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The Blood Princess

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The Blood Princess by Willow Sears

If her Viking family are to escape annihilation, Sassa must venture through ice-wastes haunted by ravening tribesmen and blood-famished revenants, just to fulfil her arranged marriage to the depraved prince they call The Werewolf. And she must arrive chaste. But the sleep demons are out there, armed with all their powers to lure and seduce.

Legend knows these demons feed off your soul. They need to get close enough to take it. They need you lustful and raging with the need to give it. They come in irresistible form, male or female. They come in your dreams, where all your most private thoughts hide. They can see even your darkest desires; draw them out; make them come true. There never can be any escaping them.

Sassa may not want to escape them. She yearns for warrior-life: the fighting, the feasting, and the carnal pleasures she’s denied being a princess who must remain pure if she is to be married off profitably. Now she is off the leash. Miss these delights in this life and she’s condemned to miss them in the afterlife also; a thought too devastating to bear. Yet not staying pure and true to her family will surely see them perish—and family means everything. Even if she decides to, how can she fight off the seductions and ravishments?

The warrior Aleks arrives as an unlikely ally. He needs her alive and free from the clutches of sleep demons. He wants her, it’s obvious, but his faith must see him resist. He might be the answer to everything, if only he can be charmed. Then Sassa learns he shares one of her deepest yearnings: to see her over his knee and her bare behind roasted by his open palm. This is her chance to conquer him. Only one trouble remains: is he after her heart, her body, or her blood?

The Blood Princess is a rip-roaring historical fantasy with themes of general erotica, BDSM, spanking and voyeurism. It is bound to enthral any wicked heart.

Weight .99 lbs
Artist Credit

Cover Art Image © Evgeniya Litovchenko – Shutterstock.com

Page Count

240

Publish Date

04/01/2022

Word Count

81147

Excerpt

Blood Princess Excerpt

 

 

My anticipation won’t be quelled. My belly dances with it, almost to the point of agitation. The fingers slipped from me earlier have left me near mad to be plundered again. The smell of her excitement smeared on my lips and filling my nostrils has my mind whirling with carnal thoughts, as dark as any of those on my most desperate nights, so I have no doubting the spell it will cast over him.

“Lead him up through the fires to the seat,” Zlata instructs me. “I will fetch the ties for your wrists.”

“I cannot do this,” he says, worry in his unpatched eye. “You don’t know what it means to force me!”

“There is no one that can blame you,” I tell him. “Your conscience is clear. You have a sworn oath to obey, and you have your sister’s life to consider.”

“You know in doing this,” he says, “you are condemning my soul to the fire?”

I take his hand anyway, and pull him on. He will see soon enough. I lead him up towards the sacred seat, through the line of fires. She must sprinkle some strange substance upon them, for they burn way hotter than their size; already my skin prickles with a need to see me shed my clothes.

“Even your god would acknowledge,” I say, turning towards him, my hands going to his broad shoulders, “that I deserve to know some love before my life is taken from me.”

“It is still a sin,” he says. “It is still unpardonable.”

“It is nothing of the sort,” I say louder now, for any eavesdroppers on high to overhear. “I have given you henbane in your stew to have your passion running roughshod. There is nothing you can do about it. Your lust is falsely stirred and not of your control. You are absolved of any sin.”

He looks at me quizzically. He cannot feel any desire that isn’t his own because the henbane only went into my blood, not that he knows this. He does know, however, that I have just given him the excuse he needs. His spiteful god might prefer to see a sister sacrificed before a loving brother commits any sin of the flesh, but I have just absolved him of having to make this choice. I have made him guiltless.

Zlata is back, clutching the bundle of ties in one hand and, oddly, what looks like a flat wooden butter pat in the other. My surface tingles with the realization of what she intends this for.

“Strip her,” she commands. “Then strip yourself.”

She seems excited to steer our coupling. As a princess and with my virginity prized so high, I was always destined to have my first fuck in front of witnesses. It seems I am not going to be able to escape that, even out here.

“Please,” Aleks says to me, his one eye beseeching. I merely reach up and slip the patch from the other eye. Tonight, I want all of him, not a half always distractedly ready for a fight. If we are attacked and killed whilst we make love, so be it. I won’t even break our kiss. Unmasking him is like revealing the true person, and it is softer somehow. He is disarmingly handsome, I cannot deny. I don’t know why I fought this notion for so long.

“Fires cause sweat,” I remind him with a smile. “Sweat freezes into clothes when the fires go out, and frozen clothes mean quick death. Someone dear to me taught me that. Would you wish me a quick death?”

“I would not,” he says, defeated.

“It has to be you,” I whisper. “It is not just my body’s craving, but my heart’s also. I would have made a shirt for you if I had the wool.”

He probably won’t know what I mean by this, nor as a warrior would he be able to profess any such feelings in return. So I just reach up and kiss him, feel the cool of his prickle lips and the heat of his mouth.

