My Lady Series Bundle (56 page)

Now she was grateful for the semblance of knowledge that she had, in theory, but as yet untried to this point. Only, nothing could have prepared her for the reality of actually touching. If she thought about it at all before pressing forward and just doing it, in the urgency of her plan, she would have thought to find it distasteful for its complete foreignness. She would have thought to find it disagreeable besides her need to command boldness, where she felt timid and uncertain. She certainly never expected to hold the heat of a man's bare cock in her hands and find it pleasurable and awe-inspiring. She'd not prepared for the rushing of emotions conflicting natural tendencies. The heat flushing her skin, the feeling of her breasts compressing while yearning forward, or the spiral of arousal oscillating in her sex and beginning to thrum to the male flesh stiffening in her hand.

She might have jerked her hands away as though they were stung with the flash of a flame, but she held her determination strong. What woman could understand, before feeling it, the flood of power and desire at holding a beautiful man's cock in their hands? Feeling the warm flesh stretch and grow long. Handling the throbs of excitement beating in the shaft, while seeing the elongated miracle that it became.

And the desire was nearly impossible to overcome as she stared into the chasm of the Marquess eyes, while using his cock and pumping it erotically to the rigidness she had to have for the defiance that she'd contrived. The Marquess moaned with his chest rising and falling faster, while his lips pursed with carnal fullness. His face was lean and yearning, while his irises deepened to black with slashing red hints.

"You are
not
them," he rasped hoarsely, even as his face grimaced in uncontrolled pleasure. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Stop!
Ah hh,
stop!" His head fell back further with his maple-colored hair cascading against the iron bars bracing his back.
"Don't
stop," he heaved.

"I am Joelle," she panted, as he did.

Then, breathless, as she raised her body, lifting her knees to straddle his thighs, while the cloak she wore fell over them, draping where she stroked him so boldly in between. "I regret, I-I..." she pleaded. But then, she cast her eyes downward against the dawning light in his irises. And the feel . . . she knew he had to feel the head of his cock where she guided it and held it pressed to her woman's entrance. The touch alone branded her in a circular motion as the Marquess groaned.

"Regret . . . or rape, demoiselle. Do not take what is not given," he said hoarsely. Then, his hips tried to shift away between the bareness of their thighs cleaved into position.

But she would not allow it, holding him firmly by the broad-gauged circumference of his cock, while empathy and alarm vied within her. She would not empathize that this was any form of rape of him. He was merely a tool, and the suffering would be all hers. But her alarm at the weight and breath of his cock, the knowledge of plunging it within the heart of her womb, to her was shocking with uncertainty and fear. Nevertheless, she gulped it back quickly and defiantly, with the malevolent face of Incubus searing its image underneath her clenched eyelids.

Take this,
her mind cried to Incubus' preying illusion as she loosened her body's tenseness and she fell downward upon the Marquess' towering cock. Joelle nipped blood from her lip, holding back the cry trying to hurtle from her mouth that expelled instead from the Marquess.

"No!"

Shock shattered with violence through Joelle's body as her downward leap was brought up short with only the head of the Marquess' cock inserted inside her. Her free fist, braced on the Marquess' chest, but not the one trying to force his cock into her, pummeled his chest once. "Help me!" she exclaimed in dire frustration. Why would it not go further? What was wrong? Joelle panicked then, heaving with tears burning her cheeks as whimpers etched from her throat.

"Demoiselle, demoiselle. Please, little firefly. Hold! Hold! Look at me. Look! Look!"

The tenor words broke through Joelle's hysteria. The words commands guided her gaze upward, as she gasped,
"Virgin.
Take it away!" She gulped with hiccupping tears. "I
beg
you, Marquess. Take it away!"

His handsome face twisted with regret and churned with ravished arousal and shock. Then, it turned to compassion drenched with comprehension, flickering across his face, while his head slowly shook from side to side denying the reality. "Firefly." His voice grated with regret, and then somehow he seemed to gather a powerful inner source within him. His eyes gathered and returned maple fire, as he abruptly commanded and pleaded at the same time. "Kiss me. Please.
My
God,
kiss
me."

