The Totem King
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2010 by Carlotta James

Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Clara Daniels is on the run. Her parents were brutally murdered and her brother kidnapped by the perpetrators - a superhuman group of elite female assassins. Now they’re after her. But she must stay one step ahead of them while trying to rescue her brother. Help comes in the form of, Azrael, a dark and mysterious man who has haunted her dreams for as long as she can remember. (Note: Being Australian myself, this story is inspired partly - and loosely - by Australian mythology.)

Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Romantic   Heterosexual   Fiction   Tear Jerker   Extra Sensory Perception   Mystery   Paranormal   Vampires   Were animal  

Moonlight streamed into her bedroom, through the soft white curtains that fluttered in the breeze, filling the space with a silver dreamlike, ethereal haze. It reflected off the slender figure that lay beneath the smooth cotton sheet, shining in the silky curls of her dark tresses, shimmering upon her lightly golden skin. The sheet followed the dips and valleys of her body, embracing her curves like a faithful lover.

She watched him through her lashes, eyes at half mast, as he stood in the doorway. His upper body was bare but for the sparse dusting of hair on his chest, a pair of unbuttoned low slung jeans his only item of clothing. His heart galloped as his teal eyes took in the sight of her. Pushing away from the door jamb, his long stride ate up the small distance between there and the bed, his bare feet soundless even on her wooden floors. He was a predator after all. If he wished it, his prey would never hear him coming. Kneeling beside her, he took the sheet between two fingers, tugging it down to expose the velvety skin of her chest, the rounded globes of her breasts with their hard little rose tinted nipples.

She trembled as the edge of the sheet grazed across her nipples. He lowered his head, he couldn't help it, he had to taste her skin. He flicked one small nub with his tongue before closing his mouth around it and sucking lightly. He watched, hearing her faint moan and seeing the movement of her legs that parted with a charming elegance. The soft fabric of the sheet shifted over her hips, baring the curly pelt that covered the mound of her sex. With her legs spread and the moon to illuminate his way, he could glimpse the pink flesh secreted there, the wetness of her desire glistening for him.

The sheet glided to the floorboards in a silken pool of ivory as he settled back to gaze at the loveliness he had revealed. His heart sprinted in his chest, his blood pounded in his groin, throbbing through his cock and leaving him rigid and aching against the rough denim of his jeans. He considered undoing them but the yearning to feel her slender fingers touching him, unsnapping the buttons, stripping off his jeans was a far superior temptation.

Stretching out next to her, he smoothed a ringlet from her cheek with a tender caress, letting the lock twist around his finger. Her body arched towards his as if called, in search of his warmth, his touch. He let her curl next to him, her thigh finding a place between his, her hips brushing against his swollen length.

His lips sought hers, clinging and moist, as her lips parted beneath his. His tongue caressed the inside of her lips, stroked over the hard smooth surface of her teeth before gliding inside. He savoured the sweetness of her passion, felt the heat of her as her mouth danced under his. Ending the kiss, he pulled back slightly and saw her eyes flutter open in the soft light created by the moon. They were a deep warm chocolate that could blister him in heat or drown him in their turbulent depths, in turn with her mood. This evening, they glittered with the fervor of her passion for him.

She opened her mouth as if to say something but he silenced her effort with a kiss, his lips claiming hers once more, ripping a soft sigh from her throat.

For some reason, in this dream realm, they were never able to converse. So he didn't know much about her. Not her name. Not the sound of her voice. He wasn't even sure if she was real. He'd heard the huskiness of her laughter and the sounds of her passion but never the cry of his name on her lips. Nevertheless, he knew everything there was to know about her body. All her sweet spots, all the things that made her scream.

These were her dreams; he just had the ability to walk in them. He'd been doing so for twenty-five years. He didn't know why he had visions of her, just that they'd most likely been triggered by her birth but again, that didn't answer the 'why'. At first he'd simply watched her with her parents as an infant. They'd been the innocent dreams of a baby. She'd dreamed of being cuddled by her mother or being tickled or tossed in the air by her father.

Then they'd played games when she was a child, her favourite had been tag. He'd chased her through meadows and fields of daffodils, her pigtails flying in the breeze and her laughter drifting along behind her as he pretended not to be able to catch her. When she'd been a teenager, with her adorable braces and milk bottle glasses, her hair a frizzy mass, they'd watched movies together or gone for walks on deserted beaches. The skies grey and the sea turbulent, crashing waves upon the sidewalk.

