voice greeted her as she swung the door inwards, the light from the house spilling out onto the porch. “Why, Clara, you look ravishing.”

“James,” she placed her hands on her hips, her waist so thin, and her body waspy from the ministrations of the corset. “You’re late.”

“Perhaps so, dear lady.” Clara rolled her eyes at his attempts at cuteness. She ushered him inside, and gave him a thorough once over: simple Tuxedo, white mask coming over his eyes and caressing one cheek, but not the other. It was very Phantom of the Opera.

“Listen,” she started, “I think we should take my Dad’s car, because this dress isn’t going to work in your little mustang.”

He stood seemingly transfixed. Clara found herself reflecting on her boyfriend’s height. He seemed a good five inches taller than the last time she had seen him. She shrugged and chalked it up to the tuxedo and larger than life persona that James had tried to assume.

“Okay then, I’ll go get the keys.” Clara turned to go, but felt the silk of the white glove on her shoulder. She brushed his hand from her shoulder; it was icy cold beneath her fingers.

“James,” she turned to face him. Anger reflected in her emerald eyes, “Look, we are already late for this damned party you wanted to go to soooo badly…so cut the bullshit.”

Suddenly, she felt the cold hand gripping the back of her head.

“You will not address me like that.” He hissed from behind the mask.

“James, what the fuck are you doing?” She struggled against him, the corset cutting into her lungs.

“James? Who is this James?” The hand pulled her closer, the sinewy arms wrapping her up in an unearthly embrace.

“James, this isn’t funny anymore.” Tears began to form in her eyes.

“I told you, I am not James.” Her breathing became shallow, raspy. Every breath was filled with decay, the damp stench of rotting flesh. His hands stroked her hair, for she was powerless against the cold strength of his embrace

“Trick or treat, I said, and you let me in.” The tears streamed down Clara’s face.

“Dear Clara, which is it? Trick or treat?”

“Treat,” she whimpered.

“Good choice,” he whispered in her ear. He led her up the sweeping staircase. “Now, dear Clara, where is your room?”

She pointed towards the dim light at the end of the hallway. He led her before him as a puppet upon strings. The room was warm and inviting, the bed even more so. A canopy hung from the ceiling, the white linen draping the floor.

“Clara, I am going to release you, but you must do as I say or you shall get your trick…Do you want to be tricked by me, Clara?”

She shook her head, as the hands released her. He walked over to the chair by her vanity, and seated himself down as though he were attending a dinner party.

“Shall we see what is under that hoopskirt that had you so enthralled before I came?” The tiny redhead wrapped the shawl around her even tighter. “Clara, that was not a request.”

She began to sob, her knees buckling beneath her.

“Perhaps, we should begin some other way.” He walked over to the crumpled form buried beneath the satin scarlet fabric of the dress. His strong arms lifted her to her feet, and he cradled her against his chest. She could smell the dank stench about him, but it drifted away as he stood her up, posing her as one would a China Doll.

“No fear, Clara. No fear.” He whispered in her ear, his hands smoothing her dress.

The shawl fell to the floor, and Clara began to unfasten the buttons at the front of her dress. Each one gave way beneath her slender fingers with a simple snap. She pulled the dress over her head, her petticoat and hoopskirt left behind.

Her voluptuous breasts seemed to nearly spill forth from the corset, her soft pink nipples peaking out from beneath the snowy fabric. She pulled at the bow that held the petticoat and hoop skirt artfully tied together. The garments fluttered to the floor, forming a trail of satin and lace, leading up to her masked lover.

She used to hate him, she could remember that much. All else was blank in her mind. For now, all she knew was desire for her dark lover, whose face she had never seen.

Her cunt became slick beneath the thin material of the pantaloons. Each movement of her own hand sending shivers of delight through her flesh. She fumbled with the corset and blushed that she could not loosen the stays. Clara’s eyes beseeched him beneath those thick lashes.

“Please.” The flush that had passed over her cheeks speckled her neck and chest with the slightest hint of color.

The gloved hand came up and cupped her chin, his mouth seeking out her lips. He drank of her lips, and she moaned against him, pushing her hips against him. He brushed a tendril of ginger hair away from her face.

The gloved hand trailed down her throat, the fingers tracing a line over her breasts that sat poised and full. She gasped when he gripped the busk of the corset and ripped it open. Her breasts bounced free and she made no move to cover them with her willowy arms. He bent down and tenderly removed one shoe at a time from her beautiful feet. She wriggled free of the pantaloons.

The masked lover perused his prize; the tight little eighteen-year-old body with full round breasts. He removed his gloves and ran his frozen fingers over her slit. Clara moaned, and her lover laughed. The two emerald eyes looked on for more instruction, her body prepared to bend to his every will. Her nipples stood pert and begging for caresses.

“I want you on the bed, Clara.” Clara obeyed, and he smacked her tight little ass as she walked past him.

“I want to mount you Clara, as an animal mounts his mate. Do you understand?”

She nodded her head and climbed onto the bed, her cunt dripping with desire. The firm little ass faced the edge of the bed, and she cried out when all ten cold inches of his cock rammed into her. Her body fell forward, and he smacked her bottom. “Stay still Clara, I want my treat.”

In and out he pumped into her body, her unyielding cunt massaging his stiff cock. In and out, until her legs grew weak beneath her and she cried out. The cold hand smacked her ass, and she drew herself up for more from her lover. In and out his cock slid for hours it seemed. At long last, she heard him cry out. He rammed his cock in hard, his balls hitting the backs of her legs, and his seed shot forth.

The clock out in the hall began to chime the hour of midnight and Clara felt herself let go. Her cunt felt empty. Her lover had disappeared, and she found herself yearning for more. The incubus had come and gotten a treat from the Halloween birthday girl.