A Devil's Bride
Chapter 9: Costumes
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 9: Costumes - 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
Meyrick held a firm yet gentle grip on Orpheia’s hand as he guided her through the winding corridors of the palace. Servants scrambled to fall to the ground and bow their heads in respect, yet failed to show the same respect when Meyrick’s back was turned. Gossip skittered throughout the shadows of the hallowed halls, following Orpheia everywhere. Why would such a revered king want to wed someone who was already so hated by all of his subjects? Orpheia couldn’t make sense of the paradox. Was he simply marrying her only for the attention that it would get him? Or was there something more? Something ... darker.
Orpheia had been told of such concepts back when she was younger. She heard stories of men with peculiar appetites in the bedsheets. These hungers were often wild and untamed. Orpheia had encountered a man or two with such desires after she became a spectre. Those who saw her hairless body as something to be worshiped. Those who wanted to cause her enough pain so that they could stain their lips with her inky tears. Then there was the man in the bushes. A vile insect crawling through the dirt of her manor’s garden, as naked as the day he was born, enjoying himself as he watched Orpheia dance for Lu’a. Orpheia shuddered, for if he hadn’t had such shallow, gnarled breaths, she might not have ever discovered his beady yellow eyes watching her through the leaves.
“I was hoping I might get the chance to introduce you to them before the wedding,” Meyrick said, breaking the thick silence between them.
“Introduce me to whom?” Orpheia asked.
Meyrick ignored her. “That was why I chose this outfit for you. Do you not recognize the silver?”
Orpheia looked down at her collection of chunky wrist and ankle bangles. “The jewelry? I know it came from my people. But it is rarely worn for social gatherings. And it’s far from high society’s fashion tastes.”
The pieces were beautiful, but just like everything Umbranian-born in that palace, they held a severe history to them. Silver mined by slaves’ hands. Runes carved by sweat-slicked artists. She faintly recognized some of their patterns from her grimoires, but she couldn’t seem to remember what they meant.
“Not for social gatherings?” Meyrick asked. The pitch of his tone led Orpheia to wonder if he was feigning his curiosity or if he was being sarcastic.
“Do you know what these are for?” Orpheia asked, jangling the cuffs on her feet as she stepped. The question was, in part, quite genuine.
Meyrick suddenly came to a slow stop, pausing in front of the only servant who had yet to bow to him. The man was dressed in a black velvet suit with the royal crest—an effigy of the sun snuffing out the moon—pinned to his collar. He had a scarred face, one that had certainly seen a battle or two, and appeared nearly blind thanks to talon-like scratches running from his forehead to his chin. Orpheia frowned, for she had heard rumors of the Terrsolis royals enslaving their own soldiers after they had been deemed too wounded to fight, but to see it in person was abhorrent. These men should be honored by their people, not forced to serve those who sent them out to die. Umbranian soldiers who became wounded in battle were allowed to retire in peace. They were uplifted, not shuttered away.
Without a word, the man led Meyrick and Orpheia through a doorway disguised as a panel in the wooden wall. Past the opening was a tight corridor, draped in leather curtains, with crooked black-and-white striped flooring, and lit only with lanterns covered in dark blue globes. The lanterns appeared as black steel hands grabbing onto the glass spheres. Their strong metal fingers were nearly clenched into fists, as if the tiniest of movements would shatter the globes into dust. Orpheia squeezed Meyrick’s hand tighter as he led her deeper down the path. When the entrance closed behind them, there was nowhere for her to run. The air felt thin. Each step echoed endlessly up and down the claustrophobic walls. Orpheia had to remain behind Meyrick, as there wasn’t nearly enough space for her to stand beside him.
“Where are you taking me?” Orpheia whispered. There was an aura about the hallway that cinched her voice shut. As if a spirit was looming overhead, snuffing out her will to scream.
Meyrick didn’t answer. For there was only one other doorway in the hall; an opposite exit awaiting them at the deep, dark end. Through it, Orpheia found herself in a room so striking to her home’s parlor that she ripped herself free of Meyrick’s grip and held her face in her palms to conceal her unease.
The room was small, but it had the same blackstone floors that were in her home, the same midnight blue brocade wallpaper, and the same black obsidian trimmings decorating the ceiling and corners. Hell, even the spiders wove their webs with the same intensity for detail that Orpheia wouldn’t have been surprised if the Solians had stolen them, too.
