I pushed aside her busy hand and slipped my own into place. Her lashes fluttered. I lowered my hand and, without preamble, shoved two gloved fingers into her body.
She made an mmmph sound and gasped. “I love that you’re wearing gloves.”
“I can feel the heat of your pussy through the leather.” The lubricant she’d sequestered in her vagina felt hot enough to burn the kidskin.
“Oh, sweet shit, I love leather.” She pressed her face against my shoulder while I worked the depths of her with my fingers, massaging and stretching her slick walls. She would need encouragement to accommodate my girth. I pulled my hand free and brought the dampened glove to my face. I inhaled her scent, slightly marred by the Heat. When I touched the tips of my tongue to the leather, she groaned.
“Fucking fuck me. Please.” The last word was genuinely plaintive. I replaced her hand on my cock with my own and swirled his head against her entrance. Her labia parted and gave him an opened-mouth kiss. She bounced on the railing and tilted her hips forward to provide the perfect plane for penetration. “Put it in me, put it in me. Please, put it in me.”
It? She spoke as though my manhood were nothing but a tool—a plastic sex aid and not a creature of flesh and blood. I bent my neck. “Look to where our bodies join,” I said.
“Just do it. Just fuck me.”
“Look, Belle.” I nudged his head further into her body but did not penetrate her. “Look to where my cock presses against you.”
Her sex clutched, trying to suck me deeper. I felt a breath of frustration against my cheek but then she looked down, her hair falling between us. She moaned at the sight of my cock at her entrance—the pleasure it promised. I inhaled as she did, taking several breaths in this way, to fine-tune my body to her rhythm.
I gave her a moment to contemplate the fact my tool was flesh and then I said in a firm voice, “I’m going to fuck the shit out of you now.”
I rammed into her depths. I held myself still at the apex of my thrust and pushed my hips against her thighs. Her neck loosed and her head rolled. I pulled back and began the slow, sure strokes she loved. Her walls were slick and warm but the ringed muscles balked at the size of the intruder. The first few thrusts had to be forceful and demanding. This pleased the both of us. Soon, the muscles near her entrance clenched while the depths of her softened in welcome.
Wrapping her securely in both arms, I fucked the Belle with great pleasure. I relished the soft, wet sounds as our flesh came together and the smack of my balls against her soft ass. My pants stayed up above my hips as I pumped into her body. I had the intricate belt buckle designed for exactly this reason. I do not like to be caught with my pants down. In my profession, this concern is not paranoia.
In less than a minute, I felt the telltale ripples along the length of her vagina. The circular muscles fluttered and twitched. By my estimation, her internal heat had increased by ten degrees since initial penetration.
“Oh, shit. I’m coming.” She said this as though it were a bad thing.
I slowed my movements and began rotating my hips instead of thrusting. “Do you want me to stop?”
She shook her head. The coiled springs of her hair slapped my cheek. “No, sweet shit, no. But, I . . . want—oh, mother of saints—I’m coming. I’m coming.” She nearly sobbed. Her legs clenched me closer so I determined that her apparent distress was a physical reaction to her orgasm and that I was not required to stop. I thrust again and rotated my hips on every third, grinding my pelvis against her to stimulate the fleshy mons around her engorged clitoris. I would have liked to incorporate my hand as well but I needed both again to support her body.
“Kiss me!” she cried out. She closed her eyes and presented her open and outstretched lips. I hesitated for only a moment—the Belle had never before requested a kiss, she knew kissing was extra and would be added to her bill—before I met her mouth with mine. She immediately forced her sharp tongue past my teeth. I leaned harder into the kiss to negate my sudden desire to withdraw and parried every articulated lunge with my own. I winced as our teeth clacked together and sharpened my thrusts to distract her from this avenue.
There was no doubt when the full swell of her orgasm arrived. I gasped as her walls ratcheted tight and then tighter still. The friction increased with every push and the mentholated lubricant intensified the sensation. I grit my teeth and growled in response to the sting. This sound of mine brought a cry to her lips and another wave of orgasm crashed onto her shore. Her channel became deep and soft.
