Author's Notes: This story is erotic fantasy written by Etaski. I reserve the right to be listed as the author of this story, wherever it is posted. If found posted anywhere except Literotica.com with this note attached, this story is posted without my permission. © Etaski 2010
This is an experiment in second person storytelling. I realized that second person is often done well in roleplaying games (RPGs), of which I'm very fond.
A Necanthrope is a creature out of the urban horror RPG, "SLA Industries" by Nightfall Games. A bit like a vampire that feeds on nightmares and energy instead of blood (though that's not the whole extent), they are also what an Ebon becomes-- immortal, powerful, and twisted-- should they actually return from "the White" after their mortal body has died. Ebons are a race of mortal, gifted humans who use their "flux" to create magical effects, and they can be taken as a vassal by a Necanthrope and bound to them.
Some are thrilled to be chosen, others less so.
Mort City. Agony's penthouse. 652 SD.
It's been said that if you get the water of a bath hot enough, a Necanthrope can actually feel it.
Heated water creates steam; grey mist rises and flows from the bath, cloaking the mirror in a veil that allows only the vaguest reflection of what is actually there to be seen. If it's been long enough, the air is heavy with water as it enters the lungs, making it seem difficult to breathe. It hangs in the air as fog, obscuring a clear sight of what is languishing in your bathtub. You can hear the water, though, swishing and swirling around a naked body.
There are three thick candles lit; they are the only source of light and they glow bright with visible halos around each flame. Occasionally you can see twinkling colors as the light reflects off the water droplets suspended in the air.
As you get closer to the tub, you see only her head is above the surface of the water, black hair framing her lovely Ebon's face, its length floating atop the water like seaweed. The rest of her pale form is stretched out underneath the dark water, vague and fuzzy around the edges like your reflection in the mirror. Her eyes as she watches are you a blank, pure white.
"Agony." She sounds pleased to see you. "You've been gone long. I was starting to get impatient, until I saw what a nice, large bath you have. Join me, won't you, my vassal?"
You don't have much choice; she raises one pale hand from the water, her nails matte black, and snaps her fingers. You feel something shift and pull painfully inside your mind and you begin to interdermalize your Deathsuit, leaving you quite nude in front of her.
You see her smile; her lips colored her favorite color: raven red, so dark it appears black in most light. You also see her metallic, sharp teeth as her perfect Ebon visage falters for a moment; she seems—in that brief instant—tired. And clearly she is quite hungry.
You step closer and lift one foot to test the water with your toe. It is scalding! You put your foot back on the bathmat at the side of the tub and do not climb in.
"Join me," she repeats, sounding impatient.
You try to explain that the temperature would burn you; it is too hot to tolerate. You are close enough now to see that her skin is still deathly pale. Not even the faintest blush, though the skin of any living creature would be lobster red sitting in water that hot.
Her scowl is unforgiving of such squeamishness. Then she smiles a cruel smile. "My pet," she purrs.
You discover she is not talking to you when you feel something cold and hard wrap around your ankle. It is Syn, her Gore Cannon; the living weapon that you care for from time to time, and it constricts its tentacle to hold you firmly by the foot. Syn waits, however, until you've shouted in alarm and try to pull free before it yanks backward, throwing you off balance.
You fall headfirst into the burning hot water; the rush of heat across your body, all of your skin, is so intense it feels agonizingly cold. You resurface yelling, angry and in pain. Your mistress wraps her arms around you from the back, her mouth next to your ear.
"Quiet, vassal, quiet," she hisses, nipping your earlobe with sharp, needle teeth. Her hands stretch out across your bare chest, which is now blushing brightly with heat rash, touching you intimately and familiarly like a fine possession.
You swear you can feel other mouths, one set in each of her palms, and the teeth are nibbling at your skin, teasing your nipples with tiny tongues. Her dark red lips are kissing your shoulder, and you slowly become accustomed to the heat of the water as your feel her feed you a little of her own flux, just enough to take the edge off the pain.
She slithers out from behind you and water sloshes out of the tub and onto the floor as she encourages you onto your back. She wants to straddle you, lie atop you. She eagerly kisses your mouth, scratches your heat-tender lips with those teeth, sucks at the tiny wounds as the blood flows faster than it would if your blood wasn't thinned by heat.
Your head is just above the water; you struggle to keep it so, but your mistress continues to kiss you, becoming insistent and more passionate. She pushes you beneath the surface, still mauling your mouth with her kiss. You squeeze your eyes shut against the hot water and hold your breath; you feel the back of your head touch the bottom of the tub.