I don’t let him catch his breath or close his defenses against me. My tongue invades him like it did with the demon. I’ll draw out his hunger. I’ll show him I can be a virgin but a temptress still! I breathe in Zlata’s rude scent smeared upon me, so enticing. With his keen sense of smell, it must excite him a hundred-fold more. My hand is on his chest and I can feel the thump beneath it. Then, suddenly, desire has him fully ensnared. His arms embrace me and he kisses me in return, and my heart might just burst at the joy of his surrender.

He slips the cloak from my shoulders and I do the same for him. The fires are heating us too swiftly now for it not to be an urgent need. Passion and necessity see me quickly stripped of my tunic and leggings. I pull at his until he takes over and casts them aside. He cannot help but feast his eyes upon my nakedness. His face shows almost reverence rather than lust—he needs to stop that or his god will know it isn’t the henbane that has taken him over!

I draw him in again and this time I can feel him hard against me. I drag his underwear down to have him spring free. I want him to bare me too, but he clings on to his resistance, stubborn fighter that he is. However, in the case of my underwear, losing it is a victory and no defeat. I happily strip myself of my last defenses and bring him closer to me in triumph. The press of him against me is so thrillingly warm and rigid; the throb of his rude pulse against my own. It is perhaps the most perfect embodiment of desire for one another that I could imagine.

“Take hold of her rump in both hands,” Zlata instructs him. “Feel how soft she is there!”

He does as she says, grasping and pulling me closer still. He is perhaps glad of the command, the extra proof that he is doing this under sufferance, not out of choice. I had wanted to show this man of the world how unvirginal I was by nature. However, as when with the sleep demon, I cannot be anything but secretly glad of this guidance to mask my true inexperience.

There can be no denying that he adores my backside. Skinny arses abound in these parts. Few maids other than a princess have the wealth to afford enough food to put any meat on their bones, and he cannot help but delight in my luxury. His kisses grow instantly hungrier as my softness yields in his grasp. His breath comes hard from his nostrils, bringing to mind a wild animal, his hands gripping and kneading the flesh filling them. It is like he needs to possess me.

“She has a lusty rump, does she not?” says Zlata gleefully. “One that she needs you to tame. Here—take this.”

I can feel her prizing his hand from me and I know what she is thrusting into it. I know what she has planned. For now, I just want more of his kisses. They are every bit as exciting as the demon’s. The intimacy is just so beguiling and yet none of the girls ever talk of this when they giggle their lewd morning-after conversations. Do their men think kissing too effeminate to indulge in?

“Draw back your hand,” Zlata tells him, “and deliver a sharp blow to that sinful bottom of hers. Make it sting!”

His lips slide off mine, wet my cheek. His breath comes hot and hard.

“Please no,” he breathes, barely more than a whisper. “Stop this before it is too late.”

“Do it,” I whisper back, then find his lips again and force my tongue between them to show my rampaging passion.

There are moments of impatient yearning before the flat face of the butter pat strikes my behind, the slap of it ringing through the near-silence of this magical night. My gasp is lost in his mouth. My knees sag.  The force was hard enough for me to know that he wanted to do it—spite and desire wrapped in one. There is a sting and then a burn, right through the flesh of my punished cheek. Then the smart spreads across it, hot turning to cold. It is shocking, perturbing, maddening even, but it is still somehow wonderful. The thrill went straight to my cunt.

“Again,” she says. “Swap hands. Do the other side. Keep swapping hands.”

This time the wait is less. He strikes even harder and I squeal, but still do not break our kiss. This close intimacy shows him he is not the master here. We are equal partners in the pleasure gained. He can feel how the growing heat and wet of my mouth reflects what is happening in me below. I can feel how his prick pulses fit to burst against me as the slaps ring out, one after another. I am the temptation his devout heart cannot resist. I am all his weaknesses.

The beast in him devours his pious armor from within. The craving has fully taken hold. His free hand grips with a ferocity that will bruise, the fingers slipping between the cheeks in his need to gather in more of me. For one minute I think they will invade me from the rear. I would push out to take them, I know it. I thrust a stocking-covered finger up my rudest hole once—wicked bitch that I am—and I was only half as mad with passion as I am now!

The tips of my breasts are enflamed, burning more than I have ever known—even that wild night I passed nettle leaves across them. I push them hard to his chest to gain them succor for their ache, and to protect them. Bare and tempting as they are, they would be too sensitive for the attentions of his mouth. It must be the henbane taking effect. If the bud atop my cunny goes the same way, the scintillation of a touch there might kill me.

Still the slaps come, because he is powerless to stop now. Each next one further betrays his growing anguish that I have dismantled his resistance and left him so helplessly lustful. Each one further stokes the fire of my body’s longing. A dozen have landed and I can no longer concentrate on the kisses. My tongue withdraws defeated. I catch his lower lip as mine slide away, my teeth pressing and dragging at the soft flesh, maybe drawing blood, definitely drawing a grunt of objection and perhaps ire from him. I’ll make him see that pain can be the definition of true yearning for another! What is love if not an agony of need?

