His Captive

by Kiley Beckett

  “I c-could eat...” Her strong words rode on a shaky voice.

  Julian chuckled in her ear. “I need you to mind your tongue tonight, Pearl. We have royalty as our esteemed guests.”

  “Roy-ah-royalty?”

  “Will you mind your tongue?”

  She groaned, the feel of his cock stretching her back hole; painful yet astounding and primeval.

  “Will you, Pearl?”

  “I-I will...”

  “I don’t believe you...”

  “I will, I’ll be good...”

  “If you’re good, tonight I’ll fuck your tight pussy...”

  “Oh, oh, ah...”

  “You want it, don’t you? You want it there...” Now his hand slunk along her stomach, his fingers walking up a gathering of the fine fabric of her beautiful dress. He gripped the inside of her thigh, the hard edge of a cufflink scoring a line over her skin.

  She moaned—and hated that she moaned.

  “Tell me how much you want me to take you.”

  She whispered, “No...”

  He growled. Chuckled. “I can feel you gushing over my balls, you liar.”

  “No, no...”

  “You want it so bad and you hate you want it...”

  “Yes-ss...”

  The tips of his fingers slipped across her skin, traveled to the hot wet space between her legs. She chuffed air, her mind fluttering like a butterfly in a gale. As he slipped them across her membranes, rustling her pubic hair, his fingers finding her slick and moving against her like they were oiled, she clenched the floor with her toes; a moan spiraled up, but she bit her lip, held her breath. The moan choked to a whimper.

  “I have your faucet running...”

  “Coincid—ah—ence...” God, why did his cock in her ass feel so good?

  Two fingers—she could picture them in her mind, large, long, well-groomed—slid into her interior, and her stomach fell away through a trap door. The pleasure astounded her; her knees went to water, and she slumped against the dresser. With her body braced now against the solid mass of the heavy ancient furniture, Julian fucked her ass harder, his fingers probing the shallows of her sopping wet virgin sex.

  “You behave like a lady at dinner, Pearl, and I will reward you.”

  “I don’t—ah, mm—I d-don’t want it from you...”

  He chuckled again. “Your virginity is mine, Pearl. I own it...”

  “It’s mine, only mine...”

  “This pussy is begging for my huge cock, Pearl, it’s sucking on my fingers like your mouth sucked on—”

  “I’m not wet,” she cried, futile, “it’s, ah, mm, just the lube...”

  Julian released the grip on her hair; she fell forward, looked at her hands as her nails scratched at the dresser’s polish. The furniture’s feet squeaked on the floor; it rattled against the wall; the mirror shook. She watched—but did nothing to intervene—as the crystal bowl hopped its way to the edge then jumped off. It smashed on the floor, her bare feet peppered with tiny shards of crystal. That was when Julian came inside her.

  Both his strong hands squeezed her waist, and while he was deep in the throes of passion, he refrained from plunging too deep. His cock pulsed and flexed inside her, then came the wet. Oh, golly, the wetness came in a flood. He sent his spew up inside her, growling in her ear, sating his huge manhood inside her body.

  Her right hand whisked between her legs, fanned her naked sex and teased at her own pink pearl. She began to make a high singing sound. When her eyes fluttered open, she saw Julian watching her play with her clit. He sneered. She pulled her hand up and hid the wetness on her fingers.

  He stepped rearward, his intrusion pulling from her and her dress fell around her ankles. Hot semen slipped down her crack and ran along the insides of her legs, turning cold by the time it made it to her knees. She bit the inside of her lips and waited for him to speak.

  Eyes still on hers, he removed his suit jacket and unbuttoned his cufflinks. He ran his finger around in a helicopter whirl indicating for her to face him. She complied, her rump bracing against the dresser so she wouldn’t fall to her knees. He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his muscle; his cock thrust out from his fly.

  He snapped his fingers to regain her attention.

  When she looked up again, he pointed toward the rack of dresses, down below where expensive shoes neatly lined a wire rack tray extending across the bottom.

