A Gentlewoman's Ravishment (4 page)

Low in his throat, he growls in answer, as inflamed as I. In a rough action he parts my thighs, plunges his fingers into my niche, as if testing my readiness. Liking what he finds, he tears at the sash at the waist of his loose trousers, then wrenches them open, exposing his swollen, upthrust shaft.

He allows me a few moments to view him, and savor his hard, ready state, then he moves at speed, yet sleekly, between my legs and pushes into me without preliminaries, or even a word.

I’m overwhelmed, taken over, totally possessed. He seems to be thrusting into every particle of my being, owning it completely. Every long hard shove drives me down into the pillows, my body rocking from the force of them. He’s in my sex, my brain, my soul.

After the first shock of his entry, I recover, revivified, and am transformed into a she-cat, roaring inwardly, and to my astonishment, outwardly too, wild in my hunger. Making those sounds again that no gentlewoman should ever utter, I growl my lust at him, meeting and matching his own, and grab at his body, holding on to him, bending and arching and pressing up to meet each deep, hard thrust. When I’m not moaning and crying for him, my lips rove his neck, tasting his sweat and nipping and biting at his flesh. He seems to like this, and redoubles his efforts, his powerful hips swinging like a reciprocating engine.

Of course, such a conflagration cannot burn long. It’s too intense. With a shrill, stuttering cry, I spend again, my body clenching and grabbing at the hard length inside it. He comes too, his shout of passionate triumph blending with mine, then drowning it out, deep and savage as the call of a jungle predator.

He collapses on me, his cock pulsing in my depths.

For a while, I am barely sentient, simply a mass of simmering nerves, spread beneath him like a star, my limbs slack with utter repletion, my thoughts numbed by the echo of deep, sweet sensations. Eventually though, I begin to stir, and action creates the need for oxygen. It dawns upon me that I am squashed beneath the weight of a tall, muscular man, and I gasp. Immediately, he levers himself off me, and I feel his cock slide out of me, silky with his essence and mine too. A fierce pang of loss plucks at my heart with his passing.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs low in my ear, barely audible.

What, my kidnapper, my ruthless ravisher, feels remorse? It seems he does, because he begins to kiss me more tenderly now, focusing entirely on me, rather than slaking his own hunger. Still reeling from pleasure, I’m barely able to think or move, but he has phenomenal recuperative powers. Against my thigh, I feel him hardening again, as if his reserves of virility are inexhaustible.

But it’s not his cock he begins to use on me, much as in some ways I’d like him to. As he delicately nibbles my lips, then scatters small, licking kisses over my face and throat, his warm hands start to travel once more. This time there’s no grabbing though, no hasty repositioning of my limbs, no cursory testing of my readiness. No, this time his entire attention is on my pleasure.

He strokes my breasts lightly, tantalizingly, frustratingly, feathering the swollen nipples with just the tips of his fingers in a way that has me quickly stirring and shifting around on the
bed. My hips do a dance of their own accord, trying to entice him to travel to my lower regions. But he continues to plague my breasts with the most delicate caresses.

I want more! I will take more!

Rolling onto one side, I press my crotch against the strong musculature of his thigh and begin to rub myself against him, working back and forth, up and down, from side to side. My clitoris throbs against his skin through the thin silk of his pantaloons, and as my lubrication soaks through, he makes a low sound in his throat.

He likes my forwardness. He likes my lust for him. Shrinking virgins who resist their own urges are not to his taste. He prefers lusty women who know what they want, and who aren’t afraid to reach for it.

“Oh, very good, Mrs. Enderby…very good.” He speaks in that low, husky, almost indistinct way again, but his meaning is clear.

And he knows my name. Everyone here seems to. It is clear to me that I’ve been targeted, not plucked off the street at random. I’m a chosen woman, carefully selected by this man. And singled out for my own pleasure, just as much as his.

Big hands slide down my body now, cupping my buttocks. He manhandles me against him with great effectiveness, positioning my clitoris against the solid muscle of his thigh far more accurately than I was able to do myself. He rocks me against the fulcrum of his strength, working my most sensitive part, but when I start to soar again, he backs off, teasingly denying release.