“I’m coming again!” She shrieked into my mouth. She sounded annoyed.
I pulled back my head. The heels of her shoes pounded my backside. Something tickled the back of my throat. I swallowed and then coughed but maintained a steady rhythm. My balls were tight and hard; the flow of power swelled within them. I closed my eyes as delicious ecstasy embraced my groin and slipped between my buttocks. I drove myself to the edge, to the very edge. I allowed myself to nearly breach the limits of my control; building a charge within my body that I would then turn inwards, doubling the strength of my own—already significant—life force.
There was an unusual desperation in the Belle’s behavior. She thrashed like an angry cat, claws extended, even as her legs clutched me close and urged me deeper. She scratched, spat expletives, and then mewled as the pleasure centers of her brain occasionally bypassed speech to converse directly with her genitals. I pounded her hard and fast; the slick membranes offered no resistance between our bodies. Blood burned and steam rose from our skins.
“Do you like it?” She gasped. “Do you like fucking me like a demon?”
“I love it, Belle.”
This answer did not seem to satisfy her question because she kept asking it until another orgasm silenced coherent conversation. I was impressed. While inspiring multiple orgasms was well within my skill set, I had done nothing more than provide the initial thrust. The Belle was in good form tonight.
When her third and final orgasm faded and her grunts were in rhythm with my thrusts, her limbs loosened and began to drape. I slowed my hips. I reined in my power and relished the painful gulp of my cock as he swallowed back what would have been set free. The delicious agony was welcome. I groaned and dropped my head to her breast, timing my pumps to one for every three heartbeats. The flood of her honey eased. The friction between us became less conducive to pleasure and more indicative of injury as her channel slowly dried. The light sting began to burn.
I was still hard and buried to the root. The tip of my cock nudged her cervix, as though to knock on the door of her womb. She flinched. I kissed her cheek. “How are you, Belle?” My accent slipped but I had the feeling that the Belle had already abandoned our pretense.
“Fine,” she snapped. “I’m just great.”
“Hmm.” I made a considering sound. “I’ll admit that’s not the reaction I expected.”
She patted my shoulder. “It’s all good,” she said. “Pull out of me, please.”
The separation was tricky as my cock was still fully engorged. She hissed inward as I pulled free. I did not know if pain or pleasure inspired the quick breath. She hopped down from the railing the moment I was clear of her body.
“My apologies, Belle,” I said. I stepped to the side and wrangled myself back into my briefs. “I hope I did not hurt you.”
She watched me zip up my pants. Her blue eyes had gone cold. “You didn’t hurt me.” She raised her gaze to mine. “I should say—you didn’t cause me any unwelcome physical pain.”
My brows lifted. “What have I done?”
“Nothing,” she answered although the tone of her voice obviously meant something.
“Belle of Westmoreland, please, if I have offended you in any way then tell me so now that I might make amends.“
“It’s nothing you’ve done.” She tucked her breasts back into place while she spoke. “It’s what you haven’t done.” With no attempt to be subtle, she looked to my groin. She narrowed her eye
s. “Do you even like women?”
“With every fiber of my body,” I said. This would not have been the first time the question had been put to me by a client. Male and female alike—I worked for the pleasure of my clients and my own release was not on the table. Some patrons, when they realized our encounters did not result in my orgasm, questioned my sexual preferences in relation to their own.
“Maybe you would prefer a real demon.” Her lip curled in disgust. She did not meet my eyes as she adjusted the bones of her corset.
My concern was deep and sudden. I felt my brow furrow so I chuckled and smiled to smooth the worry from my face. “You are devil enough for me, woman.”
“Really?” The curl of her lip deepened. She glanced at the bulge in my pants while she corralled her stray locks and began to pin them back into place. “Are you sure? I saw that look in your eyes when I showed you my fangs.” She pulled back her lips and exposed her teeth in my direction.
