La Petite Mort

Author's Note: Hi there!

Usually I post the "what should I write next" poll around this time. But as it turns out, I hit 100 paid subscribers yesterday! A big milestone.

As a bonus, in lieu of the usual poll, here's a passion-project story I've been working on when I’ve been blocked on other things.

It's completely stand-alone, and perhaps a little more highbrow than my usual stuff. Maybe I'll flesh it out one day with more chapters -- heck, maybe this'll eventually turn out to be set in the same universe as the Thaumaturge.

For now, it was just an idea sparked by a play on words that I ran with.

Thanks so much for supporting me. Regular poll will go up next week at some point when I’m back from this work conference!

JF

—

TW: It's a little erotic horror-y, but far more erotic than horror, if you ask me. Lots of mentions of death (as you can perhaps deduce from the title), but extremely minimal/modest on-screen depictions of it -- it's not a violent tale. But I wanted to at least give a heads up; for folks who find mentions of death especially squicky, you may want to give this one a pass.

---

Mythology mostly gets the personage of Death all wrong.

Whatever the name -- the Grim Reaper, Charon, Jeoseungsaja, Gwyn ap Nudd, Yama Rāja, -- Death is not a psychopomp, some bureaucrat who shows up after you die to escort you to the afterlife.

I mean, why would Death do that?

You're dead. All the work's done at that point.

No, the journey to the afterlife happens as you die. That is the journey. That's when you need a guide the most. Someone -- or something -- to actually shepherd you out of one life and into the next.

That's what this myths miss: the Charon figure does the actual killing.

Humans, animals, the forces of the universe -- none of them can take a life.

Only Deaths can. 

That's what makes them Deaths. Obviously.

That's right -- Deaths.

Because there are different Deaths. Most mythology misses this point, too.

Deaths are all specialists, to one degree or another, but some of them handle a high-enough case volume that calling them a specialist would be stretching the definition. Drowning. Old age. Gun violence.

Common Deaths, you might call them.

But there are edge cases. Oddities that demand a particular approach. Situations that call for a true specialist, a master artisan, to craft unique endings suited to a specific moment.

—

And deaths by orgasm are especially rare, so La Petite Mort was a specialist among specialists.

She presented many different ways. Big and bold. Small and quiet. Male and female.

Currently, though, she was wearing her favorite presentation -- perhaps because it fit her name, or perhaps for other reasons.

She was a young woman, exotic-looking. Different; from someplace else. Unusual. Rare to see.

Just like La Petite Mort.

Short, with dark hair. A shockingly gorgeous face; a curvaceous, sexy little body, currently clad in a little black dress.

The very picture of deadly, beautiful pleasure in a small package.

Just like...well, you get the idea.

Currently, in addition to the pretty little dress, her favorite form was also wearing a pretty little frown.

Because one of the most peculiar evenings in La Petite Mort's long existence was beginning with a jurisdictional dispute.

A couple was fucking enthusiastically on the hotel room bed in front of her. The woman -- in her thirties, with long blonde hair almost down to her waist, was riding a much older man; riding him rather athletically, as it happened.

La Petite Mort was quite impressed. No wonder she'd showed up. This lady really knew what she was doing. As she watched, the woman arched her back, bouncing even more enthusiastically. "Fuck yeah, babe, I love riding your cock..."

The man on the bed groaned an acknowledgement. He had to be in his seventies. Maybe his eighties. Goodness.

La Petite Mort watched them for a moment, enjoying the way the woman was working his body. It wouldn't be long now. But her contemplation of their lovemaking was interrupted by a plaintive, wheedling voice.

"No. Absolutely not. This one's mine."

La Petite Mort sighed, turning to the other personage here. Who had just spoken, again, though she’d been doing her best to ignore him. The couple were blissfully oblivious; they couldn't perceive the conversation at all.

"You know the rules, CA," La Petite Mort said, flatly. She wished that she couldn't perceive his words, either. That would be really nice right now.