  “The silver Pradas, Pearl. Wear those.”

  She limped to the rack under his gaze, her ass on fire and leaking. Shoes gathered, she silently sat on a cushion put on the mahogany blanket box at the foot of the bed.

  Julian disrobed before her, then donned his tuxedo while she watched, tilted onto one ass cheek.

  * * *

  Julian led her by the hand along the garden path to the main house. It was tough walking in the heels. They were beautiful shoes, but she felt like she was on her toes. But she did like the clicking sound they made on the stone walkway.

  In the cottage he’d taken her like she had no say. Put himself inside her and used her body until he was satisfied. And now his satisfaction dripped down her inner thighs. She could feel the slippery wetness on the insides of her knees as she strutted the teak flooring of the main house’s grand foyer headed toward the dining room. A tickle ran along the inside of her calves, and she knew that if someone were to look they would see what this man had done to her, would see the man’s sexual evidence trickling to her ankles. And Julian had given her no time to clean, once his tuxedo was on, taking her by the hand and making her walk on his arm as his escort. But she was hungry, and she wondered what a billionaire would serve for dinner. And perhaps it wouldn’t be terrible to sit with him in his beautiful home with his ocean view and find out why she’d made him so mad. Sure, her transgression (okay—blackmail) was obvious, but his anger seemed out of scale.

  An attendant in a stiff black-and-white uniform stood at the entrance to the dining room, and the man nodded, addressing Julian as sir, before escorting them both to the step down to the extravagant tropical space.

  The view was tremendous. Broad windows set in a steel A-frame that looked out over the nighttime Caribbean. Water chopped with navy and the color of eggplant, dashes of pastel sunset purples on the crest of waves. Royal palms set in the garden below framed the view. She kept her back from being seen by the attendant in case there was evidence of Julian’s seed on the seat of her brilliant blue dress, and made her way around the table, waiting for the attendant to show her seat. That was when she noticed the place settings. As Julian said, they wouldn’t be dining alone—the table was a big one, grand settings for five. Julian at the head, then two seats opposing on each side. Cutlery in gold, champagne flutes and wineglasses in sparkling crystal, all set on silk printed in large, bold floral patterns.

  Her eyes raised to see a man coming to join them. Shackelford. Her heart sank. Now she shuffled her backside away from him and was disappointed that she wouldn’t face the glorious view.

  Julian held her chair out, and she set herself down carefully. There was a squishing between her cheeks as his semen slipped up her crack. She could hear a sticky sound and hoped she was the only one. Legs kept together, she feigned politeness she’d seen in British movies.

  Once she was seated, the other two men took their spots, Shackelford across from her. Julian laced his hands together and looked at the other man. “Well?”

  Shackelford said, “Their plane has landed.”

  Chapter Nine

  At the archway that separated the intimate dining room from the hallway, staff congregated, their movements hustling and quick; tense, too, as if in anticipation of an important dignitary’s arrival. All of them wore crisp uniforms; light and white to beat the tropical heat, pressed shorts and black knee socks, epaulets, and gold buttons. They arranged themselves in an ascending file on either side of the stairs, adjusting their jackets and standing straighter, tilting their chins up and averting their eyes to
the ceiling so they wouldn’t make accidental eye contact with the amazing person arriving.

  But Pearl couldn’t help her own excitement building as well. With such fanfare, a true celebrity must be arriving, and she wondered who it would be. Royalty... What if he meant Hollywood royalty? Fast-flicking images flashed behind her eyes of all her celebrity girl-crushes; from boy bands when she was a teen to that Australian hunk in the superhero movies. The more she straightened her own posture in her chair, the more her butt wiggled on the seat and she felt the squelching of Julian’s semen in her creases. It felt like she sat in a warm, slick puddle.

  A man appeared now, one she’d seen watching her from the balcony as Julian had escorted her from the beach after he’d prevented her jet ski escape. The man descended to the bottom step, hard shoe soles clicking on the expensive floor. He stood straight like a military man at attention; with a patient expression, he waited for the room to quiet.