As she'd gotten older however, their relationship had become steadily more passionate. Until they'd ended up where they were now - meeting in heated moments like this.

His hands wandered her body with ardent care, seeking every spot that fueled her sizzling passions with the accuracy and style of a maestro. He caressed the long graceful length of her back, his large hand cupping the curve of her butt, sliding between her parted thighs to find drenched heat. With a groan of his own, he explored her quivering flesh, delving between swollen nether lips to find the delicate entrance to her body.

She shuddered as he pressed one finger inside of her, the muscles of her spongy walls taut around his questing digit. She moaned, her eyes squeezing closed, as he found the bud of her clit, massaging the hard bunch of nerve endings with his thumb until she cried out. Her back arching as ecstasy claimed her body and her juices flooded his hand.

The feeling disappeared all too soon however as knocking started on her front door. Her eyes flew open at the sudden interruption. She watched as her lovers face grew further away before dissolving altogether as she was ripped from his arms and back to reality.


Clara Daniels woke sated and panting to actual knocking on her door. The sheets from her bed were in a heap on the floor, she must've kicked them off at some point during her dream tryst. Her chest heaved, her body glistening with sweat, as she tried to catch her breath. That had been the most realistic dream of her mysterious stranger that she'd had yet. She could still feel his mouth on her breasts and his fingers stroking the moist flesh between her thighs.

She had no idea who he was. Not even his name, though she knew it would be something unique and sexy like the man himself. They always met in places she knew, like her house, or the beach down the road. When she was a child, thet played tag in a field of daffodils, her favourite flower, which had bordered a property they'd lived on in Wales. She'd never been anywhere that was his. It was as if he walked in her dreams, not her in his.

Fighting her way from under the mass of brunette curls that stuck to her face and neck from the effects of her dream, she peered at the clock. After a moment the big red digital numbers came into focus. 1:37 a.m. She groaned, burying her head back into her pillow then pulling the sheets up over her head. What kind of idiot knocked on someone's door at one thirty-seven fricken a.m.? She should get up and give them a piece of her mind. But, you know, that would involve effort and actually giving a damn.

It was Friday night - actually, make that Saturday morning - after all; it was probably just some idiot kids playing a prank. She sighed. The knocking had stopped. Now all there was to hear was beautiful blessed silence. It couldn't have been that important. Anyone who knew her knew not to wake her up unless they had a bloody good reason. She wasn't a particularly nice person when woken from a sound sleep.

The knocking started again, except it was more of a banging with a fist this time. Dammit. Clearly someone really wanted her.

Ok, up and at 'em. She threw the sheets off her body, sat up, swung her legs off the bed then stood. Right, good - that wasn't so hard. She took one step, then two and ran straight into her dresser, whacking her thigh on the sharp wooden corner.

"God dammit!" She realised she still had her eyes closed. Yeah, because that was always going to help the situation.

So first order of business was some lights. Now with her eyes open, she stumbled her way to the door and felt around the wall until she found the light switch. Light flooded the room and she blinked back the sting as her eyes watered from the sudden onslaught.

"I swear to god. Someone had better be dying," she muttered.

The banging at her door continued as she grabbed her robe from the back of her bedroom door.

"All right, all right! I'm coming," she called in the direction of the door, wrapping her robe around her body she shuffled towards it.

Checking the peep-hole, she saw two police men standing on the other side - one short, the other tall. Dread filled her, seizing a fist around her heart, making it pound against her chest as if trying to break free. All manner of different, horrific scenarios flew through her mind as she fumbled with the locks before gripping the handle and opening the door.

The shorter one; a man in his late fifties with a pot belly hanging over the too small belted waist of his pants and a graying receding hairline stepped forward. "Miss Clara Daniels?"

"Yes. I'm Clara Daniels. Has something happened?" She replied, that knot of dread drawing tighter in her stomach.

He ignored her question, continuing on as if he hadn't heard it. "I'm sorry to wake you ma'am. My name is Officer Frank Gibbs and this is my partner Officer Delaney. May we come in please?"

He indicated the younger man at his side. The kid was tall and lanky, his arms and legs appearing almost too long for his skinny body, with sandy brown hair; he appeared barely out of his teens.

"Ma'am." Office Delaney acknowledged, bobbing his head in her direction.