“You people have nothing to yourselves?” Orpheia muttered into her palms.
Meyrick let out a long huff. He settled his bride onto a sofa draped in black velour and covered in animal fur blankets while he disappeared behind a lace partition. When Orpheia peeked through her fingers, she could still make out his silhouette clearly on the other side. Her face blushed as she watched two female servants appear behind the veil of ashen grey lace to help him change out of his clothes.
“You should be honored,” Meyrick said boastfully. “Your people have quite a knack for the arts. It’s a compliment that I have found your culture so alluring.”
“Then why are you trying to stomp us out?” Orpheia barked back. She scrambled to her feet in a fit of mighty rage, but her womb’s pain got the better of her and she tumbled right back down onto the cushions.
Meyrick paused. His head turned toward Orpheia as though he had seen her collapse. “I don’t want the Umbranians dead, little phantom. If your people would only convert their dark ways and worship the bringer of warmth and life abundant then I wouldn’t have to call upon my men to slaughter you.”
“You’re a wicked man,” Orpheia groaned. “To think that I ever indulged your sickness. Is that why you pined for me? Am I just another piece of Umbranian culture for you to put on your shelf?”
Meyrick’s shadow shrugged half-heartedly. Orpheia glanced away as the two servants began pulling off his trousers.
“You’re more than that,” he replied. Though his tone was fully earnest, Orpheia couldn’t bring herself to believe him. “But yes. Part of my initial attraction to you was thanks to your Umbranian blood. And of course, you being a spectre.”
“I’m not immortal,” Orpheia growled. “We will not have an immortal son if that is what you are so desperate for.”
“I am aware of that. I don’t want an immortal son. I simply want one that will lead a long legacy. Perhaps one long enough that he’ll be present for the day Sol envelops this world in flame and scorches the earth anew.”
“Why do you willingly worship a being that wants you dead?”
“I mentioned that I had grown tired of this game, did I not?” Meyrick asked with a sigh.
“This isn’t a game! This is my life! The lives of my people! And here you are, flaunting yourself around this palace like a ... a...” Orpheia trailed off as she laid eyes on Meyrick once more. He had stepped out from behind the partition, wearing new clothes and a cocky smirk. He appeared one with his environment, donning an actual Umbranian costume. But his influences were all wrong.
Meyrick wore a heavy black leather coat draped over his shoulders like the politicians from the north, yet his loose black tunic and into high-waisted corseted pants were not only both from the south, but they were from all different centuries. His cravat was velvet; it should have been silk. And his pants were made of pinstriped cotton, when the style was usually sewn using leather. His boots had pointed toes, which matched his coat but not his tunic, and were dressed in brass buttons that contrasted the silver ones on his belt. Orpheia groaned again.
“Is this not to your liking?” Meyrick asked with a chuckle. He spun slowly, giving Orpheia a clearer image. One of the servant girls presented him with a silver plate that held a pair of leather gloves. He tightened them around his fingers, forming a fist. “Get her up,” Meyrick said to the maids. “But be so very gentle. I need her to be unwounded.”
“For what?” Orpheia asked. She jerked away from the maids before they could lay a hand on her. One of them was Jeth, who sneered when Orpheia dodged her. “Why are you wearing that ridiculous getup? What is all this theatricality for?”
Meyrick’s darkened chuckle sent a shiver up Orpheia’s spine. “Ridiculous? These are some of my finest pieces.”
“You look like an uneducated fool. You clearly know nothing about my people’s fashion.”
“Every culture has its rules, I suppose,” Meyrick said with a shrug. He fished a silver walking cane with a demon-headed handle from behind the partition. Twirling it like a baton between his fingers, he gazed upon Orpheia as she cowered against the locked door. He lost his grin. “Perhaps you ought to learn some rules of mine, Selina. For you are much too dressed for this sort of gatherings. I find that quite offensive.”
“Too dressed?” Orpheia repeated, furrowing her brow.
Meyrick ignored her. “I think you ought to lose your dress entirely. It is very inappropriate, you know.”
“What are you talking about?”
Orpheia tried backing further away, but her only options for exits were the locked hallway door behind her and a narrow staircase that lined the wall behind Meyrick. He propped his hips against its iron railing, as if waiting for Orpheia to try to make a break for freedom.
