A Valentines Feast

Looking down I spy a mosquito.

It is, by far and away, a good dozen times larger than any other of its kind I've ever seen. More like the size of a House Sparrow than the normal size for such an insect. With wings a-hum it lands and stick its probe into my ink, sucking up the blood. Fascinated that anything could seek sustenance in something as vile as a putrid fluid of mine, I watch it drink its fill.

When it flies away, I feel suddenly the echoing emptiness of this place. Never much one for companionship, I look none the less over to the jutted slab of moss blackened stone that stick phallic like into the river Styx. The Ferry man just departed with his passengers, souls as lost as mine.

No. Not as lost as me.

I look down at the still almost blank tome before me, its pages marred by nothing but a simple intro I've just penned. In truth hardly worth the sanguine sacrifice to write it into the journal. Certainly not worth the waste of paper, since it will only be read by the peasant born like yourselves. Jacobite, scum that will seek a expulsion of lust in its words. Seek and not find. Not there...perhaps here though.

Not that I care. Sate your unsophisticated, immature, unrefined lust elsewhere. I care not.

Picking back up my quill, I jab it into the ragged wound on my arm and begin to write.

Valentines day? Oh, what a waste of time and breath. Bringing dead flowers to one still living in hopes of making her cunt randy enough she might give up her modest airs and admit to herself her own lustful wish to be fucked. How avant garde.

You need only bring a huge bottle of Burgundy wine, or maybe that hellish liquid Absinth. Say enough to get two musketeers drunk, and then ply her with it till her head is a-wobble on that pale neck. Then simply take what you wish. Be it mouth, cunt or her rose-curled anus.

How much simpler a task could you hope for in this life? Fool!

Oh, you wish for romance...Oh, how silly of me. You are of course in love! You wish to give her not your pigmied prick, but rather your heart, to your lady fair. I should have known, since you have not only the look but the bearing of a mental deficient. For only a madman would trust a woman with something so delicate as the human heart.

Do you not know?

They are fiends!

From the neglected Lilith, to the besmirched Eve. From Helen the sucker of the cocks of many, to Elizabeth the Golden sucker of none. That sex is born not from a rib bone of Adam as those prayer mumbling sycophantic fools claim, nor is it from sugar and spice! No matter what delusional tripe you might read for a demented man, Robert Southey! They are caved out of the very bedrock of hell, given marrow from the spines of demons, and blood from the torn gut of Prometheus! They are taught to lie at the knee of Lucifer himself,! Then they are shoved into their mother's reeking cunts and given to the world of man to be nothing so much as the spur that drives him into debauchery, beggary, and finally hell.

And we love them.

We can not help it. It is said to be in our very nature to love them.

"Not again, my proboscian friend."

Hearing that deep hum, I drive a large steel pin from my waistcoat into the mosquito, slaying it in a manner I think so very appropriate. Bringing it to my lips I bite into it with a crunch, flooding my tongue with a coppery fluvial.

"None get to taste of me twice, without the return of the gift." I tell him as I chew.

The metallic taste though does brings back a memory to me. One that sets me to laughing. I pick up my pen, dip the quill and begin to write.

"So, you plebeians want something to do with Valentines Day? Alright. The year the strange flowers bloomed at the Palace of Versailles will do."

The royal gardener protested like a fish wife as I went through cutting his precious blooms. You might would have though I was cutting his testicles free for all his howling.

But, I had a King's writ in my doublet giving me permission to do with the exotic plants in the Potager du roi as I needed, so long as he got what he needed. A way to make his frigid, overly Catholic Queen get into their marriage bed again, so he could have an heir. So here I was hunting for the required flowers like a spice merchant hunting cinnamon.

Poppy had been easily found. Cannabis flowers not much more challenging. The gardener had taken one look at the rest of my list and flat refused to help. Nightshade, Widowsmourn, Wolfthorn, the bitter leaves of coca. He had laughed at the Saaz Hops, telling me to go seek a brewery.

By then he was making my rapier itch. Had he continued to squawk I would have used his tongue to scratch that itch. He stormed off when I yanked some of his Ginseng from the ground.

Imbecilic fool. What do you grow the damn plant for it not for its root?

A single soul has moved to stand by the end of that loathsome blood soaked pier. I watch him look about for the Ferryman. When he finds not his promised ride into Paradise, upon seeing me sitting there writing, he starts to walk towards me. He stops when he sees the look in my eyes and my smile.

That mosquito's blood-filled belly has made me hungry. Something I've not been in ages.

He retreats to the very end of the pier. I belly laugh when he slips on the moss and falls in.

The water churns a frothy red.

Mixing, stewing, and brewing the flowers took the night. Coating the sweet balls of tar-like paste in the finest chocolate was of course a work of a Master Chocolatier not myself. Luckily the King had access to just such a person. A delightfully senile old man who thought me his great-grandson and that he was coating the Queen's favorite star-anise toffees.

A Valentines day gift to her Majesty

If he had only known that these were soon to be the King's favorite candies he might have been ecstatic. I know that I was. You see the Queen would not touch a single gift from the hand of the King. She thought him tainted by his sins.

