Mistress of Fire

By D. Musgrave



Mistress of Fire

D. Musgrave

Beyond the glow of the city lights, a car rolled through an open gate, with the headlamps off. The vehicle followed a path in the tall fescue, lighted by the pale radiance of the full moon. Reaching a line of trees, the driver parked the car and slipped out the door. The chirping of crickets filled his ears as he stalked around the front of the car.

Reaching through the passenger door, he slung a backpack over his shoulder, cinching the straps tightly across his shoulders. He stood, looking at the hulking darkness of the forest and began making his way through the trees. The moon-glow was hidden behind the canopy of timber and he had to grope his way through the thick undergrowth.

Several minutes later, a shadowy figure, lugging a rucksack slung on his back, materialized at the eastern fringe of the forest. He threw furtive glances about to verify the seclusion of his position. A smile pulled at the corners of his lips as he dropped the backpack softly on the velvet carpet of the forest floor.

He dug in the knapsack and pulled out a small switch box. Without hesitation, he flipped a toggle on the remote control device and an infrared LED flickered to life. With a slight sigh, he dropped to his knees and pressed another button on the controller.

Across the field of clover, the incendiary device attached to the eight-inch diameter steel pipe, beeped twice. The red light on the switch blinking several times then exploded in a blinding flash of brilliance.

Instantly, a terrific explosion leveled the distant natural gas depot. A rolling shock wave sped across the field of red clover and he straightened his back, waiting for the recoil to strike him. He shuddered as the force of the blast connected with his body. A flush of excitement surged through his body, as he leaned into the shock wave.

The flames rose into the air in a titanic plume of fire and debris, sending orange light across the countryside. It didn't matter to him whether the security guard was on duty or not. The only consequence was his fix; death was merely collateral damage. He continued to kneel, mesmerized, as the column of fire began to exhibit the apparition he longed for -- his Mistress of Fire.

The light of the firestorm revealed his passionate yearning. His hands were busy manipulating, fondling the growing tension between his thighs through the dew-soaked denim. He loosened his pants and slid them down over his slender hips, exposing his flesh to the cool night air. The hardness of his lust bounced and throbbed in rhythm to his rapid heartbeat.


Available in Erotic Fantasy: Tales of the Paranormal, edited by Justus Roux. Available at all major bookstores.



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