My Friends the Allens -- Julie and the Beast by Mark Aster = = = Note: this story contains graphic accounts of sexual relations between adults, quasi-material spirits, and mythical beasts. If you are a minor, a U.S. Senator, or anyone else whose brain implodes when exposed to such things, stop reading now, and go take a cold shower. = = = October 23rd, Year of Our Lord 1653 The darkness leered at her and the forest closed around her; Julie clung to the horse's back, bending forward and clutching his thick mane with both hands. His hair was soaked with sweat; through the horse-blanket and her thin cotton undergarments, the strong weary planes of his muscles moved between her thighs. When Pierre, the faithful black stallion, had come home without saddle or rider, her alarm had been great. She had mounted him without hesitation, and whispered in his ear, "Take me to him, dear Pierre; show me what has become of Papa!" The tired mount took her to within sight of the huge old castle, dark and vine-covered, deep in the most desolate part of the Forest Ducharne. He would go no further; when she tried to press him, his eyes showed their whites, and he whinnied most pitifully. The girl slipped off his back, and went through the gates alone. "Papa, Papa!" Her calls echoed off the ancient walls, the great door askew on its hinges. She passed into the inner courtyard; had the night been brighter, or the girl less intent on her goal, she might have noticed the garden that spread about her, the carefully-tended shrubs in fantastic shapes, the beds of roses large and fire-red in the darkness. "Papa!" And then, an answer. Into the castle through the arched stone doorway. Up stairs, along dark passages peopled by shadows and whispers. Her father's answering shout becoming clearer. "No, Julie! Do not seek me! Go home, girl, run away!" But she followed his voice, through air like thick syrup, rooms smelling of time and decay. Her father's face on the other side of a barred door. His eyes on hers for a moment, and then staring with horror past her, over her shoulder. She turned. The Beast. Made huge by the darkness, tall and wide, impossibly present; a strong animal smell, strength and maleness filling her head. One huge hand, thick brown fur, claws held away from her skin, solid muscular fingers on her shoulder. His eyes, huge and deep and overpowering, looked into hers, and she was helpless. But not completely. "Let my Papa go!" It came out as a whisper, but the sound of her own voice gave her strength. "Let him go!" Louder this time. A sound in the darkness of the Beast, a laugh or a growl or a rumble. Another hand, rough and large and shaggy, the back of it running over her white dress, pressing against her breasts and her stomach. The sound of his breathing. "He has stolen from me. The price must be paid." The Beast's voice was a low growl, a snarl, an animal sound that somehow formed words in the stifling air of the passage. Her father reached through the bars, but could touch neither of them. "A single rose," he groaned, "a single bloom for my daughter. I did not know!" The Beast's growl rose and snarled and filled the space with terror, silencing her father. The Beast's eyes on her in the darkness. "But he may go free." The rumble again, "I will accept you as his ransom." Her father screamed and shook the bars of his prison, but she was buried in the Beast's fur, one of his great arms pinning her to him easily. Swooning from his scent and from fright, she managed to raise her head and gasp, "Go, Papa, go! Save yourself!" Metal rattling, a blow, a laugh, a curse. There seemed to be others with them in the passage, then the Beast was moving, her body still crushed against him, her mind reeling. The sounds of her father faded quickly around the mazy corners of the castle. The smothering grip released her, and she swayed, almost falling, saved only by a damp stone wall. The Beast, still nearly invisible in the oppressive dark, only his eyes and his scent, the memory of his body on her skin. His gaze was deep and insistent, and she felt eaten alive. "He was not worth the sacrifice, little rose. And how dangerous are you to me?" She trembled, feeling the heat of his breath as he loomed over her, feeling, or only imagining, his hands, his matted paws on her body, touching her most intimate parts as though she were naked before him. "My servants will show you your room." And he was gone. The room cold and empty. The Beast's servants were shadows and whispers, low voices from nowhere, lighter places in the gloom that flowed like ripples through the thick silent air. But she followed them to a room, a deeper darkness within the dark, and a bed, and collapsed and slept. She awoke, and cried to find that it had not been a nightmare. No sunbeams