After Dark Fantasies

A DevotedSub Books Collection

Volume 15

by Devoted Sub

To my husband, my Dom, my Twin Flame. My love, my strength, my courage, and the soul who awakened the parts of me I never knew howto set free.

You believed in me when my own faith had all but vanished. You saw a writer where I saw doubt, a voice where I heard silence, a futurewhere I saw only limits — and gave me the courage to put my wordsinto the world and dare to call myself an author.

You never wrote my stories for me or walked the road in my place. You gave me something more precious: the strength and courage tobelieve I deserved to walk this path, the confidence to believe inmyself, and the faith to know I could do this.

You taught me that when life knocks you down, you get back up, and you never fail. Failure is never found in falling, but in giving up.As long as I keep rising, keep trying, and refuse to surrender, Iwill never truly fail.

If my words reach the world, your love gave them wings. If my stories outlive me, a part of you will live on in every word.

You are my love by choice, my Dom by devotion, my Twin Flame by a bond that transcends the ordinary, and my forever by a promise Icarry willingly.

What is claimed is loved. What is loved is kept. What is kept is bound. What is bound is never abandoned.

And so, upon these pages, I carry the title you bestowed upon me, my most cherished one: Devoted Sub. Not simply a name beneath astory, but a name born of our bond, carried with pride, and foreverentwined with the man who gave it to me.

With all that I am, all that I create, and all that I will ever become,

Forever yours,

Your Devoted Sub.

Contents

1. The Manor of Thorns

2. Under the blood moon

3. Feet First

4. Bred with Love 1: Ovulation Night

5. Bred with Love 2: Every Morning

6. Bred with Love 3: The Two-Week Wait

7. Bred with Love 4: Two Pink Lines

8. Bred with Love 5: His Growing Girl

9. Cedar Hollow 1: The New Girl

10. Cedar Hollow 2: The Queen's Permission

11. Cedar Hollow 3: Claimed

12. Cedar Hollow 4: The Rotation

13. Cedar Hollow 5: Two Pink Lines

14. Her Feet

15. The Bjorn King's Tribute

16. The Elven Lord's Vow

17. The Fairy Prince's Pet

18. The Leprechaun's Bargain

19. The Orc Warlord's Prize

The Manor of Thorns

The road to Sean Niklas had given up pretending to be a road three miles back. It was October, and the rain came down in gray sheets, and the hired car refused to go any farther than the iron gates. Rana stood there for a long moment, twenty-six years old and soaked to the skin, her suitcase bumping against her shin, staring up at the black iron that read BLACKMERE in letters green with verdigris.

Beyond the gates the drive curved up to a house that looked less built than accreted — a great black bulk of stone against a blacker sky, gargoyles crouching along the parapets, water pouring from their mouths. The place had been empty of visitors for years. Everyone in the county had an opinion about the man who lived inside it and never came out.

Rana hefted her suitcase and walked. The job was simple: the Niklas's library, three centuries of manuscripts and first editions, needed cataloging before the roof gave way. Six months, room and board, generous pay. The letter had been signed in a heavy black hand: A. Sean.

Nobody had told her his first name.

The door opened almost immediately. A woman stood there, sixtyish, iron-gray bun.
- You're the archivist, — she said.
It was not a question.

- Rana, — she said.
- I'm Rana.

- I'm Mrs. Holloway. I keep the house. Come in before you catch your death. The master hates funerals.

The hall swallowed her — black walnut paneling, the smell of old smoke, old books, beeswax, rain. Portraits lined the walls — generation after generation of Blackmeres, all pale and dark-eyed and unsmiling.

She woke at three in the morning to thunder overhead and a sound that was not thunder — a low, resonant note, like a cello string drawn once, slowly, somewhere below her. Someone was playing a piano.

She should have stayed in bed. But the music pulled at her. She wrapped herself in the heavy shawl and went downstairs barefoot, following the music to the library doors, standing ajar, warm light spilling through.

The library was the most beautiful room she had ever seen. Three stories of black shelves, a dome of smoke-darkened glass far above, tens of thousands of books, the smell of them rising like incense. A fire burned in a hearth big enough to stand in. And at the far end, half in firelight and half in shadow, a man stood with one hand resting on the lid of a grand piano.

He was tall — well over six feet — broad-shouldered, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His hair was black and too long, falling past his collar. His face was all hard planes and angles, pale as the portraits, and his eyes were the color of smoke over fire. He looked thirty-six, maybe, and he looked at her like she was something he had been waiting a very long time to see.

She forgot to breathe. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her mouth went dry, and every nerve in her body stood at attention.

- You're the archivist, — he said.
His voice was low and rough. It went through her like the piano note.

