A Devil's Bride
Chapter 5: All Saint’s Day
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 5: All Saint’s Day - Orpheia, a rare, visually tantalizing creature, has ensnared the attention of a tyrant king whose bloodline is responsible for the slaughtering of Orpheia’s people. Forced to choose between marrying the king and losing the lives of her beloved people, Orpheia calls upon the power of Hell to gain the upper hand. Inspired by Frankenstein, Carmilla, and all things Halloween, this gothic novel is sure to satiate those who crave brutal, bloody romance.
Caution: This Horror Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Hypnosis NonConsensual Romantic Lesbian Shemale Paranormal Ghost Magic Demons Humiliation Light Bond Size Caution Halloween Royalty
Orpheia woke to the sound of the chapel doors groaning open. Sunlight, tinged with the rich, oxidized reds and blues of the stained glass windows, painted her face as her eyes began fluttering open. Masculine voices filled her ears, but their conversation was too muddled for her to understand. When panic and anger gripped them, however, Orpheia startled. The memories of the night before flooded into her head, and she sat upright, holding a gasp in her lungs. She no longer laid across the altar steps but was instead floating in the baptistery, which had been previously hidden beneath loose stones in the back of the chapel. Petals of anise blooms, black lilies, and baby’s breath floated around the blood-tinged water. Orpheia had been dressed in a white silk gown that clung to her now-blemishless skin.
“She’s been freed from her shackles?” King Meyrick asked Father Grimshaw, who had once more donned his holy robes. The king, however, looked as if he had just rolled out of bed in a rush to see his bride. He was unshaven, and his hair unbrushed.
Father Grimshaw scowled, glaring down at Orpheia as she struggled to regain herself. “Where is the paladin that was sent here to watch you, girl?”
Orpheia stammered. “I haven’t an answer, for I collapsed in the night. I thought I was dead.”
“Her belly is no longer swollen,” Meyrick remarked. “Perhaps it really was just an All Hallow’s Eve ruse.”
“I’ll see to that myself,” Father Grimshaw grumbled.
He grabbed Orpheia by her wrist and yanked her up to her feet. Orpheia was still dripping wet with healing water, yet she had already been gifted a fresh bruise. The soaked gown remained glued to her body, hiding so little, she may have well have just remained in the nude. Had the demon dressed her? Had it prepared a bath for her to heal? And what of the blood? The black, hellish sludge? Where were the paladin’s bones, or had the demon devoured them too?
“You’re frantic, my pet,” King Meyrick mused. He took a far gentler approach as he held Orpheia by the chin. He chuckled as she stared back at him, wide-eyed and growing ill with fear. Though it was hardly the king she was so frightened of.
“I do not know what happened last night,” she repeated quietly. Had she really dreamt it all? Or was she already dead?
“Get her on the altar,” the priest said. “If her womanhood is still intact, then we will know for certain that this was all just a trick.”
Orpheia nearly fainted. Of course. That would prove it. Surely, no healing bath could repair the damage caused by such a violent extrusion. She was a doomed woman. King Meyrick had to carry her to the stone, for Orpheia was too weak to walk. The marble chilled her, and she cried out, pleading for the warmth of dry clothes.
“After,” King Meyrick answered. He threaded his fingers through her hair, which resembled half-melted snow when wet. “Open your legs and I will see to it that you are dried, clothed, and fed.”
“And should she be tainted,” the priest began as he rolled up his sleeves. “Then she will be warmed in cleansing flames.”
“Oh, hush,” the king scolded. “Look at the poor thing. Look how she trembles. This girl is far too frail to lie with a demon.”
Father Grimshaw flashed Orpheia a sharpened glare. “All I see is a guilty woman and perhaps a devil’s whore.”
“That’s enough out of you,” Meyrick snapped. “Inspect her flesh and be on your way. I grow tired of listening to you insult my bride.”
