The Iron Tongue of Midnight – Chapter 1

A modern erotic faerie story by Simone Francis

Start at the beginning Prologue

Chapter 1

Rebecca stood staring out of the window of the cottage. It was going to be another hot day and sweat was already sparkling on her forehead. She tried to push the vivid dream out of her mind but, even whilst making breakfast, her thoughts kept drifting back to the feeling of the unknown hands on her skin, the cock thrusting deep inside her whilst the ties restrained her.

She turned back into the cottage; she had bought it on impulse though an agent nearly a year ago, entranced by the photographs that showed a storybook house built of grey Lakeland stone that seemed to blend almost invisibly into the folds of the landscape. Overcome by the romantic idea of a secret hideaway she had paid the full asking price, something she never normally did, and offered a little extra for the furnishings, but had never visited it until yesterday.

She looked around the living room. Originally it had been two cottages but one of the previous owners had converted the two dwellings into one. When she had opened the solid front door for the first time to reveal a large room that had once been the living area for two families she had smelt the mustiness of air that had been enclosed for years. Directly in front of the door and dominating its half of the room was a large, heavy, oak dining table covered by a dust sheet. The disturbed dust had made her sneeze as the cloth slid off its top to reveal a grained wooden surface, now nearly black with the patina age, that gave the room a sombre feel.

The second half of the room accommodated two maroon easy chairs and a deep comfortable sofa that were grouped around a large fireplace where a log fire could blaze in the winter. A large bay window had been installed in the front wall so that this part of the living room was light and airy. Flinging open the windows and shaking the dust sheets from the furniture outside had been the sum total of her cleaning but now the room was filled with the scent of the dry grasses and heather.

A door beside the fireplace opened to reveal an old wooden staircase that spiralled up to the floor above, most of which was occupied by the main bedroom and a recently installed en-suite shower and bathroom, leaving just enough space for a small box room at the back.

The only other room downstairs was a small kitchen, which appeared to still be equipped with the original plumbing, an ancient electric cooker and a slightly more modern fridge. Rebecca had filled the fridge and left the other groceries she had brought with her in their boxes on the worktop. There was no freezer, so it seemed regular trips to the local shop nearly five miles away were going to be needed. It had occurred to her that the combination of her cooking skills and the antique cooker would mean that her diet was somewhat limited; this was not a land of takeaway deliveries and fancy restaurants.

She gazed out of the window again, the air was still and warm and her senses were still adjusting to the quiet, gentle sounds of the country compared to the noise and bustle of the city. Her dust covered black Porsche sat outside facing back down the lane almost as if, annoyed at being forced to bounce off-road up the rough track, it had sulkily turned its back on her.

‘You’ll not be the first,’ Rebecca said to the car.

She looked out across the moorland. The purple heather faded into green, so dark that it almost appeared black. In places, longer patches of dry corn yellow grass appeared like tufts of hair. A lone, windblown tree stood on the summit of the hill in front of the cottage as if standing guard, watching for anyone who approached up the far slope. To her right, the lane the Porsche had bounced down ran round the base of the hill to a small brook where a plain timber bridge provided a crossing. Rebecca knew the track climbed lazily up the other side of the valley to join a lane over the crest of the next hill. This in turn descended several miles to a small village that was the nearest civilisation.

Beyond the bridge, a dark, ancient wood filled the valley. Sheltered from the wind by the hills, fed with water by the stream and unmolested by human intervention the trees had grown tall and strong. The cottage stood about halfway up the valley side so she looked almost directly into the mosaic of greens of the trees canopies underneath which thick branches had entwined like giant fingers.

Behind the house, the moorland sloped up gently. Yesterday she had walked to the brow of the hill and gazed across the undulating landscape that seemed to stretch away seemingly into infinity. There was no visible human habitation for miles and it was easy to imagine you were alone on the earth, which was exactly what she wanted at the moment.

The dream floated into her mind again. The ties, how could she dream of bondage? She had done some pretty kinky things in her past but now she was successful, queen of her empire, well half of it anyway. She was the boss; she knew all about how to survive in a male-dominated world. She used men, used them and then cast them aside; if anyone was going to do the tying up it was her.

She sat at the dining table and opened her laptop; the boss might be away but that did not mean she was not going to keep an eye on what was going on. She had inherited an ailing business from her Father but fortunately not his lousy financial acumen.

