NOLA Darkly: Part 1: The Lady Monreau

Sir Dragon Sun

Coffee poured perfectly from an ivory white cup and onto the surface of the antique silver serving tray. A sweet, damp morning breeze rippled the steamy pool, as Lady Monreau scrutinized the vision forming there. A soft pale slip led to a filthy cab. His ring, blue and glowing. Chance. Not this one, so much a dim reflection. No. Him. Her vice. Her need, and yet her Moby Dick. Chance Lafitte!

There, in that shifting alley south of his Victorian hovel, he’d loosed another, bound for whatever smoky corner he’d found her in.


A barely audible groan brought Lady Monreau back from her musings. Turning slowly, her gaze came to rest on the sweat covered body which hung in chains from her parlor ceiling. Indeed… This sack of man bones could not kindle her loins as Chance always had but wringing his seed from him would be much fun all the same.


Standing slowly and adjusting her fifteenth century corset under her smooth, ample bosom, she glided effortlessly over the polished stone floor. Standing before the young prize, Lady Monreau lifted her delicate hand, stretched it forth and drug a long nail firmly across one of the man’s nipples. A short, thin red line formed and the captive gasped, bowed his back perfectly and shivered.


Too much fun, she mused. The combination of spell and potion had left the young man puddy to be played with. Even the tiny drops of hunger at the corners of his parted lips made her think of his face covered in her pleasure’s juices.


A swirl of her refined fingers, a slow easy gasp, and she stepped through and out of her priceless Victorian gown. Alabaster skin shone in latticed streaks of pale sunlight. Waves in a flag, her cool curves danced closer to her captured pray. A slender, perfect foot reached out and caressed the muscular calve, slowly rising, warm brandy, toward thigh and needful groin. His taught, exceptionally round ass shivered, and his hips rolled forward pleadingly. A single droplet formed on the tip of her captive’s erection and turned into a thin ribbon as it journeyed reluctantly toward the floor.


Lady Monreau bowed low and coated her tongue in the sweet, sticky evidence of her magic’s labours. The young man could hear nothing, see nothing. His body reacted to her touch instinctively as she slid her aroused nipples up his legs and stomach, his cock leaving a glistening trail between her firm breasts and down to her velvety golden hued garden.


Her cunt ached, but she would not ruin the magic she’d worked so hard to create with mere sexual pleasure. Her lips walked lazily from one side of the young man’s muscular chest to the other, along his collar bone, and pearlescent teeth pulled gently at sun-kissed skin. Raising her chin, Lady Monreau caressed his ear with crimson lips, whispering, her magic wafting into his mind like the memory of honeysuckle on a summer breeze.


Delicate fingertips traced the veins of the young man’s cock, the swollen hood brushing against silky miniature ringlets.


Her tongue captured tiny teardrops of sweat as they formed on his chest like dew on exposed stone. Her magic drank in his arousal, a fine wine to be savoured. The young man pushed his pelvis forward, expectant, needful. She closed her hand around him, the strength of her own need tightening its grip.

Life pulsed beneath her palm, warm, raw, endless. The young man groaned expectantly. Loosening her grip, she coaxed the essence close, calling it forward with touch and will. Muscles quivered, sweat slide down bronzed skin, and small pleading gasps left the young man’s lungs as she drew forth his most coveted desire.

The smooth surface of an ageless cheek pressed the young man’s chest. A long hungry breath gave her the scent of bourbon, fine tobacco and fresh cut pine. Lady Monreau trenched her perfect rouge nails down his back and seized his unyielding flanks, digging their razor tips in and pulling him closer. She guided his shaft along the length of her welcoming folds. The rhythm slow, craven, intoxicating.


His cock pulsed with anticipated release. He strained against his bonds, hurried, needful, buried in her magic, in his lust. She kissed the veins at the sides of his neck, her lips leaving pale glowing prints. His chest heaved; his hands clutched at the chains. Time slowed. The gauze curtains hung suspended in a waft of air halted.

Her hips rolled toward his in inevitable waves of honey. Her breasts danced among the muscles of his stomach, nipples playing in a softly singing stream. A bead of sweat slowed on his brow, rested as though to linger an eternity.


Her thighs tensed. His shaft, claimed, clung to her wanton cunt. Her hips crashed into him, a ocean breaking against cliffs. The air lay still in his lungs, his eyes glazed in pleasure. She slithered back, leaving the proud cock jutting into the morning sunlight.


Moving gracefully to a side table, Lady Monreau retrieved a delicate crystal wine glass. Coming to stand before the youth, she lifted one tender hand. Running the tip of her finger down the end of his head, she held the wine glass close to its tip. With a singled muttered word, the man released his need into the glass in ivory streams of nectar, filling the container near to the rim.


Lifting the crystal glass into the light, filled with the young man’s spent desire, she swirled the contents with a slender finger. Crimson tendrils chased each other through the glass, turning his cum to a deep, red wind. The wine glass glowed an eerie green, as the youth’s lungs clawed for air, the curtains rustled in a breeze, and sound returned to the parlour.


Lady Monreau lifted the glass tenderly to her mouth, drained it with practiced care, and placed it ceremoniously onto a silver tray.


The bustle of the French quarter sang out to her as Lady Monreau sat sipping coffee on her parlour balcony. The morning’s sustenance all but forgotten, she tasted the air. Chance’s magic always left a hint of brandy, honey, and rosemary on the air.