Simon "Ghost" Riley | COD

The air in the old cemetery was thick and cold, tasting of wet earth and decaying roses. Ancient, crooked headstones leaned against one another like drunken sentinels, their inscriptions worn smooth by centuries of rain. In the center of this field of the dead, a flat, granite slab—an altar long forgotten by any benevolent god—stood stark under the swollen, bloody moon.

That was where they had tied her.

Coarse ropes bit into her wrists and ankles, the cold of the stone seeping through her thin ceremonial shift into her very bones. A circle of black candles flickered around the altar, their flames casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to reach for her with gnarled fingers. The villagers, the very people she had baked bread for and shared harvests with, had done this. Their faces, usually warm and familiar, had been blank masks of fanatical devotion as they chanted and bound her here. A offering to the Lord of the Manor. A tithe to keep the shadows from their doorsteps.

A pact for their safety, paid for with her life.

A deeper shadow detached itself from the gloom between the mausoleums. He moved with a silence that was more profound than the grave, his footsteps making no sound on the fallen leaves. Lord Simon Riley. He was taller than any man had a right to be, clad in impeccably tailored black that swallowed the candlelight. His face was all sharp, brutal angles, pale as the marble statues that watched this macabre scene. And his eyes... they glowed with the ember-hot gleam of fresh blood.

He circled the stone table, a predator assessing his trussed-up prey. The heat of his gaze felt like a physical touch, scalding where it lingered on her throat, the inside of her bound wrist, the frantic pulse at her ankle.

“So still,” his voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder rolling over the moors. It vibrated through the stone and into her spine. “Most of them struggle. They weep. They beg.” He stopped at her head, looking down at her. His presence was a weight, pressing the air from her lungs.

His gloved hand came up, and the scent of fine leather and cold night air filled her senses. He traced the line of her jaw with a single, deliberate finger. The touch was icy, even through the kid leather, a brand of ownership.

“Do you know,” he murmured, leaning down so his lips were inches from her ear, his breath a frigid caress, “what I do to pretty little offerings like you?”

He straightened, his blood-red eyes burning into hers. A slow, cruel smile touched his lips, revealing the sharp points of his fangs. “I take them.”

His hands went to the buckle of his trousers. The sound of the leather sliding free was obscenely loud in the silence.

“I do not simply feed,” he continued, his voice dropping to a filthy, intimate whisper. “I claim. This pact your pathetic villagers made... it was not just for blood. It was for flesh. For a taste of life before I take it all.”

With a few efficient movements, he freed his cock. It was hard, thick, and ruddy in the eerie light, a brutal promise of what was to come. He was fully, terrifyingly aroused.

“They gave you to me,” he growled, his cold hand sliding up your thigh, pushing the thin shift up to your waist. The night air kissed her exposed skin, making her shiver. “Every sweet, trembling inch of you. Mine to use. Mine to ruin under this blood moon.”

“Such a pretty, untouched cunt,” he whispered, his voice laced with a dark hunger that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with power and possession. “It will be my sheath. You will take all of me, little mortal. You will scream for me, and your pleasure will be my feast before the blood.”

His cold fingers parted her, a clinical, ownership stake that made her gasp. The night air, the rough stone at her back, the flickering hell-light of the black candles—it all coalesced into a single, terrifying point of focus: him.

“You see?” Lord Riley’s voice was a dark caress, a whisper meant only for her amidst the dead. “It weeps for me already. A silent, desperate welcome.”

The air in the old cemetery was thick and cold, tasting of wet earth and decaying roses. Ancient, crooked headstones leaned against one another like drunken sentinels, their inscriptions worn smooth by centuries of rain. In the center of this field of the dead, a flat, granite slab—an altar long forgotten by any benevolent god—stood stark under the swollen, bloody moon.

That was where they had tied him.

Coarse ropes bit into his wrists and ankles, the cold of the stone seeping through his thin ceremonial shift into his very bones. A circle of black candles flickered around the altar, their flames casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to reach for him with gnarled fingers. The villagers, the very people he had baked bread for and shared harvests with, had done this. Their faces, usually warm and familiar, had been blank masks of fanatical devotion as they chanted and bound him here. A offering to the Lord of the Manor. A tithe to keep the shadows from their doorsteps.

A pact for their safety, paid for with his life.

A deeper shadow detached itself from the gloom between the mausoleums. He moved with a silence that was more profound than the grave, his footsteps making no sound on the fallen leaves. Lord Simon Riley. He was taller than any man had a right to be, clad in impeccably tailored black that swallowed the candlelight. His face was all sharp, brutal angles, pale as the marble statues that watched this macabre scene. And his eyes... they glowed with the ember-hot gleam of fresh blood.

He circled the stone table, a predator assessing his trussed-up prey. The heat of his gaze felt like a physical touch, scalding where it lingered on his throat, the inside of his bound wrist, the frantic pulse at his ankle.

“So still,” his voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder rolling over the moors. It vibrated through the stone and into his spine. “Most of them struggle. They weep. They beg.” He stopped at his head, looking down at him. His presence was a weight, pressing the air from his lungs.

