Dark Little One.

Abigail never would have believed that by escaping her uncle in the darkest hour of the night that she would avoid one peril only to fall into a deeper one.

Orphaned by parents who’s ship had never made the return trip from Italy due to a storm she had become the ward of a man everyone had believed pious, but who’s true colours had shown themselves tonight as he forced his way into her room. He had imbibed too much, and said the Lord had sent him to purge her of her wicked temptation.

A candlestick to the head had incapacitated him, and now Abigail ran into the night wearing only her white cotton nightrail. Fear spurred her down the dirty cobblestone streets of London. Most ignored her, as they had her screams earlier. She was just one more poor soul who had the misfortune of not being of the upper crust.

An older woman, a few missing teeth leaving gaps between rotting ones, stepped in her path. Clothes with rips and patches in places adorned her. “Allo, Dearie. Ain’t ye a pretty one? Why don’t ye come ‘ome with Bertha? I take good care o’ ye.” She licked cracked lips, eyes passing over the younger woman in appraisal. When Abigail shrunk back she cackled. “Whatsa matter, Dearie? Ain’t I pretty enough for ye?”

Abigail turned to run another way, seeing sailors had caught sight of her and were now nearing. As they did so they spread out to cut off her escape. A sob caught in her throat, creating a lump that made breathing difficult. The crone laughed. “Lookee what we gots here, boys! Fresh meat!” Abigail screamed when a hand tugged at her long ebony locks, some ripping out of her scalp as she yanked free. In desperation Abigail ran at the crone, knocking her back and escaping down an alley.

The alley wound around a few buildings, the ground littered with garbage and refuse. Tired, sore, and terrified Abigail barely noticed as she ran barefoot, blindly darting down one and then another, leaving behind the sounds of heavy footfalls and shouts that had followed her. Unable to run any longer she leaned against a wall, the sobs finally breaking free. Her lithe body shook with them, the front of her nightrail damp from the tears.

Once they calmed she wiped at her eyes, and straightened her shoulders. She could not remain in the alley, dirty and indecently dressed. Pushing from the wall she turned another corner and collided into someone. A am bam bubbled up, but a hand gently covered her mouth as another caught her arm in a firm yet gentle grip. Her heart pounded so hard against her ribcage she feared it would break through. It was too dark to see who held her, but she knew it had to be a man. The body was tall, broad, and firm. He stood head and shoulders over her, and the scent of expensive cologne clung to his clothes.

“Shhhhh, little one.” His voice was warm rough velvet. “You should not be about alone for a killer stalks Whitechapel.”

Everyone had heard of the Ripper. The killer who disembowelled women had managed to elude Scotland Yard. His words penetrated her numbed mind. She was in Whitechapel? She hadn’t known that she had run so far. For all she knew this man was the Ripper, the one who preyed on females to cut them open and expose their entrails. A few rumours had been bandied about that the Ripper was a Lord, or even the Prince Regent himself!

He had felt her relax only to tense up once more at his reminder of the killer who stalked the whores that worked the night. He knew denying he was said killer would not make her trust him. His hand over her mouth waved before her face. “Relax, little one.” Her body eased, and leaned into him. His lips quirked amusedly. “So, you are not as young as I perceived you to be at first.” He could feel firm breasts against him, and her hips were nicely curved.

Antoine also stalked the streets, but not to rip women open. A woman was to be savoured and lingered over, like a fine wine. When she was in the throes of passion her heady bouquet was all the sweeter. He’d heard her screams earlier, had followed the sounds of her escape, and waited until her crying had ceased before placing himself in her path. The smell of fresh blood off her nightrail mingled with that of the wild pansy soap she’d used to bathe with earlier. Beneath those scents was her female one: rich, warm and vibrant.

Smiling softly down at her he stepped back, and lifted his top hat to her. “I am Comte Antoine du Berrier.” Stepping aside he motioned to a carriage drawn by two matched blacks. “Allow me to escort you from here.” He helped her into the vehicle. He could hear her pursuers were nearly upon them. Swinging up he glanced at the driver. “Home.”

She sat with eyes heavy lidded and her ebony locks tangles of curls in disarray about her. “You are safe now,” he assured her. His voice was low and hypnotic. “Is there anyone who…”

“No!” She sat up abruptly and blinked to clear her head. “He came to my room. He said he had to purge me of my tempting ways.” The words caught in her throat as the memory or unr uncle standing over her bed returned. “I will not go back there.”

