Slivers of light illuminate her carriage. It’s as ancient as she is, black as this witching hour, and only moonbeams confirming its existence. High in her seat, the old hag drives her horses hard along the well-worn track, cracking her whip in the air over the horses’ hind quarters. They heed the warning and gallop faster, but they know as well as she does that the whip is worn, its edges frayed, and will find itself on the carriage floor with the others. But seeking a new one is becoming frustrating.
The night is still; beautiful in its eeriness. Owls hoot, and the wails of the spirits strike her ears. Soon… It is her night—she can feel it in her bones. She scours the roadside as she hurtles along, lifting a mirror to her crag-riddled face and dirt-grey, ragged hair that flails behind her. Witching hour it is, indeed! Staring back at her are wavy, raven tresses, wide green eyes, and fresh freckled cheeks. She blows herself a kiss, her wizened lips a stunning sorbet rosebud in the looking-glass. The time is near.
A blurred shape appears along the roadside. Slowing her horses, her inner hag smacks her lips. The smell of human flesh is unmistakable. She flicks her hair, making huge eyes at ‘Death’, who trudges along in the quagmire remnants of yesterday’s rainfall. A white rubber skeleton mask stares back at her, blue eyes peering through the holes, a costume cloak trailing in the mud, leaving ‘Death’ looking like he’s seen better days. His scythe is authentic, though. She leans down, brushing his shoulder with her chest as she fingers its blade with admiration: it’s exceedingly sharp—he could cut himself.
“I’m sorry to be a nuisance.” His voice is muffled, weary. A tingle spirals its way down her back, coming to rest between her thighs. He’s just perfect. She listens in delight to his words. “I’m meant to be at a Hallowe’en party, but I haven’t a clue where I’m going. Erm, I don’t walk around like this all the time, just in case you were wondering.” He offers a muffled chuckle at his feeble joke, and she laughs back.
“That you don’t, I’m sure.” Her welcoming smile and shining eyes receive a glint behind the mask in return.
“Would you happen to know a place called Witchwood? It’s where my invitation told me to go.”
Who on earth could have told him to go there? Someone having a private joke, surely? Everyone surely knows what happens to people at Witchwood on a night like this! Maybe she’s treading on another’s toes, playing with this human. But, needs must.
“I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of such a place. But—I can’t leave you lost all night, can I?” Her lips are full and pouty; she undoes her cloak, revealing youthful full mounds, pushed up over the corsetry of her green dress. The eyes blink hard and fast behind the Death mask, and she responds, scooping up her breasts into her palms, pressing them up against one another, toying with the desires in the eyes of that masked face.
“I’m stopping here for the night. Would you consider coming inside the shelter of my carriage until the night is over?”
She bites her lip and flirts with ‘Death’ through her eyelashes. These humans; it takes so little. She gets down from her seat and watches as he drops his scythe and clambers into the carriage. Climbing in behind him, she nudges her old whips under the seat with her foot and sits, the moonbeams colluding with all who run amok on this night, and illuminating her beautiful façade.
“I’m very grateful to you for this.” The soft voice is incongruous with the skeletal head, its teeth set in an evil grimace. Her breath grows faster, excitement coursing through her body.
“It’s a bad night for you to be out there.” She flutters her eyelashes. It’s dark, it’s wet—and she knows that she has the upper hand. Courting Death is what she does best. His eyes flash back through his mask at her rosy glow and coy smile. Oh, yes. The signs are there. She grasps his hand in hers.
She feels him start at her touch; feels him melt under her guidance as she takes his icy fingers, laying his palm on the top of her corsetry, his fingers pressed against her mounds. “They’d get warmer quicker if they slid between my breasts.”
There’s a muffled moan from behind the mask, and his fingers curl and tuck themselves between her luscious flesh.
“Two hands are better than one.” She tempts his other hand, giving him the ribbon of her bodice to unpick each criss-cross, laying her dress open, her beautiful fair flesh bouncing and jiggling in his palms.
“Can you see how excited you’re making me?” Caressing each of his index fingers, she places them over her nipples that have peaked and hardened at such promising beginnings.
“I think—you’re beautiful. You’ve entranced me. I can’t believe it. I don’t understand it. I think—even when the night’s over—a part of me will remain forever yours.”
Now she must show her hand: everything or nothing.
“You know what I am? You know what a Banshee is?”
His fingers rub harder over her nipples. The wetness pools between her legs. Waiting to see how it plays out is excruciating pleasure.
“I thought you must be.”
Her eyes open wide, and he moans some more. She hasn’t expected this. Normally, they don’t know what they’re getting into. Her arousal sends shock waves down her back, and she struggles to restrain her cravings. But she has to, or everything will be for nought.
“You know, then, that I embrace death? It’s my destiny.”
Blue eyes pierce her gaze, as ‘Death’ stares back.
“Yes. I know all that. ‘And on the third wail of the Banshee, Death comes to claim His victim.’”
She can hold off no longer. Slipping a hand into his crotch, she frees his throbbing erection from its confinements.