  When he was prepared, he drew in a breath, made the announcement: “Gathered guests, we welcome esteemed royalty, His Royal Highness, Prince Nursultan of the Empire Republic, Kunkhodzhastan, and his wife, Her Royal Highness, Princess Stephanie.”

  Shackelford and Julian rose, straightened their tuxedo jackets; Julian flashed a look down to her and snapped his fingers. Do girls rise? She didn’t know...

  Seat eased back, she stood shakily. There was an audible squishing sound from behind; she felt a cold trickle down the back of one leg.

  She supposed she was expected to smile, but the tension inside her turned her face to a grimace. She didn’t want to be here. She was frightened. She wanted to be home. She’d been defiled, fucked in the ass by an arrogant, handsome billionaire, and while it seemed like a wonderful proposition when you said it out loud, there was a tangled anxious bundle in her stomach that made her intimidated by him.

  Now there were footsteps from the hall outside the dining room, then two fast-moving soldiers stepped to the top of the stairs and stopped, heels clicking. They stood at attention now.

  Oh, brother...

  Appearing in the archway was a short but handsome man. Snappily groomed and tanned with sharp, hawk-like eyes. He had a black brush cut and wore a military dress uniform in drab olive, one with stripes and lots of medals. He waited, smiling, held out his hand to someone coming to join him, who she imagined would be the Princess Stephanie.

  Stepping into view, all tanned and gleaming with pulled back hair, was a tall and graceful woman wearing a stunning white gown that clung to her tight body; a slit offset on the front extended just above one knee. She gave the prince her hand, also smiling, and light glinted from her wrists, ears, neck, and fingers; diamond jewelry, gold bands, a stunning display of wealth. It was nauseating.

  Two more soldiers brought up the rear, and another man moving quick and furtive, also wearing a tuxedo, buttoning it and quick-stepping to join the prince and princess as they descended the stairs. The prince held out both hands at his sides in greeting, smiling, saying, “Julian, a long time no see, it’s wonderful you would have us.”

  “Old friends, old friends,” Julian said, stepping away from the chair and then the two of them embraced at the head of the table. After they’d shaken hands and clapped each other’s backs, he said to the prince, “You haven’t met my advisor. This is Steve Jackson,” he said, gesturing to Shackelford. Yeah, right, sure, Steve Jackson—definitely CIA. Julian continued: “And this is my companion,” turning her way now, gesturing with a hand, saying, “my young niece coming to stay on a break from college. She dresses up well, don’t you think?”

  The prince chuckled, took Pearl’s hand though she hadn’t offered it, gripping her fingers and kissing her knuckles. He said, “You clean up very well, young lady.”

  She muttered, “My... uncle is generous with wardrobe...”

  The prince stepped back to admire her, and she felt suddenly very self-conscious. She wore nothing underneath; Julian’s semen was taking a cold stroll down the inside of her legs. It made her skin crawl, and she closed her hands together in front of her in a sheepish way.

  Now the princess was standing behind her husband, and Julian said, “Stephanie... speaking of old friends...”

  “Good evening, Julian,” the princess said in a husky singsong voice dripping with culture. She reached past her husband and Julian took her hand, kissed her knuckles the way the prince had kissed her own. A bunch of protocols for a bunch of stuffed shirts.

  “While your invitation was unexpected, Julian, it is much appreciated. This isn’t the time of year Stephanie and I usually travel, but you caught us at a time when the government was at a standstill.”

  Julian unbuttoned his jacket before he sat down, saying, “Yes, I read that. Terrible about your shutdown.”

  “The peasants are always complaining,” the man said, then held out the princess’s chair for her to sit. He kissed her on the cheek before she did, then took his spot across from them. They all sat.

  Shackelford—no, Steve Jackson—said, “It’s a never-ending battle, isn’t it? The will of the people...”

  The prince gathered his hands between the cutlery place setting, made a flicking motion with the back of his hand as if he were brushing it all away, his own hand festooned with expensive rings. He said, “The matter is being handled.”