"The guy's been living like shit, LPM. He never exercises, too many fatty foods, he's old as hell, and he's not taking his blood pressure meds. The underlying cause is clear, okay? And by clear, I mean it's me. I'm the cause. Just because the ol' ticker gives out at one particular moment, you get him? Come on. He's mine."

Cardiac Arrest was wearing one of his favorite presentations: a moderately overweight American man, in a rumpled brown suit, with a cheeseburger in one hand.

Which he was currently using to gesture at La Petite Mort for emphasis.

Even as he protested, she could hear the frustration in his voice. He knew the rules just like she did. Knew how this was going to go.

More specialized Deaths always had the right-of-way.

"Cardiac. Arrest." She said his full name, slowly. 

Everything La Petite Mort said had a sensual finality to it, obviously. But when she wanted to dial it up, she could really dial it up. 

As a result, his name rolled off her tongue, like the opening of a salacious obituary read aloud. One about two lovers who died in each other's arms, maybe.

"Yeah, yeah, okay, okay, okay," he said the words hastily. "It's cool, don't be like that. No need to take that tone. He's yours, he's yours."

Satisfied, she turned to the bed, watching the couple again.

The mood was only slightly spoiled by Cardiac Arrest in the corner, muttering to himself about bureaucracy.

"Do. You. Mind?" La Petite Mort arched one perfect brow.

"Sorry." He lapsed into silence.

Although he then proceeded to take a loud, wet bite of his cheeseburger.

He was such an annoying fucker.

But La Petite Mort put him out of mind, because she could tell her moment was nearly here. On the hotel bed, the man's breathing was ragged, face flushed, his movements getting more erratic. Like his blood was pounding. Heart racing. Pulse fluttering.

Like he was about to lose control.

La Petite Mort could only truly interact with the world when particular conditions were met.

Conditions that were now at hand. The beginning of an end, as it were.

Smoothly, she moved up onto the bed, hiking her dress up slightly. Her body overlapped with the blonde woman's, seamlessly.

She was riding the man, now, though the blonde woman was still there, riding him too.

But La Petite Mort was in the driver's seat. It was La Petite Mort, now, who picked up the pace.

La Petite Mort who added a little bucking movement of her hips that she knew would set the man's heart racing even faster.

It was La Petite Mort, who tossed her dark hair sensually, and then -- though her voice now sounded suspiciously like the blonde woman's -- whispered, wanton need in her voice, "Yes, baby, I want to feel you explode, give it to me."

She knew it was the right thing to say to help set him off like a firecracker. Knowing what to do to set someone off was what La Petite Mort knew best.

It was La Petite Mort who then ran her hands over his body, leaning atop him as she rode faster, hips working steadily, hands resting on his chest, pressing down for balance. Directly above his heart, in fact.

This was it; the moment. She could feel the surge in the man, the signs that he was about to lose control, become untethered.

All Deaths represent a loss of control to one degree or another; the body's weakness, the fallibility of flesh made manifest, as it betrays its owner.

But La Petite Mort was about losing control even more than most Deaths. The pleasure of another soul shepherded across the veil was exquisite to her, the simultaneous ecstasy and loss of life a beautiful and perfect combination.

And then, just before the moment of completion, as she began to pick up speed, preparing to shepherd him over the edge and into the afterlife, something distracted her.

A sudden tugging sensation.

Her attention was called away. Needed elsewhere.

Not just her attention; her very presence was demanded elsewhere.

She resisted, of course. She was working.

But the summons was insistent, inexorable. As inevitable a conclusion as what she was involved in currently.

She had no choice but to heed it. One moment she was there, and the next she was gone. The couple’s lovemaking continued, but it lacked a certain edge that had been present just a moment before.

Cardiac Arrest looked around the room for a moment, registering her absence. "Guess this one's mine after all?" he mumbled, hopefully, around a mouthful of cheeseburger.

There was no response, just the continued sounds of the couple fucking.

He stood up laboriously, brushed a few crumbs off his suit jacket, and walked over to the bed.

He gave one final look around the room, making sure he wasn't missing something.