Nodding her rescuer sat back. “Then you will not mind being taken to my house. You can bathe, change into something clean, and tomorrow we will contact the magistrate.”
For the rest of the ride he sat back and watched her. The way she held herself, her speech, and the delicacy of her bone structures all told him she had blue blood in heinseins.

His house was a three storied brick edifice with a black cast iron fence surrounding the grounds. Abigail was skittish, and he did not attempt to touch her in any way except to assist her down from the carriage. Inside he directed his housekeeper, a grey haired woman who looked pinched and was thin, to clean the girl and put her to bed.

Once they were partway up the staircase he left again, this time leaving his carriage behind. Tonight he would hunt The Ripper on foot. Like the last few nights he had no luck. Prowling the streets of Whitechapel he presented a fearful picture in his cloak and top hat, his stride purposeful and his face stonily set. Beggars and drunkards stepped out of his path and shrunk into the shadows. He could smell their decadence, their perversion, and their darkness. Each had a different flavour to their scent. This one had raped a woman, that one had stolen a drunken lord’s purse, and that one had killed a but but had yet to be caught for the crime. None had the scent of The Ripper. He knew the scent well, had sniffed it at the scenes of the horrible murders committed by the killer.
The Ripper’s scent was deeply dark, endless dark, with a throbbing outer edge of crimson that pulsed with the same life as the claret wine called blood that he’d spilled from his victims. Sometimes that scent was a faint trail he’d followed like a hound on a chase, only to lose it suddenly. And the Comte was growing impatient and frustrated. Whoever this Ripper was, he was smart, and had no soul.

It was still dark out when the Comte returned home. The house was dark and silent, and he went to the room he knew Abigail slept in. Her scent lured him to the door, and he eased it open, slipping inside the room. Her small form was in the centre of the bed, the sheet partly thrown off, and her long and shapely legs bared as the shirt she’d been given to sleep in was bunched up above her h Hi His eyes clearly made out the roundness of the swells of her ass.

Nearing the bed he halted at the foot and stared hard at her. “Roll onto your back for me,” he whispered, his voice no more than the kiss of a soft breeze against the skin, but she obeyed. Gracefully Abigail rolled onto her back, a soft sigh escaping her. His gaze fell to the tuft of curls visible now at the junction of her thighs. “Spread your legs,” he ordered, tongue sweeping out to moisten his lips. A sudden hunger gripped him, stronger than any he’d ever felt before. He wanted her.

Her legs parted, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to see more. “Lift your knees, and spread wide for me to look at you.” Slowly her knees drew up, and her legs parted further. Now he could see all her glory, and the musk-y yet clean scent of her filled his nostrils. Leaning forward he carefully placed his hands on the bed, between her legs, and he almost touched his face to her pussy. The tip of his tongue darted out, and slowly drew over the protruding lips of her slit all the way to her clit and flicked it teasingly. Her hips arched up, a small gasp trembling off her lips. Retracting his tongue down to her slit he burrowed it between the lips, seeking her juices and tasting the bittersweet creaminess that was hers.

Pulling back he stared down at her once more, licking every last drop of her slickness off his lips. “Touch yourself, little one. Touch yourself where I tasted you.” His excitement grew as one of her hands slid to her pussy. “Stroke yourself,” he whispered, and nodded as her fingers caressed her cunt. He didn’t have to tell her where to touch, or to hasten the stroking. She soon was rubbing at her clit and slit, the rhythm increasing. He could see her juices leaking out from her slit, and her musk smell grew piquant with her arousal. Her hips were swaying, her hunger now as strong as his, though of a different nature.

Quickly he disrobed, reached down, and grasped his cock. It was semi-hard, and he stroked and shook it until it was engorged and steely. Climbing onto the bed between her lovely legs he poked a fingertip at her slit, wriggling it further and further inside her until he felt the barrier of her virginity. Inserting a second finger he pumped them in and out of her even as she rubbed at her clit. She was panting now, and he felt her pussy walls tighten more and more until she came with a cry, hips thrashing up against his hand.

She was awake now, and in confusion watched him withdraw his fingers from her pussy. “Milord?”

Kneeling between her spread legs he again grasped his cock, and held it out towards her. Slowly he slid his hand up and down the shaft, squeezing the head until a pearl of pre-cum appeared. His eyes were locked on her face as she intently watched him play with himself. “Come here, little one.”

