Lust Vessel Novels & Stories

The vessel was unmarked, moving with a speed that suggested heavy military grade turbines. "That’s the Lazarus delivery system," Marcus Hale’s voice piped in, sounding strained and muffled from the safe house floor. "The one your father funded, Ocean. The one that carries the chemical imprint. If that ship reaches the coastline, the timer on the handset doesn't matter. The protocol initiates automatically."

NOW. Night bus to Gaspé—six hours along cold peninsula, river black under stars. Driver with rough beard took cash, no talk. I sat back, hood up, watched snowy trees, rare truck lights. In Gaspé, paid $800 Canadian to a boat captain—Le Saint-Pierre, 42 feet, patched hull—for Magdalen Islands. Boat smelled fuel and fish; deck icy. I stood inside as we moved through dark water, land lights gone, wind sharp, salt on lips. Captain gave coffee in metal cup—black, strong, hot. I drank.

I followed, my thighs aching, my cunt wet and my nipples hard against the fabric of my hoodie. ___ Inside the cabin was even prettier. It was made of wood walls, had dim lights, a huge couch near the fireplace, and large windows facing the lake. And upstairs, just one bedroom with one bed. Dian noticed me staring and smirked while carrying the bags inside. I turned toward him slowly. “One bed?” He faked a confused look, “Damn, must have been an accident.” I threw a pillow at him immediately. He caught it laughing. “You booked one bed on purpose.”

​The Respiration didn't land so much as it anchored itself into the sea, its massive, barnacled hull groaning as it settled against the basalt pedestal of the spire. It was a Frankenstein of a ship—sections of sleek Sterling "White-Steel" welded to rusted industrial scavenge and draped in a hardy, vacuum-resistant strain of Whisper-Moss that glowed with a sickly, pale violet light.

Her head still felt foggy sometimes. Maybe she was just distracted. The Second Thing Ethan showed up one afternoon looking confused. “You didn’t answer my messages,” he said. “I didn’t get any.” He showed her his phone. Three messages. Delivered. Read. Mira blinked. “I didn’t open those.” Lisa stood in the doorway quietly. Listening. The Third Thing Mira’s sketchbook — the one she and Lisa had been filling with their Lagos-in-space project — was ruined. Ink smeared across pages. A jagged tear through one of Mira’s best drawings.

The alpha groaned but still got up and grabbed the cloth nearby which he was supposed to take over at night, and wrapped it around his waist making sure his bulge was successfully hidden. The man walked up to the door and opened it only to encounter a maid who had been holding a basket of different fruits as he instructed. The lady spoke in an obedient tone while Cyrus just smiled at her and took the basket, though the maid’s hands shivered seeing him shirtless. As soon as he took the basket she dashed away for her life, no matter whatever had been happening, Cyrus was still the supreme ruler of the whole damn current staff of the Belle Morte. The alpha turned around after closing the door a

she replied, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears as she attempted to offer comfort despite her pain. As Lisa began to pack her belongings, her movements slow and deliberate, Arina's concern deepened. “Where are you going?” she asked, her voice tinged with worry as she watched her friend's actions, her heart aching at the sight of Lisa's distress. “To the hostel,” Lisa replied, her voice choked with emotion as she struggled to contain her tears, her hands trembling slightly as she attempted to close her suitcase. Arina's shock was palpable as she processed Lisa's words, her mind racing to comprehend the depth of her friend's pain.

The Lazarus. It swayed gently on the black waters, an eerie lull to its massive body. It was an old cargo ship, at least two stories high, but there was nothing welcoming about its form. Its once-white paint was now streaked in rust and what looked like dried blood. Symbols marked its hull in ash and red paint—some Emma recognized from old spellbooks, others made her blood run cold with instinctive fear. Chains thicker than a man’s torso moored it to the broken dock. The metal creaked with each gentle pull of the tide, a sound that echoed like a scream across the empty harbor.

"Three hundred million dollars in liquidated assets were on that vessel's server. I want the claim filed before the sun comes up." ​Arthur Blackwood sat nearby on a velvet bench, his head in his hands, performing a masterpiece of confusion and heartbreak. He looked like a father who had lost his daughter and his fortune in one tragic mechanical failure. ​"I don't understand," Arthur whispered, his voice trembling for the benefit of the surrounding socialites and the NYPD detectives taking statements. "The stabilizers... the electrical grid... it was a brand-new vessel. How could this happen? My daughter is out there! Vivienne is still in that water!"