The brief expression had been one of fear but the Belle had obviously read the look as passion.
“One of your fangs is missing,” I said, in the stuffy accent of a proper English butler.
She noted my uncharacteristically rude manner and glared at me as her tongue searched her mouth. She grabbed the surviving fang between her fingers and tugged it free, then tossed it to the side. “What is your kink, Verily Grange? What does a woman—or a man, or a beast—need to do to satisfy you?”
I dropped the accent and slipped back into my slight Southern drawl. “What makes you think I’d prefer a vampire to a woman, Belle?”
“I’ve heard that some men prefer to fuck demons. That’s why I chose this little scenario.” She set her jaw, straightened her shoulders, and pushed out her breasts. “I thought it might inspire you.”
“Non-corporeal entities are not demonic,” I pointed out to deflect the accusation. “There are no such things as demons.”
“Semantics,” she hissed. “Used in arguments by those who consort with demons.”
I took a deep breath to clear my head. I gleaned that she was offended by my lack of her particular brand of satisfaction. I also determined that she was hungry for power—in any form—and the spilling of masculine seed could be a heady rush for the recipient. I hoped beyond reason that these two conclusions were the most accurate; my growing concern was that her curiosity was less about her needs and more about my true vocation.
The Brotherhood of Erotas Pneuma Exorciso was not a secret organization but the fact of my membership certainly should be. I knew the Belle had investigated my personal history—as she did all of her professional paramours—but there could be no way she had definitive proof of my membership in the order of unsanctioned exorcists. I proceeded as though my secrets were still mine to keep.
“If you are not satisfied with my services, I take no offense. I can provide you with a list of acceptable alternatives,” I said. “But to accuse me of demon lust-”
She waved off the implied felony. “I don’t care if you’re offended and I don’t need your acceptable alternatives,” she snapped. “I want satisfaction.” She pointed an accusatory forefinger at my groin. “Your satisfaction.”
My tantric methods were of benefit in my profession; clients were convinced that I worked only for their pleasure and the realization that they could be wholly selfish enhanced their experience—for the most part. Unfortunately, the Belle was one of those had taken my lack of orgasm as a personal affront and wanted an explanation that would relieve her of insult. Perhaps she had accused me of illegal kinks in an effort to inspire me to prove her wrong, most likely through action. I chose words, instead.
“Our sessions are about your pleasure, Belle. Not mine.”
“Are you saying that you take no pleasure in fucking me?”
“I am saying nothing of the sort.”
“Really? Because I could swear that’s what you just said.” She lowered her chin and deepened her voice and accent to mimic mine. “It’s all bout yer pleasure, Belle, not mine, ahur, ahur.”
I did not appreciate her mockery and I made the silent decision to lose her patronage, but I still had to steer possible suspicions of my true nature in another direction. I knew the Belle’s attorneys had been sifting through my electronic history—several flagged files had been tripped and an alert was sent to the Brotherhood—but I hoped that she had simply encountered and explored the reams of fascinating and thoroughly misleading information planted by the organization. If so, she would believe that I had, in my early twenties, disgraced myself by falling in love with a client (an heiress above my station in life) and suffered a humiliating rejection and substantial legal repercussions. This story was false but effective in explaining my reticence to engage clients on a more personal level.
I stepped close and roughened my voice to mimic desperation.
“You slay me, Belle of Westmoreland.” I had to speak the truth without offense. “You cut me to the quick.”
I grabbed her hand and pressed her palm to the bulge in my pants. I exaggerated, only slightly, the flinch of real anguish. “Do you feel how my body rages for you? Is this the flesh of a man who takes no pleasure in yours?”
My cock twitched under her touch. Her breath quickened. I pressed her hand harder to me. “I am not worthy of you, Belle. I can be nothing more than a sexual toy to a woman of your stature. To disregard your earthly position over mine by spilling my seed inside of your body would be the height of arrogance and disrespect. Nay,” I shook my head and frowned. “Nay, that would be rape, woman.”