She didn’t want to, but couldn’t stop herself from sitting up. His free hand burrowed in her hair at the back of her head, and drew her down until the head of his cock was at her face. Her heart pounded. What did he want from her?”

“Lick my cream off,” he ordered. “It is a gift for you, little one. As I enjoyed your taste so shall you enjoy mine.” Lifting his hips higher he held his cock out for her to lick. “Lick it off.”

Tentatively her tongue darted out, and scooped up the pearl of cum. His taste was hot and not unpleasant. He had moaned deeply, trembled against her and by lifting her gaze she saw raw pleasure on his face. Emboldened she watched his face even as her tongue darted out to again flick at the head of his cock. The sense of having power over him surged inside her, and she slowly drew her tongue down and then up his cock, twirled it around the head, and back down to his swollen balls. He groaned, hand clasping and unclasping in her hair. Curiously she drew the head of his cock in her mouth and held it there.

“Suck upon it, little one!” he urged her, voice rough and deep. “Take as much of my cock as you can, and suck upon it. Oh yes!” he gasped, feeling himself sliding slowly into the hot and wet cavity of her mouth. There was the gentle scrape of her teeth, a tiny bit of near pain to enhance the pleasure. After a few moments she began to relax more, and became quite adept at sucking and sliding him in and out of her mouth. He could feel his balls tighten, knew he’d cum soon if he didn’t stop her.

Lifting her he smiled down at her. “Do you want to learn more?” he enticed, unbuttoning the shirt she wore, and tossing it away. She had lovely tits, slightly heavy and still firm.

“Will you lick me there again?” she breathlessly asked. “It felt so nice.”

“Later, little one. First I will teach you how to fuck.” Laying her back he bent over her tits, touching his tongue to a nipple and licking at it until it was hard and swollen so he could suck upon it and nibble it. His hand found her pussy, pinched her clit gently, and tugged on it softly before he again pushed two fingers in her slit and pumped them until she was burning hot and soaked. Reaching for his cock he guided it to her slit, and rubbed the head over the swollen lips, his pre-cum mingling with her juices.

The Comte reached back and caught at her legs, drawing them up high so she lay completely open for him. His cock slid inside her, a grunt escaping him at how tight she was. When he felt the barrier of her virginity he drew back before surging forward hard and fast. Her shout of pain turned into a sob, and he paused to let her become accustomed to his invasion.

Kneeling back, he held her legs up and open as he slowly pulled his cock nearly all the way out and pushed it in until his balls touched her ass. Her hips were off the mattress, her teary eyes on him; his on the sight of his cock sliding out coated in her juices and then sliding in again. Each time his dick became visible he could see it covered in her virginal blood and her creamy slickness. Her walls got hotter and hotter at the friction.

She could see it, his cock moving in and out of her where he had earlier licked her. This felt nice too, and the feeling of being filled up was good. Was this what her uncle had wanted from her tonight? Her breath caught as the Comte’s cock now moved in and out of her faster, his hips pounding against her hard.

Dropping her legs he lay over her, riding her hard and fast, knowing he’d cum soon. And knowing what would happen when he did. Her breath was a steady stream of hot little pants against his hair, her nails raked his back until he thought she’d draw blood, and against his chest he felt the steady and strong beat of her heart. His head lifted, and his eyes were nearly white ringed in crimson, his lips were drawn back in a curling sneer, and sharp incisors appeared. His balls tightened, her walls tightened, and as he felt the surge of his cum ready to spurt he sank his fangs into her neck, his hands fisting in the sheets as the ecstasy of her blood on his tongue increased the pleasure of his orgasm tenfold. His cum shot out of him and into her depths as her walls convulsed and spasmed hard around his cock. She was screaming, nails breaking the skin of his back and drawing blood of her own as he sipped from her.

She was lax beneath him, and he tore himself away from her before he killed her. Lying beside her he turned his head to look at her. His little one lay sprawled, her virgin blood a smear on her spread thighs, and her life’s blood a smear at her neck. Her tits poked proudly and boldly up with the nipples still slightly swollen and hard. The smell of blood mingled with those of pussy juice and his cum. His cock now lay soft and covered in the fluids he could smell from her. Reaching a hand over he felt cheschest, and felt the weak beat of her heart. It would grow strong again after rest and a meal. For now he could feel the dawn coming.

Rising out of bed he gathered his clothes and glanced at her. “You are now mine, little one. Wait for me, and tonight I will come to you again.” He disappeared as the sun broke over the horizon and light filtered into the room.