Rolling me onto my back, he slips a finger into my channel and hooks it round, making me shout at the intense, confusing sensation. It’s so sharp that it’s hard to tell where the discomfort of it ends and the pleasure begins, but I only know I want more, more, more of it. And as he rubs me inside, he touches my clitoris with a finger from his other hand. I groan helplessly, and as I start to come, he pinches the tiny organ gently.

Ah, I can’t believe it! Another climax so hard and so quickly after the last. This one crystal clear, sharpening my mind instead of dulling it. Eyes wide open, I look into his, so night-blue and enigmatic in the frame of his dark mask.

Who are you, sir?
I cry out silently, coasting on a high wave of pleasure.

This time, I recover quickly, hungrily, my voracious appetite for him stoked and embellished. I care not what I get—hands, lips, cock—I only want more. He laughs as if he’s read my thoughts. Maybe he has. He’s a mystery, but he seems to have powers and a degree of sensibility beyond that of normal men.

As I surge toward him, he pushes me back down amongst the pillows again, and from beneath one of them, he produces a pair of long silk ribbons.

My belly flutters as I divine their purpose, and as he takes me by the wrists and binds my hands above my head to the low brass bedstead, I’m so excited by the sensation I can barely breathe.

I’m totally vulnerable. Totally available to him. And I adore it, parting my thighs to entice him once more.

His fine mouth twists in a smile, half teasing, half affection, and he gives a little shake of his head, as if despairing of me. Even half obscured by the black mask, the expression on his face is indulgent, almost kind, and even in the face of what could be parlous danger, I feel reassured…and at peace.

Relaxed, even. That is until he opens a drawer in the chest beside the bed and brings out an object, carved from ivory, pale and gleaming.

Goodness gracious, I do believe it’s a godemiche! A faux penis, such as a woman might use to relieve her desirous cravings in the absence of a husband to satisfy her. Although heaven knows what sort of monster such a husband might be, if his member were the size of this ivory fabrication.

The thing is enormous! Bigger even than the penis of my kidnapper, and more generous in both girth and length than my dear Mr. Enderby’s gentlemanly tool, which I’m happy to say is also considerable.

I begin to squirm, both edging away from the threat of such a thing, and subconsciously inviting my captor to put it to its use. He clearly intends to. The half smile becomes a full one, wicked and teasing, as he lays the carved, creamy-colored monster on my belly.

It feels heavy and warm, almost as if it were real. My eyes flick from the ersatz penis, to the most real one that’s still on display, poking from within the blue satin folds of my companion’s Eastern trousers. He’s not as huge as the godemiche, and not fully erect yet, but there’s promise in his rosy, living flesh and the way it twitches when he circles the tip of its ivory brother around on my skin, nudging it ever closer to the cleft of my sex.

To show my willingness, I part my legs wide, tilting my hips.

“How lewd you are, madam…how wanton.”

In another man, a more hypocritical man, such words would be a reprimand. But coming from these smiling lips, they’re spoken as high praise. His dark eyes burn, and he swallows, as if in awe of me.

“Do you want this?”

My mouth is dry with yearning. I lick my lips. “Yes! Yes, I want it…” My voice is hoarse, impatient. Imperious. “Put it in me, my lord! Please put it in me now!”

“Gladly, madam.” He nods, and with a flourish, positions the ivory leviathan at the entrance to my sex.

So big. Bigger in the way it feels than the way it looks. He exerts a little pressure, and immediately, I’m gasping. Straining. Bearing down, yet aware that this entry is going to be slow…and challenging.

Still pushing with the godemiche, he leans over me and kisses me on the lips. His mouth is as soft and beguiling as the assault of the ivory penis is remorseless. He tantalizes me with little licks and strokes and nips, the gentle seduction distracting me, making me relax.

But not enough, it seems. Still my body resists the inanimate onslaught.

My master gives me one last delicate kiss, then looks down at me, head cocked on one side, masked eyes questioning. I purse my lips, and frown in answer, and, leaving the godemiche pressed against me, he reaches again into the drawer and brings out a vial of fluid.

Which turns out to be more of the delightful massage oil Clarence and Yuri employed, a substance as soothing and emollient as it is fragrant. Uncapping it, my masked friend pours a little stream of the oil over my sex. Droplets of it cling to my womanly hair, but the majority of it trickles and flows freely into my cleft and around my stretched entrance. I moan with pleasure. How delightful it feels slithering over my clitoris.

