Page 32 of The Flesh Remembers
“Can you believe that in all the world, you and I found each other? It seems impossible, doesn’t it? But yet, we did. It’s you and me, El, you and me forever.”
James leaned into her then and seized her lips with his own, kissing her gently at first, but as the kiss continued and their passion ignited, the kiss deepened until they were both panting with the fire of it.
When they finally parted, Eleanor looked into James’s sky-blue eyes and felt a cold trickle of fear slither down her spine. She and James loved each other so much, but love is fragile—something easily lost or broken. How could she be sure to keep her love safe?
Her dark thoughts swept away an instant later when James flipped her up onto his chest and kissed her again.
“Perhaps we should work up an appetite before breakfast,” he said with a grin before kissing her again.
Lord Blackwood appeared at her side, his dark robes trailing behind him like shadows come alive. His hand restedlightly on her shoulder, a gesture both guiding and possessive.
“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice a silken caress. “The pull between life and death. The hunger within him, and you.”
Eleanor swallowed hard, her eyes never leaving James. She could feel his need like a physical force, a heat that radiated from him despite his skin's cold, necrotic pallor. Her pulse quickened, her body responding to the unspoken promise in his gaze.
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” she said, her voice resolute.
Blackwood’s smile was sharp, almost voracious. “Then step forward, Dr. Ashcroft. Tonight, you become the bridge between worlds.”
As she moved toward the dais, the circle of cultists around her began to chant, their voices low and rhythmic. The sound vibrated through the floor, climbing her legs and settling in her chest. The robes she wore felt suddenly heavy, constricting, and when Blackwood gestured for them to be removed, she didn’t hesitate.
The fabric slid from her shoulders, falling to her feet, leaving her bare beneath the flickering candlelight. A collective sigh rippled through the gathered cultists, their gazes drinking in her form with reverence and hunger. Eleanor had long abandoned any sense of modesty or decorum, as those traits would not serve her here. She had to become someone new and fearless to complete this impossible task.
The air grew thicker as the ritual began. The first touch came from behind: a warm, firm pair of hands sliding along Eleanor’s arms and down her sides. She gasped, her bodytensing at the unexpected intimacy. Another set of hands joined, brushing against her collarbone and trailing lower.
The touches were slow, deliberate, and varied. Some were tender, almost worshipful, while others were insistent, testing the boundaries of her surrender. The silver disk at her throat began to hum, vibrations resonating with the room's energy.
Eleanor closed her eyes, letting herself be carried by the rhythm of the ritual. Each caress sent a ripple of sensation through her, her body responding in ways that felt both thrilling and shameful. She could feel the collective energy building around her, an almost electric charge that prickled her skin and ignited a fire in her core.
From his dais, James growled low in his throat, the sound reverberating through the hall. His hands gripped the edges of the apparatus, his knuckles whitening as he strained against his restraints.
“Eleanor,” he said, his voice rough with need. “I can feel you. I can feel… everything.”
His eyes burned with an intensity that bordered on feral, his gaze roaming over her body with undisguised desire. The hunger in his expression was no longer just for life; it was for her, entirely and utterly.
The cultists around her moved with greater urgency, their hands and mouths exploring her body as the chanting grew louder. Each touch seemed to pull her closer to the edge, her body trembling with the weight of the sensations coursing through her.
James’s breathing grew heavier, his arousal impossible to ignore. The galvanic rods around him sparked violently, mirroring the tension in the air.
Blackwood stepped into the circle's center, his voice rising above the chanting. “Let the flesh become a vessel! Let the spirit transcend!”
The cultists responded with a collective cry, their hands and bodies pressing closer to Eleanor as the room's energy reached a fever pitch. She felt lifted, carried by the waves of sensation that consumed her.
The cult members surrounded her now. Hands holding her up, arms pinned behind her back, while two others each took one of her ankles and lifted her legs, opening her like a flower to them all. A collective moan passed through the group as they saw how wet she was, how desperate to come.
One of the male cultists slipped between her legs and pressed his eager tongue to her wet sex.
“What a wet cunt you have,” he whispered reverently, his tongue darting out to lap up the juices that flowed from her arousal. He savoured it, chanting something unintelligible, a glowing smile lighting up his face as if he had just tasted the holiest sacraments.
Another member took their turn between Eleanor’s legs, taking their taste of this communion of lust. Then another and another until each member had fully tasted her, relishing it like sweet nectar. Eleanor moaned, her eyes clenched shut as the sensations flowed through her body like electricity. Again and again, they licked, sucked and bit until she could take no more and began to scream out for release.
“Do you need to come?” Lord Blackwood asked her with a smile.
“Yes, yes, please!” Eleanor was desperate now, so close to feeling that avalanche of pleasure.
“Ah, but you must beg for it, my dear. That desperation, that feral desire, is needed for us to succeed in this endeavour. So, Eleanor, my dear, beg me. Beg me to let you come.”
Eleanor hated Blackwood in that moment. She hated how he made her beg, hated how desperate and needy she felt. But she knew, too, that she could not refuse to give in to these feelings. She thought she might surely die if she did not release.
