by Thea Devine
No man could resist that—his body seized, and he unceremoniously blew. One blast, long and succulent, right dead center into her core.
Perfect.
And this—wife cunt—would be waiting for him every time he returned from London. A man could not get more delicious tail anywhere, even if he paid for it.
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And he had ever so wisely decided to marry it.
He draped himself over her chest, burrowed his head in her shoulder, and he finally slept.
******************
So now she knew the secrets. Perhaps not all of them, but the most important one—that a man would become a slave to a woman willing to give him all the sex he craved.
This was a good thing to know, a dirty-girl thing to know, but even better, she liked it, too—and she had a feeling she would grow to love it, once Lujan paid some attention to her.
But for now it was enough to let him have his way with her naked body so she could learn what to do to please him, and then .. .
He must be pleased now, she thought. Obviously pleased with how many times he had pummeled her into the bed. But she was not discontented. There was something very satisfying about wringing every drop of seed from his penis, and actually, once the dreaded battering of her maidenhead was over, the thing was very enjoyable.
She liked the feeling of his penis occupying her body. She liked how he filled her, once she got used to the idea that his penis was the instrument of pleasure.
And she loved him, and that was the most dangerous territory. But the die was cast now, and she had everything she needed to hand.
She stretched languorously beneath him, feeling his penis stiffen to attention at the movement.
She felt his body vibrate with carnal awareness as he came awake; she felt the subtle undulation of his hips as his penis lengthened and hardened and filled her more tightly.
He was coming for her again, and there was something dangerous in the way his body responded, as if he wanted to resist the lure of her body and the burgeoning ache in his penis. But he couldn't. And why should he?
Another secret.
She arched her body, and canted her hips up to meet his first rough thrust.
***
Satisfaction / 113
By the saints, would it ever be enough? He had managed, after this last endless humping, to extricate himself from her body, and to call for breakfast. It was too much, even for him. He was feeling a little whipsawed by his unruly penis, a little resentful that just the twitch of her hips could bring his jaded sex to the boiling point.
But as she levered herself up, bracing herself on her arms so that her breasts thrust forward, his body twitched and throbbed in response, and all he wanted for breakfast was her, naked and spread wide to receive him.
"Get over here." He was seated, naked, at a small table by the window, his penis rampant with desire yet again.
She eased out of the bed and padded over to him; he pulled her down on his lap so that her thighs pushed his penis downward and his right arm had purchase to snake around her hip.
His fingers itched, and he was salivating; her nipples were taut, hard, begging to be sucked.
"I know what I want for breakfast."
"Tell me."
"Nipples . .. hot, hard, succulent nipples."
It was simple to deduce exactly what to say. "Eat mine," she whispered, and he groaned.
He lifted her right breast to his mouth, eyeing her just as his moist tongue touched the nipple tip. Then he closed his lips around the nipple and pulled.
A bolt of pleasure shot right between her legs, followed by her awareness of his fingers encroaching downward between her legs, and pressing and pushing against her slit.
She arched her back and spread her legs. He sucked hard on her nipple, his fingers sliding easily into her moist, cream-clotted center. Two fingers at first, then three, spreading her labia wide, and wider still as he sucked avidly at her nipple, pulling it and covering it with his hot saliva.
She was both wide open and tightly enclosed when he inserted a fourth finger, and she gasped and dug her fingers hard into his shoulders.
His four fingers expertly spreading her labia and pumping into her. His tongue and lips expertly sucking and tugging at her nip-
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ple. His thumb suddenly at the hidden little pleasure point between her legs, rubbing and fondling it.. . His penis like an iron bar under her bottom . . . the two of them moving in unison as his fingers humped her and he sucked and soaked her nipple and wouldn't let her go . .. and the seductive pressure of his thumb fondling that elusive point of pleasure . . .
She stiffened, letting out a long moan before she shattered, her body convulsing in a rolling, crackling ride of pleasure that was both shocking and sumptuous.
She fought him then, fought his sucking mouth, his invasive fingers, so consumed with the orgasm breaking between her legs, she barely knew what she was doing. She only knew she had to get away.
And then the rills of feeling eddied away. He relinquished her breast, withdrew his fingers, which made her feel oddly bereft, moved her off his lap, and guided her to sit on his penis, straddling his thighs.
It happened so fast, she had no time to assess what he intended. But then the slow, slick slide of his penis into her depths aroused her to yet another pure pleasure not to be denied, containing his hardness from a sitting position.
And then they were face-to-face, and she wholly encompassed him.
For the first time, he felt he had finally plumbed her depths. He smoothed back her tangled hair and stared into her eyes. She was so young, so malleable. There was a virginal aspect to her still, in the faint blush on her cheeks as she stared back, all the while shimmying involuntarily on his distended shaft.
Just that—just that. . . and her nipple so pointed and hard and soaked with his saliva . . . his hips flexed and he clamped down on his lust. He had so much more fondling to do: her buttocks especially, so curvy and soft on his thighs. He hadn't nearly gotten enough of her buttocks or the luscious secrets in her enticing crease.
