Mistress of the Mortal Realm, Book One

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Mistress of the Mortal Realm, Book One by Paul Blades

Forty-two year old Lucia Borgia is in a hurry. She wants it all. Now! And the only way to get it all now is to perfect a deal with demonic forces. For years she has searched fruitlessly for the Golden Grimoire, the book of spells that, it is said, can make one the Master, or in this case, Mistress of the Mortal Realm. Nothing will get in her way to acquire it and, once she does, nothing will get in the way of her performance of the dangerous ceremony necessary to call up the demon who rules the book. Not even Penelope, her erstwhile lover, a virgin, of course. Not Zara, her pretty, innocent, Georgian guide. Not Maureen, her secretary, nor especially, bright and successful Amanda Shallcross, her boss, who stands in her way to the top. If it takes coupling with a demonic beast, or proffering others to demonic torment, then that’s what she will do. Let’s face it, being Mistress of the Mortal Realm and the eternal, youthful life that goes with it, is well worth the sacrifices that others might make.

A Paranormal story, with strong BDSM content including F/f, M/f, heavy discipline, punishment and bondage. For readers who enjoy extreme content.

Weight 0.99 lbs
Artist Credit

Cover Art nisimo – Shutterstock.com

Publish Date

8/26/2016

Page Count

276

Word Count

83650

Excerpt

Lucy watched the slowly closing, soft brown eyes of the comely, blond haired young woman sitting opposite. She was putting up a good fight. Within a minute, her pleasant, round face had gone from perky and vibrant to soft and slovenly. Her shoulders were curled now rather than held up straight as they had been when she sat down to tea. She seemed to be trying to say something, her plump, inviting lips moving as if in slow motion. Lucy smiled as the girl’s struggle to remain conscious gradually came to an end. Her face fell forward, landing softly on the plate which held the half eaten brownie that Lucy had served her.

“Poor Penelope,” Lucy thought. It really was a shame. She was such a nice girl. But the ceremony tonight called for the sacrifice of a virgin, and 19 year old Penelope, despite her relative maturity, fit the bill.

Lucy got up and stretched. She had a fine body for her 42 years. She had worked hard at it. She worked hard at everything. Climbing the corporate ladder, for instance. Now that had been hard. She had made it to Assistant Vice President of Acquisitions. It brought a very decent six figure salary. It brought prestige. It brought power. But, it was not enough. Lucy wanted it all. She wanted to be top banana. And she didn’t want to wait for it. She wanted it now.

Penny’s breathing had gotten very deep, signaling that she would be under for a long time, at least long enough for Lucy to get everything ready. She had met Penny about three months ago. It had taken her almost a year of trolling college age gay bars and parties to find her. Picking up a 19 year old was not an easy thing to do when you’re in your 40’s. And to find one who was a virgin, who had known right at the outset that she was not into boys, was harder still.

All of the other young girls Lucy had managed to entice into her bed had tasted cock, if you’ll pardon the expression, at least once before swearing off of them. And you couldn’t go right up to prospective targets and ask them if they were virgins. It was the kind of thing they would tell you only after you had them naked and were cuddling with them in bed, or you finally got your hand in their quim and were able to detect the tell tale barrier that proclaimed them as virgo intacto.

The benefit, of course, was that Lucy had gained access to all those fresh, young bodies. She had found jobs for some of them in her Division. They liked to ‘hook up’ from time to time in exchange for the great sex, free booze and cocaine and the occasional presents, cash or otherwise that Lucy offered them. And Lucy was sure that if they couldn’t serve the same role that Penny was going to serve tonight, there was certainly some way they would be of use to her in the future if everything went as planned.

It was a little after 9 p.m. Much of the preliminary work had already been accomplished. Preparing the potions had taken well over a year. A dogwood flower picked under a full moon, crushed and left to soak in a mixture of flax oil and storm water. The blood of a goat sacrificed at midnight. The various roots and plants that had to be gathered. The candles were made from the wax of a broken bee’s hive. Soil from a freshly dug grave of a hanged man. That one had been difficult. She had scoured the newspapers every day until she learned by pure happenstance of a man who, ironically, lived right down the street from her. He had hanged himself in his basement after being indicted for embezzlement.

