He began to fuck me, slowly at first, lungs heaving with the effort, seeming to hold himself back. He leaned over, reaching up with his long arms, his hands kneading my breasts, before he took my thighs again, lifting them to his hips, pumping slowly and evenly. The pain began to fade as the motion grew easier, deeper.
I could feel him watching me as the sensation began to change. It was as if I'd reached another level of arousal, higher even than the one before. That was when he brought his hand down, and his thumb began playing with the jewel that fascinated him, in such easy reach. At first I didn't want him to touch it, and his broad fingertip was almost stinging. But he went on, relentlessly, in the same cadence as his hips and the groans escaping his throat. With his prick inside me, driving without mercy, the kneading became intensely pleasurable, and I writhed, an unconscious, thrumming sound at the back of my throat. He must have heard it, since he murmured in approval, and began to stroke a little faster. Faster, and harder, like the force of the earth pressing down on me, shooting the hot fires at its core through me.
The fresh juice pouring out of me eased his way, as the walls stretched to take him, drawing him inside, seemingly of my body's will rather than my own. It was as if two separate forces fought for control within me, pride and lust. Each time my pride swelled, it only worsened the lust, because when I fought to free my hands, it intensified the sensation of his force thrusting inside me, pinning me in place. I knew, instinctively, that the very act of fighting him was increasing his pleasure. What I didn't know, couldn't have accepted, was that being forced by him to such a thorough fucking would touch a primitive hunger inside me that I hadn't known was there.
I felt the pressure building, as another wave of climax washed over me. When he sensed it he pumped harder, pistoning mindlessly until he erupted inside me, throwing back his head with a strained bellow. I was overwhelmed by it, the enormity of him stiffening, reaching higher, the convulsions slamming against that place deep within me that shimmered at the same time as the jewel that was under assault.
This time was even more intense, pulling me down into a darkened silence that held only the sound of heavy breaths, his as well as mine.
Slowly I came back to the feel of him pressing his fingers up and down my legs still held in his grip, smoothing over the skin, as if he luxuriated in it. Then he lowered his head, kissing me near my waist before he pulled from me, still half erect. He made a strange sound as he did it, as if he didn't want to leave, a feeling that intensified as he passed his hand over my hips, then my belly, nearly with reverence.
He whispered to me, things I'd never heard pass any man's lips before, things that made my heart beat faster again. It was something else I didn't understand, how undone I could be only by words.
"You have a magnificent cunt. I have never felt another like it. You're as tight as a virgin." He kissed the triangle of hair, worshipfully. "But it's more, as if you are squeezing with it, to take every inch inside you. Magnificent. Watching you come was exquisite." All the while his hands explored, as high as my collarbone, then down to massage my breasts, his fingertips rolling the nipples.
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I'm going to make you come again. I'm going to suck that little bijou again. We call it a Bonaparte, because they say he spends half his time with his tongue buried in Josephine's pussy. But you taste sweeter than an empress. You taste like wine."
I sensed him reaching for the blade, and I wasn't afraid any longer. In two swift motions he cut the bonds holding my wrists. I was nearly in a faint, as I felt him pick me up off the table and carry me to the berth.
Chapter Eight
For some time I remember little. I felt myself laid out on the berth, and I heard him step to the door, shouting. When someone replied, he issued several commands in the other language, then returned to me, covering me with the blanket.
I'm not sure how much time passed, though the cabin was turning gold with sunset. I caught a glimpse of the woman who brought the food, one of their women, looking like a Moor in a colorful but tattered gown. Behind her was a mate with a flagon of water and another bottle. Being a woman, she might have taken some pity on me, but seemed instead to be only disinterested, if not annoyed.
It was nothing less than bizarre, the way the captain brought me a glass of water, mixed with only a little of the liquor he'd forced me to drink, and then a bowl of stew, holding me up in his arms, encouraging me to eat and drink, though I felt certain both would come up again.