It certainly would be considered such in a court of law—if she survived the encounter intact.
I gently gripped her jaw with my other hand and forced her to look into my face. Her free hand clutched my lapel. “As much as I might long for the love of a woman like you, Belle, I can never be worthy of that love. I am not worthy and I know it.”
I leaned in as though to kiss her lips and I felt a slight resistance—the tensing of her arm between us. She did not want me to initiate interaction in such a personal manner. I stopped, a breath away from her skin, relieved that her bluff had been revealed. I closed my eyes and whispered huskily, “It seems you know the truth as well as I do.”
“Oh, poor Verily.” The arm between us relaxed. “You poor thing.”
“I don’t need your pity, woman.”
So… it’s not me, then?” Her voice was soft—as was the tentative massage her fingers began on my cock.
“It is not you, Belle.” I assured her massive and wounded ego. “It is never you.”
I let go of her hand and placed the both of mine on the railing, corralling her between my arms. She did not lift her touch from my bulge. The mounds of her breasts heaved above the corset. I stared down at them. The fair skin flushed under my gaze.
“I want you again,” I said.
I did. I wanted her. I wanted to brutally fuck her. I wanted to make her submit, to be humbled, to understand that she had abused her power over me… but the lesson would be expensive and the cost would be borne by me, alone. Forcing submission was assault, not a gift.
She slipped her arm around my neck and pulled herself close to place a chaste kiss on my cheek. “Good,” she said. “I would hate to be offended by your lack of satisfaction.”
“I am more than satisfied, Belle.”
Satisfied and then surprised when her fingers squeezed my cock, curling as far round him as the snug pants would allow.
“You don’t have to come inside me,” she whispered in a cajoling tone. “You can come in my hand or in my hair or on my tits. Anywhere you want. I don’t care where you come – just come.” She began to work my wrapped package with enthusiasm.
She was not truly satisfied; I could feel her clutching hunger, like a magnet pulling at the iron in my blood. The muscles of my arms clenched as I battled the urge to push away. She felt the shift in my body language and her grip loosened.
“I am thinking of your pleasure, Verily.”
This time, her use of my personal name was a mild insult, a reminder that I was an underling. “It is unfair that I’m the only one of us who gets to come. It must be so frustrating to always hold back, to never experience release. I want to give you that opportunity. I give you permission to enjoy yourself.”
Within the Belle, I sensed a hole that could be filled by nothing but power wrested from those around her. She did not desire my pleasure; she wanted the power of my masculine satisfaction. She was much like the vampire she had pretended to be; in lieu of blood, she sought jism. I wondered if there might be a succubus leaf clinging to a distant limb of her family tree.
“You accused me of consortin’ with demons,” I said, deepening my Southern drawl to assure her of my offense.
“Well, it’s no secret that some men do.” She had the decency to blush. “Some men can only experience satisfaction with the dispossessed. It’s like necrophilia.”
Our expressions of disgust mirrored each other and her pink blush turned crimson.
“Oh, mercy me,” she gasped. “I am so sorry. I- I don’t know why I said that.”
Her true embarrassment soothed me. Sweet relief coursed through my veins and cooled my violent ardor. She had not gleaned the truth of my status as a sexorcist with the Brotherhood; she simply thought she had found a weakness—a perversion—to explain my absent orgasm and sought to exploit it.
I softened my expression. “For a terrible moment I thought you believed me to be a very sick man.”
“No, not sick. Just repressed. A woman likes to bring a man pleasure, Verily. I want to bring you pleasure. You need to loosen up. You’re so uptight and proper.” She tugged at my belt buckle.
“Belle.” I shifted my lower body back but her hands followed.
“Let me suck it, at least.” The tone of her voice was bossy but becoming desperate. “Let me suck you off. I want to suck you off and swallow you down.”
The Sexorcism of Miriam Flack (The Reluctant Exorcist) Page 2