“I’m going to take good care of you tonight.” Dropping to her knees, her eyes wide and staring into his, she slides her tongue along his dripping slit. Exploring, the tip of her tongue finds his ridge, beautiful and deep. His whimpers reverberate around the carriage walls as she draws him in between her lips and sucks. She feels his body give in to her expert saliva-soaked caresses, until it’s impossible to tell whether the wetness that slathers his length belongs to him or her.
“Do you want to hear me wail?” Her mouth drips with his pre-cum, her breath is erratic, and he is pressed hard and firm between her breasts.
“Oh, yeah.” His gasps and moans dance with hers, as she rubs her breasts back and forth against the underside of his shaft, slapping against his balls as her rhythm quickens. She squeezes harder, encases him further, dragging her gaze away from his to watch his glorious cockhead thrusting up towards her mouth as he meets her rhythm with his own, and vanishing again between her bouncy, enticing flesh. Every time his glistening head appears towards her face, her tongue stretches to lick it. Her body is electrified; it’s an age since she felt this way. His sudden thrust to meet her leaves her tongue lapping at his head, and the feeling rises, fills her. It gushes forth in one exultant, roaring wail, shaking the carriage and escaping through the window into the night. Outside, the spirits halt their journeys, listening.
And the ground beneath them shakes. A warning: she’s been heard.
His eyes are pained; the wail has shocked him, she sees that. But there’s more, too. ‘Death’ has been set aflame. His cloak is off now, and he begins to remove his other articles of clothing.
“Did you expect me to cum like that? Did my wail scare you?”
His eyes dance behind his mask, as he sits there, naked in body, offering it to her.
“No, it didn’t. I had no idea that was how—. It made me want to cum.”
Her whispered words ooze desire, as they float near his ear. “Do you want me to wail again for you?”
As his fingers tremble on her shoulders, he lifts his mask just enough to trail kisses against the skin that he reveals and presses to his hot lips. His mouth drifts along her collar bone, and down, so he can taste himself on her flesh.
“Yes. I want it more than anything.”
She smiles, and gathers the bottom of her dress. Before he has a chance to grab hold of her, she has opened the door and jumped out of the carriage. His muffled squeal follows her.
“Where are you going? Don’t leave me!”
Turning, she smiles, the wetness on her breasts glistening in the moonlight. Grasping her skirts, she raises them higher, until he can almost glimpse of her pussy. Should she let him? Grinning, she turns away, flipping her skirts over her back, revealing her plump, round backside. She laughs.
“Moons in the moonlight. Ha! I have two; the sky only has one, does it not?”
Opening her legs wider, she bends and watches him upside-down through them. ‘Death’ climbs down from the carriage.
“Your pussy is wet. It’s gleaming.”
Oh, courting ‘Death’ is such fun! “Is that naughty of me? Feel how wet. Maybe I shouldn’t be such a bad little Banshee. What do you think? Maybe I need punishing.”
She watches, anticipation throbbing between her thighs as he stretches out a hand, his cock standing hard and proud against the night air. That feeling begins again, creeping its way through her capillaries, crawling all over her flesh. Her juices run, sticking to the tops of her thighs. The night is so still; just the rustle of trees, and cackles and screams of sacrifices far away. Does it arouse him as much as it does her?
His fingers slide along her dripping folds, probing, seeking her hard little clit. He flicks at it, and she whimpers.
“Yes, you’re a bad little Banshee.”
He massages her entrance with the heel of his hand. Her juices are all over him, and she watches through her legs as he licks them off. Two fingers thrust into her, unexpected and ferocious. She gasps, moans soft and low to his movement, savouring every thrust.
But he stops; withdraws.
“Not good enough. I want to hear you wail again.”
Grasping her in hands—much stronger and more impressive than she gave him credit for—he throws her against the carriage.
“Present yourself to me.”
She does as he commands. This is a strange set of occurrences. Relinquishing control of the situation is never in the remit. It must be the night, this hour, causing the thrill running through her at the danger of it all. She pushes her bounteous cheeks out towards him, waiting. What will embracing the strong arms of ‘Death’ bring? Will it bring her what she’s searching for?
His grunts fill the air as his hand comes down on her right cheek, the initial sting intensifying and burning deeper as he smacks her left one. Her breath leaves her in a long, low moan, and he murmurs, “Mmmmm.” His cockhead tickles her cheeks, sliding down between them until it pushes against her tight pink rosebud, and he holds himself there, spanking both cheeks fast and sharp. The burning begins to spread through her body, and her moan is guttural, broken.
She doesn’t see him grab her old, worn whip. But she feels him step back, hears its ancient whir, before he brings it down right over both her bare cheeks.
“Wail for me, Banshee. Cum for me.”
There’s nothing else she can do; she can’t control her feeling. It flies from her, and it fills the Samhain air, a piercing wail that shakes the roots of the trees in the surrounding landscape as her juices drench her.
The rumble reaches her ears; voices in the earth.