Father Grimshaw’s jaw clenched until a vein bulged from his forehead. He struggled against the urge to smite his king in prayer, and instead focused his anger onto Orpheia, who had grown tired of suffering in the cold. The priest rolled up her dampened dress until her innocence was fully displayed to both men. Even though she had already endured this humiliation, Orpheia’s cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. The priest let out a weary huff that tickled Orpheia’s insides. He took his time, pulling apart her flesh and running his cold, lifeless fingers around her entrance. Orpheia batted her lashes to keep from crying. She was nothing more than a slab of meat to those men.
At last, Father Grimshaw pulled away, unrolled his sleeves, then turned to his king and said, “She is still innocent. I suppose I ought to congratulate you, Your Highness, on your soon-to-be queen.”
Meyrick burst with merriment, no longer bothered with the thought of bruising Orpheia’s skin as he scooped her up in his arms and hoisted her into the air. Orpheia remained as still as a corpse, stuck staring back into the eyes of a man who did not see her as a living, breathing being, but as a prize to be won. And win her, he did. For they both knew that, so long as Orpheia wished for the Umbranian people to remain alive and well, she would have to kiss the very ground Meyrick walked on, if he so wished it.
“Baptized in the presence of Sol, no less!” King Meyrick exclaimed. He held Orpheia close, cradling her against his breast, then turned to the priest and said, “Orpheia Sélitzinnia is no longer.”
Father Grimshaw nodded. “This woman has been cleansed of her filthy, moonlit ways.”
“She is now Selina Domitus; for Sol has tamed her and rebirthed her anew,” Meyrick announced.
“Selina,” Orpheia whispered, struck with sudden horror.
How could she have forgotten after all those years...
Selina. Her mother’s name.
“Must I be Selina?” Orpheia asked.
Meyrick frowned. “Sol has deemed it thusly. You must not question his order, little phantom, or you will suffer his wrath all over again.”
Orpheia swallowed her refusal and nodded. Though privately, she swore she would never call herself by such a hallowed name. Selina was her mother and her mother alone. Sol had no power over Orpheia’s mind. Neither did Meyrick.
“We must prepare for departure,” Meyrick said, merry all over again. “I promised you dry clothes and a full belly, did I not? I always take care of my pets. Come, Selina. There is much to be done.”
Meyrick carried Orpheia out of the chapel himself, not wishing her to dare run away. He seemed to like the shape of Orpheia balled-up and trapped in his arms. Orpheia knew she ought to be humiliated and offended, but she quite liked not having to walk. Especially while her head was still reeling from all the confusion and dread. And though she hated to admit it, Meyrick’s warmth was a comfort against her wet, shivering skin.
Orpheia swallowed a hiss as they stepped into the morning sunlight. The chapel was much darker than she had realized. She clung closer to Meyrick’s breast and shielded her eyes in the thick fur of his wolf skin coat. As Orpheia’s eyes adjusted to the light, she noticed a peculiarity on the hillside above.
“Where is your army?” Orpheia asked, gazing at her surroundings over the king’s shoulder. There were few tents set up around them compared to the thousands of men who had escorted her the morning before.
Meyrick roused, arching a brow in confusion. “You thought they were going to wait here all night for you? They have other duties, don’t you know? But don’t fret, little phantom. We are still well protected from ambush.”
Father Grimshaw, who dragged his feet behind the two of them, clicked his tongue with disapproval. “I’d be more worried about having protection from your own bumbling men. Haven’t you heard about Bronte?”
Meyrick sighed drearily. “Yes, Father. I was made aware first thing this morning.”
“How that moronic general lost a creature as large as a night mare is beyond me. Next he’ll say he’s lost his head.”
“Probably drunk again. You know how the old fool is.”
“If he was not such a dear friend to your uncle, I would have suggested he be banished long ago.”
“We do not discard that which can still serve us and our hallowed Sol.” Meyrick winked at Orpheia, and her stomach clenched with heavy repulsion.
“But when this ordeal is said and done...” Father Grimshaw dangled off of the edge of his inquiry, not wishing to ask his true heart’s desire aloud.
Meyrick threw him a glance over his shoulder and nodded. “We will use him until he is no longer desired. That has always been the plan.”