His eyes were barely visible from the shadow cast by the brim of his hat and for some reason a voice inside her whispered not to trust him. Which was ridiculous. What was there not to trust? He was a police officer, for goodness sake. There was just something about his eyes. They appeared.empty. Like the lights were on but no one was home. Not in an unintelligent way but in a sinister way.

Despite this, she stepped back to let them in, opening the door wide as she did so. As Officer Delaney stepped over the threshold, he glanced at her and there was a coldness in his gaze, like there was no warmth left in him. She shivered from the frigidity of it.

Clara closed the door behind the men and re-secured the locks. Turning to the officers, she ushered them into the living room and gestured to the sofa. "Please, have a seat."

"Thank-you, ma'am," Officer Gibbs replied as both men took a seat.

Delaney lounged back on the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him, arms resting on his legs. The casual pose spoke of a calm cockiness which she was surprisingly threatened by. It was almost like he was gloating. But what sadistic sort of person would gloat in a situation like this? It was absurd. She was probably just imagining things.

Gibbs, on the other hand, sank down into the cushions. Floundering for a moment, like a turtle stuck on its back, before finding the strength to push himself up into a straighter sitting position. His knees spread apart to accommodate his large stomach and his chin tucked into his chest, rolling the extra flab out around his neck.

She took a seat in the armchair across from them. "Please, will you tell me what this is about?"

Officer Gibbs nodded, appearing to compose himself. He rubbed a hand over what little hair he had left on his head then clasped his pudgy, sausage fingered hands in front of his protruding belly.

"I'm sorry, Miss Daniels. There's been an accident."


Dead.

Her parents - both of them - dead.

Officer Gibbs said it was a car accident. That her father, her strong, capable and seemingly invincible father, had lost control of the vehicle while driving him and her mum home from dinner at their favourite restaurant in Baton Rouge. It had been raining throughout the day and into the night, so the roads were wet and he'd simply been unable to control the car which had veered across the road into oncoming traffic before continuing over a steep embankment and smashing into a tree.

It was their date night, she knew, they'd been doing it for as long as she could remember. She used to rib them about it sometimes, saying they were too old to still date. Her mother would say to her, 'Clara darling, you may not understand now, because you're young but when you find the man of your dreams and have been married for as long as we have, you'll understand the importance of keeping the spark of romance alive in your relationship.'

Now they would never do that again, and she would never hear her mother give her that little speech again. She just couldn't get her head around the fact that they were gone. That she would never see her mother's smile light up a room again, like when she looked at her husband. Selene Daniels' smile really was a thing to behold. Something of such true and unimaginable beauty that it could light the darkest places in your soul and make you feel like if you just hung on for a little longer, everything would be alright. Then she would laugh, her eyes would sparkle, and a person just couldn't help but laugh with her. Everyone would simply gravitate towards her, like she held some sort of magnetism that people just couldn't resist.

She would never be wrapped in her father's strong arms again, when things were going wrong in her life and she needed comforting. He was the strongest, most amazing man Clara had ever known. Jason was like superman with the wind in his back - flying to her rescue whenever she was in trouble - and her mother was his Lois Lane. He was generally a hard man, having had an extensive career in the military but then he would look at his wife or his children and everything about him softened. We were his kryptonite.

After telling her the horrible news about her parents, Officer Gibbs had asked her to accompany him and Officer Delaney to the morgue to identify her parents' bodies. He'd offered her a ride in the patrol car but she'd politely refused, not wanting to be in an enclosed space with the creepy Delaney. The guy really did give her the heebie-jeebies with his cold eyes and even colder demeanor. Instead she'd taken her own car.

Which is where she now was, waiting for Gibbs and Delaney outside the entrance to the morgue. There was a small line of hard plastic chairs and a chipped timber table holding a few three year old gossip magazines outside the doors which functioned, she assumed, as a sort of waiting area. Not that she could have made herself sit and a flick through one of those ratty old magazines, even if she wanted to.

She was currently in the process of pacing a good sized track into the worn linoleum of the waiting room's floor. It was the only way she had any hope of keeping herself together long enough to do this. She was freezing cold, a bone deep cold that made her feel as if she'd never be warm again. Moisture was beading on her forehead and her palms were sweating, so she scrubbed them up and down the thighs of the jeans she'd thrown on before leaving the house. While also trying to keep her breathing even around the vice that seemed to be clamped around her lungs and throat.

She couldn't do this, she realised. There was no way she could walk through those big swinging double doors, into the bitter staleness of the city morgue, and see her parents lying there cold and pale on those hard stainless steel tables. They wouldn't smile at her in greeting or wrap her in their arms. Not this time. Not ever again.

