Witch & Hunter [MF] [Urban Fantasy] [Chapter 3]

(This one is a bit longer with lots of plot. Skip to ****** for sex]

The Intercontinental is the type of hotel they use to shoot movies. On the outside it was all red brick, reflective glass and exposed metal. Inside it was post-modern elegance, right angles and recessed lighting. There were some tips of the cap to the old school elegance Morgan was more familiar with – brass fixtures on the stairs and marble in one landing. All overlooking the restored beauty of the Potomac.

Morgan rented a suite with a beautiful view of the river over the pier and marina. Like most beings that aged much slower than mortals, she had been able to amass plenty of money through the incredible power of compound interest. A few nights in a suite wouldn’t make much of a dent in her monthly expenses (also like most quasi-immortal creatures, she was meticulous about record keeping).

A spiderweb of chic lights was strung over the pier, where a few couples milled about in the gold and lavender light of late sunset. Morgan took a sip of her wine and watched them. The Hunter would almost certainly *not* be out on the pier. From what Chana had said, he might be hard to spot at all. But if he was, he would be out late, and probably at the bar. So she was going to wait down there for him. And if she picked up another man while she was down there, so much the better.

An hour after sundown she made her way down to the bar. It stretched parallel to the waterfront at the ground floor, the lights of the city twinkling off the low waves of the river. The bartender was an older woman, with steely hair and patient bright eyes.

“Evening ma’am. What will you have?” she asked 15 seconds after Morgan sat down.

“Hmm,” Morgan said. The woman behind the bar looked very professional. She didn’t exude the hunger for tips that made many bartenders overly friendly. Morgan liked her. “A rum kramambula.”

The bartender blinked, “You Belarusian?”

“No, I just like them,” Morgan said with a smile.

“I’m surprised you even know what that is.”

“I could say the same for you,” Morgan replied.

“Just give me a moment,” the woman said.

As she went to make the cocktail, Morgan turned in her stool. She was wearing a black cocktail dress with a long slit up her left leg. She made sure to show plenty of her firm pale thigh to the room. She saw a number of people glance her way, letting their eyes linger. It gave her a thrill and she smiled as she turned back to the approaching bartender.

“Sorry if I’m a little rusty,” the woman said, “it has been a while.”

Morgan took a sip and smiled at the warm burn. “Perfection, thank you.”

“Will that be all, ma’am?”

“Yes,” Morgan said nodding at the woman and turning back to the room.

Over the next few hours she kept watch, flirting dispassionately with a number of men and one woman as they approached the bar to buy her a drink. She had to excuse herself once to cleanse herself with a minor charm, to keep her wits about her. Her supernatural abilities would be stymied if she overloaded her very normal liver.

She was beginning to get frustrated when another man walked up. He stood out. He had dark brown skin, a smooth shaved head and a meticulously groomed moustache that extended out to his cheeks. His head was shaved, and even though it was well past nightfall he still wore an expensive pair of sunglasses. His suit was perfectly tailored, and he wore a silk shirt unbuttoned to his sternum beneath the jacket. A large golden chain with what looked like tiger claws wrought into fittings hung around his neck. She could see strong, lean muscles on his chest. He flashed her blindingly white teeth.

“Evening madam,” he said, with a light Bengali accent.

“Well hello there,” she said, giving him a blatant once over.

As he neared, their auras brushed together and Morgan felt the humming tension of his *power*. He was either a magic user or non-human. Her pulse increased a note.

“My name is Alam,” he said, inclining his head, “and I was wondering if I could keep you company during your vigil.”

“Vigil?” She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“You have been sitting here, watching the crowd, for several hours,” he noted. “You either enjoy watching rich people get comfortably drunk, or you are looking for someone.”

“Mmm,” Morgan said.

“You do not like that I noticed.”

“It is embarrassing,” she admitted.

“Do not feel bad,” he said, sitting in the stool next to her and facing the opposite way. “I am very observant.”

“Is that so?”

“Hah, you doubt me?”

“I’m skeptical,” she replied.

“How can I prove myself, madam?”

She gave him a sidelong look. “Oh you don’t need to do that.”

“I am imposing,” he said, looking regretful.

