Page 29 of The Librarian of Souls
“As mine, you will do as I request, and we will be honest with each other.” I look into her eyes, watching her brow soften at my words.
The sands supporting her back travel up and slip gently around her neck to form a collar, more of a delicate black necklace, but a symbol all the same. It will do for now until we complete the bond. Then she will carry my mark forever. Her breath shudders and her eyes close. I wait, inhaling her scent, her desire, and her arousal until I can no longer stand it.
“Until you are ready to complete the bond, I will not gratify you sexually.” Her eyes snap open and she looks ready to argue with me. My sands around her throat tighten noticeably enough for her to hold her tongue. “If I get another taste of you, I will finish our bond. And you requested a date.”
“I’ve had plenty of sex without a date,” she says. “And won’t it kill me?”
“Next Thursday I have a reservation at a club for dinner. Will you join me?” I change the subject. I neither wish to hear about Joanna’s previous sexual partners or her death if the bond remains uncompleted. Already I am addicted to her taste. To keep feeding it without completion of the bond would just put her at risk of me overfeeding.
“Yes, but I’m still nervous about the bond, Augustine.” Her hand rubs her cheek and she sighs. “I want to trust you.”
“Let me prove it to you then,mon abeille.”
12
Augustine
7 days
Even in her dreams, Joanna anxiously paces up and down the beach until I can get to her. She calls to me every night. I never see her sneak into the library, but I sense it. The moment her honey arousal enters my domain, my mouth waters. I stand at my desk studiously and wait to be called forth. Wait formon abeilleto shed the shackles her conscious mind holds on her and to let herself be free.
Only then will her worries cease, only then will she stop pacing and look out at the water. She sits in the sand in her loose linen clothes, often giving me a matching set and staring at nothing. It takes everything in me not to feed off her when she calms herself. I know these moments are precious, I don’t wish to sully them with my more beastly behaviours. Not until the bond can be completed. Her aura hums with a golden sweetness that calls to me, begging for my sands.
She is delicious. The honey taste of her lust swells like the waves on the beach. I know the bond is burning inside her. The flush on her cheeks is vibrant and her arousal drips from her every pore. My sands pulse under my skin like a heartbeat every time we are close like this, where I can feel our connection burning between us simply by touching her hand.
The bond is why she is venturing here at all. I know she has mostly remained at home. My messages are read almost instantly, and Joanna responds in a series of short answers one right after the other, like she is scared she will not be able to get her full thoughts through before I respond. She claims I text like I am writing a formal letter, but she messages me like a serial killer.
Mon Abeille: Do you have to eat real food?Mon Abeille: Or is it a choice?Mon Abeille: Do I still get to eat food? I won't give up coffee.Augustine: Joanna, while food is not a requirement for me to sustain my eternal life, it is enjoyable when done well. I enjoy human cuisine. I would never dream of cutting you off from your precious drink. A.R.
It has been the only way we have communicated in the mortal realm. When she comes to me in the evenings, it is like that first night all over again. I catch a small taste of her on my tongue but nothing more before she drifts off to her favoured chair.
In her dreams,mon abeilleis living, wild and free. She speaks to me without restraint here. Her words flow in a beautiful mess of storytelling. Joanna reveals herself to me in laughter and sorrow. How her mothers died when she was young and why she dreams of this beach. How she does not feel like she is living trapped in a cycle of fear and change. There is a depth to her existence she has yet to tap, hindered by the exhaustion of life and society. She tells me more about her job, why she feels guilty, and why she will not leave. She tells me about her waking dreams or what she can decipher from them. Her wants are muddled with menial things like funds and time.
I promise to make them real if she will only let me, but she just shakes her head at me every time, demanding I kiss her, chase her, own her until she forgets this is all a dream. Each time I reinitiate the bond, a precaution as we wait for our date. Every night I have watched my queen,mon abeille, blossom in the safety of her dreams and I want to bring that life into the mortal realm if she will only let me.
In the mornings, when her flavour is still fresh in my mind, the memory of her on my tongue drives me to my office. I can still smell how her arousal has leaked onto the leather chair when I sit down on it. The memories of that night are coated in blood and feastings, but this chair will forever be a shrine to my first waking taste of Joanna. I can envision her thighs pressed against the arms, her leg draped over one of them as I feast on her cunt. Her fingernails digging into the leather just at the top of the chair. It is imprinted with her mark. Jealousy and reverence go hand in hand when I look at that chair. I want to carry her mark on me. It makes my cock ache all the more to think of the little scratches her nails could make.
I’ve been discreet thus far with that most pressing aspect of the bond. I am giving her time, which was not what I originally planned. If we were not meeting in her dreams every night, I believe she would be genuinely suffering. However near we may be there, it is not enough to calm the storm raging beneath my skin. So for the past five days, I have been taking certain matters into my own hand, stroking my cock to thoughts of plump, supple flesh wrapped around my waist and my sand pinning her down while I ruin her in a library constructed just for us. The floodgates have blown wide open, and these small acts are what are keeping me from losing my sanity.
A week ago, I was so close, our bond practically overflowing with completeness. Now, I fear it will never be completed. My wills are at odds. The rules of gentlemanliness that I endeavour to follow are saying I should be respectful of her wishes, provide security and do everything in my power to shower her with delicate, chaste affection. While my sands, the primordial part of me that seeps and drips and craves like a starved beast, gnaws at my insides for completion. Of feeling our bond, our souls sewn together in divine and primal perfection.
Joanna keeps refusing to accept my courting gifts, which does not help matters. After attending her home on Wednesday evening, I made a note of her address, which seemed most sensible at the time. On Thursday morning, I arranged for breakfast to be delivered to her flat. The delivery driver called me after she ‘fobbed me off and wouldn’t buzz me in’. Which is fair, I suppose I should have messaged her about the delivery, but now I do not know if she is eating well enough.
At least Friday’s flowers arrived without issue. A selection of wild roses, red carnations, and honeysuckle to convey my feelings from our imposed distance. Except then she texted me a series of messages thanking me, telling me how beautiful they were, but that she had to bin them because of a pollen allergy. I nearly threw the book I was rereading at the time. I was so close to doing the right thing and then failing once again.
Saturday was easy. Joanna called me to ask if I had plans, which I did, but they would be irrelevant if she needed something. She enquired about going to the parkto chat and have coffee.
Perfection.
Truly, a lovely idea for a date if she would have allowed me to call it that. There were very strict rules around what she thought of as a date, and apparently a stroll in the park is not it. It was a perfectly fine courting excursion the last time I felt so inclined. I am not sure what exactly my Joanna qualifies as a minimum to make a date, but this side of her, assertive and assured, makes my sands and I want to wrap around her and never let go. This little peek at the Joanna in her dreams out in the mortal realm is delicious.
I arrived ten minutes early out of a sense of urgency I still cannot place, if only to prove to her that I am a suitable mate in all forms.
But gods, the outfit she wore.
Leggings are one of the most genius inventions of humanity. The stretchy fabric moulds my mate’s body beautifully, elegantly, with the grace she deserves. When she met me at the gated entrance, I was shameless, as anyone with taste would be.
“You tease me with these trousers. I would devour you right here in front of everyone,mon abeille.”
