Eternal Bondage

by Vita Anne Hoffman

  "You are crying."

  I sniffled. “Why shouldn't I cry? This is totally out of character. This isn't like me. We aren't even in a relationship. I'm not ready."

  He was a little more direct. “You mean you are not aroused."

  "It's more than that. I'm surrendering my values in exchange for sexual gratification. Something—your desire—has infected me. I feel like I'm agreeing to have sex with a stranger. And trying to not have it at the same time. On a technicality. That's how bad I want this. I'm rationalizing the entire act. It's not me, not the real me.” My hands fisted in my lap.

  I felt his smile, confident, assured, in control. Confoundingly, he had seated himself halfway down the length of the bed without my registering when. “Shall I speak very frankly, my love?"

  "How frank?” I was suspicious.

  "Only to reassure you that when I entered I understood and accepted your conditions. You are willing to receive oral sex. It might help you to realize that anything which brings you pleasure,” and his voice purred all around me like a velvety jungle cat, “also brings me pleasure. Much, much pleasure."

  It was easier to pretend that oral sex wasn't sex. But I knew different. It was still sexual contact, although, technically, it wasn't intercourse. Constantine was willing, as he had said, to abide by my terms. There would be no penetration, and he maintained that he, too, would enjoy himself. So, all I had to do was lie back, let him do all the work, and savor the experience. Fat chance!

  But I forgot, for a moment, with whom I was about to not ‘technically’ have sex. A progenitor! Constantine did not make a move. He merely said a single word, a mesmeric command, which he elongated, extended, deepened.

  "R-E-L-A-X.” His voice acted like an aphrodisiac. Erotically potent.

  I dropped, languidly, back onto the pillows lumped against the headboard. Simply on the power of his suggestion, I was wet, throbbing and ready between my legs, puffed up and excited. I felt amazingly horny but also oddly lethargic.

  With my mind so sated, drowsy, clouded, he was able to move, unnoticed, to seat himself at my hip. He leaned over me and I could almost see, in vampire-fashion, the voracious gleam of his eyes, the perfection of his chiseled and planed face, the waves and curls of his wild coal black mane.

  "May I seduce you, my little Soulsmith?"

  Mutely, I nodded yes, and bit my lower lip to stifle the foreign urge to beg him to please have his way with me in every sense. Constantine seemed to hear what I refused to say aloud, so that when he slowly, savoringly set his mouth against my own, his lips wore a wry, self-satisfied smile.

  And those lips, which had drunk of thousands and thousands of women, were soft and gentle and full of warmth. He kissed and explored for a long time with close mouthed innocence. Wandering the contours of my face, he nuzzled at a dimple, rubbed against my cheek, assessed the shape and texture of my lips. With an unrestrained fervor, his large dexterous hands combed through the weighty mass of my thick blonde hair. He massaged my scalp, traced around my ears, then cradled the back of my head. He continued his rather meek kisses, while one of his hands sensuously, surreptitiously trailed downward to capture my left breast. His touch was possessive, holding me, cupping me, thoroughly fondling me, making my insides pulse and bunch with eagerness. I gasped and mentally applauded my subconscious for not wanting to wear a bra.

  Constantine's hand lifted, as if to move away and seek out another place to explore. I huffed a demanding grunt because the prudish, frightened part of me didn't want him to delve elsewhere—just yet—instead wanting more of that erogenous, arousing, safer touch upon my breast. I pressed his hand firmly back in place with one of my own and ground my torso into that wonderful heated caress. Obligingly, his fingers kneaded me, plucked at the tight tip. Erotic waves went straight from my belly to my crotch.

  "Oh, yes, my love.” Constantine conceitedly laughed in between feathering kisses across my cheekbones. “You're already greedy for more. This should satisfy.” He flattened his palm and slowly swirled it around my nipple. The friction felt marvelous against its excited peak, and I moaned, a lusty vibration from my throat. He pulled back slightly to observe me as he tweaked that pebbled, aching knot. Again he laughed at my reaction, my panting glassy-eyed shudder.