penetrated the inwardness of the castle, but a grey and diffuse light hinted it was day. A voice from the empty corridor terrified her with its ordinary words. "The Master sends greetings. He will be in the West Wing all day; you may make the rest of the castle your own." But she did not leave her room all that day, limply huddling in a fitful half-doze under the blankets in the huge bed, drawing in on herself when an airy nothingness brought wood and laid a fire, screaming and swooning when a tray of food slid quietly out of the wall. By the return of the darkness, her terror had exhausted itself, and she sat up, and she ate. The food was fresh and rich, bread and cheese and savory meat. Moving her legs within the covers, she noticed for the first time their richness, and the finery in which she had been cowering. The dark did not come as a friend, but the youthful sanity of her body bore up her mind. A strange wind blew down the corridor, and the door to her room creaked open. Something entered, a smell of love and madness, a deep green smell, bright with blood and hot with desire. She shivered, her skin cold and hot, her breath catching in her throat. Under her dress, the nipples on her small breasts stiffened, and she felt warmth between her thighs. "So! He has caught a dainty indeed!" The voice was high and lovely, a silver flute played by a mad Pan. Light, the first and brightest light she had seen in the castle, struck at her eyes. The light curled and congealed, and there naked before the bed, naked and lovely and pale, moonstones woven into her writhing hair, stood Madness and Lust herself, and Julie's body cried out for her. "Oh," she whispered, "have you come to help me? Has Father sent you?" Loveliness smiled, showing her small sharp teeth. "No, my poor lost dear, your father has not sent me; even now, he tries to convince the drunken villagers that the Beast and the castle are not his own lunacy." Her laughter bites at Julie like silver needles, as she comes closer. She takes Julie's small hands and places them on her own breasts. The spirit's skin is cool and smooth; Julie squeezes the soft domes of her breasts gently, and takes one in her mouth. The nipple is rough and alive, and it stiffens under Julie's tongue. "Who are you, spirit?" the girl asks, as the silver hands neatly slice the fabric of her dress away from her body, and the cool naked thighs slide over her skin. Madness's tongue plays over her neck, her breasts, her stomach, and Madness's fingers gently open the flower between her legs. Her head falls back, and she sighs as pleasure enters her. "Who am I? Why, I suppose I am Whimsey, child, or a night breeze, or an innocent traveler. The Master of this castle once did me a wrong, and I take some interest in his affairs." How can Whimsey speak? Her tongue, long and agile, is buried deep in the femaleness of Julie, her fingers expertly working labia and clitoris, the girl's body moving in slow gasping spasms on the slope up to orgasm. "But do not hope that I will rescue you, sweet helpless thing; that is not part of the bargain." And again the silver laughter, and Julie's muscles tense and clench around the tongue and fingers of the spirit, waves of pleasure washing over and through her young naked body, over her heaving breasts, up from the wet penetrated ecstasy of her vulva. She screams quietly, the soft blossom of her mouth open to the night. Then the beautiful silver body stretches out on top of her, the agile tongue is in her mouth. She groans and bucks against the perfect cool softness. She takes the glowing breasts again in her hands and sucks, drinking madness and lust into herself. The spirit cries out, her perfect thighs spread, and then she rises up, and her thighs are by Julie's cheeks, and Julie's tongue is in the slick silver vagina, and Julie's head is filled with the musk of mad female magic, and the night crashes down on her in ecstasy and pain. She slept dreamlessly. The next morning, the light seemed brighter. Her nose caught a last lingering whiff of ardent green scent, and she felt a vague warmth low in her body, but she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and breathed deeply. The stale deadness of the air seemed Sanity itself. When the doorknob announced again that the Master would be in the West Wing, and she might have the run of the rest of the house, she rose, the tatters of her dress falling from her body to the floor. When a flicker and a dustmote opened the wardrobe, to show her a dozen fine dresses perfectly fitted to her size, she felt no terror. The smell of food drew her out into the corridors. In a fine dress of pale yellow silk, she walked a tapestried hall, and guided by the suggestions of the walls, found a table in a nook that was almost warm, and breakfast