But then he shrugged, and reached a greasy hand towards the man's chest, with all the pomp and circumstance of a fast food restaurant worker announcing that an order number was up.

---

La Petite Mort was confined.

She'd been confined before, of course. Many times. By her very nature, she was probably more familiar with restraints and bondage than most Deaths, although Strangulation could've given her a run for her money.

But this was a different kind of confinement.

She was in an open field under the stars.

Flickering flames surrounded her, as if parts of the field were on fire. The licking fire formed a complicated, irregular shape, with her at the center. Odd curves in some places, straight lines and angles in others.

She recognized a symbol of power when she saw one, of course. Built to contain her. Even now, she could feel the pressure of it, muting her power, blunting the very force of her will. Binding her more tightly than any ropes ever could.

Her eyes narrowed. Three men stood outside the symbol, wearing hoods and ceremonial robes.

As she regarded them, one of them -- the tallest, as it happened -- cleared his throat and spoke, tentatively. "We have called you, O Death, and spoken the words, sworn the oaths, made the sacrifices."

The second of the men spoke, slow and careful. "We have called you, O Death, and bound you here, with flame as your prison and the stars as your warden."

"We have called you, O Death," intoned the final man, in a deep confident baritone, "and we wish to strike a bargain."

Her eyes narrowed in the silence that followed his words. "You are fools to summon one of the Deaths."

"Deaths?" The second man emphasized the s, as if the very concept of plurality was confusing to him.

Oh, great.

They hadn't specified which Death. Because they didn't even know their cosmology.

These were novice warlocks, then. She hated when this happened.

"Which Death were you hoping to summon?" She asked the question idly, inspecting their handiwork.

Stars above, check.

Flames below, check.

She paced out the bounds of the fiery symbol that enclosed her, considering the sweeping curves, the dimensions of the angles.

In spite of being novices, they'd formed it all correctly.

Damn them.

"Um...the Grim Reaper?" It was the first man, the tall, hesitant one.

She laughed, looking at him. "I suppose I answer to that name, yes. Very well. You have called her. You have bound her. Now what will you ask of her?"

All three of them paused and took note, at the sound of her laughter. It had that effect on men -- and on women too, as it happened, though none were present.

And then the second man -- slowly, thoughtfully -- asked, "...If you're the Grim Reaper, where's your scythe? And don't you have, y'know, a cowl?"

La Petite Mort had a glint in her eye. "The tools and vestments don't matter. A scythe. A shepherd's crook. A gentle touch. One drink too many; one drink too few. A passionate thrust -- with a blade, or with something else. The reaping of souls requires no particular tool; it is an act of will."

The first man, with a sudden jolt of realization, became aware that he had gotten erect, listening to her. Quite erect. He didn't think it was visible underneath his loose ceremonial robes, which he was grateful for.

It was an odd response to the presence of Death, to be sure. But there was something especially provocative about the way she said the words passionate thrust. 

And she was dressed quite provocatively, too; the way that black dress hugged the curves of her body was absolutely delicious.

The second man was silent, taken aback at her response.

The confident third man, after a moment, said, "We wish to bargain. You will take care of one of our rivals, eliminate him."

There was a moment of silence as La Petite Mort considered the three of them. And then she favored the first man -- the one whose body was already betraying him -- with a sexy little smile. "Are you sure you want me to take care of him? There's not something else you'd prefer to bargain me into taking?"

Even muted by the binding, the pressure exerted when La Petite Mort focused her will entirely on one person was immense. Her voice, that smile...everything about her promised a final, ultimate, show-stopping release. The man's mouth was dry. His cock -- which had been tenting his robes -- was twitching, throbbing now. He could feel himself leaking. But he barely paid it any mind.

Instead, he took a step towards the flames flickering between him and her. He wanted to see that wicked smile on her lips better; wanted to get a closer look at the way that dress hugged her hips, revealing those ample thighs; wanted to inspect the low-cut top, clinging to enticing cleavage...

And then the second and third men came up on either side of him, each of them putting a hand on his shoulder, and the first man’s eyes refocused, as if he was coming out of trance. He looked down, realized how close the flames were, and grimaced, taking a step back.

