The Hellhound's Unwilling Bitch - 01

"If in doubt," her mother explained, "you must lie still and think pleasant thoughts." Proper Victorian women could endure anything for their husbands, or so she believed.

Until her husband was possessed.

As a ghost, Cassius cared little for sex, but his new body changed everything.

Sweet screams will not stop her brutal rape, nor will begging prevent his hellhound from mounting her.

Cassius

For the first time in three decades, I woke to the presence of strangers. Finally. When I bound my soul inside my manor, I expected to wait no more than a year after my death before returning. Perhaps two. Instead, I had been met with thirty-three years of empty silence. Sometimes, there would be traces of daytime visitors. Footprints in the dust. A broken window replaced. But when I woke at sunset, my manor was always empty.

Tonight, I could feel footsteps. Two sets, far above where my spirit safely rested, inside my sanctum, amidst the library of forbidden tomes my family had collected over generations. One strode purposefully from room to room, each step sharp and commanding. The other set followed. Through the leather of her thin-soled shoes against wooden floors, I could almost taste her frustration.

"No one would consider it, Jasper. I spent three days searching. Not a single person in this town is willing to come near Cassius Sullivan's Manor," said a female voice. "They all believe this manor is haunted. Every time the same story. He was a warlock who consorts with demons. They insist he's now a ghost. Still here. Just waiting to curse anyone who dares to enter his home."

"Isabella, I gave you one simple task," replied a deeper voice. Masculine. Hot with temper. "I'm not interested in your excuses. Or the simple peasant's foolish superstitions. Fairy tales and hogwash. Since you can't find us a maid, butler, or cook, you will serve as all three. It will give you something productive to do with your time, instead of painting your useless little twiddles."

"But, Jasper—"

A slap rang out, echoing sharply in the dining room. Thuds as she staggered, her weight shifting, but a moment later, she stood tall again.

"Don't speak back to me," he said, "You are my wife, not my mother."

Leaving the books I had spent over a century studying behind, I ignored the rest of the conversation taking place several floors above me, and floated up through the ceiling to my hellhound. Not a pet, although it sometimes amused him to act like one. He was bound to serve as both my guardian and servant. He could not break our contract any more than I could.

Despite being secure in his loyalty, I was still puzzled by Roth'tarith unexpected offer to bind himself to me. Most of the time, demons were simple creatures. They just wanted payment. A contract fulfilled. Pain. Blood. Souls. Hell's currency. Yet, when I was dying, he arrived unsummoned and offered a strange contract.

An unbelievable bargain.

Roth, as I now called him, would protect and obey. I merely had to provide for his needs. That was it. Nothing more. Nothing less. Demons are devious, and they have information sources mortals can't match. He was here for something. He knew something. Something he believed was worth the price. What was I missing? Only time would tell.

Hellhounds are a terrifying combination of speed and power. The skirmishers of hell. Roth's head came up to chest height for a normal man, and he could outrun any horse. Intelligent red eyes stared into mine. Sulphur and brimstone. Skin covered in large black scales, some as big as my hand. Sharp claws and sharper teeth. Weapons made for battle. Heat radiated from him, not enough to burn flesh, but enough to make a mortal sweat. The glow of infernal flame shined between his scales dimly lighting the hallway.

"Come, Roth," I commanded, "We have visitors."

Like an obedient pet, Roth followed me into the ritual chamber. Even as a ghost, my manor obeyed my will. My ritual dagger slid from its sheath, and lifted off my desk, following me as I walked down the hallway.

For two months during my childhood, I had painstakingly carved its bone grip with the proper runes. Power. Precision. Potency. Upon my death, I entrusted my soul to the small black knife. It shielded me from all nine hells. The curved blade was short and stocky because it wasn't made for fighting. A short sharp blade slices any bound animal's throat just as surely as a longer one.

I would need it before the night was over.

Up in the elevator, it's enchantment still operated smoothly, even after all these years. As I left the basement and entered the main floor, I shook my head in annoyance. Years of neglect had taken its toll. What had once been darkly stained wood floors and walls, now were weathered and cracked. The grand staircase had been a work of art, but now it was dull and worn.