And there were many more. The ritual was precisely laid out and demanding. Each item had to be collected or manufactured by her personally. She had searched for the grimoire that was her guide to tonight’s ceremony for many years. There had been trips to Germany and Italy, England and Romania, among other places. She had followed through with every clue, pursued every legend. She had studied Latin for two years so that she could read it when she found it, learned all she could about ancient paper and ink so that she could be sure of its provenance.

The Golden Grimoire. Legend had it that it was copied in the 3rd Century from an ancient, withered Semitic text by a monk in a Coptic monastery deep in the mountains of the Sinai. It was mentioned in several medieval chronicles. There was a rumor that it had been burned with a witch at the stake in Cologne in 1255, but it had surfaced again in Paris in the early 1400’s. Alleged copies of it circulated throughout Europe during the 16th and 17th centuries, but Lucy had suspected that they were all frauds. A Belgian traveler wrote of purchasing it in 1875 in Bulgaria, only to have it stolen from his trunk somewhere on the Orient Express between Sofia and Paris.

A year ago she had finally found it. She had been following up a lead she had gotten in a small, run down, East London antiquities shop. She made immediate plans to go there.

It was a dingy little shop that Lucy had never heard of, and she had thought she had exhausted the antiquity shops of London long ago. It sold ancient manuscripts, tired, old antique furnishings, an assortment of tarnished trinkets and amulets. Lucy had learned of it from a fellow self proclaimed Satanist online in a casual conversation about love potions and longevity spells. Of course, the fool had no idea what Lucy was after. If she had given even an inkling of the nature of her pursuit, a horde of fellow travelers would have been constantly on her trail.

It was a dark, rainy Saturday afternoon that she came into the shop. The proprietor, an old, misshapen, gray haired man, was behind the counter wrapping up an amulet for a pair of giggling teenage girls. He was dressed in a shabby, dark brown, wrinkled suit and matching tie. His hair was white and was wrapped around the large bald spot on top of his head. It was frayed and wispy as if it had been cut by a worn pair of scissors. His nose was bulbous and reddened from drink and his face had wide, deep, weather beaten gullies.

“Ya sure e’ll go ‘eads over ‘eels when ‘e gets a gander a’ it?” the dark haired, well bosomed girl asked. She had several safety pins and other steel impedimenta distributed about her face, a tall Mohawk haircut held up with gobs of goo and was wearing tight black pants and a bright green halter top. The girl with her was thinner, with long, dirty blond hair. She was wearing a bright orange tube top that encapsulated her bulging breasts and a pair of denim short shorts, torn at the edge of her buttocks. It ran so tight that her rear cheeks were blossoming out. Both girls were loudly chewing gum.

“Guaranteed,” the man said in a tinny, yet refined voice. “He’ll be like putty in your hands.”

The girls giggled again and handed over a wad of cash.

“Iffin it don’t work,” the dark haired girl said threateningly, “me and me mates will be back ‘ere to see ya.”

“Don’t worry about that,” the old man repeated. “The question is what will you do with him once you’ve got him. Charms like this shouldn’t be taken lightly, you know.”

The girls giggled again. “I’m sure I know what I’ll do wit ‘im,” the dark one replied.

The proprietor handed her the package and smiled at her. The girls turned to leave, casting disdainful glances at Lucy in her well tailored business suit. They ran out.

The man looked at Lucy. “And what can I be doing for you, miss,” he said cheerfully.

Lucy knew that she had to delve into her search carefully. She had to be sure that she wasn’t giving away more information than she was getting. “I’m a collector of old texts,” Lucy told him. “Texts dealing with mystical subjects, if you know what I mean.”

“Of course, of course,” the old man said merrily. “Come with me.”

He led Lucy to the back of his shop. “These young girls today are not like girls back in my day,” he said as they walked back between the aisles crowded with dusty furniture and shelves filled with tattered, faded tomes.

“You better hope that the boy in question performs as advertised,” Lucy commented as she followed him. “They looked like they run with a rough crowd.”

“Oh, she’ll be back all right,” the old man replied. He turned and grinned at Lucy. “But not because the amulet will fail of its purpose. In about a month she’ll be back here asking me how to reverse its effects. The remedy, however, will be a bit more expensive and will require payments of a more personal nature.” His face leered. Lucy shivered.