set for one. She ate, and then curiosity drew her onward. The library was huge and lovely. Shelves lined the walls, ladders ascended the shelves, and above were galleries and stairs, more shelves. Glass doors led onto a balcony that overlooked the garden; the graceful symmetry of the roses, the wild trim fantasy of the shrubs reached up and touched her. But when she went to the edge of the balcony, thinking of escape and the long path home, the servants were there, sharp stones pointing at her, something moving in the bushes, and from the West Wing a hint of a roar, the teeth of the Beast and his heavy footfalls. She went back inside. She sat curled on the long chaise in the library, gazing up at the portrait over the hearth. Gold-framed, done in rich old oils, a man stands before a castle, this castle. He is tall and noble, black-bearded, flashing eyes, a strong mouth. This, she decided, was the true Master of the castle, and she wept to imagine him driven out by the Beast, wounded or killed, driven into the wild forest. She sat reading his books and looking into his painted eyes until twilight; dining on fruit and meat brought by whom? Brought, she was sure, by the captive shadows of his servants, sorcelled to toil for the Beast. Those shadows guided her back to her room, and the night closed around her. She nursed the image of the man in the portrait, held tight to her hatred of the murderous Beast, and tried not to think of the spirit's tongue between her thighs. The night plodded on without sleep. She wept for loneliness and pity. Her nose betrayed her, finding the sweet feverish scent of hot naked Loveliness in the empty air. But no one came, and in the dead middle of the night, Julie's fear of the spirit's return was overcome by despair at her absence. Julie's hands crept down her body, and she gave herself release, laughing and gasping and crying as she came, naked under the sheets, and finally collided softly with numbness and sleep. The next day, her body ached and groaned, but her mind was sharp and eager. She mapped out the castle in her mind, climbed the towers, looked out over the garden, and over the lurking indrawn darkness of the West Wing, imagining her enemy's lumbering there, the male animal smell of his body, his rough destructive hands crushing the delicate artifacts of her bearded dream-lover. For now she loved the man in the portrait, seeing the home he had made; loved him with the quick deep innocent love of a young woman. She asked the unseen servants to tell her of him, but the shadows only groaned and creaked. She read, and ate, and walked, and plotted revenge and freedom. When darkness fell, she slipped into a cool cotton nightdress from the wardrobe and threw herself into bed, tired, sane, and determined to resist fever and hopelessness. But Fever came again, this time as a gentle golden glow at the edges of her vision. The air seemed warm, her skin sweaty as she lay under the light sheet. She threw off the sheet, twisted and turned in the heat, unbuttoned the nightgown. The air was delicious and fiery on her breasts. She slid the damp fabric down her shoulders, over her breasts, her fingers lingering there, squeezing her nipples. Over her stomach, down her thighs, the fabric crumpled and discarded, Julie lying naked on the damp sheets, eyes closed, mouth open, thighs spread, her hands ardent lovers on her own soft arching body. One hand squeezes her breasts and tugs her nipples, the other strokes and presses in between her legs, and she writhes and moans and licks her lips. The golden glow strengthens and coalesces, and the spirit stands, tonight clad in fire, her eyes like coals, her breasts round and hot, her hair flames, her thighs sweet curves. She licks her lips, her eyes on Julie, her smile hungry, and she lowers herself over the girl, and her mouth caresses the smooth young body. "Ah! Ah, spirit! Ah, I had despaired of you. OOOOooooo!" And she presses herself against the hot lustful fingers, the sharp aggressive tongue. The long bare body of Ecstasy stretches out on her back on the bed, and she lifts Julie effortlessly onto her, holds Julie's head in her burning hands, presses Julie's face into the delicious softness of her breasts. Julie moans in delight as again she takes the spirit's nipples in her mouth, and the spirit's perfect body arches beneath her, skin to skin, lust to lust, madness to madness. "Tell me of the Beast, spirit," says Julie, raising her pink mouth from the hard sensitive golden nipple, "and tell me of the noble lord of the castle, whose portrait is in the library. Does he live? Did you know him? Will you open your thighs, that I may drink the sweetness between your legs, and give pleasure to your perfect burning body?" The spirit laughs, high and warm and