Little Crafter Ch. 05

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The haunting continues...
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Part 5 of the 5 part series

Updated 06/09/2023
Created 06/12/2012
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It was if I were in a dream -- I'd woken in pitch black darkness to the sound of my ears ringing. My heart was pounding hard and steady, and the remnant of a sigh was still snaking its way through my lips.

Someone had pulled the neglected window curtains closed. The room was darker than usual without the regular streetlamp glow shuffling in between the slatted blinds. For some reason, none of the lights throughout the rest of the apartment were on. I did not feel alone in my room.

I immediately pushed myself to the headboard, propped back against pillows onto my elbows to survey the quiet room-scape in utter stillness; my blind eyes must have been wide like saucers. Something was so odd. I couldn't tell if I sensed or simply imagined some shifting of air current in the dark. Was that a soft, nearly inaudible brush of fabric? Or a stifled panted breath? Was it in my head, in my bed, or across the room? I realized slowly that I had been so focused on my bedroom, I had temporarily forgotten myself.

I looked down at where I knew my body would be in the dark, but I could barely see the outline of my bed so there was little hope of picking out detail of my own form by sight. I had an inexplicable urge to check my body. There was no thought process behind it, only an instinct that something was different or needed attention. Shifting my weight to my left arm and sliding my right hand down along my body under the ruffled blankets, I paused for a second. I must have kicked the sheets partially off in my sleep as I sometimes do during the summer months, but just then I found the strewn bedding disconcerting. As my hand rushed down along my soft flank and curved over my abdomen, I yelped in shock as I felt a thick, wet residue seemingly spattered across my smooth skin. It quickly began drying, turning sticky and globular along my front as my hand brushed up and down to try and identify the fluid. It traced it as far up as between my exposed breasts and as far down as my pubic hair nestled at the top of my clamped thighs. It was so wet and thick down there, I wondered if I'd somehow been sick in my sleep. I drew my hand cautiously up to my face, trying to gauge where my fingers were in relation to my nose. The powerful scent of the fluid helped me more than sight. It was so strange - something so familiar about it, and yet completely alien to my own body. I risked licking one of my fingers out of curiosity. It didn't taste like bile or blood, but it was faintly bitter and salty; it tasted just as it smelled.

What I found most odd was my body's reaction to it. Something deep in my abdomen tightened like a small, but not entirely unpleasant cramp. My mouth watered and my pulse quickened into an exciting wash of sensation along my body. A wave rolled over and through me, and somewhere in the back of my mind I felt rather than heard a deep, vibrating whisper. It seduced my senses, easing this new experience away from fear and towards craving. I quickly inhaled as the wave swept over me again. That silent whisper caressed its way from the back of my neck and curled along my collarbone, it slithered down and grazed my chest, I felt my nipples budding into beacons on my soft flesh. Another wave flooded through me as that silent whisper rushed from my nipples to the center of my now rhythmically undulating torso. It rushed down my front, searing a new circuit of sensation deep past that slickened patch of softly curling hair where I was shocked to find my own hand between my legs, rubbing myself without finesse. My hand was completely inexperienced in delivering this pleasure, but my body knew what it wanted, and it guided me as though I'd enjoyed that path many times before.

I realized I was panting, gasping at little shocks caught when I rolled my hips. The sounds coming from deep in my throat only fueled the warmth growing in my belly. The intoxicating scent of that strange liquid mixing at my crotch with my own new, sweet juices sent me into a trance. I made leaps from sensation to sensation, thought to thought, like some vivid web was growing as the heat and rolling wave spread throughout me. I imagined water from the fountain of life. I imagined it coursing through my body. I imagined it springing deep within, somehow forced into me by a higher power. By something or someone stronger than myself. I was surprisingly dumbstruck by the realization that this must be what sex is like, in some way. What would sex with a man be like? What would be different? Would it hurt? Why did the thought of some deep ache, some brief piercing pain cause me so much more pleasure? I was reaching some unknown critical peak, but I urged myself to imagine a man inside me, stretching my unclaimed depths. Someone larger and stronger, someone learned in this literally awesome experience. I imagined him holding me with a fierce intensity, hands at the small of my back and gripping the back of my neck, keeping me from being shoved too far away as he thrust so hard and so deep. Was this what "sluts" thought of? I Imagine him forcing his way inside me as he called me his good little slut. My mind crashed, my body contorted as I gasped, crying out.