The third man took a deep breath in, and repeated, "You will take the life of one of our rivals. He has misused his magical gifts; taken our lovers as his own, amassed unearned power, wealth, and riches. Give him the final release. In return, we offer you release."

La Petite Mort strode over to him, looked him up and down from across the flames. This one had a certainty about him, a steadiness that was adorable.

A completely unwarranted steadiness, in light of the unfortunate wording he had just chosen for their bargain. Poetic, yes, but incredibly vague.

She loved when they made bargains in English. The language just wasn't well suited to it.

"Very well." She pursed her lips, looking him up and down, and then his companions, in turn. "My release in exchange for visiting your rival, and giving him release. I agree to your terms."

The third man nodded, smug and satisfied. The very picture of a man in control. A man who had bound Death and was now bringing it upon his enemy.

"Uh, w-wait a sec..." the second man sounded doubtful. "The way she said release..."

"That's the way she's been saying everything," the third man snapped. "She just talks like that. It's meant to distract us. Stop thinking with your dick. Get a grip."

"Yeah," La Petite Mort echoed. "Get a grip." She favored the second man with a little pout, as she said it. The look in her eye was enough to make the breath in his throat hitch. The way she said grip indicated precisely what she was thinking about gripping.

The third man was already moving on. "I agree to be bound by the terms of our bargain, O Death. May my soul be forfeit if they go unfulfilled." He intoned the words and then looked, expectantly, at his colleagues.

La Petite Mort eyed them with interest as well. All three of them had summoned her; all three had to say it.

The first man -- whose eyes hadn't left her body since she'd appeared -- dutifully repeated the words. "I agree to be bound by the terms of our bargain, O Death. May my soul be forfeit if they go unfulfilled."

The second man looked extremely reluctant, but eventually complied, saying the words as well.

Funny, how sometimes the ones who seem dumbest sometimes have the most sense.

She'd save him for last, she decided, grim satisfaction settling over her as he finished repeating the words.

The third man -- the confident one, who seemed to be the leader -- waved his hand, and the flames flickered and died down. "There. You are free to go. Our side of the bargain is fulfilled. Our rival goes by the name Stardrinker, but his given name is Lawrence Ko..."

The main trailed off, realizing that La Petite Mort had quirked up an eyebrow once he'd started talking.

She had an astonishingly expressive eyebrow. It communicated, all by itself, in the space of only a second or so, that her expectations and needs were going unmet. That she was disappointed. That she was waiting for him to rectify a mistake.

She didn't speak until the confident man had fallen silent.

"Your side is not fulfilled," she whispered. "You promised me release."

It was extremely clear what she meant.

When La Petite Mort said release, she only ever meant one thing.

"That...that's not what we meant," the third man stammered, uncertain for the first time.

"It is what you meant," she said, smoothly.

She looked towards the first man. "It is what was in his head when he said the words. He was thinking of me, underneath him, contorted in pleasure."

The first man didn't deny it. Couldn't deny it.

Her gaze traveled to the second man. "Him, too. That is why he tried to tell you. But you did not listen."

And her dark eyes, finally, landed back on the third man. "And it is what you wished the bargain to be, in the secret recesses of your heart as well," she whispered. "And you know it."

The third man fell silent, horror on his face at the truth of his words.

"So, then...in order to fulfill our side of the bargain, we have to...you need to..." The first man was hesitant, a little panicked…but you could hear the undercurrent of lust in his voice.

La Petite Mort gave him a seductive smile. "That's right," she purred. "Perhaps you'd like to begin now?"

The full force of her attention was suddenly on him once more, and now there were no flames, no bindings, nothing dulling the sudden and riveting edge of having her complete focus.

She took a step towards him. His gaze caught on the sway of her hips in that dress as his breath caught in his throat. Her lips were parted. She looked excited. The excitement of a cheetah, staring down a gazelle that had gotten too close and couldn't possibly get away, now.

