Free Lucien's Khamsin by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

soothe the raging sexual energy rippling through Stavros’ body. But it was the thought of taking something precious away from Lucien that increased the pressure and the speed of the hand with which he fondled his staff.
    “To have her stretched out beneath me, her cunt dripping as I ram into her,” Stavros said, stopping to work furiously at his hard on. “To thrust into her ass until she bleeds and fill her to bursting with my cum!”
    He lifted his hand to his face and spit into his palm then took hold of himself once more.
    “To jam myself into her mouth and make her swallow my cock, gagging her as I shove it down her pretty little throat,” Stavros said, sighing with the pleasure such a notion created.
    “No matter how pretty she is, I will mutilate that lovely face,” he swore and his hand was a blur as he jacked his flesh. “I will send it back to him piece by bloody piece!”
    He dwelled on carving the woman’s flesh, of whittling away a pert nose, an eyelid adorned with long, spiky lashes, a curvaceous, pouting lip.
    “I’ll send him her clit,” he whispered, closing his eyes to the building release burning at his groin. “I’ll slice off her breasts and make a sandwich of them for him!”
    Panting as the burning, itching sensation between his legs built to a roaring inferno, he pictured Lucien bent over in agony, keening as he held the peeled scalp of his beloved in his hands.
    “Yes,” Stavros cried, pulling harder upon his staff. “Yes!”
    Mindless of the thralls who had crept into the room to remove the dead woman, Stavros shot his wad upward, his eyes widening as the copious white fluid spurted high into the air. He laughed, turning around in a semicircle and spraying his cum in a wide arc.
    “Fuck you, Lucien Korvina!” he exclaimed. “And fuck your woman!”
    Hurrying away with the body sagging between them, the thralls shuddered at the mad laugh that rang out from the prince’s bedchamber.
    “It ain’t the woman he wants,” one of the thralls dared to say.
    “Hush!” the other warned, looking about them for listening, spying ears.
    “Well, it ain’t,” the other declared.
    They passed Lord Anchises on the stairway but avoided the Lord of Security’s eye. Neither did they look at the woman being hustled along beside Lord Anchises. There would be time enough to take a good look at her when they were sent in to fetch her dead body.
    * * * * *
    Sitting alone in his cramped cell as morning light speared down from the high window, Giles Kolovis repeatedly washed his hands in the basin of murky water he kept beside his cot. He could not rid himself of the stench of death nor the sight of the women he had helped throw into the incinerator. Clenching his jaw, he laved his hands once more with the strong lye soap and washed them again and again until his hands were red and raw.
    Just as Stavros Constantine had a mole in the keep at Modartha, Giles was the spy in Stavros’ keep, in thrall to Lucien Korvina. It was a bastard’s job but it was important—as Lord Petros had reminded Giles many times.
    Having allowed himself to be captured by Stavros’ men, enduring the injection of a single drop of the vile prince’s blood into his arm so the bastard could enthrall him, had been both risky and degrading for Giles. Lucien’s blood was far more powerful and not even a gallon of the inferior Constantine blood could have overridden Lucien’s prior claim to Giles’ allegiance. There had never been a chance of a new enthrallment replacing the old. It was the thought of being contaminated with any part of that vile bastard’s body that sickened Giles and strengthened his desire to see Stavros Constantine defeated.
    Word had to be sent to Modartha so the special one could be watched day and night. It was not enough that she was supposed to be an untouchable, for Stavros Constantine operated by his own set of deranged rules. He was as liable to do the vile things he cackled about as he pulled