Joelle stared at him with tear-stained awe, then compelled by his aura and their intimate connection, she lowered her trembling lips to his sensually firm ones. Instantly, he breathed embers upon her lips, stroking his exquisite mouth over hers. Her mouth sighed into his being, and the jerky shuddering that had been afflicting her limbs began to loosen and still. His lips searched and plucked euphoric rhythms into her yearning soul, until she moaned with returning ardor. Then, with his lips wet and warm; their lips flushed with kissing, he spoke like a mesmerizer against her mouth.

"Move up and down slowly upon me, Joelle of the light and fire. Slowly, sweet firefly, and let me taste your lips for eternity."

Joelle nodded against the union and the heat of his lush mouth. "I must," she murmured upon his lips. "Make my own fate..."

"So brave, so beautiful," he said. Then, his lips suckled once again over her mouth.

Joelle's heart soared at the stunning find of a man so rare and at the field of emotions strongly coursing through her. This should be a tragic and despicable event with the cost so high as to breed madness. Yet, what she felt was heroic desire.

Saxon thought with his own form of disillusions that had his mind been lucid, besides chalked with avid arousal, the outcome would have certainly been different. He was after all, and always had been, a man of solemn honor. Even, he thought, with the ripe fruit of a woman's core strangling wet bliss over the head of his prick.

He could not use his one hand, his arms, or any part of his body. But barely his hips. The chain strafing his bare chest held him fast and reminded him clearly of the dangerous situation. Nonetheless, all that seemed inconsequential to him but the woman trembling above him with lips like gossamer petals. And . . . she moved upon him. She supped his engorged penis deeper inside her fiery wet womb, until his throbbing penis reached the moment of revelation, tightly embedded inside a sheath of virgin femininity, and pressing to the tender tissue of a maidenhead. He was glad that he was bound against rapacious movement, because a fierce maleness rose inside him with the driving need to plunder beyond all reason. The demand of it beaded sweat on his body and tensed his lean muscles as he used the only way open to him, by carnally sucking Joelle's tongue into the recesses of his mouth.

Her answer moaned wild and full, as her small hands bracing on his chest, curled inward. Her fingernails scraped his breast muscles as her body quaked with sudden straining tension. Her tongue slid abruptly from his heated suction, as she panted,
"Now."

Saxon snatched Joelle's cry of pain back into the depths of his mouth. He felt the barrier press free and he felt the tense and wet softness of Joelle's woman's sheath suck him to the hilt of his penis. The way was tight. He was too enlarged for her virgin haven, yet the dripping blood of her rented maidenhead made the impossible, barely possible.

Tears stung his clenched eyelids at the tragic sacrifice, taken so shabbily from a young, brave, and beautiful woman who had deserved the full artistry of lovemaking that a man could command. But now she was left bereft and hurting with physical pain and without the knowledge of the pleasure-soaked intimacy the moment could have been.

They were still desperate captives and Saxon damned the sinister cultist to hell as his manly penis shriveled beneath what had been done, and with the edge of fear of what was yet to come. Joelle lay limp upon his chest with the dampness of their ordeal clinging, flesh to flesh. It clung in perspiration from her bare breasts to his bare chest and lower in virgin's blood cleaving to their latched genitals. Then, he felt it. It was a kiss of promise, honor, or courage. The kiss of Joelle's tear-stained and tender lips pressed to the left side of his chest, just above his heart.

They might have spoken then, in the unreality and desperation of the situation they had been hurled into. But a painfully loud squeaking sound of a heavy door being open on rusty hinges clattered into the stone bowels of the dungeon. Saxon heard Joelle's anxious cry of distress and urgency at the same moment that she shoved against him, struggling to rise. He was destitute of words to offer her as his wet, flaccid penis fell free of her womb and she tossed the ends of the cloak hanging from his shoulders to cover his stomach and groin. Then, she managed to hastily stagger back to the cot, where she lay down quickly.

Saxon wondered if he had imagined the whispered plea for forgiveness that he'd heard as he bowed his head with any answer he might have given, remaining clogged in his throat.