Afterwards, to my utter astonishment, he questioned me with delicacy, setting up the Chinese folding screen that had been knocked over and allowing me privacy to use the chamber pot. When I emerged, he was holding up the blanket and he wrapped me in it, picking me up and carrying me back to the berth.
Darkness was falling, like a shade closing over the window. Drifting through the cabin, as relaxed as a legitimate occupant, he found the lamp and lit it, setting it on the table, though the glow was feeble, then shrugged out of the leather jerkin.
To my horror another man knocked and entered, while I backed myself into the corner, burrowing deeper into the blanket. Completely relaxed, he sat down to eat with the captain, speaking to him at length, I assumed of the ship. I could see little in the lamplight, but the man must have been a Spanisher or Turk, since they spoke what I was now fairly certain was the lingua franca my uncle had described. Listening, I recognized on occasion not only French words but Spanish ones, from the many of that nation who lived on my island. The other man finally left, apparently having received his orders, never having given me a glance.
The captain's appetite for food having been met, he did not, as I'd hoped, have any desire for sleep. Instead he came to stand over me with a strange light in his eyes, his arm braced above, as if his mind were turning, examining all the various possibilities before him.
Completely at ease, he crossed his arms and stripped off his shirt, revealing a slim but muscled chest with dark hair, then took me by the hands and pulled me from the berth to stand, tugging the blanket from my grip. He yanked off his boots and breeches to reveal the hair that covered his legs, as well. All that was left was a Saint Christopher medal on a gold chain around his throat, and a small gold earring I hadn't noticed before. I tried not to look, but my eyes took in every line of his form, though he made no comment. Then he took my place, sitting down on my narrow berth, ordering me to stand before him.
His tongue actually ran over his lips as he surveyed me, head to foot. He reached out, removing the only clothing left on me, rolling my stockings down with apparent enjoyment, tossing them aside. Then he fell back again, his long legs leaving his feet on the floor, leaning himself against the wall as he seemed to study me. Though I still tried to place my eyes anywhere else, I could see his erection in the half-light, swelling, doubling and then doubling again. When he opened his arms, with an imperious crook of his fingers, I knew what was expected, and with trepidation I stepped closer to him, preferring to make the trip under my own power.
Taking my waist, he arranged me to his liking, placing my knees at the edge of the berth on either side of his legs, leaning back again and drawing me toward him, straddled over his hips. It was an uncomfortable position as well as a degrading one. He took my hands in his and brought them to his shoulders.
Whispering, "Ouvre," he opened my legs a little further, then began to explore me, smiling. I'd never felt it before in that position, on my knees, not even when I'd pleasured myself, and it was more intense, as he brushed his fingers over and around me, lightly fondling and twisting. It felt as if my clit had emerged from within, rising like the stamens on an orchid, completely open to him. Helplessly, my body gave him what he wanted, wetness flooding me. He pushed two fingers inside me, taking them out again and rubbing the slippery balm between his fingertips, as if he were testing a piece of cloth.
Then his hand returned, the fingers kneading me, as he whispered, "I'll give you my mouth, if you want. I'll l
ick you all night if you want, but I think you like this." As I began to shudder helplessly, he said, "Christ, you should see your face. It's alive." The low voice wrapped me up as he added, "Take your pleasure, my angel. Take it."
His eyes had changed, the green darker, while the lamplight made the amber within look like a starburst. Without realizing it, I squatted down on his legs even lower, opening myself wider. He was frigging me so hard, I couldn't help the climax that gripped me suddenly, as I stared into the knowing eyes, hearing his words coming from a distance while the spasms had their way with me.
"Hasn't anyone ever touched that little jewel before? You're incredible. You're so hungry, my sweet. So hungry."