  "You'll like this even better,” Constantine, with a final hard squeeze to my breast, promised with a hoarse whisper. He shifted and dropped his head to take it into his mouth. With liberal tongue strokes, he thoroughly moistened the sensitive tip through the nightshirt. He tickled it, then, ringing the entire areola with his greedy, sinful lips, he suckled with a vengeance. I gripped handfuls of his coal black hair and clasped him tighter to my chest. Yet another treacherous groan escaped me in response to that beautiful ache, throbbing way down low, which the hard pull of his sucking mouth amplified.

  "I like that sound ... let's hear more of it.” He lavished that one breast with rougher attention. He lightly bit at the distended nipple and simultaneously palmed the other. He molded my flesh in a rough up-and-down motion. And, heavy lidded, I did whimper softly in the back of my throat, interspersed with breathy little grunts that drew Constantine back to my mouth.

  "Open for me.” He nibbled at the corner of my lips. “Let me invade.” His voice was hushed, strained. “Let me in."

  When I obeyed, he forcefully thrust his tongue inside. His violence demanded that I open wider. I, of course, gladly allowed his kisses to ravish my mouth, to scour and sweep and stab, to mate with and subdue my own tongue. Nor all-this-while did his hands remain idle. They grasped the sides of my breasts while his thumbs twiddled my brick-tipped nipples. His mouth fused to mine. He feasted on my least gasp or moan.

  I had an overwhelming urge to explore his skin, his contours, so that I pulled at his wide shoulders to drag him closer, that last mere inch that separated us. I massaged warm muscle, velvety and alive, as my fingers ran down his back, then reversed direction. He trembled. I rubbed my erect nipples against his palms then made a grope for his crotch.

  "Naughty, naughty, Miss Soulsmith.” Constantine batted my hands away, feigning amusement. But his shiny bright blue eyes flashed like lightening just before his head shifted to place his mouth right beside my ear so that there was no mistaking his next words. Or his dark emotions, the resentment, the frustration, the bitterness, that poured over me like some clinging, pleasurable, but poisoned liquid.

  "Be warned, my lovely little Soulsmith, that this night is entirely about gratifying you, while denying me. You established our rules. Choose to break them, and so shall I.... “This last was barely spoken, more like resonated within my very bones, and I shivered at this devil's pact that could be so easily negated.

  "I ... I understand ... I'm,” my broken reply came out ragged, “I'm not supposed to touch you in return. I'll try, I'll TRY, to control my hands, but not the rest of my body.” I scrunched my eyes shut to dampen the need, the desire that raged within me, a concentrated beat and pulse within my wet sex.

  Constantine reclaimed my attention by gripping my jaw. He forced me to focus upon him, to look at him. A ruthless determination harshened his gorgeous, dim-lit face, made his tone cruel and callous. “All is at my leisure. All is at my pleasure. To do with you as I wish.” He smiled, fang points faintly glinting. “Lift up your hips."

  His order was arrogant, a taunt that wickedly reminded me that I had willingly opened my home, my passion, and soon my legs to him. Still, despite his haughty domination, I arched upward when he reached for me. I quivered with expectation, but Constantine merely slipped off my panties with the finesse of a magician, unerringly locating them underneath the huge nightshirt, negotiating hips, and legs, and ankles like a vampire with way too much practice. Tossed aside, they negligently wafted to the carpet. So, now, hidden beneath the edges of my enormous nightshirt, I was completely exposed.

  I was also moist and throbbing and more than ready! So why didn't he touch me? Why didn't he trace a finger, or two, or three into my ful
some cream? Panting, laboring, I levered myself a bit higher from off the mattress. The very idea of him thrusting into me made the urgent throb within my sex even harder, more painful.

  "Constantine, I can't stand it. Please, touch me."

  "At my leisure, at my pleasure,” he repeated in a mocking croon as he bent over me. Prurience transformed him into a satyr with glowing blue eyes. “You're swollen everywhere for me, aren't you? Your lips,” he brushed a finger there, “your tits,” he grazed a knuckle across one sensitive mound, “and especially here.” His hand hovered over my groin. But he still didn't touch me!

  I squirmed and scooted downward on the bed for some relief. The nightshirt gathered and rode up my thighs. Constantine's hungry gaze plunged to that extremely hot, and until-this-moment-forbidden-to-him, spot. That look, filled with such longing, made me ache unbearable, heavy and thick and demanding. But again the bastard made no move to stroke me!

  "Damn, damn, damn.... “Nearly crying, in extreme frustration, my head swept from side-to-side. I definitely couldn't take much more of this.