  Shackelford said, “I’m sure it is.”

  Julian said, “We’re not here for business though, are we? Let’s talk about more pleasant things.”

  The princess said, “Yes, your politics are such a bore, polite table conversation should be about the more uplifting.”

  She gathered her hands together, easing forward and resting her forearms on the lip of the table. It brought her face under the overhead lights. She was pretty. No, beautiful. Fine chiseled cheekbones, chestnut hair pulled back, shining as though it were wet, bundled in an elaborate braided knot at the back of her head. She was tanned, fine-boned... wait a second...

  “Oh, excuse me,” Pearl said abruptly, butt shooting up off the chair, sending a new gush of semen out of her back hole. She paused awkwardly, posed like a downhill skier, mind racing, eyes wide but looking at nothing except for the flowers in the table center.

  Shackelford said, “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to go,” she said.

  Julian reminded her, “Your manners...”

  Manners, shmanners...

  “I just have to go, okay?” She committed to standing, the backs of her legs knocking the chair back. It almost toppled, but Julian intercepted it.

  He said, “Request permission, Pearl.”

  She stood straighter now, all eyes on her. The curious princess, the hawk-like general-prince. Shackelford smirking. Julian stern. The attendants, the wait staff, the servants... She made her back straighter, sticking her chest out. Her expression was solemn, her lips were trembling. This could go one of many ways... she could storm out in a rage, not acquiescing, or she would give in... she could resist him, make accusations... he could discipline her in front of them all...

  She cleared her throat, and without looking at Julian, said, “May I please be excused from the table, sir?”

  “If you must,” he said, and then brushed her away with a backhanded wave... the same motion the prince used to describe the peasants.

  As she crossed the quiet dining room floor, all eyes were on her. She hoped there wasn’t a dark stain on the back from Julian’s semen. Her silver heels clicking were the only sound, and she trotted up the steps, falling over on one ankle because the stupid heels were too high. She muttered, gathered her dress, and continued down the hall without looking back.

  She stormed past the parlor and the library, the grand foyer, out to the balcony that looked over her prison-cottage. The tropical plum sky spread out above like a fat brushstroke, the breeze was warm and wet, heavy with the scent of a storm.

  That woman.

  The princess...

  That was the woman from her photograph with Julian. The
two of them frolicking naked on the beach, coming up his metal trellis walkway and dashing into the house together.

  A married woman...

  * * *

  Alone in the cottage, she threw herself on the bed, face down, jumping hard enough to bounce. What a stupid predicament. Julian Mann was a pig. Her photograph caught him with a married woman. The woman cheating on her husband. Her husband was a prince, of all things. So disgusting. No wonder Julian was mad at her for having that picture. Well, screw that guy...

  This situation was a tangled ball of tightly wound threads. Some of them were drab, some of them were downright black. But some of them were bright. Some of them were a cheery, hopeful color. Those ones were snapped now.

  Julian Mann was a pig and there was no denying it.

  Now she heaved herself off the bed, buried her face in her hands. No tears came, but there was a certain bottomless sadness. An empty feeling of dread. She ran her hair back, kicked her stupid silver shoes off, padded barefoot into the bathroom. She disrobed, removing his expensive dress and kicking it against the tiled wall. She got naked. Turned to look at her ass in the mirror. Up on her tiptoes with her chin shot over her shoulder, she looked at her ass laced with Julian’s red marks. She couldn’t see the semen down her legs, but she could feel it.

  Defiling her, dominating her, and why?

  She cranked the shower high and hot, got in and scrubbed herself good. Doing it twice and using two different kinds of soap. The first one some kind of lavender scent, the second one a deep and earthy patchouli. They were nice soaps; costly, she was sure. She washed her hair, then stood under the shower stream staring at the water running into the drain.

  Through the marbled glass she could see the bathroom door open and a tall masculine figure enter. The figure made its way to the glass doors and slid them open. Julian. Standing there with his handsome face and his shining combed-back hair, striking in his black and white tuxedo. He regarded her with disdain.