All this talk of “ordeals” and “plans” left an odd knot inside of Orpheia’s stomach. She could smell a plot brewing on the horizon, but was unsure if such troubles required her knowledge. She did not wish to involve herself in anything more than she needed to, despite how ravenously her curiosity was gnawing away at her skull. Orpheia would be safer if she were forgotten. A distant breath in the corner of the room. A shadow looming behind the king. Inserting herself into conversations she had no part in was a dangerous game. After all, curiosity killed the cat, did it not?
“You will have to come to my quarters to be clothed. Your tent was not erected, as we had no use for it,” Meyrick said to Orpheia. He frowned at the sound of the priest’s disapproving huff.
“I hardly care where I am taken,” Orpheia sneered quietly. She picked at the lace gown against her skin as if it were rain-soaked spiderwebs. “I simply wish to be dry.”
“Yes, well, I can imagine that sleeping in the baptistery is not wonderful for one’s health. You truly have no idea what happened last night?”
Orpheia shook her head. “It is as I have told you. My body collapsed amidst my torment. I do not know if I was whipped in my sleep. Not even the black rosemary root sage could rouse me.”
Meyrick made a gruff, agitated noise. He glanced back at Father Grimshaw and said, “Inform General Bronte. We need to find this paladin at once. I wish to know why he dared abandon his post.”
Father Grimshaw nodded and quietly peeled away from his king. Orpheia found her chest expanding, not having realized that she had been holding her breath in the priest’s presence. That man had a horrible aura about him. Though he was physically weak in nearly every sense of the word, his mind was a cruel and sharp weapon. Orpheia knew she would have to be careful around him; though this did not mean she would need to bend at his feet and kiss the ground he walked. He was still a mortal man, after all. Though, judging by the magnitude of his royal tent, it seemed as though Meyrick’s own people forgot of his mortality.
There were many words that could be used to describe Meyrick’s tent. “Humble” was not one of them. His tent was larger than some of the homes that the old Umbranian witches would dwell in. It was crafted from tendrils of thick fabrics dyed rose red, forest green, and gold. Layers upon layers of this fabric draped the vaulted ceiling and fell down the walls in scallops and pleats. Vibrant mismatched carpeting scattered the ground, creating a soft cushion for Orpheia’s feet when Meyrick settled her off of his chest. She sucked in a breath of cinnamon and basil, which burned from the wicks of the many old candles, their stalks misshapen with licks of heavy wax droplets, that were strewn about the tent’s interior. The tent itself appeared to be stitched together from three others, creating an oddly shaped space. Firstly, there was the main area, which crowded around a bronze fire pit dug into the earth. It was furnished with stained glass lanterns hanging from the ceiling, thickly knitted cushions spread about the floor, and a large table decorated with fresh fruits, buttery soft breads, and candied meats. Then, the furthest alcove was Meyrick’s sleeping quarters, which housed a black and pillow-covered bed that was draped beneath a thin sheet of white silk for privacy. Its spread was still knotted up and tossed to the side, confirming Orpheia’s suspicions that Meyrick had only recently woken. The final room was where Meyrick led Orpheia. It was the smallest of the three spaces and seemed to house only luggage. Orpheia recognized one of the wolf skin coats draped across an embroidered chaise as being the same one Meyrick wore the night before. Beside it was Orpheia’s black leather gown, which had been cleaned in the night.
“We will have more dresses made for you in the coming days,” Meyrick said, following Orpheia’s gaze as it traced the stitching along her gown’s bodice. “Perhaps we will get your measurements before we arrive back in Terrsolis.”
Orpheia nodded, for her tongue was too tied up to speak. She found it quite difficult to stand, as her body was still exhausted. Her sleep had been deep, but not refreshing. She feared she would topple over if not for Meyrick’s hand maidens having to hold her upright as they scrambled to get her dried and dressed. The women seemed less than fond of their future queen, though they held their tongues in the presence of their king, for he was watching like a hawk. He studied the way Orpheia’s skin prickled when the drenched fabric was slipped off of her body. He focused on her uncomfortable expressions as the maids dragged moss-tufted cotton towels against her. He seemed entranced by her winces and whimpers when one of the maids would scrub her skin too hard. Orpheia did her best to act as if Meyrick wasn’t watching so intensely, yet there was only so much she could do to block out his curious breaths and the occasional scrape of his knuckle against her bare skin.
