Here’s an interesting little NC 17 M/F excerpt to warm the cockles of your heart… well, it should heat up something! LOL Fresh from Changeling Press, I give you the antics of everyone’s favorite Holiday winged menace… Cupid… and hes gone… weird!
Cupid only wants a little revenge on Chris Cringle, master of North Pole Industries and the bane of the Holidays’ existence.
But when he cracks open a bottle of stolen wassail, will one spilled drop give him everything he ever desired or will it be a tool for Chris to gain more control over the wayward Cupid? No one can really tell what will happen when Cupid Goes Weird.
“Fuck Chris and his holiday wassail.” Cupid, otherwise known as Valentine, sneered down into the cup he held.
Usually Guy Fawkes was with him, but the timid Holiday had balked at breaking into Chris’s stash of holiday cheer, nearly fainting at the idea of doing something so rebellious. So now Valentine was left alone with a bottle. There was nothing worse than a depressed deity of love — drunk off his ass.
But he was Valentine — a rebel! Yeah, he was topical and exciting and dangerous. There was nothing stopping him from getting a little revenge on fucking Santa Claus. Even as small as this act of thievery and drunkenness was, it filled him with the energy of defiance.
Who the fuck cared if he was watching? With his little geisha ninja and their pack of pinstriped hyenas, Chris Cringle had become the bane of Valentine’s existence. He would love to see the man deposed and kicked out of North Pole Industries, but no one possessed enough power to do that. The other Holidays’ base of worshipers dwindled more and more every year as Chris’s power base seemed to have exploded.
Even Eve — All Hallows’ Eve — was finding it difficult to keep her power base intact and this year… This year Chris’s friggin’ Norman Rockwell image of the jolly old elf was even being sold during her time. This was the first time this had happened, and it had shaken up the Holidays more than anyone cared to admit. And Chris, that rat-bastard, was lording it over them like he was king of the fucking land.
Valentine took another swig of his stolen holiday wine and contemplated his bedroom. He was surrounded by the images that in the past had garnered him some powerful followers. There was the baby-faced image of him in a cloth diaper that he’d created to counter the Jolly Saint Nicholas crap, and for a time it had worked. He was cute, and school-aged children had made paper cutouts of him to give to their crushes. As time passed and society grew more desensitized, his image had gone from a chubby toddler to the more mature look that had romance writers making up stories about his prowess in bed and men lifting weights after the holidays to gain the ideal look Valentine had created.
Yeah, for a time, being big, blond, and buff was a major thing. It had dominated the eighties totally, and it still lingered in the minds of fashion-conscious folks to this day. But not now, for today he had seen something that had driven him into the bottle so fast that if Dionysus had still been hanging around he would have been embarrassed by his slowness to get to the good stuff. It was after New Year’s, and already Valentine was ready for the year to be over because he had seen a poster of Santa, dressed as Cupid, declaring it was Christmas in February.
Oh — fuck — no!
There was no hope for it. Chris was taking over the holidays, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
Valentine looked down into his glass of red wassail and gave his goblet a swirl. It was empty, and life sucked. He reached for the bottle, tipped it to fill his glass once more, and cursed as some of the rich, red liquid splashed to the floor. “Fuck.”
He stared at the small pool of liquid, as bright as freshly spilled blood, then blinked as it began to ripple.
Could a few drops ripple? Maybe he was drunker than he’d thought. Chris sure had some potent shit —
But the drops began to swirl as an unseen wind whipped through the room. The red puddle began to expand and take on a solid form. Cupid leaned forward, getting closer to the now three-foot-tall pillar, because he could not believe what his eyes were telling him.
He lurched back, nearly falling from his chair as a perfectly formed set of red lips emerged and pressed against his mouth to steal a quick kiss. A light giggle, sounding of tinkling bells, filled the air, and he slipped from his chair to fall flat on his ass as the pillar took the shape of a beautifully formed, buxom female.
As he watched, the red began to fade into a rose-tinted gold. The creature threw back her hair, and the flung drops of spiced wine grew into a long mane of flowing hair.
“Are you my master?” Her voice was light and sweet, tinged with a bit of mischief and dark lust.
“My master — the one true owner of my soul?” She rose to her tiny little feet, her naked, golden body shimmering with an inner light as she spun around to stare at the room she found herself in.
Her ass was heart shaped.
Valentine arched an eyebrow at that — maybe it was a sign she was to be his — and rose to his feet to introduce himself. He felt his wing-slits tingle and his kilt lift in arousal. Suddenly drinking up Chris’s private stock was no longer important.
“I am Cupid, but that is my title. My name is Valentine.”
“Valentine,” she repeated. “Are you my master?”
“I am whatever you want me to be.”
“I am all for my master,” she said softly, her eyelids drooping low as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. “My heart, my body, my soul.”
And suddenly Valentine’s addled mind came up with a perfect plan for revenge.
Obviously Chris had created this woman, this sexual goddess, to belong to him and cater to his twisted needs, but she had never laid eyes on the man. In fact, it seemed whoever partook of this particular vintage of wine got ownership rights to the beautiful… beautiful —
“What is your name?”
“I do not know.” Her eyes widened, and Cupid felt a delicious frisson of heat travel through his body. She was so needy and alone, vulnerable and innocent looking… “My master is to name me. Will you name me?”
Smirking, Cupid reclaimed his seat and spread his legs, pointing to the tent his rapidly swelling cock had made. “If you earn it.”
The woman licked her lips as she looked from his crotch to his eyes, her red ones glistening in sudden lust. “I was designed to satisfy the needs of my master, each and every one of them.” She stepped closer and dropped to her knees, licking her lips as her gaze shifted to his lap again. “I hunger for your cock.”
He groaned as she lifted his kilt out of the way. Her fingers were cool and soft as she gently pressed her hands to his balls. “Damn,” he moaned as her fingers danced over his sensitive sac, caressing its fullness and making his balls churn. “You do that so well.”
“I am here to please you,” she murmured as she trailed her fingers up to the base of his shaft. She softly combed through the neat thatch of pubic hair before gripping him tightly. “I am for you.”