- I— yes. I'm sorry, I heard the music—

- Come here.

It wasn't a request. The words landed in her body before her mind had finished parsing them, and her feet moved. She crossed the vast library to him, her bare feet silent on the ancient rugs, and stopped in front of him — close enough to feel the heat coming off his body.

- Damion Sean, — he said.
- The master of this house.
His eyes traveled down her body — the shawl slipping off one shoulder, her thin nightdress beneath, her bare feet.
- And you are Rana. Twenty-six years old. Alone in my library at three in the morning.

- I couldn't sleep, — she whispered.
- The music—

- The music.
His hand came up and brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek — and the touch sent a shock straight through her.
- Do you know what happens to girls who wander my house at night, mamacita?

Her breath caught.
- What?

- They get caught.
His hand slid to the back of her neck — firm, possessive — and pulled her in and kissed her.

It was not a gentle kiss. His mouth took hers open, his tongue claiming it — deep and hungry, stroking hers, tasting her — his other hand gripping her waist, pulling her hard against his body, letting her feel how hard he already was for her. She moaned into his mouth — shocked, overwhelmed, burning — her hands fisting in his open shirt, her body melting against his. He tasted like smoke and wine and darkness, and her whole body lit up like the library's fire had jumped inside her skin.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead against hers.
- Tell me to stop, Rana. Tell me once, and I stop, and you go back to your room, and we never speak of this again.

She didn't tell him to stop. She pulled him back down and kissed him harder.

He groaned into her mouth — a sound like the piano note, low and resonant — and lifted her effortlessly, setting her on the piano's closed lid. The polished wood was cool under her thighs. He stepped between her legs, his big hands sliding up her bare calves, pushing the nightdress up.

- Look at you, — he breathed, his smoke-fire eyes devouring her.
- My archivist. Barefoot in my library. Dripping already, aren't you, mamacita?

- I—
She couldn't speak. His hands were on her thighs, pushing the nightdress higher, baring her completely — she wore nothing beneath it.

He stared at her glistening pussy — and a low sound came out of him, hunger and triumph.
- Beautiful.
He sank to his knees on the library rug — the master of Sean Niklas, on his knees — and buried his face between her thighs.

Rana screamed — the sound echoing off three stories of books. His tongue was hot and skilled — licking her in broad, flat strokes, lapping up her wetness, then pushing into her, fucking her with his tongue. She bucked on the piano lid, her hands fisting in his long black hair. He held her hips firmly, pinning her to the piano, and ate her like a starving man.

- Papacito—
she sobbed — the name falling out of her unbidden — and he groaned against her clit, the vibration tearing through her.

His tongue found her clit — circling it, flicking it — then sucked the bud between his lips, pulsing his tongue against it. She howled, her back arching off the piano, sheet music scattering. He slid two thick fingers into her soaked pussy, curling them hard against her front wall, his thumb grinding her clit — and she shattered, wailing, her pussy clenching around his fingers, her juices flowing over his hand and onto the piano's polished wood.

- Good girl, — he breathed against her folds, his chin glistening.
- My archivist comes so pretty.
He stood — towering over her — and unbuttoned his black trousers, freeing his cock.

Rana's breath caught. He was thick — thick as her wrist, long and heavy, the head flushed dark and leaking pre-come. He fisted it slowly, his eyes burning into hers.

- On your knees, mamacita, — he said.
- On the library rug. Worship your master.

She slid off the piano and knelt on the ancient rug, trembling. He stepped close, gripped her hair, and pressed his weeping cockhead to her lips. She opened wide and took him in — her lips stretching around his thick girth, her tongue flattening under his shaft. He tasted like smoke and musk and power.

- Good girl, — he groaned.
- Take your papacito's cock. Suck it like you mean it.

He pushed deeper — his thick shaft filling her mouth, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged sweetly, drooled, spit running down her chin — and he held her head and fucked her mouth with slow, deep strokes, his heavy balls slapping her chin. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked hard, her tongue working the thick vein underneath.

He pulled out with a wet pop.
- Up, — he said, his voice wrecked.
- Bend over the piano, archivist. Your master is going to fuck you on three hundred years of music.

She bent over the piano's closed lid — her cheek pressed to the polished wood, her ass in the air, her nightdress rucked up around her waist — and he positioned himself behind her, dragging his weeping cockhead through her soaked folds.

- Who does this pussy belong to? — he demanded.

- You, papacito, — she breathed.
- It's yours.

- Louder. Let the books hear it.

- It's yours, papacito! My pussy's yours!

