She had been quite surprised – pleasantly surprised – by how different it was when two women made love. With men, it was all rush, rush, pant, pant, grunt, grunt, stick it up you, spurt and go. There was no time for finesse or hardly even talking. Even discounting the various rapes she had allowed herself to endure since leaving Hell with her father's instructions ringing in her ears, men who had no violent intent still came across like animals to her, rutting and snorting and farting and slobbering all over her. It was like men needed to assert their dominance, had to be the ones in charge, and this almost seemed to preclude any tenderness or even regard for the woman, who was seen basically as an object and not a person. Male sex was all about gratification of the man, all about his needs and his desires, and hers came a very distant second or possibly even third.

With women, she had found, it was a totally different story. The experience had been shared, not forced, a glorious coming together of two individuals, both of whom cared for the other, or pretended to, and in the time that a man would have already have been turning over in the bed, his work done, she and Beatrice had not even finished the elaborate and sensual foreplay of which she had previously known nothing. Tongues figured a lot in this, as well as fingers, and they probed her secret places, places men were unaware of, where hidden treasures were to be found, feelings and emotions set in motion, sensations activated that no man had ever managed to come close to achieving up to now.

The main thing about female lovemaking, she had discovered, was that they took their time. There was no rush, no hurried charge towards climax. She and Beatrice had spent what seemed like – and possibly was – hours exploring each other's body before any real intimacy had taken place. Whispered compliments, soft breath sighing in her ear, the musk of heady perfume, the meaningful exchange of glances. The eye contact, something men knew very little about. Most of them entered through the rear anyway, so all they really ever saw was her arse, which, gorgeous as it was, did little for her self esteem.

She had had men stick their rough tongues down there of course, as she spread her legs and hoped for intense pleasure, and was always disappointed. Men did not seem to know how to work the labia, the clitoris, any part of her genitals, and this was not too surprising, as this really primarily gave pleasure to her, and they were not interested in that. Pushing, shoving, slapping and belching, they would rut and roar and oink and grunt their way through the encounter, concerned only with their own climax, and that to be achieved as quickly as possible, so that once it happened they could turn over and lose all interest in her, an object used for the purpose it had been built for, and no longer of any value.

There was always an end with men, a goal to be reached, a triumph, a conquest. It was primal with men, and she could enjoy that, certainly, on one level. But what Beatrice had shared with her was something far beyond all that, so different to what she had been used to. It was as if she had subsisted on bread for all her life and suddenly been offered the finest caviar. She had kept waiting, as they embraced, as their soft lips met and kissed, and eager tongues explored inside the mouth of the other, tickling the teeth as they flicked along their even edges, for the sudden push, the urgency, the campaign to be, like her, mounted. And yet it had never come. Softly, slowly, unhurriedly, Beatrice had given of herself all she had, and instead of taking from Shirley, the Darkling found that she was responding in kind, not because she had to or was being forced to, or used without any regard for herself, but because she wanted to.

It had truly been a magical night, but it was several days in the past now, she reminded herself as the pulsating tube in her mouth drove in and out, a final gasp from somewhere beyond presaging a flood of hot semen that burned her throat as it forced its way down, she working to swallow it, her breathing a little laboured. A moment later he was withdrawing, and sinking back on the bed rolled to the side and picked up a packet of smokes. Extracting one, he struck a match and touched it to the paper tube, inhaling with a massive sigh and then blowing the thick smoke out as he looked up at the ceiling.

At that moment, Shirley felt an abiding and eternal hatred for all men.

“That were fuckin' great!” Her paramour raised his body to expel a loud fart, grinned, finally deigning to acknowledge her presence. “Not many of the local lasses take it in the mouth,” he told her. “Fuckin' enjoyed that!” This last was almost spoken as if, again, he had forgotten she was there, or that, more likely, he didn't care. She raised herself up on one elbow, forced herself to be polite, even though she wanted nothing more than to ram that stupid flaming tube down his stupid coarse throat and watch him choke on it.

“So did I,” she lied, adding another one to the pile as she remarked “Really big cock you got there.”