He realized, with a sense of shock, that as she moved closer to him, he was actually rapidly approaching an orgasm. Her very presence was intoxicating. It commanded his cock's attention and arousal.

He let out a groan at the pleasure of her approach. She exuded a feminine-yet-powerful sexuality. And in spite of his arousal, panic took hold at how out-of-control this all felt. An orgasm with this...woman?...suddenly seemed incredibly risky.

Tentatively, he backed away. "I-I-I-" the word came out of him as a stuttering syllable, the very mirror of his heartbeat.

His heart was pounding now, the rhythm like a runaway freight train going over uneven tracks.

"Shh. I know the release you crave." La Petite Mort moved towards him just a touch faster than he was backing away, the end result that she slowly grew closer and closer.

"You're so sensitive," she whispered. "It never takes much, does it? And your wife hated that. She wanted you to last. Last much longer, to please her. You resented her for it; the anxiety and inadequacy she made you feel."

His eyes went even wider at the sibilant truth in her voice. She understood him.

When she spoke again, it was encouraging. "But I love how on edge you are already. I want to see you lose control. I want it to happen. I want it to happen so fast."

He let out a pleading whimper. It was unclear, exactly, what he was pleading for.

But La Petite Mort knew. She always did. People only ever pleaded with her for one thing, really, when you got right down to it.

One more step, and she was close enough.

Locking eyes with the first man, she whispered, "It'll be...so...hot. If you just cum for me. Right. Now."

As she spoke, her hand crept forward. The man could see it out of the corner of his eye, but didn't move, a deer in headlights, the mouse hypnotised by a cobra.

And then her hand smoothly and artfully wrapped around his cock through his robe, and, using the fabric, pumped his length, once.

It was so much more than enough. "A-a-ahh--" The man let out a sigh that became a groan of pleasure as he convulsed, bucking his hips helplessly into her hand.

"Good boy," she crooned. "That's it, this is just what you wanted, isn't it?"

He nodded frantically as he came, the orgasm striking with the electric suddenness of a bolt of lightning — but then continuing, a rolling peal of thunder that just went on and on and on. He fell to his knees, eyes rolling back in his head, the bliss of release rushing through him.

His heartbeat went from a steady, throbbing pulse to an erratic, wild staccato that he could hear in his ears. It was as chaotic as his breath.

Now, La Petite Mort wasn't alive, not in the traditional sense of the word.

But in the sense she was alive, she lived for this. This moment of release. She shuddered with bliss at the feeling of him losing control for her.

As his heartbeat slowed and stilled, La Petite Mort let out a delighted gasp of excitement.

And then she looked over at the other two men.

The second man turned and ran.

The third man, however, took a deep breath, and met her gaze levelly. "No running from Death, is there?" He squared his shoulders, facing her.

"No," she acknowledged. There was a strange light in her eyes as she regarded him. 

She loved it when they tried to dance with her.

He parted his robes in the front. For such a confident man, his cock was only average, perhaps even a little small, jutting straight out from his body to just beyond the folds of his voluminous robes.

But La Petite Mort had long ago ceased being surprised by juxtapositions of confidence and physical attributes. One never could tell.

The important thing was that he was hard for her. Of course.

And she knew what he wanted from her. Of course. If she was honest, she suspected any woman that ran into this man knew what he wanted, he was staring so aggressively at her chest.

She knelt in front of him, grabbing her breasts with both hands and kneading them through the dress.

This was the kind of man whose needs and desires were all-consuming. He was staring down at her, lips parted, watching dutifully as she played with her breasts.

His cock twitched, bobbing as if it was beckoning her closer.

She did move a little closer, so that her tits were only an inch or two from the head of his penis. She eyed it, then looked up at the man, speculatively, gauging what he wanted. The words that would give him release.

"Do you want a titfuck?" The words poured out of her, a little ditzy, and as lewd and filthy as she could make them. He moaned, nodding helplessly.

He did want a titfuck, obviously -- just like he'd wanted her to talk dirty about it. She was exactly what he wanted. Exactly what would get him off.

