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NOLA Darkly: Part 1 Little Irish

Sir Dragon Sun

A Dark Chance

Chance Lafitte folded out of the last hand of stud and took his usual seat at the bar, opposite the entrance. He’d hunted this tavern often over the past two hundred years. Not much of note had changed save for the name. A place for seekers of authenticity. That back-alley experience which strayed from the realm of tourism and into the darker moods.

He caressed the crystal knob at the top of his gentleman’s staff absently as he monitored the entrance patiently. They would come soon. Gents and ladies from a rainbow of places, Not New Orleans.

Time had never meant much to Chance, but this night felt different, and lent to his perception an unusual anticipation.

The evening crowd began to trickle in. There were the regulars, and a few fresh off the plane. Chance ignored them all. He wasn’t seeing them in any case. Not with his eyes. He set his mind to a certain… Feel… None had yet tripped the snare.

And so, he waited.

More than an hour had passed, and something or someone rather, caused a small shiver to caress his spine. There, standing in the doorway looking much like a cat who had just entered a dog pound, stood the slightest figure of an Irish woman he’d ever seen. Irish for sure. Her hips were much too narrow to be Scott.

The young woman’s hair, long amber ringlets, fell past her shoulders in soft waves. Her eyes, catlike but innocent, searched the darkness in the corners of the slowly filling room.

Chance moved his fingers deftly to the rhythm of his whispered chants. This one… This one would be his evening’s entertainment.

Soft, hungry tendrils of power, old and practiced, danced their way toward the unwary visitor into his lonely realm. They wrapped themselves around her like lover’s arms and pulled her slowly, relentlessly toward Chance’s place at the bar. Her gave the woman not a single glance as she took a stool next to his.

An instant forever passed as his mind felt his playmate’s eyes glaze over with the longing he’d planted. His fingers continued their movements assured by muscle memory. This petite prize would be nowhere near his first, or his last. Little Irish would be but one pearl in an endless strand.

Chance spoke. His words mattered not. His voice carried to her ears alone. Her response came mechanically, and the bar tender brought something with an umbrella which smelled of rum and pineapples.

Making a few, quick movements with his fingers, Chance blew softly across the top of the drink as the bar tender set it in front of the woman. Moments after Little Irish finished the last sip of her drink, he led her out a side door and into the moonlit alley beyond.

One hand firmly about her waist, the other still weaving his magic, Chance guided Little Irish past the softly tangled naked figures he’d conjured from the silver threads of moonlight. Her breaths came slow and raspy waves. Her feet padded like the constant beat of distant drums. Her mind, his path to trod as his will desired. Passing the cemetery, he steered wide, knowing well the souls that waited, grasping for him.

Clouds covered the light of the moon with shadows running along the silent streets as he brought Little Irish to the back stoop of his Victorian brownstone. Movement of a slender finger removed the wards and the oaken door creaked open.

A flutter.

Small butterfly soft lids opened as Chance sipped the first taste of warm brandy. He smiled knowingly. The dawning would come in but a few more breaths. Chance inhaled slowly, deeply. The scent of her sweat in the NOLA heat felt like warm butter on his tongue.

Little Irish moaned in confusion and blinked slowly against the haze as Chance finished the brandy and let the glass fall to the floor. He could see the room flood into her vision as the glass shattered on impact. The hair once like a waterfall about the women’s shoulders, now lay twisted in twine and tied high on the bed rail. Little Irish moaned, writhed, tried to call out, and found that even her voice would not move in the room. No gag held her silent, and yet no word, but the soft moan of pleasure would sound from her crimson lips.

Chance rose from his high-backed smoking chair and crossed the room like the creeping shadows of a winter sunset, coming to rest next to his toy’s feet.

Stretching out one finger, he let the nail trace patterns along the skin of an ankle. Small blue streaks of light crawled like playful spiders up Little Irish’s flesh to her thighs. Moaning, and with a look which denied the pleasure her lips confessed, the woman began to tremble slightly. Chance leaned forward and exhaled a summer sun of breath over her skin. The streaks became lines of intricate patterns, throbbing to some unheard rhythm.

First one leg, one thigh, then the other. Chance chanted silently as from trembling to vibrating the canvas beneath his magic trespassed. Her sweat began to darken the blue silk sheets as tongue, breath and nail worked in a dance of sensation over her thighs and up to her sacred places. Never quite touching her, he teased her pulsating nub till its strained pride crowned her plump mound. His magic laced between fingers and the erect, rose-coloured buds atop her shuddering breasts.

Razors of gasped breath raced across Little Irish’s tongue in search of her lungs. Her lithe limbs twitched desperately at the hemp bindings and found not an inch of relief.

Chance sent the blue tentacles dancing smoothly up her stomach and coiled them around her nipples tightly. The first of his magic entered her desire as he pulled sharply down on the deepening blue strands. His toy responded immediately with a gasp and guttural, animalistic groan. Her involuntary release coated her inner thighs and left sparkling droplets along his neck and chest.

Chance smiled wickedly as he sent his radiant essence twirling deeper into her. Feeling with his thoughts, he savoured the sensation of the silky walls hugging the glowing blue shaft like a small child afraid of the dark. Her back arched up sharply, her hips bore down upon an invisible lover, her supple thighs strained to capture his intensity and a wave of silky desire flowed from her enraptured love entrance. Creamy rivulets of bastille white formed cloud-like pools beneath her soft, round bum.

Chance trailed his nose a hair’s breadth from her skin, around her neck, over her heaving chest. Drinking in her scents. The energy of her need stroking, easing his thoughts, his cares. Then he moved down her trembling belly to her drenched mound, its proud nub swollen and throbbing. With a fiery breath of blue light, Chance coaxed forth the fire in her and folded his magic around it like a warm blanket. Slowly, caressingly, he pulled it from her golden abyss and into the flickering candlelight. Into himself. Freeing. Feeding his sooted soul. Chance drank her in. Life. His need, a chance for more, for debts yet paid.

Chance Lafitte let go of the soft, still trembling hand as Little Irish melted into the back seat of the dirty cab. Her mind had shut out all that had transpired. Her thoughts now just a slowly fading haze:

“Who are you?” The woman asked as the cab door clicked closed.

Who are you? Chance’s mind echoed mockingly as the cab disappeared into the NOLA misty morning.

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