poisonous. She spreads her knees, and the air is full of delirium, and Julie's mouth kisses a line between her breasts and down over her stomach. As Julie's tongue enters her vagina, the spirit laughs again, and moans. "Ah, child, ah sweet child, I cannot keep it from you! The world is not so simple. The noble lord of the castle IS the Beast, and the Beast is the noble lord." Julie's mind reels, but her tongue and hands belong to the spirit, and her mouth tastes the spirit, and she is honey and desire and ashes. Her lips close on the hot pulsing clitoris, her tongue ravages it, her fingers slip in between the moist golden thighs. Ecstasy groans and thrusts against Julie's open mouth, and Ecstasy speaks. "Once that noble lord denied me a thing, and what I could not have, I changed. I hope his new form is pleasing to you, my flower, my innocent, my lovely." And Ecstasy's golden body tenses and arches and devours, and Ecstasy cries out and comes and comes and wraps her thighs in a burning circle around Julie's head. Now Julie is on her stomach, her legs spread. Fire has flared and abated, and the spirit is a single glowing coal. She holds in her hand a thick black rod with a sultry red at its heart. She smiles down at Julie, and opens her, and thrusts the rod deep into her, and Julie cries out. The rod is hot and rough and perfect, and it slides slowly in and out of her, and it swells and pulses between her legs and her soft violated inner walls, and the spirit's face is calm and alien as Julie gasps and screams and comes, and as she comes the coal goes out, and the spirit is gone, and Julie's orgasm slides quickly down into sleep. The next day, the castle was different, filled with the Beast's living presence. Expressions of his will, his servants did not frighten her. "Ask your Master," she said, "if he would sup with me." Sitting at the other end of the long oak table, his breath was loud and his voice still a growl, but his manners were perfect, his consideration for her absolute. He sat himself as far from her as the table allowed, talked just loudly enough to be heard, just often enough to be comfortable. His eyes were deep and magnificent. In the diffuse light of day, his fur shone clean and combed, his clothing elegant, claws discreet. They ate. The food was strong and excellent. Over dessert, she looked across at him, breathing his scent. "My lord," she said, "the castle frightens me at night. I would have one of your servants sleep in my room, if it pleases you." He looked up suddenly, frowning. Their eyes met, and she felt herself falling into his depths. "Have you been disturbed?" he asked, his growl dangerous but protective. Her skin prickled, her nipples erect. "Have you had an unseely visitor?" She nodded, lowering her gaze. His growl filled the room. "My servants would be of no help to you. But you shall not be disturbed tonight." That night she lay stretched out under the sheets in white lace, and the Beast himself sat guard across the room in an armchair. "You honor me," she whispered. He sat silent through the night, and she slept deep and warm and dreamless. Somewhere in the night, outside the castle, something screamed in frustration. At dawn, he slipped from the room. She woke and stretched and bathed and dressed. Ignoring the whispers and rattles of the servants, she walked west, and stood at the edge of the Beast's domain. With her first step over the threshold, he was there, and she stepped forward, pressing herself against him, her face in the thick fur of his chest, breathing his scent, his arms enfolding her, their bodies together, his breath warm and even, his huge hands on her. A long moment of silence, and then he gently pulled her away, and they went to breakfast. She did not let him leave her side that day. They walked in the gardens, sat in the library, ate by the windows. His voice smoothed with practice, and their natures eased together. In the late afternoon it rained, and captor and captive sat by the fire in the library and read and watched the rain. Music played softly from nowhere, and thunder rolled in the distance. It was raining as she got into bed, warmly conscious of the Beast in his chair, the cotton against her skin, the taste of lemon in her mouth, the flickering of the candles on the wall. Near midnight, she came softly awake, and lay listening to the night. She opened her eyes lazily, and found herself looking again into his eyes. She smiled. His breath caught, and he looked away. Her heart ached. Julie rises from the bed and crosses the room in the dimness, to stand before his chair. She puts her hands on his shoulders, his wide furry shoulders, and feels the muscles beneath the skin. She sits on his lap, one knee on either side of him, her body tiny against him, her head on his chest, her