Playing with death is just what she’s doing. And she’s never felt more alive! She notes the eyes glinting in the bushes, caught every now and then by the moonbeams that act as her ethereal helpmeet.
“You’ve made me wail twice, now, man. You understand?”
She watches as he nods, cock in hand, pumping, desperation written in his eyes.
“Oh, I haven’t finished yet.”
He comes close, until his thighs touch hers, until she can feel the blood flowing through his jugular vein as she runs her mouth over his nakedness. She wraps her mouth over it; kisses it; sucks on it with a passion only matched by his hands that rip her dress off her body.
He flings himself to the ground at the roadside, next to the scythe. Laying there on his back, his cock laid across the base of his belly, he beckons to her.
“Wail once more for me. I beg you. And make me wail, too.”
The ground is rumbling, the spirits are gathering in the air. The power of the night is surrounding them. She is caught up in it, her own will pushed and tossed, her hunger insatiable. The ecstasy of it is almost more than she can bear. Straddling him, she lowers her naked beauty onto his drenched, slick cockhead. He’s delicious; every motion leaves him filling her more, until she’s balls deep and gripping him tight, leaving him panting and gasping.
She rides him hard, thrusting herself down onto him, feeling him grow to completeness inside her. His body burns hot beneath her as she bounces hard and fast and, with one almighty groan, he fires himself into her. The sound of his orgasm, the feel of his cum deep inside, the danger so close—they set her ablaze. Throwing her head back into the night, her wail rips through the air, heard as far as Witchwood, where the festivities will be in full swing; heard by the roaming creatures on this night.
And heard by the barrow dwellers.
The pairs of eyes vanish from the bushes. In the midst of cumming, she is acutely aware of how little time she has.
He is spent. He lays back on the ground, paying little heed to the mud spattering over his naked form. He doesn’t seem to feel the cold. The moonlight picks out the beads of sweat on his chest, sparkles of post-coital glitter, as if he’s been touched by the stars. He removes his mask, and she takes in his satiated, line wrung face: a human. Her human.
She takes good care of him, slipping down his body and milking his cock of every last drop of his manly strength while he stares at the moon, his deep throaty moans reverberating through his chest, down to her lips. Her tongue cleans him, lapping at his slit, feeling its way along his deep ridge. Finishing what she started. Allowing him to steal a kiss, she sits herself at his side, watching, waiting. He rests his head in her lap, the weight of him increasing as his eyes close, and he murmurs,
“I feel like I could sleep forever.”
She bends low, whispers in his ear.
“You know you will, don’t you?”
He opens his eyes, just long enough to catch sight of her raven hair beginning to fade. “Yes. And if—when—I do, know that this has been the best night ‘Death’ has ever had.”
He falls asleep in her arms, the spirit of the night wrapping him in its blanket, drawing out his last breath. She knows how it works with those who give themselves freely: he feels his life force seeping from his flesh. And he casts one last longing look at her, before his body ceases to move evermore.
He lays there, at the side of the road, exactly where she found him. Death without a mask, in all its naked glory. Thrice he caused the wail of the Banshee. He knew her story; he knew the risks.
She falls down by his slumped, cooling body, and pulls him close, cradling his head and stroking his hair. She should cry at the pitiful sight, but a smile breaks across her mouth as she rocks him back and forth. Better to have acted and taken the risk than live for decades in apathy. Her admiration for this human knows no bounds—her instinct was right. He is perfect.
The moonbeams catch a half-reflection on the blade of the scythe that lays at ‘Death’s’ side. Casting the light upon its metal, she sees herself, fully re-formed: grey rope snakes for hair, a face to rival the ancient barrows that surround them. For the last time, she holds his face tight against her hag’s breasts. The blade slices through his skin from neck to anus as easy as a pig in slaughter. With gnarled, expert fingers, she rips what she needs from his body. Let him be carrion for the crows, now.
She’s playing a dangerous game, lurking in Sidhe country, but she’ll be gone soon.
The horses are unnerved, sensing danger in the surrounding land. She calms them with the scent of her prize. Throwing her worn whip onto the heap of the other used ones that have served their purpose, she mounts her seat. Her new one lays across her palms, and she runs it through her fingers. Spinal cord from the human who risks everything is the only truly perfect whip for her endless journey. She cracks it overhead; the horses rear in acknowledgement.
Grinning down at the crumpled heap of skin, bone and blood at the roadside, her craggy voice whistles through her broken, rotting teeth.
“You were right, so you were. Part of you will stay with me forever.”
The Banshee has courted Death; embraced Him. Fucked Him good.
© Ina Morata 2016
Note: This was the story I contributed to AC Elliott’s wonderful Hallowe’en event this year. If you didn’t find it there, I thought you might like to read it here. And please, hop on over to the event at The Cracked Lens View, and read some more fantastic prose and poetry by the contributors. AND, whatever you do, don’t miss the Hallowe’en story by AC Elliott himself over the weekend. I’ve read it, and I can tell you that it’s a brilliant piece of erotic horror!
Happy reading! x