With that, he took his prick in his hand and guided me to it, impaling me on it, and my head lolled back as I drew in a breath. When I lowered it again to look at him, his sparkling eyes were so smug I offered up one word, "Cochon," pig, and he laughed lightly, apparently pleased. He raised his hips once, sighing with satisfaction as he seated himself even deeper inside, touching something that sent a shiver through me. I didn't hold back the gasp of anguished pleasure, being suddenly so filled. An expression of bliss passed over his face as his head fell back against the wall just behind him.
"Ride me," he demanded, and I obeyed, tentatively at first, since this new position was a little uncomfortable, and an awareness of how I must have looked even more so, abandoned as any whore, my nakedness flaunted in front of his face. He took my breasts in his hands, and his groans became regular, timed to the motion of my hips, basking in the suction that even I could feel, as if I could draw his seed from him. I reached out to hang on to him and rode harder, barebacked, closing my eyes as I flew over the white sand, reveling in the feel of the mount between my legs.
His hand came to the back of my neck and he pulled me forward, bringing my face down to his shoulder. I didn't realize it raised my backside into the air, until I felt his palms snake around my hips. He took both cheeks into his hands, squeezing them, pulling them apart as his fingers skirted inside, a moan of pleasure nesting in his throat. I squirmed from his touch, and he snapped one curt command for me to stop. Then his fingers ran the length of the cleft, seemingly enthralled. Moving like wraiths over my skin, one hand returned, sliding down my stomach. He swept his fingers around the place where our flesh joined, dipping into the river that had poured from me each time I came back down the shaft, making me twitch when he grazed my sensitive, swollen clit.
"So hungry," he said again. "How many times can you come? Shall we find out?"
His wet hand, drenched with me, snaked behind again. My body recoiled when his finger began stroking me, moving in circles, as his other hand gently brought my head back down. His cock was still deep inside me, but I'd gone still. His voice had dropped so low I could hardly hear him.
"Ravissante, le trou du cul serré , he murmured, and I felt the rush of blood to my face, when I realized what hole he meant was so tight, though why he should be delighted by such a thing was completely outside my comprehension. It seemed to excite him.
I didn't realize how much, until his finger drove inside me, making me cry out with the sharp little pain. I tried to sit up, and his other hand held my head against his chest. I struggled as he began to probe inside, as if to stretch the opening that had never been touched before.
When I cried out again he stopped, taking my upper arms in a tight grip and raising my head to stare at me, his face taut with need. To my unease, the dawning smile became a broad grin. Grasping a handful of my hair, he drew my head down, tilting it to fix his mouth to mine. He savaged me with his tongue, before he pulled my face away. His mouth was still open against mine as he whispered, "I think I have a virgin after all."
Cradling my head, his throaty voice was compelling, setting off an incendiary reaction that spread from my stomach like a wildfire, up to my flushed cheeks.
"It's all right, my angel. There's nothing to fear," he said, and only the sound of that voice, the heat of it against my lips, turned my nipples into little stones.
I was surprised, since he'd found no release, when he lifted me from him and turned me over on the berth, getting on his knees just behind me. I felt myself falling onto my stomach, and he wrapped his arm around my waist, dragging me back up.
"On your hands and knees, my sweet," and I knew he was going to take me as my father had taken Solange, a thing that filled me with unholy excitement.
His fingers parted my saturated lips, and he plunged inside me, until my back arched, my hands reaching out blindly to press my palms to the wall of the berth just above my pillow. It was intoxicating, as he slammed into me from behind, the feeling different to anything else he'd done. I couldn't help the little mews of satisfaction as I lowered my head and drove my hips into the curve of his, taking all of him. His expert hand came around me, massaging over my mound without a break in his delicious rhythm. The last rational thought that passed through my mind was an understanding of why Solange had cried out as she had, why she'd been in such paradise.
As his hips rammed against me, his head came down, his lips at the back of my throat, and I heard him say brokenly, "J'vais te foutre enculer." Once again it took a moment for the meaning of the coarse phrase I'd never heard to sink in, and my heart contracted. "I'm going to fuck you in the ass."