“You are not the first,” she replied.

“Can I help you, sir?” the steely haired barkeep asked.

“I also will have a rum kramambula,” the man said.

Morgan narrowed her eyes and looked at him. He gave her a mild smile back.

“You aren’t doing a very good job of convincing me you’re human,” she said.

“I am not trying to,” he said with a shrug. “Our auras *did* touch.”

“True,” Morgan said, glancing to make sure no one was listening in to their conversation.

“You fear the mortals?”

“Caution is not the same as cowardice,” she said tersely.

“I keep offending,” he said with a helpless laugh. “I am not trying to.”

“What *are* you trying to do?”

“Talk to the most powerful witch in the city,” the man said, flashing his bright teeth again.

“What are you?”

“So direct,” he laughed, “Lovely.”

“I’m serious.”

“I was able to figure out your obscure Belarusian drink,” he said. “Surely someone of your abilities can figure out what I am.”

“I’m not sure you’re worth that effort,” she replied.

“How about a wager then,” the man said. Supernatural beings were all addicted to gambling in some form or another. They loved to *bargain*.

“What are the stakes,” Morgan asked, continuing to scan the room for the Hunter.

“If you can guess what I am, I will owe you a favor,” he offered.

That was a steep bet already – an open ended favor was heady currency. “And if I can’t?”

“You will give me a kiss,” the man replied. He quickly added. “But not just a peck. A *kiss*.”

She gave him a reproving glare. “You play for high stakes. Depending on what you are, you could eat my soul with a kiss.”

“I won’t,” he said. “By my power.”

*Ah*, she thought. Not human *and* a magic user. That made him more dangerous but made his promise even more binding.

“Fine,” she said. “Three guesses?”

“For three kisses if you fail.”

She rolled her eyes. “A naga.”

“Two guesses left,” the man said. He took a sip of his drink, which had been silently left by the old bartender.

“I only need one then,” she said. “A rakshasa.”

“Damn,” he spat, his smile souring.

“Now what shall I ask for my favor,” she wondered aloud, smiling sickly sweet at him. He was a demon, a cannibal spirit of Hindu folklore who could change his form as he saw fit. He also had the power to create illusions on par with the Faeries of Celtic myth. He was extremely dangerous. His aura thrummed with power which… gave her an idea.

“My quarry is not here tonight,” she said. “I propose a use for my favor that will not be too onerous for you.”

“Forgive my doubts.”

“You will submit to me for one night,” she says. “That I may harvest the power of our mingled auras. Then you will depart and we will be even.”

He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “For my favor you ask me to fuck you?” His accent had thickened after she guessed his nature.

“You will *submit* to me,” she said. “That may involve fucking, as I see fit.”

“I see,” he said, looking dubious.

“It’s not as if you have much choice,” she said.

He growled, a leonine tone to the sound. “I suppose you are right.”

“I always am.”

“Swear by your power you will do me no lasting harm,” the rakshasa said.

“Hmm,” she said. She would either need another cleansing spell to clear her head for negotiations or just get those over with. She was frustrated and this was a way to salvage quite the profit from the mess. “I swear by my power I will not harm you but in self-defense this night.”

He snorted a laugh and then finished his drink. “Fine, where is your room?”

An hour later the rakshasa sat cross-legged on the bed of her suite, surrounded by a pentagram of salt poured from a number of shakers she ordered with no explanation from room service. At the corner of each stood a candle. Morgan was happy she had thought to bring a few of her fetishes to the hotel with her. They would absorb the power of the ritual.

“This is lackluster foreplay,” the rakshasa said dryly as she finished the last candle.

“Shut up,” she said firmly, intoning the words with her power, and he did. His eyebrows went up as he did and then he scowled.

Satisfied she nodded down at her work. It would be up to the task. She blinked a bit against the effects of her drinks. Then she stepped into the pentagram and imbued it with her power. It thrummed like a giant bass string, vibrations that could not be heard but that suffused her entire body.

“Now,” she said, “take off your clothes.”