T
he two attendants that came to retrieve Saxon and Joelle were the images of twisted and debauched cult fanatics. If Saxon had one note of disbelief before seeing the two herculean black men, it was swept away upon their arrival in the cell. Both men were nude, but for lewd adornments, and their flesh appeared oiled, shining with slick ebony sheens. Their huge bodies were bulky chunks of muscle with gold pins pierced through their nipples and gold chains harnessed around their obese cocks. Then there were other long chained adornments dangling from their rear quarters, and Saxon would not venture a guess as to how they held these in place.

He told himself that he had three purposes, to get unchained, to thwart the cult lunatics, and to find escape. And perhaps on the way, to discover where the missing hook that he used as a partial hand was. A person had to hold out hope otherwise nothing was ever accomplished, he told himself dutifully as the black devotees, devoted to what, he did not know, unchained him. They took off the chain holding him to the iron bars and left a heavy chain around his neck that they had somehow twisted around his upper arms, then looped around both arms to nearly his wrists, behind his back.

Two things he concluded from this action, they knew the drug had worn off and his missing left hand had caused some ingenuity as to how to restrain him. Because a simpler binding of his wrists would have fallen off his left side. He had no sword, no hook, no pistol, and since losing his hand he had lost the ability to box or use hand to hand fighting techniques with any success. He was defenseless but for his wit, and he had never considered himself intrinsically witty. Drummond or Radford, two of his former spying companions, they were the brains. He on the other hand, followed, listened, and melted in. Those were not high recommendations for escaping his diabolical situation.

Nevertheless, he had only to remember Joelle's striking courage and quick wit. As a tactical partner, he could do no better. He simply prayed that the loss of her virginity, which he comprehended these lunatics coveted, would gain her rejection and not her death. He also understood that her need for angry defiance were part of her drastic scheme. It was as though she was spitting at them in the face, as it were. He had the same demand inside of him, and if he had possessed something like Joelle's virginity to thwart the madmen with, he would have done the same. But he also knew that different contrasts played better in the field of dangerous adventure. Different attitudes and approaches could cover more bases and possibilities, therefore, he would try his best to play contrasts to Joelle, because they were partners in this, and he believed they were now bonded beyond the villains' preconceived understanding.

The two naked guard-devotees-guides were completely silent and used only their greater strength to lift, shove, and guide. Saxon noticed immediately that Joelle had shed her pretense of being still drugged as her guard shoved her out of the cell. He caught her gaze for one quick moment before she was forced ahead of him and in that searching glance between them, he felt the sealing of their commitment to each other.

Just as with the Archangels spying group, that he was a former member of, it was all for one and one for all. It was better than being alone, he reflected, but it also added more anxiety and the worry about another person. And . . . a woman at that. Men could garner such courageous intentions where the harming of women was concerned. He thought he knew what tortures and humiliations he could rightly deal with and what others perhaps he could not overcome, but another personality in the mix, that cast it all into uncertainty.

Saxon realized that his natural male instincts would be to try to protect Joelle at every turn, no matter how impossible or foolish that might be to accomplish. That was not good. A more cunning man would control his instincts. The fact of the matter was they had already harmed Joelle and the possibility that they were both headed toward greater harm was undeniable. He could not let that unhinge him, in fact the least visibly he acted toward her and her circumstances the better. He simply wondered whether he could possibly manage that. However, his will-nilly plans fled his contemplation abruptly, when he realized they were turning to enter a room within the castle . . . and he fully expected to finally be meeting, the one, ominously titled, Lord Hellion.

Nevertheless, right before the heavy block of wood that served as a door opened before Joelle, who was ahead of him, Saxon looked down the long corridor. In the distance, at the very end, he could see a multiple pane window that reached from the floor to the ceiling. He firmly calculated the route. There was the dungeon stairs, with its door unlocked, but with the ability to lock from the outside, and two four-way corridors leading to a stairway of fifty-three winding steps. Then, four more two way corridors with two doors on one side and three doors on the other, a right turn at a four-way corridor, and six closed doors beyond that was where they now stood.