“I noticed that your skin was not bruised beneath the dress during our journey,” Meyrick remarked. He traced a line up Orpheia’s side as the maids worked to tie her gown’s corset. “Tell me, does leather protect you from bruising?”
Orpheia nodded. “I often wear leather outside of the manor, just for safety. So long as I am not being tossed about and beaten, I shouldn’t suffer such severe markings in the future.” She rubbed her wrist, which was purple and black from where Father Grimshaw had yanked her from the baptistery.
Meyrick noticed her bruise as she touched it, and frowned. Silently, he pulled a long black ribbon that had been set aside to adorn Orpheia’s head, and wrapped it around her wrist like gauze. Orpheia sat perfectly still, mesmerized by how gently Meyrick touched her. The man was a paradox, it seemed. Somewhere between beastly and gentle. But Orpheia wasn’t naïve enough to drop her guard around him. For all she knew, it was an act.
“I’ll have a plot of land tilled to grow the materials needed for your baths,” Meyrick promised. He tucked Orpheia’s hand inside of his palm, offering a light, reassuring squeeze. “You will bathe once a day; twice if necessary. I will ensure your bed is soft, and you are provided with proper leather to protect yourself outside your chambers. That is my oath to you, little phantom.”
“Your people will rebuke me,” Orpheia said sternly. She pulled her hand away and tucked it behind her back. Two maids exchanged humored glances, as if silently confirming Orpheia’s claim. “How do you know they won’t riot in the streets once they learn the news that they will have a spectre for a queen?”
Meyrick, much to Orpheia’s surprise, met her query with an amused grin. He leaned back on the chaise and kicked up his legs. His eyes gleamed with intrigue. “Why do you care? If my kingdom burns by its own hand, won’t the Umbrans celebrate?”
“Umbranians,” Orpheia snapped back. “And I wouldn’t care in the slightest if my people’s lives didn’t hang in the balance of this matrimony between us.”
“Hm...” Meyrick’s grin faded slightly, and he averted his gaze to drift off elsewhere. He commanded the silence between him and Orpheia, holding it firmly in the air while the maids finished cleaning Orpheia up. He watched from the corners of his eyes as her hair was woven into an intricate braid with fresh chamomile blossoms, shadowberry fruits, and black ribbons; kept out of her face and off of her back so that the strands wouldn’t dampen her clothes. The moment the maids were finished, he excused them silently with the wave of his hand, leaving the tent empty except for Orpheia. She stood awkwardly in the center of the space, cornered by Meyrick, who was still gazing elsewhere.
Beginning with a long, dreary sigh, he finally spoke again. “Should my people choose to rise up against me for my choice in bride, then I will make you a concubine, as Father Grimshaw suggested. So long as you service my cock when requested, your people will live.”
Orpheia shuddered at the thought. What a vile man! She was right to keep her guard up.
“Concubines are property of the court, are they not?” She asked. Her breath shortened to shallow gasps. “Does that not mean I would have to pleasure every man you deem worthy?”
Meyrick chuckled and flashed her a toothy smile. “Of course. But don’t worry about them. You have a pretty face and firm breasts. Those scoundrels couldn’t care less if you were a spectre or a goat. So long as your pussy is soft and tight, they’ll be satiated.”
“That is repulsive,” Orpheia snarled back. She inched further from Meyrick until her back collided against the wooden beam that helped keep his tent erect. “You Terrsolis men are just as perverted as I was told.”
“Oh, are we now?” Meyrick raised his brow and let out a weary sigh. “Because I could have sworn on Sol’s own name that you opened your loins to me just last night and spilled your nectar without needing penetration.”
Orpheia’s cheeks flushed a bright cherry red, inciting howling laughter from the king.
“You entranced me somehow,” she snapped.
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