- Good girl.
He drove into her in one brutal thrust, burying his massive cock to the hilt. Rana screamed — the sound soaring up through three stories of shelves. He was so thick — her pussy stretched wide around his girth, her walls clinging and fluttering around his thick throbbing shaft. He gripped her hips and started pounding her against the piano — deep, brutal strokes, the piano's strings humming with every thrust, her breasts bouncing against the polished wood.

- Fuck — so tight, — he groaned.
- My beautiful archivist, so tight for her master.

Her pussy was soaked, squelching obscenely around his thick cock, her juices running down her thighs onto the rug. He reached around and rubbed her clit in hard, fast circles — and she shattered, screaming, her pussy clamping down on him like a vise.

- Again, — he commanded.
- Come on my cock again. Now.

She obeyed, sobbing into the piano lid — and he pulled out, turned her around, and lifted her back onto the piano, spreading her legs wide. He drove back into her in one deep stroke — face to face now, his smoke-fire eyes burning into hers.

- Wrap your legs around me, — he ordered.
She did, locking her ankles at his back, pulling him deeper. He fucked her with deep, rolling thrusts — the piano rocking beneath them — his forehead pressed to hers.

- Who am I? — he asked, his voice low and rough.

- My papacito, — she whispered.
- My domdaddy. My master.

- Good girl.
He reached between them and rubbed her clit — and she came softly, whimpering, her pussy milking him. He groaned deep and erupted inside her, his thick cock pulsing jet after jet of hot come deep in her pussy, filling her, overflowing around his shaft. She felt every pulse, every throb, every drop.

He stayed buried in her, breathing hard, his lips against her forehead.
- Mine, — he whispered.
- My Rana. My mamacita. My devoted.

He carried her upstairs — her legs wrapped around his waist, his cock still buried deep inside her — to the master bedroom. He laid her on the great four-poster bed with the carved headboard of thorns and roses, and made love to her until dawn — slow, deep, worshipful — filling her again and again, until she slept in his arms, wrecked and claimed and his.

The catalog was supposed to take six months. Rana finished it in five — working by day in the library, and by night, belonging to its master.

Every night, when the house grew quiet, the piano would begin below — dark and rolling and endless. And Rana would go down to him, as she always did, as she always would. He took her in the library — on the piano, against the shelves, bent over the great oak desk with his hand fisted in her hair. He took her in the music room, on the chaise, her legs over his shoulders. He took her in the gardens at dusk — against the old stone wall, the thorned roses scratching her back, his hands under her dress, his thick cock driving into her from the front, her legs wrapped around his waist. She screamed into his shoulder, the sunset blazing behind them, his mouth on her throat, sucking a mark into her skin. He pounded her against the wall until she shattered, sobbing — and he erupted inside her, groaning her name, filling her as the light died.

One night, in the library, he tied her wrists with a silk curtain cord — gently, reverently — and laid her back on the great oak desk, spreading her wide.
- My beautiful archivist, — he breathed, his eyes devouring her.
- Let me catalog you.

He worshipped her for an hour — his mouth on her pussy, his tongue licking her slowly, thoroughly, learning every fold, every ridge, like she was a rare manuscript he was cataloging with his tongue. He licked her in long, devoted strokes — tasting her, savoring her — his tongue pushing into her dripping entrance, fucking her gently, then circling her clit with maddening patience. She sobbed, straining gently against the silk cord, her back arching off the desk, coming again and again under his mouth — her juices flowing, her cries echoing off the library shelves. Then he rose over her, still bound, and pushed into her — slow, deep, claiming thrusts — his eyes locked on hers.

- Who do you belong to? — he asked, his thumb stroking her cheek.

- You, papacito, — she whispered, tears sliding down her temples.
- Only you.

He made love to her on the desk — deep, devoted — until they came together in a shattering wave, his thick shaft pulsing his come deep inside her. He untied her wrists gently, kissing each one, and held her while she trembled.

In the spring, they were married properly in the chapel, with Mrs. Holloway sobbing in the front pew. And on their wedding night, he carried her to the master bedroom — her wedding dress pooled on the floor — and laid her back on the thorn-and-rose bed.

- My wife, — he breathed, settling between her thighs, his thick cock hard and leaking, the head weeping pre-come onto her skin.
- My Rana. Mine. Tonight I take you as my wife — properly, completely.

- Yours, papacito, — she whispered, spreading for him, her wedding ring glinting on her finger.
- Forever. Take me.

He pushed into her slowly — inch by inch, savoring the stretch, his thick throbbing shaft filling her completely — deep, reverent, his eyes locked on hers. She moaned, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, her hands roaming his broad shoulders, his back. He made love to his wife as the candles burned low — slow, devoted thrusts, his mouth on hers, on her throat, on her breasts — worshipping her with his body. She came softly, whimpering, her body rippling around him — and he followed, groaning her name, flooding her with his come.