Halfway between accepting this as a compliment and just taking it as a fact, he grinned. “Aye,” he agreed. “I do, that. No complaints so far!” He lazily placed both his hands behind his head and leaned back, leaving the smoke dangling from his mouth and making it even harder for her to resist shoving it down his throat. She decided instead to have some fun with him. After all, he owed her, him and that stupid fat cock of his. Her mouth hurt, and despite what she had told him to bolster his already obese ego, she had not enjoyed it at all. But her father had given her a command, and she was determined to take advantage of any and every opportunity that came her way, no matter how innately repulsive they might be. When she returned home in triumph, she would know how to please him, and he would be proud of her.

But he had said nothing about not having fun.

“Man like you,” she purred, “big cock like that, bet you're really strong and brave.”

Of course he could not deny it, nor resist the urge to boast. “Not many lads down 'ere as can take me in a fair fight!” he admitted.

“Ever been to war?” she asked, forcing her eyes to widen as if in anticipation of stories of courage and heroism, but as she knew he would, he disappointed in that also.

“War?” he snorted. “Nah. Too many fools go off t' fight foreign wars, gets themselves killed, an' for wot?” He didn't wait for her to answer, snapping “So some king ye never 'eard of can add another few acres t' 'is land, or stick 'is enemy's 'ead up onna pike! Waste o' time, war,” he told her, grinning. “I prefer fuckin'!”

As he reached for her, she managed to move away without looking as if she were doing so. “I was just wondering,” she went on, her eyes still shining, “if you ever went up to the Castle?”

The grin slipped from his face, replaced by a dark brooding look. “The Castle?” he repeated, as if unsure of what she had said. The smoke was stubbed out as he shook his head. “You mean that dark 'orrible place, Castle o' Forever? The lair o' that mad wizard? Like fuck I 'ave! Told yer: got more sense, I 'as!”

She nodded, looking away as if disappointed. “But ... I thought you said you were brave!” She reached out to fondle his admittedly muscular arm, but he shook her off angrily. He did not like where this conversation was suddenly heading, and found himself wondering, for the first time since she had caught his eye at the Rabbit's Foot, who the hell this crazy bitch was?

“Brave, yeah!” he blustered. “Not fuckin' stupid though! No man who's ever gone into t' Grey Forest 'as ever returned. Listen,” he told her, sitting up a little straighter in the bed and drawing up the covers, his erection, on its way to round two, now having thrown in the towel and lying dormant, his eyes darting around as if afraid someone might hear. “I knew a guy once, who knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew a guy, who heard tell of a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who ...” He stopped, counting out guys on his fingers, as if the relationship of all these people to him was somehow important, “knew a guy who had a friend once who heard a guy tell him that he knew a guy who knew a guy who went up there, you know, for a dare? He didn't mean no 'arm, like. Simple chap, no threat t' anyone. Well, let me tell ye, missy.” He paused for effect, looking around again. “We all 'eard 'is screams for three nights straight, even down 'ere so far away from that damned castle. 'orrible it was, fair make ye shiver in yer bed, make ye draw the curtains an' curl up so tight ...” Aware he was not exactly doing his chances of getting to fuck her a second time much good with this confession of abject fear, he coughed and amended his story.

“Uh, not me, y'understand. I raised a rescue party, we was ready to go in there sword swingin', me and a few of the lads.”

“Oh yes?” She made herself sound interested, leaned towards him as if eager to hear more. His eyes slid away from meeting hers, his voice dropping to a mutter.

“Yeah, well, see, thing is ... night before we was goin' to go in, I gets me a really awful dose o' the squirts, y'know? Couldn't move ten yards from t' privy. Really sick I were, 'ad to take to me bed.”

“How horrible!” she breathed, though her thoughts were how convenient and also how ironically appropriate. He nodded, trying to bolster up his flagging image.

“Yeah, yeah,” he went on. “Guys 'ad to leave me an' head out t' the castle on theys own.”

“What happened?” She was not rapt. She was far from rapt. But she wanted to convince him she was, and she did. He narrowed his eyes.

“More screams,” he whispered, almost reverting to a child for a second, his eyes white with fear. “Longer, worse, more 'orrible than before. Six nights they lasted for...”