I didn't see it, or even fully register the sound of movement from the corner of my room. But I felt a change in the mattress as someone joined me on my bed. I was still rolling in waves of ecstasy, feeling bursts and pops of muscles dancing deep down inside me. He leaned in and touched me tentatively along my left arm, and when I didn't pull away, he immediately began pulling at the sweat soaked top sheet and made his way between my shaky legs to kiss me. His lips were practiced and he guided me through the awkwardness of not knowing when to move my tongue. I felt the tip of his tongue run a circle around the tip of mine while the tip of something else entirely was smearing the wetness below up and down at my oversensitive clitoris. I was overwhelmed, and began to panic, but he soothed me and held my wrists above my head with one of his big hands and continued kissing me until I thought I might lose my mind. I was trying to grind against him. I whimpered and gasped and ached like I've never felt before. Such a need. My muscles spasmed inside. And through our kissing I kept pleading for him to take me. To make me his completely...

"I'll give you what you want, but only if you mean it. Do you really want to be mine? Will you be my sweet, innocent little slut, Ellie?" The voice was barely a growl in the dark above my face -- a darker shadow shifting above me in the darkness of the room. There was an edge of danger to that voice. From his touch, I would never have suspected, but the threat was there in his tone. I could either say yes and he'd pierce me, or refuse and he would surely vanish. That was the game. All or nothing. I was hooked by the unbelievable itch deep in my belly. I nodded in the darkness, and somehow he saw it. Eyes began to glow above me and I knew he must be perversely delighted.

If only I'd known. Known what he was before he first drove his ridged member into my splayed, fragile flower.

_____

Eleanor awoke with a start and immediately sat up amongst her sweat soaked sheets. The streetlight shone through the window as normal. The collection of little electric suns blazing in her living area were burning obscenely bright and illuminated that side of the bedroom well enough to apply day-time makeup confidently at midnight. Not that Eleanor would. Put on makeup, that is. She hadn't left her apartment in weeks. She ordered groceries online and had them delivered. She outsourced, reimbursed, or stalled any work contracts that required her to leave the "safety" of her home. She locked herself away to slowly lose her sanity, she supposed.

What was that dream?? She pulled the sheets away from her and they fought to cling to her weak form in the stagnant humidity. It was too hot. And that dream was a nightmare. She felt sick to realize she was sticky with her own juices as she traipsed from her bed to the kitchen for water. She couldn't believe she'd somehow superimposed that first night with her former Master into her life here. What if he gave her that dream? A reminder that she had agreed to be his? That she gave herself to him? What if he was back and was influencing her mind?

Suddenly the apartment didn't feel hot anymore, to her it felt cold as sobering fear washed through her and she trembled, dropping the glass of water from her hand. It hit the floor and hadn't sounded like it had broken, but as she picked up the wet glass the spiral fracture gave way under her grip, cutting her hand open with quick ease.

"Shit! Shit, shit... fucking... this is fucking shit! It is all SHIT!" she screamed, yanking a clean dishtowel out of a kitchen drawer and holding her bleeding hand over the sink. It was the same hand she'd hurt that first night her old Master had made contact. What next? A whole finger? I have a finger for you. She laughed morbidly at the mental image of flipping the bird at the man that enslaved and raped her body, mind, and spirit for years. So completely ridiculous.

_____

Emilian struggled to hold himself back when he spotted the blood trickling from Ellie's hand into the sink. He'd seen people sliced literally into two pieces and hadn't flinched. But this woman... He was too close and he knew it. And the team he'd gathered to aid in protecting her knew it too. They were all sworn in to protect her, and those like her. The lost fragments of the most endangered of their kind. Eleanor Crafter was a Bridge, and she didn't even know it.

He settled back into the perch he'd made of the warehouse fire escape across from her building. It dawned on him that this watch was different from any other he'd done, and he rationalized quickly (and unsurprisingly, to his benefit) that a more unorthodox approach could actually be advantageous in keeping her safe. An approach that involved him being even closer than the perch.

He decided not to run it by his team for council, but let them find out by making the move. If he talked to them about it, they would only talk him out of it. But ultimately, it was his watch, he told himself. Emilian hid his carrying weapons, packed a small bag of clothes and currency for this region and threw it over his back, and deftly descended the fire escape to run across the street and ring Eleanor Crafter's sweetly-chimed electronic doorbell.

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