The catalog was completed in five months, three weeks, and two days. It ran to four leather-bound volumes, and the first page of the first volume bore a dedication in Rana's own hand:

For D. — who taught me that the greatest collections are not of books, but of moments. Every one of mine is yours.

The roof was repaired. The gardens were replanted — roses, black and purple, thorned and glorious. The gates of Sean Niklas stood open now, and the heir who hadn't left the manor in eleven years walked the grounds every evening with his wife on his arm.

And every night, when the house grew quiet, the piano would begin below — dark and rolling and endless. And Rana would go down to him, as she always did, as she always would, barefoot in her nightdress, ready to be caught.

Because she was his. Claimed, loved, kept. Bound — never abandoned. His mamacita. His devoted sub. His wife. Forever.

The music room — a rainy afternoon.

The rain lashed the tall windows, and he found her at the piano — her fingers hesitant on the keys, picking out the melody he'd played that first night. He stood in the doorway, watching her, his smoke-fire eyes dark.

- Keep playing, — he said quietly.

She played — halting, imperfect — and he crossed the room, stood behind her, his hands covering hers on the keys, guiding her fingers. His body pressed against her back, his heat surrounding her, his lips at her ear.

- Like this, mamacita, — he breathed, his hands moving hers.
- Feel it.

The music swelled — dark, rolling — and his hands left the keys and slid down her body, over her dress, cupping her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples through the fabric. She moaned, her fingers faltering on the keys, her head falling back against his shoulder.

- Papacito— — she gasped.

- Shh. Keep playing.
His hands pushed her dress up, baring her thighs, and slid between them — his fingers finding her pussy through her panties, stroking her, pressing. She whimpered, her hips moving against his hand, her playing falling apart into discordant notes.

He turned her around on the piano bench — facing him — and knelt between her thighs, pushing her dress up, tearing her panties aside. His mouth found her pussy — hot, hungry — his tongue licking her in deep strokes. She screamed, her hands fisting in his hair, her back arching off the bench.

He ate her with relentless hunger — his tongue spearing into her, then circling her clit — until she shattered, wailing, her pussy clenching on nothing. He stood, freed his thick cock, and positioned her — her back against the piano, her legs wrapped around his waist — and drove into her in one deep stroke.

She screamed — the piano keys crashing discordantly beneath her shifting weight. He fucked her against the piano — hard, fast, brutal — his hands gripping her hips, the music room echoing with her cries and the jangling keys.

- Who owns you?
he roared over the noise.

- You do, papacito! — she screamed.
- I'm yours!

He reached between them and rubbed her clit — and she shattered, her pussy strangling his shaft — and he groaned deep and erupted inside her, his thick cock pulsing jet after jet of hot come deep in her pussy, filling her.

He stayed buried in her, breathing hard, the rain lashing the windows.
- My beautiful archivist, — he breathed, kissing her deeply.
- My mamacita. Mine.

She clung to him, trembling, completely his — in the music room, in the library, in every room of his house. Forever.

Under the blood moon

Lily was twenty-eight years old, and on the night of the blood moon she stood naked in the ritual chamber beneath the castle, and she had never been more ready for anything in her life.

The hours before had been a slow torment of anticipation. Her handmaidens had bathed her in water scented with black roses, washed her hair until it shone, rubbed her skin with oils until it gleamed. They had painted her eyelids with kohl and her lips with dark berry stain, and dressed her in a robe of sheer black gauze that hid nothing, and all the while her body had hummed with need, because she knew what the night would bring.

Marco had come to her chambers an hour before the rite, alone, dismissing the handmaidens with a look. He had stood in the doorway in his ceremonial robes and looked at her in the gauze, and his silver eyes had gone dark with hunger.

- You are shaking, — he had said, crossing to her, taking her trembling hands in his.

- I am nervous, — she had admitted. — Before the whole court, Marco. They will all be watching.

- Then let me remind you who you belong to, — he had murmured, — so that when you walk into that chamber, there is no fear left in you, only hunger.

He had pushed her back onto the bed and knelt between her thighs, pushing the gauze aside, and he had eaten her slowly and thoroughly, his tongue stroking her folds, sucking her clit, driving her to a long shuddering climax with his mouth while she clutched the sheets and moaned his name. Then he had stood, and she had knelt before him, and she had taken his great hard cock into her mouth, deepthroating him with all the skill she had learned in his bed, until he groaned and pulled free, his cock wet with her spit.

- Not yet, — he had said, breathing hard, tucking himself away. — Save it for the altar, my bride. The moon will not wait, and neither will the court.

And then he had left her there, wet and aching and desperate, and the handmaidens had led her down to the ritual chamber, and the wanting had built in her with every step until she thought she would go mad ...