I froze, my stomach dropping. He'd only said it to add to his excitement. He couldn't mean it, something impossible, inconceivable. I made a sound of protest, trying to free myself, but his grip on me was ruthless. And just as ruthlessly, he pulled his cock from me, opening my cheeks, using his hand to wet me even more from the flood. Then he tried to breach the tight entrance that already fought to keep him out.
I shouted, only one word, "No!" blindly, twisting from him. His grip tightened as he yanked me back, smoothing his hands over me as he cooed, "Easy, easy, mon petit lapin," the words so filled with certainty it only worsened my terror. I knew who would win this battle, but I couldn't surrender, as he delivered me up to the pain he'd promised to spare me. I cried out as I felt the swollen tip of his cock, felt the head rubbing and probing its way inside. I tried to claw at him, to free myself from his weight on my back. At the end of his patience, he took my hips in a savage grip and drove the head into me with an animal grunt, while I screamed, a shattering sound even to my own ears, having worked myself into a state of hysteria.
"Keep still! I'm taking your bunghole, tonight!" He paused, drawing a ragged breath, and his lips were against my back again as he spoke, trying to settle me. "Be calm, my sweet. There is nothing to fear. It is the way here in Morocco, no different to when you were fucked the first time. It only hurts in the beginning. I promise you, you'll make it far worse if you fight me."
His long queue dragged over my face, his hands skimming my flesh, as he whispered, "You have the most beautiful ass I've ever seen. God, I have to come in your ass."
The head of his cock, slick with the essence I'd given him so freely, had breached me painfully, and he gradually pushed in, like a hundred hot needles, like teeth rending my flesh. I was certain he was going to kill me. I saw my own hands trying to climb the wall of the berth to escape him, as he tightened his grip and thrust, slowly, deliberately and fiercely. I felt something swell and stretch, flaring to the breaking point, yielding to the fiery assault. His hands rose from my waist, traveling up to my shoulders, and he pulled me into him, burying himself the rest of the way.
He went completely still, while tears slipped down my face, and I could hear his panting behind me, heaving from the effort. The pain had been harrowing, and despite his cruel jest, losing my virginity seemed less compared to it.
He kissed my shoulder, his voice seductive, soothing.
"Easy, my sweet, easy. It's done." His breath was warm against my cheek. "The worst is over. Now, open yourself. Don't fight to keep me out."
He surged with his hips, only once, gently, as if he could take me almost without moving. "God, I could come right now,"
he murmured, and I knew the throbbing I could feel against the constricted passage was ecstasy for him. He went on whispering, as if mesmerized, "Easy, I'll go easy. It's all right. Just let me have you." I struggled to do as he said, to take him inside, but I would have collapsed except for the powerful arm that was wrapped around my waist. He curved his back, sliding in short, tentative strokes. I felt like a rag doll in his arms, a marionette, held up only by the power of his body.
I could feel the burning pressure inside me, felt his shoulders hunch, heard the moan of his effort to hold back, as his hips rose and fell with the even motion of the tides. But despite the subdued movement, his voice was fierce, undone with excitement, when he lowered his head and groaned, "Mother of God, you're so tight!"
I was impaled on him, and his hands were free to wander. I felt his palm against my belly, sliding down, foraging through the thick curls until he found what he sought. He dove toward my clit, but this time his touch was different, only one broad finger, his thick middle finger, finding me and flipping back and forth, the strokes quick and light. I couldn't help the groan of pleasure, even through the fire.
He sensed he was breaking me to the invasion, and swelled deeper, luxuriating in it, his body catlike as it flexed and arched, while his finger never stopped. It was inconceivable that I could be so transported, but somehow he was taking me into what he felt. His body shuddered with pleasure, lost to it, and the sounds he made were incendiary, urging me to draw him inside, my spine arching to take more of him as the pain began to fade. His calloused, wicked finger danced over me, timed to his own turbulent fever, sending me reeling as I opened to him, accepting him.
Martinique (The Acolyte Book 1) Page 7