The rakshasa snorted a laugh and then nodded. In the next moment he was completely naked. His body was taut with muscle that rippled as he spread his hands to expose his wares. He had dark curly hair on his chest and around his ample manhood. “Very good,” she said. “Now undress me. Without groping me.”

He nodded and began to matter of factly unzip her dress and peel it off. He then unclasped her bra and slid it down her arms. Lastly he hooked his fingers in her lacy underwear and pulled it off of her. She stood at the edge of the bed looking at him. During the process of undressing her, he had become hard and his cock was quivering just in front of her. It was thick and she had to admit, tempting.

But you don’t turn a demon into a sex slave for a night to indulge *his* pleasure.

“My feet are sore,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed and swinging her feet up into his lap, less than an inch from his quivering dick. “Perhaps I will be in the mood after you rub them.”

He narrowed his eyes and made a displeased sound, and then began to rub her feet. It was incredible. He knew just where to press and rub and how to relieve the tension that had built up. The stress of her frankly *stupid* gamble to harness power from him through sex. He literally *ate* people. And she was using him for a foot rub. A very, very good foot rub.

She felt herself getting wet, just from him touching her feet. “You’ve done this before,” she said.

He gave her a small smile and a nod.

“You do it well,” she allowed. His smile widened and he bowed his head again.

She enjoyed the pleasure of his touch some more and then told him, “Now sit at the foot of the bed.”

He raised an eyebrow and put her feet down before crawling to the end of the bed. She moved to the center of the bed, resting her head on a pillow and spreading her pale legs in front of him. “Now, slave,” she said, “please me with your mouth.”

His eyes literally blazed at the use of the term slave, a sullen red light suffusing them.

“Just for tonight, dear,” she added.

The light faded and he gave her a non-plussed look, before leaning forward and extending his tongue. He ran it along her inner thighs. It was rougher than a human tongue, and Morgan remembered his *true* form had a tiger’s head. When it moved from caressing her thighs to going directly up the lips of her pussy the texture felt incredibly intense. She shuddered as it parted her lips and ran directly over her clit.

“Hell’s fire,” she swore, running her hands over the smooth skin of his head. There was nothing to grab to pull him in, so she resorted to pressing directly on the back of his head. He obliged, moving down and sliding his tongue inside of her. It felt far too long, but the sensation as it swirled into her was overwhelming. Her toes curled and she let out a little gasp.

He chuckled and then redoubled is efforts, sliding that rough tongue over her clit and then swirling down into her in a rapid rhythm.

“Oh… shit,” she gasped, trying to fight down her rapidly building orgasm.

Then he started *purring*. The vibrations it sent into her body were shocking, waves of pleasure emanating from his mouth. Combined with his tongue swirling inside her of her it didn’t push her over the edge, it shoved her over a cliff. Her vision dimmed and her body shuddered as her orgasm tore through her. She cried out, eyes wide but barely seeing.

He did not stop. He kept going, his rhythm unchanged. She clamped her thighs around his head but he didn’t seem to notice. He cupped her ass in his palms and lifted her up, hooking her legs on his shoulders as he continued to bear down on her pussy.

“No… oh God,” she moaned. She wanted him to stop, she needed him to stop. Her mind was buckling as her orgasm kept rolling into the next and the one after. His touch burned, she was too sensitive. But it felt so good.

“St-St-” she tried to say the words.

He redoubled his efforts, now sliding two fingers into her and finding her g-spot with expert skill, messaging it as his tongue wrapped around her clit, sending his purring directly into it.

“FUCK!” she screamed, hooking her legs around his head, pulling him tighter to her, then doubling up as the sensation became so intense she couldn’t stand it. She started thrashing, pushing at his head. “St-STOP!”

As she said the words he immediately dropped her and sat up. Her pussy spasmed at the sudden absence and she curled up on one side, shuddering at the remembered sensation.

After several shuttering moments she said “you, you knew I wanted you to stop.”

“It seemed like you might,” he said in a calm voice. “But I just *couldn’t be sure*.”

She collected herself then and sat up. Now her eyes blazed, a gathering violet let shining out into the room. A wicked smile curled across her face. “Well,” she said. “Now it’s my turn.”

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/i7xfb8/witch_hunter_mf_urban_fantasy_chapter_3