"Miss Daniels, are you ready to do this?"

She stopped her pacing and looked up from watching her feet, at Gibbs as he made his way down the hall towards her. He stood in front of her a moment later and all she did was stare at him, trying to make sense of what he'd said to her through the fog of disaster that was surrounding her brain. He was looking at her in a kindly enough manner, despite the beady eyes that seemed to disappear in the fleshiness of his face.

"Miss Daniels?" he repeated.

"Hmm?" she said, trying to focus on him through the jumbled thoughts in her head. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"Are you alright to do this?" he said again. "You're sure you don't want to wait or try to get a hold of your brother?"

Clara swallowed, attempting to give him a reassuring smile. But she knew it came out as more of a grimace than anything remotely resembling a smile.

"Yes." Ok, that came out as more a hoarse croak. Not what she was going for. She cleared her throat then tried again in a stronger, more assured voice. "Yes, I can do this."

She had to do this, now. She couldn't wait for her brother; she had to do this before she lost her miniscule amount of nerve. Besides, she wouldn't put her brother through this too. She had to protect him now. They were all each other had left.

In truth, she'd been trying to call Linc for over an hour now, ever since the police had told her what had happened to their parents. He hadn't answered any of her calls. He worked as a chef at one of New Orleans's top restaurants, so he'd probably just pulled a late shift and turned his phone to silent to get some much needed sleep.

She'd sent him so many text messages and left so many messages on his voicemail that she'd lost count. All she'd asked him to do was call her however because she couldn't possibly leave news like this in a voicemail.

It was probably a blessing that she hadn't been able to get a hold of him. She didn't want her baby brother to have to see their parents like this. Not that he was a baby, he'd say. In actual fact, he was only ten minutes her junior. They were twins, but she'd been born first. Something she always held over his head and teased him about since they were children.

Nevertheless, during all the moving they'd done over the years and every new school they'd attended with new kids to befriend, she'd taken her 'big sister' role very seriously. She'd been his protector. When the older boys had teased Linc because he was withdrawn and distant, she'd been there. Sticking up for him and watching his back.

He'd been there for her when they were teenagers. The popular girls had picked on her for her glasses and braces. Back then she'd had to wear the glasses all the time and they'd been big geeky milk bottle lenses too. She grimaced just thinking about it. Now she mostly wore contacts and the braces were long gone. She was much more polished - in general anyway.

Officer Gibbs opened the door and walked through before holding it open for her. She took a long, deep steadying breath and straightened her spine, attempting to steel herself before stepping over the threshold. The moment she did, the first thing that hit her was the smell. It reeked of a hospital; sterile, clean and cold with the harsh scent of disinfectant clogging her sinuses. But under that overbearing odor was the stench of death, stale and sickly sweet. The air deodorizers and antiseptic just couldn't cover it up.

The large room was predominantly white containing white washed walls and gleaming white ceramic tiled floor with silver drains spaced intermittently through the tiles. Stainless steel fixtures were everywhere from the benches, sinks and taps to the tables lined up the centre of the room with bodies shrouded in white sheets.

Officer Gibbs led Clara down the room, past the first covered table to a woman who stood between the next two. She had fair skin and fair hair that fell needle straight to her shoulders. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, with dainty glasses perched on her freckled nose and dressed in a white lab coat and scrubs.

"Clara Daniels, this is Dr Goodwin - our M.E."

Dr Goodwin reached out one slim fingered hand and took Clara's hand in her own, squeezing gently, reassuringly.

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss, Miss Daniels. And please, call me Danielle."

She was so sincere; she brought tears to Clara's eyes. Almost breaking through her defences and turning her into a blubbering pile of mush on the floor.

"Thank-you." Damn, there was that croaked whisper again.

C'mon Clara. Keep it together, you can do this. She told herself - attempting to ignore the voice in her head that scoffed saying 'yeah, right' and contradicting her little self motivational pep talk.

"Clara?" Danielle said gently, drawing her attention.

"Stay with me here, ok? I'm going to uncover their faces so I just need you to confirm, or deny, whether these are your parents. That could be a 'yes' or a 'no' or simply even a shake or nod of your head. Alright?"

She nodded, to acknowledge she understood. Not trusting her voice. If she spoke, she feared she might break. Actually, there was no 'might' about it really.