Me? Oh, she totally trusted me, her delightfully amusing foreign friend Reynold.

Which, even more so than her surreptitious religious convictions, show just how much inbreeding there has been in her family. A twat from a long line of twits. But oh...it was a twat I intended to see the fucking of! If perhaps not to sample the delights of its tight, wet depths myself.

So from my fingers into her very pert mouth she took the tincture of her cunts ravishment. I smiled at her expression of delightful joy over the taste. Oh, the near orgasmic bliss. Enraptured, enraptured!

Then her expression began to dull, her eyes to wander, her speech to slur. Before anyone could notice I suggested she send away her attendants. She did so without question. I smiled, knowing it was going to be so villainously easy. This rape of her royal receptor. This sacking of her sack of sin.

She followed me like a obedient puppy, from her chambers to the King's where he waited. A simple lie of a headache and a desire to remain in bed had been all that was required to keep him on station. When we entered he quickly dismissed the quivering piles of sycophants. Like the roaches they were they scurried from the room.

I look to the docile queen at my side and said but one word. Strip. She shed her raiment before us both with uncaring haste. The King's eyes wide, he grinned at me like the very school boy he's always reminded me of. I smiled back and then stood watching the delightfully feminine form appearing from under that weight of red-gold brocade cloth and silk.

The King, being a king for once, ordered his wife to the pasture-sized bed. She went without hesitation, to his delight. In a gesture meant to no doubt humiliate her, he ordered her to drop to her knees and suck him. Which she did instantly, not once pausing in her fellatio even for breathe till he said to stop. Then he ordered her onto the bed. He placed his royal rod of rule, at the fleshy veil to her Valley of Venus and sent home his seed...in less time than it takes to untie a knot in a child's hair ribbon.

"No wonder the Queen couldn't stand the man. He had the sexual stamina of a mayfly."

I look around for more mosquitoes hopping for another meal, but that seems to have been the only one drawn to taste my ink. Pity. I eye the pier hopping for another lost soul...again no luck.

"Damn."

Oh, how the King thanked me! Oh, how he praised me. I had saved his Kingdom from a future of dynastic wars. I was welcome to anything within his realm, I had only to ask for it to have it be given.

So I asked. In a mere whisper in his ear. My nose flooded with the eye-burning perfumes he wore to cover the smell of his terribly clove and cardamon saturated breath. Just a whisper of a desire so forbidden even his eyes went wide. Then a smile appeared. That rakish boy-like grin.

"Give her a good poke for me! Call her my Valentines Gift to you, my corrupt friend!"

My voice can hardly reach the womanishly high vocal range that his Majesty's vocals had. Tilting my head, I look down to see a little bat has quietly landed next to my pool of carmine ink and is tonguing the puddle.

"And give the Queen a poke I did. Just as soon as his Royal Flabbiness departed..." I pull the sharp pin from my doublet and hold it over my little furry meal to be "...and her Majesty could quit playacting her part in this little ruse. Oh, how she bitterly complained. She had never thought the King would make her suck his cock. So many delightful things she 'made' me do to make it up to her...that night and every night the king wished to take her till 'his' seed took hold in her belly. Mine it was though not his, little bat. The King's cock was quiveringly sterile "

As I begin the plunge, with the pin that will give me my dinner, the little bat looks up at me, with his mouth covered in blood, and smiles. He smiled at me? Tiny fangs a glitter.

I stay my hand.

Holding my wrist over the depleted pool, I squeeze my fingers tight and more blood pours out to refill its tiny sanguine depths. He goes back to lapping at his red feast.

"Enjoy it...my furry friend. The way that I enjoyed the sexual delights of the Queen." I chuckle to see him eating so heartily. "And how many can say that in honest words? That they were gifted the Royal cunt of the Queen, by the King of France himself...as a Valentines day gift?"

Red lipped, my little Hematophagy companion looks up at me and squeaks.

"Exactly. Only I, the Viscount Reynold Alexander Volta Chanticleer."

He tilts his head at my words, and squeaks again. I brush his dark furred back with my quill and he gives his side a never-ending scratch with a back claw like a dog might. Smiling, I stroke my only friend in the whole of creation, and he goes back to drinking my blood. I look up to see a fresh soul walking towards the pier. A deliciously fat woman, naked as all who come here are.

Looking out across the river, I can't see the boat of Charon.

The woman stops when she sees me stand up. Her arm quickly tries to cover her saggy breasts, and she hides her puffy-lipped cunt behind her hand. Trembling, she watches my slow approach.

"Yes, only I." I give a low gentleman's bow to the plump lady. Looking up at her frightened face, I smile. Then I let my eyes take in her overripe body, how like a sugary sweet plum. My smile now is rakish. A succulent feast before I feast.

"Reynold, called the Bastard."

"Candice," she says in a tremble. "Candice Williams."

"No my dear, that is not what you are named now." At her puzzled look, I smile again that rakish smile. "Now, like the Queen of France and many ladies both before and after her, you are simply called my... amour fête"

"Par la mort de dieu."