The hell in the morning

He woke up with the birds. He ate the left-overs of the rabbit from the night before and had some coffee. As usual. But his compass was pointing at "adventure". The adventurer packed his belongings quickly and started to walk. Didn't matter which direction, adventuring was a state of mind. He crossed a valley and climbed the hill, but nothing happened. The air was quiet, everything was so right it seemed unreal, a perfect moment crystalised. But perfection doesn't exist. It had to be a dream. The next valley was crossed by a river. There was a bridge, the old stones green through the ages, and on the other bank there was a Tudor cottage. The kind that had old aunties embroiding inside. But the voice that said "Come in!" was sweet and languid as honey melting down under the sun. His cock itched.
The inside was shadowy, heavy dark curtains in the windows. Some candles on the table. The big mirror reflecting the trembling flames. An odd hissing sound. He closed the door. "Come here, my boy" she said. He obeyed. Mesmerised. Here was the remotest corner. She was sitting in her boudoir, looking at herself in the mirror. He only could see her shadow, her white back, her blonde hair. He kept walking. Close enough to see the devious snake around her waist. And when he was closer he saw her red lips and red nipples. She searched his gaze in the mirror. She found it and kept it. She ran her finger around her red nipples and gave it to him. He licked it. Then she took a paperknife and draw a line in her own pale shoulder. Blood dripped. She took some with her finger and painted her already red lips with it. He swallowed. Hard. Again she took more blood and painted her nipples. She smiled at him on the mirror. She said "Do you fancy a drink, boy?" He hold her hand and licked the blood. "Yes, ma'am."
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