~Guard Rail - Extract~

Copyright 2022 Paragonas Vaunt

 

Chapter Ten - Offering

The first thing I saw was Anya.

She was on the bed. She was lying on her back on the bed with her eyes closed.

She was smiling.

She had thrown off the covers, and was lying, full-length on the bed, just on the bed, in her night gown, on the bed.

Her hands were by her sides.

Her fingers were moving. Clutching and unclutching, reflexively, erratically.

No. Not erratically.

She was clutching little handfuls of her night gown, tugging at it, releasing, clutching at it again.

The hem of her night gown was edging slowly, ever so slowly, upwards.

Her smile was beatific.

On her bed.

There was a man watching her.

I don't know how I knew it was a man, because I couldn't see Him.

He towered over me.

I couldn't look at Him directly, but He was there, in the corner of my eye, in the corner of the compartment, gazing down at the hem of Anya's night gown as it rose.

His bare skin gleamed ox-blood red as if it were oiled leather.

It was also invisible.

The man, only it wasn't a man, it was some kind of beast, because His nebulous face in profile had more the shape of a bull than a man, the man turned His head and He saw me.

I tried to look at Him, to meet His gaze, but He was not there.

Yet He in turn saw through me, clear through me, as if I were more insubstantial even than Him.

And He saw me.

And He knew me.

Knew me completely.

What a furtive little heart you do have, my naughty little one.

What thoughts race through you.

Such thoughts as would make even me blush.

He smiled, pearlescent gleaming in a dark void, yet with eye teeth long and black and tapered to a wicked point, as harsh and cold as a mountain made of ancient, star-forged obsidian.

How do you contain your thoughts in such a tiny, fragile vessel?

How do they not spill from your every pore?

I could hear His breathing, stentorian and slow, could feel it upon my face, hot and rank. Could see it mist in the air, more clearly than I could see Him.

My own breath caught.

He was vaporous, and yet at the same time more real than anything I had ever encountered.

More real perhaps than I myself.

Below His gleaming, oiled torso, His lower half was covered in a thick pelt of dark, shaggy fur. And from the middle of that fur, from the middle of Him, jutted His Infernal Calamity, His Manhood.

I couldn't see it.

I didn't want to see it.

I couldn't see it.

It was the only thing in that room I could see.

Larger than a man's generative particularity. Longer, girthier, surely harder than any man's generative particularity¸ it sprouted with that overbearing length and girth and hardness from between His broad hips, bulling priapically upwards like the death of all mortal hope. The tip was narrow, sharply-pointed, flaring swiftly to a fat head which itself crowned a veiny, ridged shaft, a shaft that bulged near its base into a monstrous knot of meaty flesh, a clenched fist of vibrant anger, the whole unholy excrescence underhung by a pendulous tri-lobed sac which swung heavy and low beneath its root.

Evil sleeted from it.

I wanted to run.

I wanted to touch it.

To know what would happen if I did. To know if it would burn me or freeze me.

He turned away before I could, and I breathed again.

Yet the glare of His attention sweeping away from me was like the sun going behind the clouds, or the closing of a furnace door, and I felt suddenly desolate, chill. Terrified of the prospect of bearing the weight of His attention again, but somehow wanting it. Wanting His notice.

Wanting to please Him even.

But His attention was on Anya.

Little Anya, lifting the hem of her night gown for His pleasure.

In that moment, just for an instant, I felt a fierce burst of jealousy bloom in my heart, at His attentiveness to her rather than to me, and I wanted so much to be in her place.

More than anything.

I felt Him, sensed Him, read my fury from the surface of my mind, and I felt Him laugh like a trickster at it.

I wanted to claw His back, just to make Him notice me again. His anger would be enough to satisfy me, His rage more than welcome if only He would turn it on me rather than her.

If I could only deserve it.

Patience, little one!

I am sure together we can find a way for you to earn my gift.

Soon. Soon enough.

Anya had slid her night gown all the way up around her waist, exposing first her pale, slender legs and finally her frilly bloomers. The arrow and tadpole motif on the front seemed almost to glow in the lamplight.

Smiling, she parted her knees.

The man, the beast, whatever He was, knelt on the end of the bed, between her spread feet.

The timbers creaked.

I moved then.

Without realising I was doing it. Without conscious thought.

I edged myself further into that compartment, trailing behind the impossible, invisible bulk of Him.

To watch Him. To see what He did.

I couldn't not.

Mme de Mons didn't stop me. In fact, she seemed almost to expect me to do it, to be encouraging me to do it.

I was standing just behind His shoulder. Even kneeling on the bed, He still towered over me.

From the corner of my eye I could see thick, shaggy hair trail down His back like a lion's mane, merging into the fur that covered Him from the waist down.

His feet...

I blinked and looked away from His feet.

They were not feet.

They were hooves.

I looked up instead.

There was the suggestion of horns sprouting either side of His head. Short, curved like a rhinoceros tusk, the creamy colour of old ivory.

I could reach up and touch one. But instead I stood and I watched, frozen to the spot, locked in place by what I had seen, unable to turn away from what I was about to see.

Anya had spread her legs, was now holding them still, feet planted wide on the bed either side of His knees, and now He reached for her.

His hands were huge, His fingers long and tipped with silvery-metallic claws. He reached purposefully down towards her crotch, and as He did so Anya lifted her hips to meet Him, her pelvis moving urgently, needfully, even though she surely couldn't see Him, not with her eyes closed, not with Him not really being there.

His claw-tipped fingers curled into the waistband of her bloomers.

She mewled in anticipation.

I stood, and I watched it all unfold.

I saw Anya tremble to the first touch of Him. I saw the angry red lines He scored upon the pale skin of her belly as His clawed fingers hooked downward. He took a handful of her cloth, and with a dreadful tearing rip of cotton and a gasping squeak of excitement from Anya He tore the drawers from her body.

He could have tugged them gently down if He had wanted. She had lifted her bottom from the bed in a way that would have made it easy, but instead He ripped them from her and she gave a little huffing snort of delighted triumph.

I might have stepped away then, turned from the sight, but Mme de Mons was at my back, peering over my shoulder, and I didn't want to show weakness.

Not to her.

Not to Him.

"Le moment de dépucelage,"Mme de Mons murmured, "C'est toujours merveilleux..."

Anya was laid out before me, her pale thighs parted wide.

Her maidenhood was on show.

Her tiny embouchure, nestled within its forest of neat auburn coils, her tuppenny, her precious princess's virginity.

Hips sinuously weaving, she offered it up to Him.