He pours more, and I wiggle, making the dildo dance and the merry smile return to his face. Setting aside the flask, he applies himself more earnestly to the task between my legs. His fingertip settles immediately on my clitoris while with his other hand he starts to slowly and steadily pressing on with the ivory rod.

I groan and work my bottom around as he works on me, fingering me in slow, rhythmic circles whilst pushing, pushing, pushing. The way the thing stretches me is infernal and yet the ingress of it perfectly balances with the sweet, gathering pleasure in my clitoris.

I gasp and strain, wanting the immolation yet appalled by it, still teetering on that knife edge. When the dildo is half in, he sits back on his heels, appraising the lewd sight of me with it protruding from my sex.

He frowns, gives a little nod, then reaches for a kerchief from the nightstand. With this, he gently blots the oil from my clitoris, and when he’s satisfied, he flings the cloth away.

And leans over my pelvis, spreading his hand on my belly to open me more and allow him to put his face to my sex. I shout hoarsely when his tongue burrows in, finds my clit and then furls to a point to attack it.

He spares me nothing. He sucks. He works me with his tongue. He flicks and even delicately, oh so delicately, nibbles me down there. He’s exquisitely accurate, even though I’m hitching about like a bedlamite.

“Be still!” he growls, his breath hot on the moist topography of my quim as he plunges in to worry my clitoris even more fiercely.

And all the time, he’s pushing on the godemiche…which slides in freely when I suddenly and violently come.

The bedstead rattles and rocks as I strain and arch and pull on my bonds. My body ripples around the huge intrusion inside me, and my tormentor laughs into my sex, his tongue laving and licking my juddering clitoris.

Barely coherent, I babble nonsense. Words of praise. Pleas for mercy. Insane declarations. But mostly grunts and groans of extreme pleasure. He grants me respite for a few seconds, looking up at me, an enigma in his mask. Then he plunges in again, compelling me to wild new heights, working the godemiche in and out of me while he sucks my clit.

“Please…my lord…a moment of rest…” At last I manage a few comprehensible words, and this time he accedes to my wishes.

Straightening up, his sublime lips shiny with my fluid, he reaches up to smooth the tousled hair from my sweaty brow, then bestows a gentle kiss there, a benediction, almost chaste. Or it would be if it weren’t for the odor of my cunny clinging to his face. Taking a fresh cloth, he blots my body, soothing me, solicitude itself. His tender care seems quite bizarre with the godemiche still inside me.

“Do you want me?” he whispers, leaning close again, his lips against my ear.

How can I lie? How can I say anything but “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Smiling, he eases the ivory phallus out of me, then reaches up to unfasten my wrists from the bed head. My arms wind around him as if that was their natural place, and he embraces me, beginning to kiss me again, imprinting my lips with my salty-sweet woman’s flavor.

He’s slow this time. Circumspect. Meticulous. His kisses and touches cover my body, and the warm way he holds and caresses me is almost heartbreaking. Even sated as I am, I yearn again for him, for the ultimate pleasure.

At last, he enters me. But it’s no frantic, voracious thrash this time. He slides in easily and with measured care, filling me deep, deep, deeply, as if reaching for my heart. And when he’s in fully, he rests there, breathing, as if exploring every sensation and committing it to memory.

He feels so good. So right. So perfect for me. Will penetration ever be so complete again? I stroke his back and buttocks, finding them wonderful to my fingers.

We rock against each other, our movements stately yet erotic. As he thrusts, I rise to meet him, his perfect match. Our bodies move in syncopation, a beautiful mechanism that runs its course, neither too volatile nor too leisurely. A congress that’s neither too lengthy nor too swift.

Together we rise to orgasm, and reach it as one. He cries out my name, and I cry out the one that seems most apposite.

Afterward, I slide easily into slumber, warmed by his presence and the after radiance of our lovemaking. I’m like a being created of electrical filaments, a miracle of science, and gradually cooling.

When I awake again, he’s gone, my masked marauder. Easy come, easy go, I assume, for a sexual pirate such as he. And I accept that. This is but an interlude, for him and for me, and I sense that now I’ll soon be on my way back to my dearest husband.