He explored her there, stroking, cupping, fingering, as she rocked gently on his shaft. She held his shoulders, held his eyes, as she moved, her hips shimmying and rocking, in response to his fingers fondling and invading those even more private parts of her.
Satisfaction / 115
Breathless—he made her breathless, and he had no less a response to her. It astounded him. It made him feel uncharacteristically possessive and unbelievably wary.
This kind of thing didn't happen to him. No one had ever breached the walls around his hard, cynical heart—ever. And neither would she, for all her beauty and innocence. He wouldn't allow it.
This was sex—convenient, conquering sex with a convenient, legal concubine. Who already was well versed in making the right movements as she saddled him, and those erotic little sounds as he had his way with her bottom and breasts.
There was nothing like a virgin wife, cradled on your lap and plumbed to the hilt. And her firm, young breasts with her pebble-hard nipples swinging enticingly in front of his mouth.
Nothing like eager virginal buttocks, so avid for his caresses. Nothing like it, no one like her.
He hadn't kissed her yet in this marathon of mastery over her body—but somehow he did not want to initiate that intimate contact. It would bring them too close; she would have some control, and he was not of a mind to give in to that yet.
Ever.
Rather, he nuzzled her breasts and spread her buttocks and took his fill of feeling her there while she wriggled and worked him still deeper into her core.
Suddenly he was at a moment of utter perfection—he stood on the precipice, with his fingers exploring her crease, his tongue lapping her nipples, her arms holding him close, his penis as rigid as a pole . .. hovering, hovering, his sharp point of pleasure almost at its peak, and then he fell, his orgasm shattering his control, eruptin
g from his gut and pouring straight into her hot, enfolding woman flesh.
Pour—that was the right word for it, the wrenching, drenching emptying of his soul, and his semen seeping out from beneath her and all over his thighs so that she was seated, still rooted in the residue of his seed, her arms wrapped around him, his face buried between her breasts, her scent enveloping his senses.
She was a temptation of a siren and he was headed for disaster on the shoals of her subjugation . ..
No. Why did he think that? No woman owned him. He shook
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off the disturbing thought as he became aware of an insistent knocking at the bedroom door.
"I did call for breakfast, didn't I?" he muttered. He didn't want to move. "Shit." He had to move, had to remove his engorged penis from its nesting place, had to move her back to the bed to cover herself so whatever servant was outside the door would not get even a glimpse of her naked flesh.
Shit. He pulled on a shirt, but there was no way to hide his still-vital erection. So be it. He pulled open the door.
Bingham, paper-thin and disapproving, stood there with a tray. "Mr. Lujan . . ."
Lujan took the tray. "That will be all." He kicked back the door and it slammed in the butler's face. He set the tray down on the table by the window. Tea, toast, jam, scones ...
Her.
His erection just wouldn't subside.
He strode to the bed, pulled away the blanket, pulled her to the edge of the bed and in perfect alignment with the jut of his erection.
He pushed apart her thighs and nudged his way into her. She was still slick and coated with his come, creamy-rich and ready for penetration again.
He felt that welling howl of triumph in his breast. This was just how he liked his sex—separate but coupled, wearing her cunt like a girdle as he pulled her legs to hook around his hips, so that her lower torso was canted upward to receive him.
Perfect. Perfect. Her nipples tight, her diamond winking at him, her boneless body wholly given over to his pumping, humping pleasure.
He came swiftly, blasting into her almost involuntarily, short and sweet, no long song of an orgasm here. His body sought relief from the endless need of her, and took him there in one volcanic shot.
Soaked again. He would not have believed his penis was so full of juice. Or that he only wanted to stay nestled in her semen-coated snuggery.
She was Eve, reveling in his corruption of her innocence, knowing everything even when he thought she'd known nothing.
And he didn't care. He lay perfectly still, her legs wrapped
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around him, her arms outstretched, her hair in streaming disarray.
His.
Wife.
His cunt.
His convenience.
So why was he feeling so insanely possessive of her? She was the solution to a problem, period. She was his body in residence, surely enough of an exchange to make her happy. She didn't need anything else—just his penis and some pin money. The perfect arrangement.
He leaned over her. Her eyes were closed, her body sentient.
Wake up.
He started pumping almost involuntarily—there was something about her naked body that just drove him to own it, and his own body responded with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of spunk.
He was going a little crazy—he wanted to coat her nipples, her breasts, her body with his come. And next, he wanted her to swallow it. . . and next—he pumped himself ruthlessly, working his body into a lather .. . next—he would spew his thick cream all over her body, and in her mouth, with her virgin tongue lapping it up hungrily . . .
He felt the seizing moment of culmination—he yanked himself out of her at the very moment he peaked, and swooped the underside of his penis on her belly, rubbing, stroking, coming, coming— he helped it—oozing, spurting all over her belly, her midriff, her breasts.. .
Holy saints... he fell on the bed next to her, his penis utterly drained and sapped of life.
But not his body, or his imagination. He stroked the sticky residue of his come into the skin of her belly and her breasts, as she lay there like a living, breathing doll.