She interrupted him, asking “And, how long were you ... sick for?”

He frowned at her. Was she mocking him? She had better fucking not be! But the question needed an answer. “Um, seven nights,” he replied. Again she smiled inwardly at the convenience. He went on. “By then, it were too late. Like I says,” he told her again, “no man 'as ever come back from that cursed place.”

She looked away from him, out the small window. “No man,” she repeated. “But perhaps a woman might manage it?”

He looked at her strangely, then let out a guffaw of derision, reaching for his smokes again. “A woman?” he chortled. Then he stopped, the smoke halfway to his mouth as understanding dawned in his slow brain. “Oh fuck!” he gasped. “You're talkin' 'bout yerself, ain't ya?”

She nodded. “I am.”

“But ... but ... but ...” He seemed to be lost for words. Eventually he managed “Why?”

“I have business there.” The tone of playfulness was gone from her voice. Now she was all professional, ready to do her job.

“What kind o' business,” he asked in half wonder, half scorn, “could a slip o' a girl like you 'ave... there?” A shudder he tried, and failed, to conceal.

“Business that is none of yours,” she retorted coldly. She forced a smile, and some warmth back into her voice as she offered him a chance at redemption. “Perhaps you'd like to escort me? I'd welcome your company.”

He almost physically drew back from her, as if she were some sort of monster, something to be avoided at all costs. “Oh,” he said, the box of matches still in his hand, the match unlit. “You know, I would, but well, thing is, I have this ... this thing ... with ... my kid ...”

She pretended to be shocked. “You have a child? You're married?” Although the two were not mutually inclusive, he nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, me wife would ... kill me.” He trailed off as he realised how pathethic that must seem to her, but it was an excuse that had its basis in truth. Mira would string him up by his balls if she knew he had been with this sexy honey, much less rode off with her on some crazy quest or other. He couldn't go. She wouldn't hear of it. It deflated his pompous manhood to admit that he bowed to the wishes of his wife, but at the same time it offered him an escape that, while not quite honourable, at least was not as cowardly as saying he was scared to go. Which of course he was. In fact, he felt like he needed the privy, like, really badly.

She eyed him coldly. “And yet, here you are, in bed with me.”

He squirmed like a worm on a line. “Yeah, well, y'know ...” he mumbled, “she ... don't understand me ...”

Of course not. It was always the same with these humans, it seemed to Shirley. Blame your wife for forcing you to be unfaithful. In her travels through it, one thing had become crystal clear to the Darkling Princess of Hell: the world Above was, very much like her own home, a male-dominated one. But perhaps she could make a small difference here, now. Having intended to get dressed and leave him wallowing in his self-pity, she instead sunk back on the bed, pillowing her head on his chest, and asked him “Tell me about her.”

“Huh?” The scratch of the match on the table was quickly followed by a thick cloud of smoke as he pulled on the tube, exhaling expansively. “Wot d'ye want t' know 'bout 'er for?”

She looked up at him, eyes he could drown in. Eyes which, had she the choice and the means, she would drown him in, and happily too. “Humour me.”

Somehow, it was not a request, and though Mira was the very last thing he wanted to be discussing with this sexy naked fox lying beside him, he felt compelled to talk about his wife. Strange: you could have pulled his teeth and not made him do that, and yet, one look from her and there he was, blabbing on about the woman he supposedly loved.

“Well,” he began, a little hesitatingly, “she ain't what ye'd call pretty. Not like you are, now!” He clapped his hand to her naked buttock, giving it a squeeze. She resisted the urge to shiver and forced herself to move closer to him, snuggling into him. Control. It was all about control. The closer she was, the more influence she could exert upon him, bend his will to hers. Of course, the fact that she was a smoking hot walking sex trap helped too. “She's more, well, more yer 'omely type,” he went on, as he searched for a way to describe the woman he had been married to for so long. “She cooks a great meal, she's very good with t' kid, and she 'ardly ever talks back. Not if she knows wot's good fer 'er, if ye know what I means!” He grinned, and Shirley did not, envisaging the woman named Mira receiving another cruel beating for some imagined offence or remark. The closer she got to this man, the less she liked him. “Yeah, old 'Arry knows 'ow to keep 'em in line!” he chuckled. Again, she did not share the laugh but asked seriously

“Do you love her?”

