Categories > Original > Fantasy
ShadowThings
Sometimes she felt like a milchcow. A properly cosseted one, there was no contesting that. The castle was spacious and not overly chilly, at least not in the portions alloted to her. Roaring fires were kept in those rooms in which she moved and fretted. She was served by attentive maids and men who hastened to attend to her every need, being particularly careful about her diet. Her food consisted of the most lavish displays from which she could choose and was heavily tilted toward dishes of luxurious proteins and nourishing sweets. Her wardrobe bulged with satins and silks and embroideries so weighty as to require the help of assistants if she was to walk whilst wearing them.
Then there was jewelry. In the corner of her dressing room was a large chest which when opened dazzled the eyes. Every manner of ornamentation for the human body was to be found in that chest. Save only one. There were no necklaces. Instead her nipples had been pierced early in her introduction to the castle and the shields and sun-bursts which covered her areolae were linked with delicate chains which in their turn held intricate and amusing charms. She had grown accustomed to the light pull and no longer protested wearing the deeply cut decolletage which the style made necessary.
She was permitted a sufficient amount of freedom. The grounds of the castle were spacious and no place was off-limits to her. Except the great doors to the outside world. And, really, there was no reason to go outside. Everything a sensible person could possibly want was here, inside the walls. Everything, including safety. She was fully aware that outside there were dragons and other monsters, especially werewolves. There were bandits and villains of all stripes, all avid to make a meal or a slave of her. Inside was far better. She knew that and accepted it.
Still, she felt ...
In the nights, in the shadows, he came to her with a soft step and a gentle - if cold - touch. He drew back the feathery sheets and bent to her, his lips seeking their special place like ravenous leeches separate from their bearer. He touched her only there - in that one place. Just at the longest part of her neck where the skin had become numb and alien to her own touch. He drank. She felt nothing. In the fairy tales, there was always an erotic component of this ravishment. No so in reality. How could a creature without the essential element of life be capable of the most explicit act of living? The first time they had been together, she had made a gesture toward his groin only to be dissuaded quite firmly. It was then she began to understand.
She was nothing more than his food container, good for so long as she lasted, one in a series of flasks he had owned over his very long existence. Because he had a taste for beauty as well as blood, he decorated his serving pieces extravagantly and that was the reason for so much.
Sometimes she felt like a milchcow but it was not so. She was much less than that.
Sometimes she felt like a milchcow. A properly cosseted one, there was no contesting that. The castle was spacious and not overly chilly, at least not in the portions alloted to her. Roaring fires were kept in those rooms in which she moved and fretted. She was served by attentive maids and men who hastened to attend to her every need, being particularly careful about her diet. Her food consisted of the most lavish displays from which she could choose and was heavily tilted toward dishes of luxurious proteins and nourishing sweets. Her wardrobe bulged with satins and silks and embroideries so weighty as to require the help of assistants if she was to walk whilst wearing them.
Then there was jewelry. In the corner of her dressing room was a large chest which when opened dazzled the eyes. Every manner of ornamentation for the human body was to be found in that chest. Save only one. There were no necklaces. Instead her nipples had been pierced early in her introduction to the castle and the shields and sun-bursts which covered her areolae were linked with delicate chains which in their turn held intricate and amusing charms. She had grown accustomed to the light pull and no longer protested wearing the deeply cut decolletage which the style made necessary.
She was permitted a sufficient amount of freedom. The grounds of the castle were spacious and no place was off-limits to her. Except the great doors to the outside world. And, really, there was no reason to go outside. Everything a sensible person could possibly want was here, inside the walls. Everything, including safety. She was fully aware that outside there were dragons and other monsters, especially werewolves. There were bandits and villains of all stripes, all avid to make a meal or a slave of her. Inside was far better. She knew that and accepted it.
Still, she felt ...
In the nights, in the shadows, he came to her with a soft step and a gentle - if cold - touch. He drew back the feathery sheets and bent to her, his lips seeking their special place like ravenous leeches separate from their bearer. He touched her only there - in that one place. Just at the longest part of her neck where the skin had become numb and alien to her own touch. He drank. She felt nothing. In the fairy tales, there was always an erotic component of this ravishment. No so in reality. How could a creature without the essential element of life be capable of the most explicit act of living? The first time they had been together, she had made a gesture toward his groin only to be dissuaded quite firmly. It was then she began to understand.
She was nothing more than his food container, good for so long as she lasted, one in a series of flasks he had owned over his very long existence. Because he had a taste for beauty as well as blood, he decorated his serving pieces extravagantly and that was the reason for so much.
Sometimes she felt like a milchcow but it was not so. She was much less than that.
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