Jasper was quite a fool if he believed any single person could take care of my manor. That's what the golems were for. Unfortunately, without a physical form, I couldn't command them. They slept while my home fell further into disrepair.
Outside my bedroom, I willed myself into invisibility. The faint outline of my form faded from view. Simple invisibility and being able to pass through solid objects were two advantages of being a ghost. Neither made up for the loss of a physical form. Touch was priceless.

I could pass through the wall, but my ritual dagger could not. With an effort of will, I caused the bedroom door to unlock itself and levitated my blade through the opening. Hopefully, they wouldn't hear the rattling of the lock. I passed through the wall.

On the bed lay Isabella, staring at the ceiling while Jasper undressed. Apparently, they were about to have sex. Jasper shoved her dress up around her waist and straddled her. Without a word, without thought, he just started thrusting. As quickly as he had started, he finished with a grunt and pulled on his nightclothes then climbed into bed.

Isabella just laid there. Dress bunched around her waist. Silent tears dripping down her cheeks. Only after Jasper began to snore did she carefully slide to the floor. Walking on tiptoes, she headed to the bathroom and cleaned herself up and changed into her nightclothes. On the way back to her bed, she stopped in the corner of the room, next to the fireplace.

An easel and paints. Several paintings leaning against the wall, their backs to the room. Are these the little twiddles her husband had mentioned? She turned one around and smiled down at it, tears in her eyes. Her husband is a fool. Three women. Isabella in an evening gown standing between whom I presume are her mother and younger sister. The finely detailed painting is worthy of my manor. Exquisite.

It’s a shame that I must kill her.

She carefully climbed onto the far side of the bed. Doing everything she could to avoid waking him. Long after the moon rose high in the night sky, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Finally.

In complete silence, something only a ghost could truly manage, I drifted over to Jasper. Obeying my will, the small ritual dagger drifted down from the ceiling. With one quick movement, its razor-sharp edge made a tiny incision. Just enough for a few drops of blood.

Enough for a simple spell.

Using the dagger, I traced a rough sigil in his blood. A sleeping spell. Easily broken, but it would have to be enough. Now for the dangerous part. I willed myself inside him. Inside his body. Inside his mind. His soul was a foul and tiny thing, easily ignored.

Pressing down on his sleeping mind, I carefully inserted myself in his place. I took control. The ritual of possession would make this permanent, but that couldn't be done until midnight. I must have this body ready before then.

My new eyes opened.

Above me, I could barely make out the ceiling, even with bright moonlight shining through the window. Dark shadows were everywhere. My connection with the manor was already more reliable than it had been since my death. I took a conscious breath. Another. Breathing felt strange. Little aches and pains, things he probably didn't even notice assaulted my senses.

I nearly wept with joy.

Simple pleasures. Sensations I hadn't felt since long before my death. Even in my youth, the curse of my family had taken its toll, leaving my body feeble and withered long before its time. Sitting up, I looked at my new hands. My arms. A strong young man. Not quite the popinjay he appeared to be. My feet softly landed on the smooth wooden floor and I slowly stood up.

Balancing wasn't entirely natural. Just like every other interaction between my spirit and this body, there was a feeling of imitation. As though I were a puppeteer and this body was my marionette. For now, I just wore Jasper's body. Until the ritual made it mine.

Time to kill the wife.

No reason to chance her waking him before the ritual was complete. On the other side of the bed, I looked down at her peaceful sleeping face. Beautiful. Such a lovely woman. Elegant and refined. Arching eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a graceful neck. Her lips were enticing. Sweet tracks of tears. What does she look like under the covers?

One gentle tug pulled the covers from her hands. A flip, and she's exposed. Well, her nightclothes are exposed. The plain white outfit covered her body completely, but the outline of her bosom was visible through the cloth.

Even though her nightgown, she's warm, and the curve of her breast presses heavily against my cupped palm. Invitingly. Why had I never noticed before? Earlier tonight, I watched her change as she prepared for bed, but I hadn't noticed her figure at the time. Is it something about my new body? Something lacking in my old one? A welcome change.

I want more.

Soft flesh, I grip it with spread fingers. Killing her would be a mistake. She's mine now. Spoils of war. Kneading for a moment, squeezing gently, then I use my new body's formattable strength.

Her eyes snap open.