On her first day at the factory as the boss she had not been sure whether the workers looked so depressed because her Father had squandered most of the profits, the business was clearly in trouble, or because there was now a female boss. She had deliberately worn a skirt that was a little too short and made a mental note of who was leering at her and who appeared to be making the dirtiest comments as she climbed up the metal staircase to the office.

It seemed over the next few days that most of the male workforce seemed to think they could do as they pleased with a woman in charge whilst the women seemed to treat her as an errant daughter. Her tactic had been to pick the best looking and most muscular loudmouth and suggest that he took her out to dinner. After an evening in a shabby restaurant, he had been only too eager to fuck her over the bonnet of her car. He had obviously thought it was his masculine ways that had persuaded her to spread her legs.

As he thrust into her and slobbered on her neck he was unaware that Rebecca regarded men as only slightly more convenient than a dildo, in that you did not have to remember to change the batteries. She sent him back to the factory to brag and never even glanced at him again. Within a week she had promoted one of his cronies to foreman with the clear instruction that he would only keep the job if the man was assigned to the worst and messiest job in the factory. Two weeks later he was sacked for swearing at the new foreman. She was rapidly declared a bitch, but she noticed the rest of the workforce, including the women, bowed their heads and concentrated on working, especially when she was in the building.

In Rebecca’s opinion, most men’s problem was that they had not worked out that they were the weaker sex. Maybe not physically, but brawn was no advantage, well at least until they disconnected their brains from their dicks. She thought of the dream again. No, she wasn’t going to be turned into a whining little sub by anyone.

With the workforce in line, she had concentrated on her other problems. She spent long days in the office trying to decipher the chaotic accounts only occasionally looking out of the large windows that gave a view of the factory floor. Her Father seemed not only to have spent most of the profits on God knows what but had run up substantial credit card debts on cards in his, her Mother’s, and several unknown women’s names. Knowing her Mother’s total aversion to anything financial she was sure that she was unaware of what was happening. This was confirmed by a friendly plainclothes policeman who appeared at the factory looking for her Father. He admitted that, had he not died, her Father would probably have been facing charges of fraud.

She was determined not to give up but had no idea what to do. It was at this lowest point that her only friend, Maria had recommended Morgan. An almost irresistible combination of handsome man in his thirties and genius accountant Morgan Harcombe had appeared like a knight on a white horse, although his actual mode of transport was a white Mercedes. The sleek, expensive car’s arrival in the car park sparked rumours of a possible sale of the business amongst the workforce but Rebecca said nothing.

‘How can I help?’ His handshake was firm and strong and there was the faintest smell of expensive aftershave.

She looked into his dark brown eyes and for a moment the world seemed to peel away from her as if she was a flower bursting from its bud. She forced her mind back to reality and, thinking of her track record of dumping men after seducing them and aware that she needed his help, decided to resist the temptation to turn on the seduction. But then, that face, the strong jawline, smooth skin and dark eyes set above broad shoulders that filled his expensive tailored suit was enchanting.

Morgan glanced down and Rebecca realised that she was still grasping his hand; she jumped, releasing her grip as if an electric shock had passed between them.

Morgan looked at her, his eyebrows raised a millimetre and the merest hint of a smile appeared on his lips.

‘Sorry.’ Rebecca moved behind her desk and gestured to the chair in front of it. Morgan sat down and listened without speaking as she explained her predicament. ‘I’m not sure there is money to pay you,’ she added.

‘Don’t worry, that’s the first thing I’ll find.’ His smile seemed to wash over her like the sun appearing after a storm. ‘My only condition is you must do as I say otherwise you will get a very, very, big bill and a petition for bankruptcy. Is that understood?’

For the first time in her life, Rebecca had looked at a man, smiled submissively, and said ‘Yes.’ She felt her resolution waning but she need not have worried, Morgan’s mind was concentrated on her accounts, not her body.

Read more Chapter 2

The Iron Tongue of Midnight

An Adult Erotic Fairy Tale

Rebecca Mason is queen of her empire; she uses men and then discards the husks. No one is going to turn her into a whining sub. Then she meets two men she desires; the problem is one is cool and distant, and the other is not human.

Warning: This novel features some quite graphic sex scenes, some of which include fetishes. These scenes are all consensual and integral to the plot.

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