arms around his shoulders. She nuzzles into him, breathing with her nose in his fur, quiet, relaxed, on the edge of sleep. His body is tense at first, hard, restrained, unmoving. But the weight of the girl on his lap is sweet and warm, quiet and trusting, and slowly his muscles relax. She stirs, her lips on his body. She smiles and purrs and inhales the maleness of him. She raises her face to his and kisses him; he groans, keeps himself immobile for a moment, but then her tongue moves over his lips, and he wraps her in his arms, kisses her mouth, pulls her tight and smothering against him. She is overwhelmed with delight, and her eyes fill with tears, cocooned in his arms, eyes closed, her body softening and opening to him. He lifts her easily, lowers her backward onto the bed, and stands undecided, looking down at her. She unbuttons the gown, sane and happy, and slips it down her body. Her breasts and her shoulders are soft and lovely in the light, her thighs and the neat triangle of hair sweet and welcoming. Slowly, he slides out of his finery, his body large and wide and powerful in the darkess. She sees the struggle on his face, the war within him, and loves him for it, and kicks the gown aside, and naked she reaches her arms up to him. He takes her, there on the bed, in the candlelight, naked in his fur, his loneliness, his need. He tries to be gentle at first, but she opens so completely to him, urges him on, urges him in, gasps and moans so compellingly as he moves over her, that soon his body is pounding against her soft nakedness, penetrating her deeply and completely, and she cries out and laughs with the joy of it, the pain of his thick animal staff thrusting into her, the bliss of his beloved body on hers, his breath heavy, his arms holding his weight off of her, his hips lifting and lowering, pushing into her, and she grips the long coarse fur of his back with her long pale fingers and urges him to do it faster and harder, and they come together in long loud waves of joy. The thunder rolls again as she curls up beside him, and they fall asleep. The next morning, Julie woke suddenly, to a cold empty bed, and shouts in the distance. Throwing on a shift, she ran through the corridors, through the garden, to the outer courtyard. The air rang with shouts, and the Beast her lover stood atop the wall, snarling down at something beyond it, dodging flying rocks, spears, arrows, tossing down stones which rang against metal and thudded against flesh. With horror, she recognized the voice of her father in the din, and without thinking she climbed the wall, the morning air cool on her thighs, just as a brick crashed into the Beast's forehead and spun him around. She went to his side as he surged back to his feet. Below at the edge of the wood stood a dozen village bravos, and her father, armed with stones and boar-spears and one longbow. The bow came up, an arrow nocked, and she rose up tall and shouted out at them. "No! I love him!". Silence but for the whirr of the arrow through the air, the solid thunk as it embeds itself deeply in the chest of the distracted Beast, then another silence as he falls, and a crash as his dear heavy solid form strikes the earth. Then her wails, her screams, the shouts of the villagers, and all dissolves into hysteria. Even as she went to him, he seemed to be smoothing out, his body changing. As they carried him to her bedroom, led by servants who now had visible forms, almost physical substance, his eyes never left her, nor hers him. As the hours passed, his fur receded, his heart continued to beat, her fingers lay entwined with his, and somewhere far off in the woods a mad pipe seemed to play an angry dirge. Deep in the night, she still kneels by his bed. She has had the servants show her father a room, and send the villagers home. She sleeps, but is awakened by his fingers gentle on her forehead. Her eyes meet his, questioning, wondering. He shows her his chest. The arrow has fallen out, the skin clean and unwounded as though it had never been broken. There is no fur, only a mat of thick black human hair. His fingers have no claws. Her face is radiant as she pulls his head down to hers, and they kiss, and his arms, strong but now only human, pull her up and on to him, and this time they make love slowly and gently. Her tongue circles his mouth, he caresses her rear. She spreads herself and gradually engulfs him as they kiss long and deeply, and he strokes her smooth lovely skin as she moves her body up and down, and they purr and laugh and gasp in wonder, and all is good, and clean, and as it should be. In the kitchen, the head cook lights a candle and stands, looking with wonder at the solid opaque knuckles of her hand. My Friends the Allens -- Julie and the Beast by Mark Aster The End