There, inches above her face, he put his cock to Amanda’s slit and speared her, ramming home with a determination nearly brutal. Amanda moaned into Rose’s pussy and pushed back on to the shaft impaling her, begging for more.
‘Oh!’ Rose gasped, arching her neck and licking at Reynauld’s swinging balls. He laughed out loud then, a sound so deep and harsh that it sounded like a snarl.
She saw it all. Every slap of his dark and hairy thighs up against Amanda’s pale smooth ones. Every inch of his thick cock as it slid in and out of her split pussy, wet with her juices. Every jiggle of his ball-sac as it bounced back and forth – though soon enough it stopped swinging and tightened up to a hard knot of intent. For Rose the sight was all one with the awful, racking joy of being fed upon.
And when Reynauld came once more, his fingers biting into Amanda’s ass, his thighs a shuddering tattoo that ended in slamming blows and straining stillness, she saw that too. When Reynauld pulled out, she saw his cream spilling from Amanda’s sex in a slow wash. Then Amanda sat back on Rose’s face and the girl saw no more, not until she’d swallowed every mouthful of Reynauld’s seed and Amanda had ground out her own orgasm on Rose’s face.
She thought it would be over, after that. Her body was a trembling slick of exhaustion and pleasure. But she had to wake up when Amanda tugged her back into a sitting position.
‘Come on, Rose. On your feet.’
‘What are we doing?’ she mumbled, unable to focus her eyes.
‘Going down to dinner, like we planned,’ said Reynauld’s deep, warm voice. ‘They should have cleared the dining room of other guests by now. The food here is supposed to be excellent. Amanda still eats solids. And you will need to keep your strength up. You’ve a long night ahead of you.’
‘What?’ She blinked herself properly awake in time to see the shadows crawl out of the corners of the room and from under the furniture and creep up his limbs, arranging themselves into a reasonable facsimile of sombre clothing. Hiding his still rock-hard erection.
‘Did you think we’d finished?’ Amanda smiled as, ignoring all that, she tugged Rose’s silk slip back up into place for her, covering up her breasts though not the jut of her engorged nipples. ‘That was only an appetiser. We’re still very hungry.’
Rose had a sudden intense vision of herself laid out on a hotel table under the horrified, avid eyes of the waiters, as Reynauld and Amanda fucked her and sucked her, turn and turn about, until she died of it. At the thought her pussy tingled, moistening anew.
It would be wonderful.
She didn’t resist when Amanda took her hand and led her to the door like a child, though her legs were so shaky she had to lean on the older woman. Her breasts and pussy were heavy and aching. The touch of Reynauld’s palm on her ass only made her tremble with anticipation. But just before leaving the chamber she stopped abruptly. They were facing one of the big gilt-framed mirrors. She could see herself in it, slender and waiflike and debauched in her stockings and slip, with the bloodstains leaking into the silk over her breasts. She could see Amanda clearly too: improbably neat and pristine after their tussle. But where Reynauld should be behind her there was only a shadowy distortion in the glass.
Oh, God. It’s all real. Everything they say about them.
‘You don’t show up in the mirror,’ she blurted.
She recognised the flash of Amanda’s eyes: a swift, protective anger. She turned, expecting to see a similar rage in Reynauld and already flinching.
But he didn’t look angry. She couldn’t begin to identify his expression, only knowing that in that moment he somehow looked more human than at any point previously.
‘Only light is reflected, Rose,’ he told her, his voice low. ‘Only light.’
* * *
Rose woke alone to breakfast in bed and a taxi waiting downstairs to take her to the Sorbonne. She had no memory of how she came to be in a beautiful Michelin-starred French hotel. Or how she’d lost three days. None whatsoever.
It was just like a fairy tale.
* * *
Author’s note: Amanda and Reynauld appear in Red Grow the Roses, by Janine Ashbless
A Girl’s Got to Eat
Aishling Morgan
‘But I don’t want to feed Aunt Isabella!’ Cicely stormed.
‘Don’t pout,’ the Baroness told her. ‘It’s not ladylike.’
‘Somebody has to,’ Florence added, ‘and it is your turn, Cicely.’
‘It always seems to be my turn,’ Cicely answered, folding her arms across her chest. ‘When do I get to feed, that’s what I’d like to know?’
‘You’ve been doing very well for yourself,’ the Baroness said, ‘at least to judge by your embonpoint.’
‘We must share what bounty we are given,’ Florence stated, ‘for the good of all, and not only are you better equipped to provide than either of us, but your name is at the head of the rota.’
Cicely didn’t trouble to answer, sparing only a brief downward glance for the way her chest bulged from the top of her corset before turning to stare out across the moonlit lawn. The cedars and the turrets and chimneys of the house created oddly shaped shadows on the grass, while a faint breeze was making the leaves of the beeches clack and their branches creak, all of which would have been very pleasant were it not for the intransigence of her companions. The Baroness was bad enough, with her superior airs and malicious humour, but Florence was worse by far, with her firm but reasonable tone and irrefutable arguments.
None of the three spoke for some time, each thinking her own thoughts and listening to the sounds of the night. The Baroness, as always, had dressed for the evening and in garments she felt correct for her age and status: a long, high-necked gown of black silk, black boots with a sharp heel, gloves and a tall hat from which depended a veil, all black save for a spray of feathers that showed a hint of dark, iridescent green. Florence, in a sense, was no less formal, in the flowing white shroud she’d been buried in a hundred and forty years previously. Cicely had dressed for town, in a corset of brilliant-green satin, voluminous split-seam drawers, stockings and smart brown shoes decorated with brass buckles.
‘I should go,’ she said. ‘It’s fully dark, and the traffic will have died down a little.’
‘Not until you’ve fed Aunt Isabella,’ the Baroness insisted. ‘And, besides, you can’t go out like that. You’re in danger of popping out, and your hair is a bird’s nest!’
‘It’s the fashion,’ Cicely explained, ‘and, besides, I need a man, or a woman, maybe, some nice, plump, baby vamp who’ll let me lick –’
The Baroness drew herself up. ‘Manners, Cicely! In my day –’
‘In your day,’ Cicely interrupted, ‘I could have bought myself a prostitute for less than a shilling and done as I pleased with her, but I don’t suppose you ever did that?’
‘One does not remark on such things,’ the Baroness answered in her most glacial tones.
‘What about that nice Rococo boy?’ Florence put in hastily. ‘Aren’t you seeing him any more?’
‘Goth,’ Cicely corrected. ‘Marco is a Goth, and no I’m not. He was getting too weird.’
‘Too weird?’ the Baroness queried. ‘Strange, coming from you.’
‘He wanted us to sleep in a coffin,’ Cicely explained, ‘half full of earth.’
‘I can’t