“Then ask politely!” the prince hisses, a cruel smile rippling his lips.
“Please,” I mumble, all common sense buried under lust and shame, “please make me come!”
He doesn’t hesitate and roughly plunges two fingers, knuckles deep, inside me. It sends me immediately over the edge, blinding white light blurring my vision while he pumps my pussy with his hand. I whimper weakly, my walls clamping around him. Time shifts, the tide of my orgasm slowly floods my whole being, and I almost faint.
It seems like it lasted… minutes? Or hours? I can’t tell. My whole existence has shrunk to my greedy, starved flesh, clutching around his two fingers. He glides them slowly, in and out, cold and terrifying in his self-control and discipline. His glowing eyes never leave mine while I fall apart.
A release of such colossal proportions would surely draw all Siphons to his doorstep.
He gives me time to recover, then helps me up, and I sit on his lap, blinking sheepishly. His arms cradle me for support. I still struggle to breathe when he steadies me.
The prince looks surprised, and distant warmth sparkles in his seafoam gaze. Or is this a self-deception to justify my surrender to him?
Without a word, he lifts me and carries me to my room. He carefully lays me on the bed and heads to the door. Standing. at the doorway, he turns around again, and there it is, without a doubt: awe and longing.
Dairell – The Prince
I return to my chambers, aching, and please myself like a madman over and over again. My sheets are soaked with my seed, yet I’m not even close to satisfaction. Visions of her, open and dripping, my fingers buried deep into her slit, steal the sleep from my tired eyes.
The energy and the life pulsing beneath her skin are much more intense than any immortal. Feeling that desperate passion for life, that savage pursuit of pleasure is simply addictive. I was wrong. Humans are not cursed by the Serpent. They are truly blessed, because the eternal pulse of the universal energy beats wildly in their veins, making their short lives and insignificant experiences much more intense than our millennia of lingering existence.
This tiny body harbors so much raw power, I cannot comprehend how it is not tearing her apart.
I can barely wait for the morning to knock on her door, eager to solve the riddle she is.
When you roam the Underworld for ages and wield supreme magical powers, there are not many mysteries left for you. And this one is so rare and delicious that I feel the strangest thing: a thrill.
The breeze of my wings disturbs the light wisps of the ancient corridors when I rush to her room.
Celeste sits at the window, contemplating the eternal twilight outside. The tray with her breakfast is still on the table.
“How do flowers grow without sunlight?” she asks, and this oddly logical question takes me aback.
“Those are night irises,” I join her at the window, and we stare at the garden of midnight velvet blossoms, “this is their home.”
“They don’t miss the sun rays?” Her eyes are still glued to the flower bed outside, and I cannot help but notice that this conversation has a deeper meaning.
“They grow only here. Sunlight will kill them.” My eyes dart to the tray. Has she eaten? I have to remind myself that humans must be constantly sustained to survive. I remember my mother’s stories. They need food, sleep, movement, and more… fresh air?
“Would you like to see them up close?” The question slips so fast that I don’t have time to ponder why I would suggest such a thing.
“How do you know it’s day?” Celeste breaks the awkward silence while we stroll in the ruined garden, her fingers brushing the deep purple blossoms of the night irises.
I raise my hand, and myriad light wisps that dwell near the invisible rock vaults above swarm us. Their cool light blinds my sensitive eyes, but Celeste smiles and reaches to touch them.
“The surface world has sunlight, and the Underworld has abundant magic. Both move with the pulse of the Crystal Serpent, ebb in the day, and recharge at night. The magic here is stronger than above, as we are close to the beating heart of our world.” I struggle to compress the complexity of magical fluctuations into simple words.
Her brow furrows, and she appears deep in thought.
“I saw a picture in one of Diaphonus´ books,” her gaze lingers on the horizon, fingers twirling a black blossom, “the roots of the vines run deep, reaching some place of light—is this what you mean by the beating heart of your world?”
I nod. “Our realm is alive. Its lifeblood is magic. And its largest deposit is deep below, out of our reach. The vines were transporting this life-giving essence to the Underworld and the surface. That’s why we are dying after the Siphons’ attacks. It’s not only about casting spells or having the conveniences that magic grants. It’s about what we are.”
“Is there a place where we can get close to that source?” Celeste asks thoughtfully. I look carefully into her eyes. She’s up to something. This human proves more surprising with each day.
“The roots of the Sentinel—the oldest magical tree—run straight to the core. Yet it is dead, its magic consumed by the Siphons. Now it is nothing but a husk, a painful memory of times gone—”
“What if we bring it back to life?” the woman interrupts, and I am stunned by her boldness, “You said there is a beating heart below our feet. In my world, we have a way to bring back to life a heart that has stopped beating, it’s something we call defibrillation,” my eyes narrow, now I am the one lost.
