Sunny - Mona Lisa Eclipsing

“Move, Gryphon. Now,” she gasped, quivering, and felt him take over the movement, the rhythm, driving harder, faster, into her. She closed her eyes, remembering the visual image coupled with the physical sensation of his glistening cock disappearing into her, both of their bodies lit, shining. . . Sweet Goddess, indeed. She wasn’t going to last long.

“Halcyon . . . please,” she cried, wanting both of them in her when she went. “Join us.”

He moved so fast she didn’t see him, one moment on his knees against the headboard, the next moment standing there beside them.

“Open your mouth,” Halcyon said harshly, his hands fisting in her hair.

Mona Lisa parted her lips and he pushed his way in. Sweet bliss.

She licked, sucked hungrily as Halcyon pumped in and out of her mouth, humming blissfully at the taste and feel of both of them within her.

Halcyon pulled out and was suddenly behind her, pushing her gently forward, down over Gryphon’s chest. Gryphon lifted his head and took her mouth in a hot, raw kiss as she felt the tip of Halcyon’s cock push into her from behind.

Gryphon’s tongue speared into her mouth at the same time Halcyon entered her anus, and then they were both fucking her in slow, gentle push-pull rhythm, perfectly coordinated, in and out. In and out.

Mona Lisa felt Halcyon’s phantom hands caress her breast, squeeze her nipples, stroke with devilish lightness over the nub between her wet, parted folds. Clever, invisible fingers tugging, pulling, stroking, and caressing her, feeling as real as the two hard cocks surging into her like dueling swords, rubbing alongside each other separated only by a thin layer of tissued membrane.

They increased their speed, their harmonized tempo, and everything built and tightened and tensed within her.

Mona Lisa broke their kiss as she felt Gryphon’s teeth lengthen and sharpen, knew with a thrill the bloodlust he was feeling, felt a surprisingly corresponding need to be marked and pierced by those very teeth—something she had missed more than she knew.

Gryphon’s rhythm suddenly faltered.

“No, it’s okay. I want it,” she said in hasty reassurance, pulling his mouth to her breast, reaching back with her other hand to guide Halcyon’s head to her neck. “Bite me, both of you. Drink my blood.”

They didn’t wait for a second invitation. Two sets of fangs pierced her.

They drank down her blood and thrust themselves inside her, driving themselves so deep and full within her. That the pleasure culminated and exploded in a visually blinding brilliant pulse of light. She convulsed. Felt the milking clench of her sheath and tightening of her sphincter set off their own spasming release.

“God,” Mona Lisa gasped as she felt the withdrawal of their fangs, leaving behind a pleasant throbbing ache on her breast and neck. She twitched as she felt the twin laving of tongues over the puncture wounds, enhancing the tremors still running through her.

A heavy shiver as she felt Halcyon pull out of her. Another shudder as he lifted her off Gryphon and lay her down on the bed between them.

Three-way cuddling, Mona Lisa found, was nice.

Very, incredibly nice indeed.

THE DAY OUR world irrevocably changed began as a typical evening, breaking fast together with a main meal and then dispersing to our varied duties and chores, which for me was my two-hour practice session with the Morells.

Thaddeus was the one who brought it to our attention when we returned back to the house. “Hey, guys,” Thaddeus called out from the living room. “Come here. You have to see this.”

I stepped inside to see my brother glued to the television. The scene playing on it was indeed riveting: a news report of a tall apartment complex going up in flames. The caption Breaking News flashed along the bottom of the screen.

“It looks like a fire,” I said, wondering what all the fuss was. “Is it local?”

“No. In Washington, DC, in one of the slum neighborhoods,” Thaddeus said, raptly watching the news. “Wait, this is what I wanted you to see.”

And the reason for his interest suddenly became clear as a man came crashing through a window near the top floor. No, not a man, I realized as wings spread out in magnificent display. A Monère. Caught on film!

His arms—only his arms—were shifted into feathered wings. Wings that were burning, caught on fire. Clinging to the male was a teenage girl wearing pajamas, coughing but otherwise seeming unharmed.

The reporter gave a startled cry. “What in the world . . . are you getting this?”

The cameraman’s excited affirmative was heard.

They flew for a moment, gracefully suspended in the air, an incredibly dramatic picture as the flames spread rapidly to the Monère’s shirt, burning along his back, highlighting the man, his beating wings sharply outlined against the darkening night sky.

You could hear a faint cry as the flames reached his neck, and the girl let go, dropping away from him, falling, plummeting, her sleeves caught on fire.

There were gasps, cries of dismay from the news crew, from the crowd below. Then even more startled cries as the winged man rushed down after her in a hard swoop. The girl plummeted a sickening distance before the male caught her, shifting his wings in midflight back to arms. Burning feathers disappeared and became seared skin, his clothes licked bright with orange flames. Holding her tight against him, they dropped in freefall the last fifty feet.

He hit the ground hard, feetfirst, and rolled with his precious burden, taking the heavy brunt of the fall. Both of them were immediately sprayed with fire extinguishers by the waiting firemen before they even came to a stop. The footage ended with the male lifting the girl and staggering to his feet. He managed a few lurching steps before collapsing to his knees and slumping over the girl. The footage stopped there and switched back to the news anchor at the studio.

Thaddeus hit the mute button and flipped to other channels. All of them were running the same film segment. One channel had even clearer footage, a close-in zoom shot after the male burst out the window and first spread his wings. They froze it there, showing the burning feathers in clear, undeniable detail.

“I don’t know how long they’ve been running this. I’ve just been watching the last ten minutes.” Thaddeus turned to me. “Is it bad?”

“Yes,” I said, dumbstruck. “It’s awful . They have a zoom shot of him!” I turned to Nolan, the oldest Monère in the room. “Has anything like this ever happened before?”

Nolan shook his head. “We’ve never been caught on film like this before.”

“What are the reporters saying?” Quentin asked Thaddeus.

“Everything but the truth. No mention of Monères so far.” Thaddeus rubbed his face. “Some are calling it a hoax, claiming what we saw was just clever film editing and special effects. Although with three different news stations showing different live recordings, not much credence is being given to that. The most popular assumption is that he strapped winglike contraptions on his arms and that they burned off.” An ironic smile crossed Thaddeus’s face. “One station is actually calling him an angel.”

Dante snorted. “An angel?”

“Well, you have to admit, he sort of does look like one,” Thaddeus said, shrugging. “A man with wings, flying. Hey, don’t look at me like that; I’m just reporting back what I heard. But even without all that real-wings-versus-fake-wings argument going on, there’s no getting around the fact that this guy jumped out of the nineteenth floor of a twenty-story burning apartment building and half flew, half fell down over two hundred feet without going splat. Hell, he was even able to stand up and walk afterward! Not something most humans can do. They’re calling him a hero, whoever-whatever he is. So far, no one’s come up with an identity for him or the girl.”