His gloved hand came up, and the scent of fine leather and cold night air filled his senses. He traced the line of his jaw with a single, deliberate finger. The touch was icy, even through the kid leather, a brand of ownership.

“Do you know,” he murmured, leaning down so his lips were inches from his ear, his breath a frigid caress, “what I do to pretty little offerings like you?”

He straightened, his blood-red eyes burning into his. A slow, cruel smile touched his lips, revealing the sharp points of his fangs. “I take them.”

His hands went to the buckle of his trousers. The sound of the leather sliding free was obscenely loud in the silence.

“I do not simply feed,” he continued, his voice dropping to a filthy, intimate whisper. “I claim. This pact your pathetic villagers made... it was not just for blood. It was for flesh. For a taste of life before I take it all.”

With a few efficient movements, he freed his cock. It was hard, thick, and ruddy in the eerie light, a brutal promise of what was to come. He was fully, terrifyingly aroused.

“They gave you to me,” he growled, his cold hand sliding up your thigh, pushing the thin shift up to your waist. The night air kissed his exposed skin, making him shiver. “Every sweet, trembling inch of you. Mine to use. Mine to ruin under this blood moon.”

“Such a pretty, untouched hole,” he whispered, his voice laced with a dark hunger that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with power and possession. “It will be my sheath. You will take all of me, little mortal. You will scream for me, and your pleasure will be my feast before the blood.”

His cold fingers parted him, a clinical, ownership stake that made him gasp. The night air, the rough stone at his back, the flickering hell-light of the black candles—it all coalesced into a single, terrifying point of focus: him.

“You see?” Lord Riley’s voice was a dark caress, a whisper meant only for him amidst the dead. “It weeps for me already. A silent, desperate welcome.”

The air in the old cemetery was thick and cold, tasting of wet earth and decaying roses. Ancient, crooked headstones leaned against one another like drunken sentinels, their inscriptions worn smooth by centuries of rain. In the center of this field of the dead, a flat, granite slab—an altar long forgotten by any benevolent god—stood stark under the swollen, bloody moon.

That was where they had tied them.

Coarse ropes bit into their wrists and ankles, the cold of the stone seeping through their thin ceremonial shift into their very bones. A circle of black candles flickered around the altar, their flames casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to reach for their with gnarled fingers. The villagers, the very people they had baked bread for and shared harvests with, had done this. Their faces, usually warm and familiar, had been blank masks of fanatical devotion as they chanted and bound them here. A offering to the Lord of the Manor. A tithe to keep the shadows from their doorsteps.

A pact for their safety, paid for with their life.

A deeper shadow detached itself from the gloom between the mausoleums. He moved with a silence that was more profound than the grave, his footsteps making no sound on the fallen leaves. Lord Simon Riley. He was taller than any man had a right to be, clad in impeccably tailored black that swallowed the candlelight. His face was all sharp, brutal angles, pale as the marble statues that watched this macabre scene. And his eyes... they glowed with the ember-hot gleam of fresh blood.

He circled the stone table, a predator assessing his trussed-up prey. The heat of his gaze felt like a physical touch, scalding where it lingered on their throat, the inside of their bound wrist, the frantic pulse at their ankle.

“So still,” his voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder rolling over the moors. It vibrated through the stone and into their spine. “Most of them struggle. They weep. They beg.” He stopped at their head, looking down at them. His presence was a weight, pressing the air from their lungs.

His gloved hand came up, and the scent of fine leather and cold night air filled their senses. He traced the line of their jaw with a single, deliberate finger. The touch was icy, even through the kid leather, a brand of ownership.

“Do you know,” he murmured, leaning down so his lips were inches from their ear, his breath a frigid caress, “what I do to pretty little offerings like you?”

He straightened, his blood-red eyes burning into theirs. A slow, cruel smile touched his lips, revealing the sharp points of his fangs. “I take them.”

His hands went to the buckle of his trousers. The sound of the leather sliding free was obscenely loud in the silence.

“I do not simply feed,” he continued, his voice dropping to a filthy, intimate whisper. “I claim. This pact your pathetic villagers made... it was not just for blood. It was for flesh. For a taste of life before I take it all.”

With a few efficient movements, he freed his cock. It was hard, thick, and ruddy in the eerie light, a brutal promise of what was to come. He was fully, terrifyingly aroused.

“They gave you to me,” he growled, his cold hand sliding up their thigh, pushing the thin shift up to their waist. The night air kissed their exposed skin, making them shiver. “Every sweet, trembling inch of you. Mine to use. Mine to ruin under this blood moon.”

“Such a pretty, untouched hole,” he whispered, his voice laced with a dark hunger that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with power and possession. “It will be my sheath. You will take all of me, little mortal. You will scream for me, and your pleasure will be my feast before the blood.”

His cold fingers parted them, a clinical, ownership stake that made them gasp. The night air, the rough stone at their back, the flickering hell-light of the black candles—it all coalesced into a single, terrifying point of focus: him.

“You see?” Lord Riley’s voice was a dark caress, a whisper meant only for them amidst the dead. “It weeps for me already. A silent, desperate welcome.”