“You asked me what you could do to protect your people, and this is it. You said you would do anything, did you not?”
“Well ... I—”
“Now, be a good little phantom and lose your dress. Leave the jewelry. I hand-picked them for a reason.”
Orpheia glanced between the maids. Jeth was grinning from ear-to-ear, while the younger of them stared in posed silence. She stood ready to attack, should her master give the order.
“Am I to be your plaything for the night?” Orpheia asked timidly. She felt small. Like a mouse pushed up against a corner, walled-in by rabid wolves.
“My dear, you are to be my plaything for the rest of your life. That was the agreement.”
“You are a vile man,” Orpheia growled through gritted teeth.
Meyrick remained composed, but his eye twitched with annoyance. He took a single stride forward, closing the gap between him and Orpheia within the blink of an eye. Before she could dodge, he snatched her by a fistful of her braided hair and held on tight. Orpheia wriggled in his grip, petrified by the creature that faced her—an eldritch horror wearing the skin of her loved ones.
“If you do not wish to obey, then I am happy to have Father Grimshaw return you to your home. Though I don’t suppose your darling daddy could handle the shock of just how loudly your screams would penetrate the house’s walls. I’d have the fire burn so hot that it would melt your very bones. Do you understand me?”
Orpheia stiffened. The phantom smell of burned flesh and charcoal filled her nose and stung her eyes. Her jaw locked shut, refusing to open out of fear that Orpheia’s disobedient lips might send her to the same fiery grave as her mother. Instead, with her eyes narrowed into furious slits, Orpheia began untying her gown slowly until all that remained were the thick, decorative silver cuffs. They jangled with every little movement, filling the heavy silence of the room.
Meyrick made a breathy sound from parted lips, grinning as he gawked at his bride’s body. “Good girl,” he whispered, running a hand down the side of her face. Orpheia shriveled away from his touch with a scowl.
“Is this what you wanted?” Orpheia snapped. “To see me suffer?”
“You aren’t suffering yet,” he whispered back. His voice was so soft that it tickled the inside of Orpheia’s ears. She shuddered, which only made him hungrier. He pressed his lips against her temples and groaned at the taste of her skin. “There is one last touch...”
Meyrick reached into his coat’s pocket and pulled out a long silver chain. Identical clamps, like miniature vices, were hooked onto either end, decorated with moonstones. Orpheia felt her body sway with uncertainty as Meyrick teased the metal against her cheek. It was freezing. He moaned softly as he dragged one of the clamps down Orpheia’s sternum, erupting her skin with goosebumps.
“I can’t wait to make you mine,” he whispered. He flicked one of Orpheia’s bare nipples, sending her stumbling back with uncertainty. She covered her breasts with her hands.
“What are you doing?” Orpheia asked. She took another hesitant step back, but Meyrick tightened his grip on her hair and yanked her into his arms. He released her onto the sofa, where Orpheia’s calves hit its edge and sent her tumbling into the cushions. Meyrick loomed overhead, pinning Orpheia down.
“It will sting,” Meyrick warned excitedly. “But it helps that your nipples are so firm and hard. Does this mean you’re already aroused, little phantom?”
“Hardly!” Orpheia gasped. She tried crawling away, but Meyrick lowered his hips onto her lap. He pressed just enough weight to keep her locked as he dangled the clamps over her chest.
“If you do not move your hands,” Meyrick began, “then I will have the maids hold you down.”
Reluctantly, Orpheia lowered her hands to her sides. She had to fight the urge to use them to slap that stupid grin off of Meyrick’s face as he drew nearer. Once more, he hummed those same wretched words to her.
“Good girl.”
“Is this all I am to you? A pet? A toy?”
Meyrick waited to answer until the first clamp fell shut on top of Orpheia’s right nipple. The metal teeth snapped like a viper, shooting its erotic venom through Orpheia’s veins. Her head jerked back, and she opened her mouth to scream, but all that came out was a velvety moan. The pain was strange to her, yet a sick voice in her mind begged for more.
“Do you like it when I play with your nipples?” Meyrick asked with a snicker.
Orpheia chewed on her lip and fluttered her eyes shut in shame. What was happening to her? Why was her body experiencing so much pleasure? This was unnatural for any woman, spectre or not. It had to be. Right?
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