He seemed taken aback by the question, as if he had never considered it before. Scratching his head, he shrugged. “Love?” he repeated the word as if it were foreign to him, at least in reference to his wife. “Well, I makes sure she gets a good fuckin' once a week,” he offered. “Does me duty, like, as an' 'usband.”

“Does she enjoy it?” Again the question seemed to stump him, as if he had never given it any thought prior to this.

“Fucked if I know!” he laughed. “Who cares? We're married. Me duty's to stick it up 'er, 'er duty t' take it. That,” he informed her knowledgeably, “is wot marriage is all about, girl.”

“Is it?” There was a hidden challenge in the question which he entirely missed, nodding.

“We gets on fine,” he said, more it seemed to convince himself than her. “Long as she keeps that big fuckin' trap o' 'ers shut. Can't stand that whinin' voice she uses when she's tryin' to get 'er own way.”

“Get her own way...”

“Oh, ye know!” he snapped irritably. “Buy me clothes, these ones is 'angin' off me. Ye never take me out nowhere. Where's me money for the food? Fuck that! I needs me beer, I does.” He grinned. “So she might 'ave to stretch the food out for a few days. Gotta 'ave me beer!” He looked at her for agreement, but she was looking away now.

“It doesn't sound like you love her very much,” she commented, then reeled as the slap hit her across the back of the head. He had taken her very much by surprise with the violent outburst; had she been facing him that blow would never have landed, nor would he have ever raised his hand to any woman as long as he lived. As it was, she fell half off the bed, steadied herself, turned to face him with fire in her eyes.

“Who the fuck are you to tell me I don't love me wife?” he thundered, swinging a leg out of bed, a furious look on his face, his true nature now revealed. “Just let me grab me belt an' ye won't sit for a week, ye little tramp!”

She could have knocked him out. She could have killed him. It would have been easy. But too easy, and she wasn't finished with this worm yet. What had begun as a simple teasing game had, on the basis of the information she had now received from him, turned into something more serious, and more important. She needed to keep him onside. She forced tears to drip from her eyes, a trick she had learned by herself, though Darklings did not cry as a rule, and touched his arm.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “It's none of my business. I didn't mean to be rude. It's just ...” She began to turn on the charm now, infuse him with her Darkling equivalent of pheromones. He was defeated before he even took one step. He slumped back into the bed, the belt hanging over the chair forgotten now. He took her in his arms, his sleeping cock beginning to rouse itself, ready for action. “I really like you,” she lied, “and I want to know all I can about you. I just wondered why you stay with her if you're not happy. Is it,” - she made herself flinch, as if she expected another blow, but he was done with that particular mode of communication, at least for now - “the child?”

He sighed, shook his head. “Eric's a fine lad,” he mused, “but ... I don't know. Maybe I just weren't meant t' be no father. Too much 'ard work.”

“So then?” she prompted. “Why not leave her?” For emphasis, she blew the hair on his arm gently. He shivered with the thrill, but shook his head.

“Only way I could legally leave 'er is to divorce 'er,” he told her. “An' that would cost me a pretty penny, I can tell ye! I needs me beer money.”

“Yes,” she reminded him, ensuring he could not see how she rolled her eyes. “You said.”

“Well it's true!” he snapped. “If I divorced 'er she'd get 'alf of all I got, and let me tell ye, that ain't all that much! But I'll be damned if I'll give 'er a single Common! No,” he muttered darkly, almost to himself. “I'll snap 'er fat neck first!”

She affected a shocked look. “Would you?” He looked at her strangely. A short pause, and she wondered if he were considering it. Then his face split in a sour grin.

“Nah,” he admitted. “I don't want to end up in one o' the king's nasty dungeons. The things they does to a man there, so I 'ear.” He shivered, and she relaxed somewhat. He was a bully, yes, but like all bullies he was a coward. He would not kill his wife, not because he loved her or because it was wrong, but because he was terrified of being punished, of facing the consequences of his actions. Still, she pushed.