"So I should wrap my big tits around your cock and pump them up and down until you just…explode?" She bit her lip as she stared up at him, pulling the top of her dress down to reveal her tits, pale and full and firm, almost glowing a ghostly shade in the starlight.

"Please," he whispered, staring at them. The confidence had evaporated, stripped away. He was just a man, now. A man overcome by his needs.

She licked her lips, and then, lasciviously, staring at his cock as she did it, she let a stream of drool from her mouth drizzle into the valley of her cleavage. He whimpered with his desire for her as he watched it happen.

She massaged her tits, wetting the valley and the lush swell of each breast on either side of it. "They're gonna feel so good around your cock. So soft and tight and wet. You're gonna blow a big load for me, huh?" She squeezed them together for effect, demonstrating.

He bobbed his head mutely.

And then, almost delicately, she thrust her chest forward, sliding his cock into her cleavage.

He didn't make a sound. He just stood stock still, frozen, teeth gritted, eyes closed.

On the inside, she knew he was battling a massive orgasm. A battle he'd lose. She liked this kind of release just as much as she liked the big dramatic ones.

Men who fought to hold it back were so fun.

She pumped her tits around his cock. He wasn't big enough to truly work her tits up and down his length, but that hardly mattered; she just moved her tits around him, watching with satisfaction as they rippled, enjoying the lewd squelching sound they made as they moved about his cock.

His mouth was open in a soundless moan, now.

Another movement of her breasts along his length. She looked up into his eyes, her own lips parted, watching for the telltale signs. Her favorite part of her job.

The signs came all at once.

First, she felt a familiar rush of her own pleasure, heightening the release. Two in one night was unusual for La Petite Mort, and -- in spite of herself -- she shivered with the bliss of it.

Then she saw the look of sudden panic on his face. Felt the spattered spray against the skin of her breasts. Heard the thudding of a second heartbeat turn erratic, scattered.

Finally, felt him slump against her.

She cleaned herself up before pursuing the third man; she knew this form so well that it was but the work of a moment to reset her presentation.

He'd gone to the edge of the fields and started tramping through the woods, rapidly. He was quite a ways off by human standards, now.

But to La Petite Mort, he hadn't gone far at all.

She caught up with him as he entered a clearing; he was looking over his shoulder, wild-eyed. He didn't see her in the darkness, though, and when he whirled back around, turned to run again, she was in front of him.

He was breathing hard from his exertions, and she saw his posture sag in defeat.

"Relax," she encouraged.

"Not exactly possible, while you're around," he noted, between gulped breaths for air.

She laughed at that, at the deep truth of the words. It had been a long time since she'd laughed twice in one night, she realized. Let alone to things that humans had said. She wasn't sure it had ever happened.

The sound of her laughter once again stopped him in his tracks.

La Petite Mort's laughter always sounded genuine, delighted, and teasing. It simultaneously said that you had her attention, that you were entertaining her. It promised that you, too, would be entertained in turn.

And it had the predictable effect; he reddened visibly. His breathing had changed -- still labored, but it sounded more like someone in the grips of arousal than someone recovering from a run through the woods.

"Lie down," she instructed, the remnants of the laughter in her voice fading. "So I can use your cock, take my pleasure." She knew those words were right. This one wanted to be commanded. Ridden. Used for her benefit. She could see it in his mind, in his posture; everything from his throbbing erection under his robes to the lines of his body screamed it.

He hesitated for a moment, but then did so, slowly.

La Petite Mort looked at him in astonishment.

Her entire calling was reckless abandon. Overstimulation. Too much, done too fast. More than a man -- or woman -- could handle. The final release, coming undone fully and completely.

Hesitation didn’t really enter into it. 

She knew the words had been right. The words were always right. "Do you not want this?" She couldn't help the curiosity creeping into her voice.

"I do. So much." But then he sighed. "But...I know how this ends, O Death. I have...a daughter. She'll be left alone...Stardrinker will come for her. Can you not spare me, that I might protect her?"

Ah.

She felt a sudden, uncharacteristic burst of affection and respect for this man, who had the wherewithal to plead for his child in her presence.