I am looking straight into his eyes now—such intensity in their blue brilliance: desire, purpose, hatred even. The sting in my behind never lessens. The sear all through the flesh just grows and begins to swamp my senses, almost has me swooning. I want to take more, but I drop to my knees and find the heat of his cock now pressed to my face. If I can just gather my wits, I could seize immediate control and sink my mouth onto it, have him enslaved as I did my mara. Zlata seems to realize this and grabs the stiff pole before I can claim it.

“No, no, my pretty,” she says, “for he will spend in your mouth even though the bargain was struck with your cunt! Suck upon his balls instead.”

I obey, although I suspect this act is something only a slave would do. Perhaps that is the point: no Christian wife would ever dream of giving him this treat. But I would. I will. My teeth graze the delicate skin. My tongue bears the weight, feels the rise of need in his balls. My hot mouth engulfs them both, filled by them. My teeth add pressure and I feel the tingle-sweep thrill of my power over him. Above I see her hand as it teases gentle strokes up and down his rigid length. I wanted to ensnare him alone, but I cannot deny that if he had any defenses left against this seduction, they will surely be blown away now.

Zlata seems to know when to steal away one’s pleasure to have the lust rage harder. She proved that on me earlier with her fingers. Now she grips my hair and pulls me off him, the strands of spit stretching lewdly from my lips to his balls and then breaking to stick to my chin and neck and my bare chest. It makes me feel as feral as my mad-bitch step mother. I love it, I cannot deny. So I let the völva guide me into her sacred seat, my still-searing arse pressed to the cool wood. My arms come up almost by instinct to grip the horns along the back rest. I can feel her busy with the cloth ties there, binding my wrists so I cannot escape. As if I would!

“Open her up ready,” Zlata commands him. “Put her thighs behind the horns.”

I am glad she makes him do this rather than taking over herself. It feels right that he should make this last preparation for my ravishment. I like that he is laying me open and I can do nothing to stop him. I like the tenderness of his grip, making sure I am not bruised; his care not to hurt me whatever the need rampaging through his prick. His greedy eyes drink me in, and I feel no shame. I just burn hot with desire, the witch’s powder putting lava into my veins, making my blood itch. I know he is as powerless to stop this as I am. This, praise Freyja, is it—my moment at last.

Zlata’s fingertips glide down my belly and beyond, making the muscles beneath ripple. They stop at my open slit, splaying me wider still. I can feel the excitement seeping warm from inside.

“If ever her cunt is not as ready for you as now,” she tells Aleks, “you need only spank it. This I can tell without consulting the spirits. Now, you are to put that great cock of yours inside her. Do it in one thrust. Make no allowances for her virginity: she will love you more for any pain, and remember it all her days. Bury your cock as you would bury a lance into a bear. Do it now!”

And he does. He has to pull down hard against the blood-resistance of his stiff shaft to bring the crown of it to those vulgar lips of mine, all swollen in their greed. I can see my excitement coating him, glistening there. Zlata makes sure I stay spread as he braces himself in readiness, grasping the horns and at my wrists tied there. It is coming, and all I can do is pray the gods let me keep my eyes on his when it does.

Praise them, they hear me! He fills me in one long lunge, but thankfully it is more measured than the brutal thrust Zlata demanded. I am too wet to stop him but not wet enough for it to dull any of the exquisite sensation—like a delicious fire inside. I am stretched almost to the point of panic, but even that only heightens my thrill. I always suspected, although I could never admit it, that deep down I was every bit as dark-minded as my twisted fuck of a half-brother, Torben.

Aleks, sunk to his balls, holds still to let my clenches upon him abate some. I even breathe my thanks for this merciful respite. When his hips begin their slow in-out rhythm, sliding his stiff meat root-deep within me each time, the rapture is almost overcoming, bursting through me and clouding my mind. But still my wonderful, benevolent gods hear my prayer and let me keep my eyes open and fixed upon his. Never does the intensity I see there diminish: that raw, undisguised need for me.

He leans in to kiss my forehead and eyes, to bite my cheeks and lips and neck. His press is not too hard. I would gladly let him eat me, feed on my lifeblood. I wish I could grab his hair and hold him in, tempt him to feast. It is all fast becoming too great a pleasure to bear. My ravaged senses would demand I cling with arms and legs and try to arrest his fabulous thrusts, but I cannot. I just have to take them and wonder if the bliss will prove enough to send me into the next world. The sagas, most disappointingly, never detail the carnal acts of their heroes and their heroines. But if they did, this is surely what they would describe.

I always thought my virginity would be taken with me on all fours, roughly and swiftly stuffed by some bearded near-stranger who wanted no more than to seal the deal and get back to his sex-slaves. Instead, I am encircled by fire, under this brilliant night sky of flashing, flickering reds and greens and violets, watched by my gods and my famous ancestors, and the two eyes of a man I have suddenly grown to love almost as much as lust for. The rapture is raging, it is sweeping. It is burning almost enough to melt me.

 

 

 

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