  "You are very vocal when aroused, my love. That is good. Use all the profanity you want. But REMEMBER,” REMEMBER, remember, Constantine's warning echoed, reverberated, implanted within my mind, “do not blaspheme. It tends to kill the mood."

  "Constantine.” I blearily looked to him. “I'm a horny little slut, and I can't wait.” Careless of any consequences, I tried to initiate some contact between us. I raised up a little, intending to wrap my arms—and possibly my legs—around his body but he would not relinquish control. With a mocking little sound, he flipped me over onto my stomach, where he stretched out full length atop me. He held my arms above my head. His weight imprisoned me. For a moment, I struggled, feeling helpless.

  "Don't resist, my love.” As before, his words swelled my body with lust. He let loose my hands. His own possessively stroked down my forearms. He roved eagerly, massaging my shoulders, sliding down between our bodies to gently grip at my buttocks. He shifted but still kept me pinned beneath him. One of his hands continued to clutch and release my derriere, while the other sought out the fullness of one of my breasts. He snaked in-between my body and the mattress, gently clenching and unclenching his hand. He began to drop sloppy, hurried kisses across the back of my neck. I let my needs be known by repeatedly pressing my rear against him. He, in turn, began to rub himself, still clothed, against me. He felt gigantic. I groaned in enjoyment of the rhythm, our simulation of energetic, frenetic sex. I pushed and undulated against him with equal fervor. My pantiless, stimulated sex buzzed. I creamed at the humping friction against my raw flesh. But he was not quite ready for me to climax.

  He gripped my hips and rose up stallion-like onto his knees. He easily pulled me up with him and encircled me in his arms. I was held tightly, encompassed with his velvety body. We were locked together back-to-chest. With one hand, he marauded over my breasts, the other traced a swirling, tantalizing, leisurely route down my stomach where he purposefully stalled. He caressed across my lower belly from hip-bone-to-hip-bone. Sensuously, he continued that back-and-forth tummy rub, each swipe just a tad lower than the last. His heavy palm lingered on the spot above my pubic mound.

  Nearly insane, my cleft painfully full and distended, I panted and watched and waited for his next torturous move. Would he stroke me? Or not? Would he pet my aching, needy pussy? Would he negligently insert a finger, to tease rather than soothe? Or would he thrust, vigorously, like I feverishly craved? That fever cramped my belly with excitement, weakened my legs until they quivered, speeded the throb within my puffy lips. In agonized response, air hissed in between my teeth.

  Then, very quietly, almost meditatively, Constantine spoke, while his soft caress hovered like a pendulum upon my clenching stomach. “You sound and smell and react deliciously ready. Are you, my little one? Ready and primed enough to come with a single touch?” He paused, dropped a kiss to the side of my brow, then murmured in a cadence that matched the beats in my pussy, “Come, come, come, my Soulsmith."

  He claimed my clitoris with a savage caress!

  His masterful stroke of that engorged nub rocked me into a physical cataclysm. I screamed as I hit a magnificent orgasm. I pushed forcefully against him, my entire body clenched, my heels dug into the mattress, my back bowed with a devastating sexual paroxysm. While the rest of my body was rigid, my hips continued to relentlessly piston against his firm hand in a palsy of mindless ecstasy.

  Constantine supported me with his solid chest while the spasms—and the inarticulate cries—subsided. Somewhat. I eased, little-by-little, back onto the mattress. And immediately Constantine began to freely explore me, the entire slick length of me, gliding his middle finger—with its gold signet ring—over and into that sensitized eager opening. Up-and-down. Up-and-down. Around and around. A little harder. A little faster. Applying the perfect amount of pressure.

  My shaken breath hitched anew as my pussy responded to his skilled fingering. I tossed my head where it nestled on his shoulder. “It's too soon!” But the intense ripples inside me said otherwise.

  "Nonsense. Women are multi-orgasmic, and I'll prove it.” He unabashedly delved into my swollen lips. “You like this.... “His face, I dazedly saw, was a mask of rapt concentration. He relished each long, fast, and fluid stroke of his fingers into my slippery folds, smearing my thick cream, causing me to whimper. “Just feel. Just enjoy. Don't think. Don't deny."

