Excerpt - "Duppy"
I like to draw on exotic legends for my stories. Although I’ve written vampire tales, I like to tap stranger veins whenever I can. This is an excerpt from my story “Duppy”, as recently published in Xcite Books' Raising Spirits.
My heroine in this story is Justine Templeton, an artist who has returned to her familial roots by visiting the Caribbean island of San Sebastian. Generations earlier, her ancestor was leader of a rebellion and – perhaps – the mistress of a creature called a duppy. Duppies are the island version of trickster spirits, though sometimes they can be malign.
Her first night on the island, Justine dreams…
Succulent blossoms, engorged stems cushioned her ass, pillowed her thrusts. Justine swiveled her hips, precise against the dark shadow that fucked her hard and wanton, the sweat of the island’s heat turning their skin to wet silk, his cock inside her moving. Fucking her.
Fucking her.
Drum tides in her veins, in her mind, a swirl of rum and rhythm, the musical laughter of the Sebastians, but him, lean, hard, his eyes dark mystery, his smile, full lips and even teeth. She wanted him. Her pussy wept at the overpowering thought of him inside her. Fucking her.
Free them. Free them all. Chains. Humiliation. Color. Canvas.
She arched against his solidity and screamed as she came – came harder than ever before.
He fucked her and she came to him, with him, and soared.
Justine woke, aroused and naked, puzzled, a little frightened at first, then languidly pleased. She’d orgasmed in her dream. She smiled, pleased that the island could affect her so.
She rose and showered. Wrapping herself in a robe, she stepped onto the terrace of her suite to watch the sun paint the horizon. This trip would change her art. It had already shown her a new palette of colors, more brilliant than the spectrum of her imagination.
Collecting her pad and pencils, a billfold, and a camera, she filled a wicker bag, then dropped her robe and, naked, considered the uniform of the day. She chose her modest, one-piece bathing suit, a cotton print wrap, sandals, and a floppy hat. Basic tourist, she thought, anonymous and invisible.
Still, when she looked at herself in the mirror, she looked damned good.
In the lobby, Justine paused beside the statue of St. Sebastian, a replica of the famous one in Port Morgan. Justine knew the saint from icons, a pale man calmly enduring the arrows of martyrdom, but this St. Sebastian showed the passion of his suffering in the lines of his face.
Outside, she followed an inland path that lead to a small shack. A neat, colorful sign said it all – “Bike and Boat Rentals!”
A mahogany-skinned man stood behind the rough plank counter. Wild spikes of grey-streaked black hair defied the humidity. His dark eyes shone with delight. He might have been Justine’s age or older, perhaps much older.
“Ah, beautiful lady,” he grinned. “You grace our island. How may I help you?”
Justine smiled back, delighted by the accent. “You rent bikes?”
“Oh yes, fine bicycles. Wide tires for the dirt roads.” He glanced behind Justine. “Just one?”
“Yes,” she leaned toward the man. “Do you know a place called Dark Cove?”
“Sure I do,” he said, grinning a little. “Everybody knows it.”
“I couldn’t find anything in the guidebooks or on-line. You say everyone knows it?”
“Everyone on San Sebastian,” he said. “Everyone who belongs here.”
“Well I have my Nan’s old map,” she told him. “So I know it isn’t far.”
“Not far at all, sister. You can ride there easy. Down the road a little more, then left. After two kilometers, you will see a narrow path that leads to the sea. Take the bike a little way down the path and hide it, so thieves do not steal it.”
“Is it safe there?”
“They are cowards, those bicycle thieves. You will not even see them.”
She hesitated.
“I can go with you,” he offered.
Her heart beat faster. “What’s your name?”
“Sebastian.” His grin melted her apprehension. “But they did not name the island for me.”
My heroine in this story is Justine Templeton, an artist who has returned to her familial roots by visiting the Caribbean island of San Sebastian. Generations earlier, her ancestor was leader of a rebellion and – perhaps – the mistress of a creature called a duppy. Duppies are the island version of trickster spirits, though sometimes they can be malign.
##
Her first night on the island, Justine dreams…Succulent blossoms, engorged stems cushioned her ass, pillowed her thrusts. Justine swiveled her hips, precise against the dark shadow that fucked her hard and wanton, the sweat of the island’s heat turning their skin to wet silk, his cock inside her moving. Fucking her.
Fucking her.
Drum tides in her veins, in her mind, a swirl of rum and rhythm, the musical laughter of the Sebastians, but him, lean, hard, his eyes dark mystery, his smile, full lips and even teeth. She wanted him. Her pussy wept at the overpowering thought of him inside her. Fucking her.
Free them. Free them all. Chains. Humiliation. Color. Canvas.
She arched against his solidity and screamed as she came – came harder than ever before.
He fucked her and she came to him, with him, and soared.
Justine woke, aroused and naked, puzzled, a little frightened at first, then languidly pleased. She’d orgasmed in her dream. She smiled, pleased that the island could affect her so.
She rose and showered. Wrapping herself in a robe, she stepped onto the terrace of her suite to watch the sun paint the horizon. This trip would change her art. It had already shown her a new palette of colors, more brilliant than the spectrum of her imagination.
Collecting her pad and pencils, a billfold, and a camera, she filled a wicker bag, then dropped her robe and, naked, considered the uniform of the day. She chose her modest, one-piece bathing suit, a cotton print wrap, sandals, and a floppy hat. Basic tourist, she thought, anonymous and invisible.
Still, when she looked at herself in the mirror, she looked damned good.
In the lobby, Justine paused beside the statue of St. Sebastian, a replica of the famous one in Port Morgan. Justine knew the saint from icons, a pale man calmly enduring the arrows of martyrdom, but this St. Sebastian showed the passion of his suffering in the lines of his face.
Outside, she followed an inland path that lead to a small shack. A neat, colorful sign said it all – “Bike and Boat Rentals!”
A mahogany-skinned man stood behind the rough plank counter. Wild spikes of grey-streaked black hair defied the humidity. His dark eyes shone with delight. He might have been Justine’s age or older, perhaps much older.
“Ah, beautiful lady,” he grinned. “You grace our island. How may I help you?”
Justine smiled back, delighted by the accent. “You rent bikes?”
“Oh yes, fine bicycles. Wide tires for the dirt roads.” He glanced behind Justine. “Just one?”
“Yes,” she leaned toward the man. “Do you know a place called Dark Cove?”
“Sure I do,” he said, grinning a little. “Everybody knows it.”
“I couldn’t find anything in the guidebooks or on-line. You say everyone knows it?”
“Everyone on San Sebastian,” he said. “Everyone who belongs here.”
“Well I have my Nan’s old map,” she told him. “So I know it isn’t far.”
“Not far at all, sister. You can ride there easy. Down the road a little more, then left. After two kilometers, you will see a narrow path that leads to the sea. Take the bike a little way down the path and hide it, so thieves do not steal it.”
“Is it safe there?”
“They are cowards, those bicycle thieves. You will not even see them.”
She hesitated.
“I can go with you,” he offered.
Her heart beat faster. “What’s your name?”
“Sebastian.” His grin melted her apprehension. “But they did not name the island for me.”
Posted by Angela Caperton at 7/31/2011 3:55 PM 
Categories: Paranormal, Angela Caperton, Xcite Books, Erotica, Anthology
Tags: Angela
Categories: Paranormal, Angela Caperton, Xcite Books, Erotica, Anthology
Tags: Angela
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