Garou: Black Widow - Excerpt

“I have a… a hunger you cannot imagine,” said Elena in halting English. Turning her elegant black head from the tall French doors that let out onto the narrow balcony, she looked over her shoulder at Garou, who leaned on his cane in the center of the living room.

“I believe you,” said Garou. He listened to the sounds of the little side street that echoed between the high end apartments of the 7th Arrondissement, on the Rive Gauche in Paris, where only those with money or huge debt could afford even a one bedroom apartment. This one encompassed the top floor of a seven story building in early Baroque style that dated from the early seventeenth century. Garou figured a conservative value would be twelve to fifteen million Euros. “You live well.”

She shrugged. “A benefit of twelve centuries of accumulated experience.”

High value antiques dotted the rooms and unusual paintings lined the walls. Some he recognized as originals by moderately famous masters of their time. Many of the paintings seemed to have been done by the same painter, one he did not know and who did not sign his work. Simple portraits, stunning lifelike depictions of varying emotions from ecstasy to terror. He felt sure that any of them would fetch a six figure price.

“You like my paintings?”

He inclined his head.

“I have done them myself.” Her gaze held his momentarily, as if attempting to convince him of a lie.

He looked at her, at the paintings, and back to her. He ignored her face for the moment and once again ran his eyes up and down her sensual curves and considered that he would soon fuck her. But in his own time.

“Thank you, Monsieur Garou,” she responded as he stared. “Your appreciation of my body gives me much pleasure.”

She had changed into a robe so sheer as to offer the illusion that she had been tattooed with cranes and chrysanthemums that seemed to flow over the curves of her body.

“For the record -- is that how you say it? I was born in Aquitaine in 747, the year of the birth of Charlemagne. As you will note, I am black, the daughter of Moorish slaves brought from Africa by Muslims in the early part of that century.”

“So you are a vampire?” Garou’s voice hinted of neither sarcasm nor trepidation.

Elena smiled with relief. She could sense when a man did not believe her or worse yet, when he did and tried to hide the instant fear. This man believed her and felt no fear. $One in a thousand. Ten thousand.

“I am no blood sucker. No.” Not strictly true, and the lie shamed her, but she felt the familiar heat rising in her as she looked at him, which she preferred to do rather than stare at the nightscape of Paris. Men had always been her chief desire and her fatal weakness. She let the robe fall open, an invitation. “I only want you to take me.”

She acted from the certain knowledge that he wanted very badly to fuck her and would do so with great enthusiasm, an advantage few women ever had. The fact that she would almost certainly love every second of the experience made her briefly happy, as always. For now she could ignore the inevitable finalé. Her nipples stiffened.

Garou smiled. “You’re gorgeous beyond any man’s hopes. Why bother with a broken down relic like me?”

“You jest, knowing there is more to you than a casual glance will reveal.” She smiled again. “I happen to prefer older men. Your age is misleading, for it is your strength as much as a burden. And you still have great strength, in your body and your mind as well. I stand here offering myself to you, a very delectable bon mot, non? And yet you refrain from ravishing me outright, when almost any other man would have tried to maul my tits back at the café. It is your experience that women will melt for a man who shows that sport of self-control, n’est-ce pas?”

She lowered her eyes. “I so adore men who can resist me. Forgive my coarseness, but I desire nothing more than to be used like a slave, as though you do not care if I take pleasure in your handling of me.” Even speaking of it made her weak. I have lived more than fifty generations but I remain a slave to men. She let the robe slip down over her shoulders. “I shall beg if you desire it.” Her voice quavered with her need. “Or perhaps even if you do not.” She could not remember wanting a man so much.

Garou shifted his weight as if to ease the pain in his joints, then joined her by the window. Seemingly unaffected by her openly sensual display, he gazed out at the ethereal beauty of the sparkling lights of Paris. “Yes,” he said without looking at her. “I do desire it.” He leaned the cane against the wall. Standing before the open window, he slowly undressed.

She leaned against the door and teased her nipples. “Do I excite you by playing with my body?”

“Yes. Does it excite you to perform for me?” he countered.

“Yes,” she breathed. This close, Elena began to tremble with eagerness. “Please,” she whispered. “Please fuck me, monsieur.”

As he revealed more of his muscular body, made more impressive by the white in his hair and on his chest, Elena breathed deeper, with more urgency. I make myself excited by showing my hunger. A wonderfully vicious cycle. For a moment Elena simply stared at him, drinking in his overpoweringly male sexual presence.

She let the robe fall.

Garou smelled her musk and tried to control his raging hunger. At his age he knew beautiful women were there for the taking, anywhere, even if they thought otherwise. But he had never met a woman like this, so beautiful, so certain of herself, and yet so clearly vulnerable.

That vulnerability did it for him. His cock stiffened and rose. He touched her gently, letting his fingers trail down the side of her sculpted face that seemed carved from mahogany, with high cheekbones and lush lips. Down her slender neck, over the prominent collar bone. Down over her tits, as heavy and firm as any male wet dream could make them. He lingered there, of course, fondling them gently then spreading his fingers and teasing both nipples at once, enjoying the sensation of their stiffness against the warm softness. She undulated slightly, making little thrusts of her tits against his hand.

“You understand my hunger.” Her voice had thickened noticeably. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the door, exposing her neck as if for him to bite. He used both hands to gently pinch and twist her nipples. She squirmed and made a small whimpering sound, arching her body. Her hands reached for him.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

She bared her teeth in a hiss of pleasure. “You see that I have -- large nipples,” she breathed, opening her eyes slightly. “They are hard and long and ready for you to suck them.”

“When you beg for it,” he replied, clenching his jaw against the need to do just that. I must control myself. I must. If he changed now everything would be lost.

She writhed like a snake. “Please, take me…”

He ran his fingers over her cunt, lightly teasing her lips, stroking, stroking. “Not yet. “ With his other hand he continued to tease her nipples.

She raised her hands, her fingers curled like claws, grasping at the air. Her head lay back against the door and she thrust her tits out. “Please!” she hissed. “I cannot stand it! Please!” Against his orders she gripped his shoulders. “Please! Suck my tits!”

He growled, surprising himself with his intense desire to devour her in a storm of uncontrolled passion. “No. You will do as I say.”

Elena moaned.

“Outside.” He released her.

She sagged against the door, breathing heavily.

On the narrow balcony, only the waist high rail of wrought iron stood between her and a seven story drop. The illogical thrill of fear mixed with her searing hunger for sex. Why him? Why? Regret did not enter into her thinking anymore, but she felt angry at herself for not being in control of her hunger. It would all be so much easier if I could just die.