She'd felt this sort of thing occasionally before; it, too, was part of the job. They were allowed some leeway. Some discretion. Some indiscretions.

So long as they did the job.

"I cannot spare you," she said. There was no sadness in her voice. Just finality.

He was crying, she realized. She knelt next to him, where he was lying. Inspected the tears on his face. Wiped them, gently, with a thumb.

Nobody cried before she'd done her work. She'd never touched a tear before.

Oh, she saw them often, of course, after she was done. She had seen many react to their lover dying in their arms.

But her job was done, then; she couldn't interact. Could only watch.

Other Deaths graced tearstained faces with their touch all the time; it was a professional hazard of being in the life-ending business. People cried often at the end.

But not for La Petite Mort. Not when death and bliss were so closely intertwined.

She brought her thumb to her lips. Marveled at the taste of salt. She hadn't expected that.

It made the decision for her, in a moment. "I cannot spare you. But I will help her. You have my word."

Hope lit the man's shining eyes up like they were beacons. "Thank you," he whispered.

"Mmm." She liked him, and the broken hope in his wet gaze felt pathetic now, made him seem smaller than she wanted him to be. It made her uncomfortable.

"Let me help you," she said. As she spoke, she smoothly parted his robes, moved to straddle him.

She was wet, of course. Ready. She always was.

He was girthy, thicker than both of the previous men, she noted, with pleasure, as she slid him inside her. 

"I love riding your cock. It's going to make me cum." She said the words biting her lip, preoccupied by the sensation of him entering her. That was what he wanted, the thing that would send him spiraling to greater heights -- the knowledge that she too was enjoying this.

She felt him throb inside her at the words. Almost immediately, his eyes rolled back, and he groaned.

And it wasn’t only a performance. La Petite Mort was enjoying this as well, she had to admit. Two releases and a chase were more than enough foreplay for her.

She bounced smoothly on him a few times. He was close, she knew; had been close before she'd even gotten him inside her. Wouldn't last long. Men were never inside La Petite Mort for very long.

That was the whole point. 

But it wasn't enough just to get him off. That's not what her job was, after all.

She looked down into his eyes. As always, she could tell what he wanted.

And she was happy to give it to him.

She brought one hand down to the little bud of nerves between her thighs, using her thumb to trace small circles. She leaned forward, chest-to-chest with him, still smoothly riding him.

"I'm about to cum," she moaned, in his ear. "I'm gonna cum all over that cock."

Her voice was desperate in his ear, and coupled with the sensations as she smoothly pistoned his cock in and out of her, the effect on him was immediate. She felt him tense up, arch and thrust up into her one final, irrevocable time.

His heartbeat against her chest, fluttering like a trapped bird, was intoxicating.

Then he met her eyes.

La Petite Mort was accustomed to seeing many things in the eyes of those who she ushered across the veil. Satisfaction. Bliss. Helplessness. Abandon. Sheer relief.

She wasn't sure she'd ever seen gratitude before.

It gave her an odd, warm feeling in her core that -- coupled with the blossoming heat she felt as she rubbed her clit, the flooding sensation inside her at his release -- sent her over the edge as well, spiraling into her own climax.

She didn't even know his name, she realized, belatedly, as she came back to her senses, felt him go still underneath her.

---

As she caught her breath, she considered.

They'd fulfilled their terms of the deal after all. Given her release.

An unexpected conclusion to an evening full of surprises.

That meant she needed to hunt down this Stardrinker. Whoever he was; another warlock, presumably. Lawrence...something-or-other, she recalled.

Which would, incidentally, protect the last man's daughter. As she'd promised.

She hadn't planned it this way, not really. 

But she felt extremely pleased with the outcome, how tidily what she wanted to do and what she was bound to do were in alignment.

La Petite Mort always felt a sense of purpose when she was on the job, of course. But even for her, she felt an unusual sense of direction, a certain drive. It had been absent for a long time, she realized; she just hadn't noticed.

Leaving the three men behind, the memory of salt still on her lips, she stood up under the stars, and went hunting.