“Here we are,” the man said. They had come to a tall cabinet of books locked away behind glass. The light was dim, but Lucy was able to scan the titles quickly. The books all had thick leather covers, abraded by time. Most of the writing was in Latin, but some of it was in French and German. A couple of the books had titles written in what seemed like Arabic. Some of the titles were so worn they couldn’t be read.

“See anything of interest?” the man asked.

“You mind if I browse through them a bit?” Lucy asked.

“Not at all,” the man answered. “Take your time. I’ve got all day.”

He pulled a small, golden key from his pocket. It was hooked to a chain that led to a loop in his pants. Wheezing, he leaned over and opened the glass door.

“I’ll be up front if you need me,” he said.

Lucy skimmed through a few of the books. A couple she recognized as out and out forgeries right off the bat. The rest seemed authentic enough, but nothing that was particularly new to her. She knew the Arabic volumes well. They were the diaries of Al Hazirin, an 8th century Persian. She had read a Latin translation of them. There were some good enchantments in them, mostly designed for ethereal flight and the gaining of wisdom. There were a couple of good curses in them too, one or two of which Lucy had used to good effect. The Golden Grimoire was mentioned once or twice, but no specific details were included other than vague, mordant warnings about its use.

The other volumes she was familiar with as well. One was a copy of the journal of a 15th century nun who had later been ordered buried alive for witchcraft by the abbess of her convent. Lucy had heard of it, but never read it. It was a rather thin volume in dark brown leather. It was printed in Latin script. The paper seemed old enough but would need to be tested to ensure its authenticity. The ink was a good giveaway too. Even the thread which bound the pages together could be tested and analyzed for its age.

She wondered idly what the old man would want for it. From what she could recall, it was the tale of the nun’s rather lascivious sessions with a demon she had conjured and a recitation of the spells necessary to reproduce her accomplishment. It was rather racy stuff, but far beneath Lucy’s lofty goals.

She had half decided to ask the old man his price for it when a slim notebook slipped out of the back. It fell to the floor at Lucy’s feet. She looked to see if the old man had spotted it, but he was busy with a customer at the front of the store. She leaned over and picked it up. What she read startled her. The writing was a man’s frantic scrawl. It was a diary belonging to a man named Stewart Ripley. The first entry was dated 7 October 1956. It seemed to be continued from another volume:

 

“Darby was of no use. His information led me to another dead end. I returned from the Pyrenees yesterday. The volume he spoke of was a compete fraud. The old man in the village who owned it sold it to me for 500 pesetas. But it was worthless. There was only one mention of the Golden Grimoire. It gave no dates and there were no clues to its whereabouts to be followed. It’s been seven years now and I’ve searched it seems to the ends of the earth and I feel I am no closer now to finding it than when I started. I won’t give up, though. I know that I’ll find it. All that I’ve done, all the travels I’ve made, the money I’ve spent, nearly my entire fortune, will all be worth it when it’s found. Who can put a price on eternal life and mastery of the earthly realm?”

 

A thrill went through Lucy’s body. Ripley was clearly another pilgrim in search of the book. She skimmed through the thin pages. Near the end, she found an entry dated 5 April, 1961:

 

“I’ve found it! At last! After all these years! The Golden Grimoire! I can’t believe it! Tomorrow I will begin the effort to retrieve it. The trip will be hazardous. An old man, a refugee from Georgia in the Soviet Union, told me all about it. He saw it, not knowing what it was, but he described it perfectly right down to the inscription on its cover. It belongs to an old woman in his village, Zestura, outside the town of Mestia, deep in the Caucasus Mountains. Somehow I’ll convince the regime to let me in the country. The woman is a gypsy who goes by the name of Ulana.”

 

The next, and last, entry, for July 22, 1961, was as follows:

 

“I’ve done it. The Soviet Embassy has issued me a visa to enter Georgia and travel through the Caucasus region. I applied under the guise of a collector of folk songs. I’m to be given an official Soviet guide, but I’m sure with the persuasion of a few rubles I’ll be able to convince him to let me go to Zestura. The Golden Grimoire! Within a week or so, it will be mine!”

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