He felt the convulsive need to feel his juices slick and deep inside her. He stopped his insistent massage, and pushed her legs apart again, and pushed his fingers into her bush, into her slit, and into her mysteries.
And then, with his fingers insinuated deep inside her cream-coated core, he slept.
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***
She slept, and he watched the slow, sated rise and fall of her breast with his questing hand anchored on her hip. Everything was quiescent now, including his penis—including, momentarily, his uncontrollable lust for her.
He had married the perfect willing wife. Someone teachable, touchable, and malleable. And she was beautiful on top of it.
Sometimes fate handed you the moon.
She was the perfect accessory to a man of his position. Background didn't have to matter. He could fabricate one, if necessary. But since she would be here, the chatelaine of Waybury, all the time, she would have no reason to come to London when he was there. He'd just go up and trot around for a time, muck and fuck a bit, and then come back to his cunt and ride it to a lather, and then do it all over again.
What a life. He never would have envisioned having such a plum fall into his hands . . .
He felt her tentative wakening movements and his penis spurted to life again, ready, able, urgent. He couldn't possibly let her off the bed before taking her again.
"May I not get up?" she murmured, as he pinned her there.
"No." He climbed over her, caging her body with his arms and legs, so that his penis was aligned with her bush, and nudging her slit insistently. "My penis needs to spend some cream right now, so spread your legs."
She made a sound—surely not resistence? She had no say in this, really. That was the exchange: Waybury and all its luxury and amenities for his bed. Of course, it had been a tacit understanding, and perhaps, innocent that she had been, she didn't quite comprehend what her end of the bargain really entailed.
For all he knew, she had some mad idea that she was in love with him. Best to rid her of that notion now. Let her not think it, let her not ever say it.
He drove himself into her, hard, masterfully, once, twice, three times, and he came in a long, drawn-out paroxysm of pleasure, his pleasure, just as it should be for what he was giving her in return . . .
He framed her face with his hands, still coupled with her, and panting in the aftermath.
Satisfaction / 119
"Learn this lesson well, wife of mine. When I need to ejaculate cream, you spread your legs, you open your cunt, and you swallow every ounce of me, is that clear?"
"Yes," she breathed, wondering how much more she could take. Or him, for that matter, after all these hours of coupling.
"We're not leaving this room until you wholly comprehend what that means."
"Yes . . ." Anything, anything.
"It means, I fuck you anytime, any way I can think of, and you will eat my penis and my cream and whatever else I can think of to fuck you with. Is that clear?"
"Yes ..." But it was easier than ever she'd thought to just lie beneath him and let him do what he would to her body—even if this was all there ever would be—for her. ..
"So it cannot be that I heard vou say you want to leave my bed."
"... Oh no," she whispered, perfectly submissive, utterly coy. Another secret: men like Lujan liked their women obedient.
"You heard me say how fortunate I am you chose me to wed."
"Umm . . . He undulated his hips, deep in her creamy cunt. "My penis really loves it when your cunt is clotted with my cream. It feels so good, Cinderella. It feels like I want to fuck it again. Spread your legs wider, let my penis root deeper .. . like that—" as she angled her legs and hooked her ankles behind his knees. "Just like that. Ummm ..." as he pushed and worked
his penis into her lustrous, rich heat. . . "feels good, good—" working his penis even deeper .. . "Ummm ..."
The sound deepened, from the back his throat. He didn't move, but he didn't have to—his body crested the pleasure point and erupted into a galvanic pumping that shook the bed.
He couldn't have much more left in him, she thought hazily in the aftermath. And there was nothing hateful about his using her body to teach her what he wanted in this way.
But she loved him, the one thing he didn't want from her, and there would never be talk of that. There might never be anything more than his lustful possessiveness, and his frenetic desire to pump every ounce of his essence into her.
So be it. She could take some satisfaction in that, and her disappointment that he had no wish to pursue her pleasure could be
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set aside for a while. She was here, she was his, she loved him, and she would, eventually, make him love her, too.
******************
"God, what are they doing up there?" Hugo muttered fretfully as he paced around the library after dinner. It had been three days since the wedding and three days and nights that Lujan and Jancie had remained in his bedroom, doing all the things that Hugo had ever hoped to do with a fresh, young, fecund bride.
"What do you think?" Kyger asked lazily from a chair by the fireplace. It was no less difficult for him, because he was more aware even than Hugo of Lujan's libertine nature and of Jancie's innocence. Lujan could be eating her alive up there, and they had no right to interfere.
And he didn't want to imagine any of it, anyway.
"I'll go up to London," Hugo said abruptly. "You can take care of things here."
"Going up to get it up?" Kyger murmured.
"Yes, well—a tween won't do in this situation. And Lujan just sucks the air out of everything. A man can't breathe but he's inhaling Lujan's debauchery. And in his own home, too. No, I'm better to be away from here. You deal with it."
"Hell." Kyger didn't want to have anything to do with Lujan and his unexpected desire to marry Jancie. There was something more to it, he was certain. Lujan always had a plan; he never did anything for the hell of it.
