Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions-Chapter 315: One Shot of Brandy [18+]
[#hotshot #sub #pretty #FFM]
"So, do I get a chance to speak with the Orishas?" Israfel leaned to whisper in Ursula's ear. "I do not know how you all do things here in the West but in the fae Capital, we have Confessors; and you and I both know, Your Excellency, I have a lot to confess of. I would very much like private time with your veiled priestesses." He did well to hide the mischief in his gold eyes as he ended with a sly purse of his lips and sweet sin in his lopsided grin.
Ursula blushed though she wasn't looking in his direction. Her own serpent gaze was turned to the wood dais where the Patchwork Man had just met certain death from the Guillotine's slash; the headless nude body—so awkward in its multitude of misfit limbs and discolored skin patches—slowly slid to the raised execution stand.
The people were still cheering and waving high hands. The Republic hadn't seen a public display this good in three hundred years.
It was closer to evening now and Yukima and her trail of cop escorts skirted the canopy where her family and the auburn-haired Ambassador sat. The body of the Patchwork Man did bleed heavy. Jets of thick red pooled and soaked the area around the Guillotine, crimson seeping into the woodwork of the dais, running in rivulets down the steps to the coarse sands hungry for a drink.
The throng of people closest to the Execution Stand when the blade hit had spots of scarlet in their face and hair, and they gloried in it, turning this way and that so everyone could see—like it was the fucking star of the Martyr on their faces.
"So..?" Rafel sidled more into the Legata.
And she finally looked his way. A trio of undertakers was coming up to pull the corpse off the dais. The two black-hooded men dragged off the strange, headless corpse—one could see them scrunching their noses at the freakish limbs; the Undertakers had sure seen a lot of corpses in their day but never one with both a working penis and two healthy breasts—and the third picked up the head.
"Oi!" Rafel and Ursula were briefly interrupted by the sound of Yuki's voice ordering the funereal disposers: "You with the head! Strip away the stitched faces. I want to see the real face."
The Undertaker looked conflicted for a second but did as commanded. His fingers became steeped in blood, pus, and tissue as he kept stripping face after face after face. He must've just roughly dragged off the thirteenth face—a black one—when the crowd oohed. "Yuck!" Mariposa hid out her eyes beside her mother.
After the black face, it was pure skeleton and red muscle, unblinking eyeballs out of torn sockets.
One look at the dripping scalps in the Undertaker's gloved hands and Rafel knew they may never know the real face of the Patchwork Man, whether he be male, female…or shemale.
He saw Yuki gesture the cowled men away with her hands. And the large gathering start to trickle off slowly. Drums began in the distance. Despite the gloom of the execution, it was still Sabbath, and the day was far from over.
'Exactly my thoughts,' Rafel mused, 'I could still bag an Orisha.'
Ursula's snake-green eyes were waiting when he turned his from the hot bosomy Chief of Police.
Ursula matched his direct gaze to the figure of her firstborn daughter—who was striding and barking orders. She smiled knowingly and told him. "I know why you want private time with my Orishas. And you can do better than a. . .confession." She made air-quotes with her two fingers. She was calling out his bullshit. "I've got a literal cobra as my hair. You should know you can't get slippery with me."
Rafel dropped his eyes. He thought for sure the Legata was about to burst his dreams of a wild ride with a [Black Widow] when the conversation took a turn.
Ursula leaned in to his straight tux; he always wore his collar up, and breathed in deeply:
"You smell really good, Ambassador. And considering your request, I am way ahead of you, handsome. Its gonna be some party. Expect my call."
And with that, she stood and left, led off by stocky Republican Marshals.
Rafel retired to his allotted knightly suite with the use of [Umbrage]—before Yuki could offer to walk with him and further swell his balls.
He really didn't think much of Ursula's final words as the evening progressed.
The grand rooms of the Gray House lay in quietude as dusk flowed in. It was a somber, beachy air. Rafel was drafting a letter reply to his beloved harem miles away when Ursula's CALL finally came.
—at exactly seven pm.