Surely she knows you have to breathe? Surely she wouldn't drown you this way?
The kiss is endless beneath the water; your lungs burn, your body cries for air. At last you can wait no longer and start to fight against your mistress, struggling to get your nose and mouth above water. She is angry that you are fighting, perhaps doesn't realize why. She growls and is completely unaffected by the water that rushes into her mouth and yours. You choke, and start to inhale the searing water. Your struggling becomes more desperate than ever before.
All at once you are lifted up, coughing and vomiting up water out of your lungs. The air seems frigid, so cold on your skin, but it tastes delicious as you gulp it into your deprived body. Your mistress guides you to lean over the side of the tub to finish coughing up water and regaining your breath.
Just as you are starting to calm down from your panic, you open your eyes and see Syn sitting on the wet bathroom floor in front of you like a bloated lapdog. It flings out two tentacles, shining metallic in the candlelight, and wraps one around each of your wrists and pulls you taut. You can hear your mistress giggling as she grabs hold of your thighs to catch you, holding you bent at the waist over the edge of the tub, face-down. Only your legs from mid-thigh down remain in the steaming water.
"Jorn! What are you doing?! Let me go!" You don't know if you've ever protested this loudly before; you can't remember.
She gives no hint of how you were supposed to react; in fact, she ignores you. Syn holds you still, and holds you helpless; your wrists, elbows, and stomach are not even touching the cold tiles on the floor.
She blows her cool breath over your buttocks then places one cool hand on each side, the teeth in her palms threatening to bite into your flesh if you struggle too hard. Then she spreads them apart. Cold air touches the sensitive ring of flesh she just exposed.
"Mmm," you heard her purr deep in her throat, and you jump like a startled alley rat when her tongue swirls wetly around your sphincter before darting inside, entering you to a disturbing depth once, and then again. Surely her tongue has never been that long...?
You protest, tell her to stop. You don't want this.
All the same, your mind becomes clouded and the sensations you feel are intense; her hands massaging your muscle, those teeth just barely scraping your skin, her tongue darting in and out before rimming around the edges of your anus. Against your will your erection begins to grow against the side of the tub, and your breathing—already ragged from the tub's edge pressing into your abdomen—becomes even more difficult. Your concentration suffers, and you lose track of how long she holds you there, using your ass as her plaything, though you do become aware that she starts to alternate between using her tongue and her fingers. Her sharp fingernails are a stark contrast to the soft wetness of that snaking tongue.
At last, Jorn rises up off you and Syn yanks you the rest of the way out of the tub onto the floor. Your dick is still hard, aching by this point; she never touched it once. The room is still clouded by steam, the light of the candles dim and insufficient to see the expression on your mistress's face as she rolls you over onto your back, dripping water from the tub that falls on you like rain.
"Agony." She kneels straddling you, one knee on either side of your hips. "You'd better not cum until I tell you."
Syn still holds your wrists above your head; you can't touch her as she slides your erection deep inside her. Nor can you do anything but lie there and let her fuck you to her black heart's content. Her continued kisses are still painful; your lips have not recovered from the abuse in the tub. Every once in a while, you feel the same teeth that brush your body and cut into your lips also caress the length of your member. Even her cunt has metal teeth.
You don't dare fight anymore. And you don't dare cum.
She begins to draw flux from you as she moves faster; overwhelming tiredness coats you like a heavy blanket though you are dying to climax. You make an unintelligible sound—of protest, or for mercy. She will undoubtedly leave you nearly empty. She doesn't acknowledge your wordless groans; her Ebon form grows more beautiful with each stroke, her pale skin seems to glow bright as the candles. Her final cry, while sounding pleased, reminds you of the denizens in Downtown who are always hungry.
"Now," she murmurs and feeds a portion of your own flux back to you, now tainted with Necanthrope essence, and the surge of power pushes you into orgasm.
You cry out, raw and ecstatic, and then pass out.
"Delicious boy..." It's a mere whisper inside your mind.
You wake up alone, curled up on your side, naked and chilled and shivering on the bathroom tiles. There are red marks on your wrists where Syn held you, though those will fade in a few hours. Your mouth bleeds, as do your sides from fingernail scratches and bite marks. There are very thin, very shallow scrapes on your limp, tired manhood as well.
You have barely enough strength to drag yourself out of your own bathroom and into your own bed, where you fall asleep instantly. And dream turbulent dreams the rest of the night.