Danielle started to say something else but the main doors of the morgue swung open, cutting off anything she may've been about to utter. In walked Officer Delaney, his dark, frigid gaze landed on her and seemed to chill her further. Shivering, like someone had walked over her grave, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to warm herself. Like she needed him here - as if she didn't have enough to deal with already.

He didn't say anything, or acknowledge her in any other way, just went and stood next to and slightly behind Gibbs to watch the proceedings. Ok, she absolutely had to keep it together now. The thought of breaking down and crying in front of Delaney, was unthinkable. For some reason, she knew that she couldn't show weakness like that, or any weakness at all around him. For he would view her as prey and pounce.

Dr Goodwin stepped up to the table on her left and gripped the edge of the sheet. "Clara, could you please identify if this is your father, Jason Daniels?"

She then proceeded to fold the sheet down under his neck, so she could see his face. Clara felt, rather than saw, this happen because she was looking at her feet. Bracing herself for the sight that waited for her on that table. She couldn't look up, couldn't bring herself to lift her head.

Maybe. Maybe this wasn't her dad. Maybe the cops had got it wrong. Maybe there was another Jason Daniels who had a daughter named Clara. Maybe her father's ID had ended up on the body for some reason. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Some small, pathetic amount of hope flared. She clung to it. Holding on for dear life with everything she had.

With her heart in her throat she took a step forward and slowly, so very, excruciatingly slowly raised her gaze to the form lying on the hard, gleaming table. Hope died a horrible, violent death. The man lying on that table was indeed her father.

His eyes closed, olive skin, pale, and lips possessing a faint blue tinge to them. His forehead was covered in a bruise which was in the vague shape of a steering wheel, with a gash running through it. He was Superman. He was her hero. All the strength, all the invincibility she'd always seen in him was gone. All she'd ever have were memories now.

Drawing strength from some unknown place inside her and telling herself to be like her father, that her father would want her to be strong, she gulped down the lump in her throat and looked up at Dr Goodwin.

"Yes, that's my father."

Danielle nodded then began to draw the sheet back over her father's face.

"Wait." Clara said. "Just, let me say good-bye. Please."

The doctor simply placed the sheet back down then stepped back. Clara stepped right up next to her father then reached out a shaking hand to run her finger tips down his strong jaw.

"Daddy," she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Daddy, I love you. I'll look after Linc. We'll stick together, like you always said. I promise."

She bent down and brushed a kiss across his cold cheek, "Bye, daddy."

Straightening, she wiped the tear from her cheek then turned to the table beside her father's. Dr Goodwin replaced the sheet back over his head before walking around the other side of the next table and again gripping the sheet over the body. Clara steeled her spine, yet again. Trying to prepare herself for the next question.

"Miss Daniels, would you please confirm whether this is your mother, Selene Daniels?" Again the sheet was lifted from the face and folded below the neck.

She thought she'd been prepared this time. She was wrong. So very wrong. Bile rose, burning up her throat. She hunched over, her stomach cramping, sure she was going to be sick. She must have gone green because Danielle hurriedly came around the table and rubbed her back.

"Deep breaths, Clara. Come on now. In and out."

Clara did as she was told, dragging unsteady breaths in through her nose then pushing them out through her mouth. Fighting to keep control. She would not break down now. When she was home and away from this place and these people, on her own, then she could wallow and cry. It would be safe then.

"That's it. In and out - nice and steady. Good girl." Danielle continued to rub her back and help her through the nausea.

After a few minutes, she gained control again. Her racing heart calmed somewhat and the queasiness settled as if finally deciding to wait for a better time to make a break for it. She straightened and swiped a hand through her hair to push if from her face.

"I'm ok now. I can do this." She told Dr Goodwin.

Clara looked up at the pale, motionless form of her mother. Her beautiful porcelain skinned faced was battered and bruised, as if her head had been thrust forward into the dash or the side window during the crash.

Yet, she was still breathtakingly stunning. Again, Clara lamented the fact that Selene Daniels beautiful face would never again light up with humour, or fill with compassion, or shine with love when looking at her family.

She bent down and placed a soft kiss on her mother's forehead. "I love you mama. I promise to make you proud."

Turning to the doctor she said, with more steadiness and strength than she knew she ever possessed. She uttered those horrible words - detestable words that would confirm that there were no more 'maybe's' anymore, that this was not some terrible nightmare. This was in fact real life and her whole world had just turned on its head.

"Yes, that's my mother. Selene Daniels."

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