It was Delilah, the homekeeper.
She knocked on his door, waited for him to pull on a shirt and led him without one word to the bedroom of the Legata. Delilah left him at the high cedar door.
Rafel thought: 'I haven't even walked in and it smells like sex in there. What the Hel is going in? Fuck me. Fuck me twice!'
[DING!]
[LORD HOST, I have detected the fulfillment of your request!]
[Two potential Sexual Partners in the immediate vicinity…]
[1 MILF]
[1 Orisha Priestess]
[Engage Lustsonance]
[Y/N?]
Rafel smiled profoundly in that moment. 'Well thank you kindly, Peitho. But that would be a no on the Influence. Something tells me I wouldn't be needing a [Sin Class] ability with the women in there. I already can feel their auras calling out to me. We sync—bigtime.'
He blinked away the system screens. "Let's go baby!"
And he pushed into the bedroom.
"Dang!" He choked out. He couldn't help himself.
He had seen Grad boys with this exact wet dream.
Ursula's bedroom looked imagined. All the lights in the room were turned off, save for one; a spotlight over a quartz stage. The natural evening air and twilight feels was allowed to sweep in through oval windows. Though the chamber was regal and expansive, more space had being created, and he could tell it was intentional. "This is so cool." His hands found a marble top in the shape of a bonsai tree. He caressed the coldness of it. He circled the rim of the bucket of ice atop it; a bottle of Aelia—the finest vintage of the west lay refrigerating in it.
And then he saw the women.
"Fuuuccck yeah!" he breezed in a barely controlled growl.
Ursula Romanov—the most exotic creation from outerspace, she sat on the only one furniture in sight: the longest, whitest couch ever.
Six models could lie down on it and never fill it.
She was seated in the midst of the expensive whiteness, her curves dipping into the plushness. The sofa took the swell of her ass and shape of her hips—and made Rafel imagine things. On the floor before her was the second woman. A younger girl; she knelt on a little white pillow. Her head was bowed. And as appealing as the silver, body-tight gown Ursula had on, Rafel's summer eyes were drawn to the girl's dark lingerie…and her translucent black veil.
His feet took him to both women.
Rafel was gentle as he slipped in beside Ursula on the white river.
"Am I dreaming?" he asked her.
Ursula stared into his eyes, their bodies since longing to be united, and this pretty pie she'd brought in for their pleasure. She took his hand and led him to touch the face of the covered girl. Through the obsidian veils, Rafel felt hot skin. The girl wanted to please them too. He said girl, but she was older than he; a very sexy woman. Her veil was see-through but masked her smoky eyes. A collar matching the white of Ursula's dress and the sofa circled her delicate neck.
"I don't know which of you I smell," said Rafel, "but you smell like heaven."
Ursula lifted her leg and traced the younger woman's outer thigh. She let her feet rise to the girl's ribs, and Rafel watched as the chick visibly breathed harder. Ursula's heel skimmed the underside of her boob; her great toe played with the dark areolas; scratching, pulling at the material.
Ursula dropped her leg and blew her a kiss.
The girl quietly got up and drifted like an angel to the stage behind.
Rafel remembered it; she climbed the glittering steps and stood for a wondrous moment on the shiny dais—quartz gleaming like a million tiny stars at her feet—and spread those gazelle legs in 'em spiked heels. Her netted pantyhose teased at the creaminess of her skin, her lower thighs. Her dark hair was a curtain of seduction under the veils.
Picture of beauty, Rafel saved up her image to [Gladorium].
He was enthralled. And more when Ursula took his hand and put it in her lap.
She leaned into him:
"I can't give you an Orisha. But I can give you one shot of Brandy."
"Brandy?" He turned to her.
"Yeah." Ursula left his hand in her lap and fetched him a wonderful glass of Aelia. "Her name is Brandy."
And together from the sofa, they both took sips, smiled at the angel on the stage and watched her begin to dance. And of course, there was a shiny, silver pole.
Brandy took one step in her stilettos and let her body become a river of lady magic.
. . .