  "Yes. Yes, oh, yes.” I jerked against his hand in complementary rhythm, bucked wildly, fought to multiply the sensations, to reach that awful peak! Finally, with several sharp juts of my pelvis against the harsh pressure of his touch, I experienced the bliss of another spasmodic orgasm, which Constantine extended with his extraordinary progenitor's powers. He pushed in and out with his finger, heightening my urges. I was on an orgasmic roller coaster. His long middle finger dropped lower than the rest. He penetrated slow and deep, into my fullness, into my slickness, all the way in. It was the ultimate finger fuck.

  "Lovely. Tight.” His glistening fangs locked around those words, so painful to utter. He plumbed inside me in a circular, swabbing motion, then forcefully thrust in and out, working me into a frenzy, compelling me to get off.

  My vagina clenched, tried to imprison his wonderful touch within me forever. It felt so good to let him support all of my spineless weight while his hand continued to stroke with sure vigor, with building pressure between my wide open legs. Never in my life had I sprawled so wantonly.

  I nearly screamed aloud for him to truly fuck me! And I knew that that was his goal, for if I asked him to do it, he could take my body with no qualms, no force, no guilt. I bit back the words. Only just barely. And I thwarted him with his own mesmeric suggestion, the one that had reinforced my awareness during sex. Remember, remember, remember ... do not blaspheme. Or, as I had amended, do not ask him to really and truly fuck you!

  I sighed regretfully. His body would feel so good ... but his tactics were as underhanded as ever. I collapsed, totally spent, and he scooped me up and then lay me down flat on my back. His own gorgeous body partially blanketed my own until he sat back and positioned himself between my wide open legs. I damn near hyperventilated as I watched him gradually, teasingly push the nightshirt up my thighs, then higher still, until the triangle of my pubic curls was bared to him.

  "I must savor that special ... sweet ... spot.” He seemed mesmerized; his heated searing gaze appeared to darken from bright blue to indigo. Behind my own eyes, something even darker surfaced, then submerged, burrowing into my subconscious, allowing me to concentrate solely on Constantine. I pulsed for him. My legs quivered. My hips jutted in a shameless summons.

  Constantine advanced sinuously. His oddly sun-bronzed shoulder muscles flexed and flowed like some sleek-coated predator. He moved slowly, deliberately, maddeningly into place. As he crouched closer, his fingertips spread my legs ever wider. Single-file, he chafed the pads of each up my inner thighs, arrived at that femini
ne juncture, and watched with fascination as he gingerly grazed, then combed, and finally parted my coarse brown pubic curls. He stared intently, covetously at my intimate flesh.

  His gaze, devouring in its icy blue intensity, never wavered, even when he spoke to me. “I shall eat ... and drink ... every morsel offered, my love. This is a repast too long denied me."

  The muscles in my belly clenched with anticipation. The throbs in my vagina felt exquisite. I meant to hurry him. “Can the dirty talk for now, Constantine.” My breath snagged. “Shut up, and get on with it. Hurry. Eat me out."

  This did earn a brief flicker of his attention, annoyed but not. His eyes glanced up-then-back-down. “Oh, yes, of course, my darling little Soulsmith. Never let it be said,” he dramatically inched closer, “that I am so discourteous as to talk,” he bent down to me that much more, “with my mouth full."

  And Constantine, The Great, with more of that inhuman unhurried grace, went down on me. At the first rapid, ruffling incursion into my thatch of brown curls, he—we—loosed a silent but tangible sigh of contentment. He applied his avaricious mouth in an assault of laps and licks. Then, not nearly long enough to suit me, he sucked with explicit intent, just not on my clit. Of the means to thoroughly enflame a woman's body, Constantine had the expertise of a hundred lifetimes. I went wild, digging my hands into his hair, needing to pull him deeper and deeper inside.

  "Sing for me, my love.” His fingers worked me in small circles. I obeyed him as best I could with soft broken moans. Responding to the swirl of his fingers, the flick of his tongue, I instinctively convulsed against him, feverishly, to meet him, to join with him. His luscious tongue continued to probe me. He slid his arms underneath my hips to rock me in unison with each bold stab.

  Then, his attentions changed. His tongue furrowed my slick, pulsing length in a long lustful lick. Steadily, thoroughly, he repeated that lapping, that delicious drag into my sensitized folds, but he merely teased the big bud of my clitoris. My abdominal muscles clenched with growing need.