Satisfaction

by Thea Devine

  "I could come right now," he breathed against her ear. "I could spew to the ceiling right now, but I want to make you come again first. You will come for me, Cinderella, you have no choice. And all you have to do is watch—"

  She made a little helpless sound as he began to stroke her, inch by inch, down her body with his free hand, working his way toward her bush, toward her slit and the secrets of her woman's flesh. He was agonizingly slow as he massaged and felt her from her breast to her navel; her knees went weak as she watched, and he licked and sucked her lobe and whispered erotic nothings in her ear.

  "Watch my hand, Cinderella. Down I go. Down down down, into your most private, secret places—I will know them like I know my own body . . . and you will know all the pleasure you are capable of and that I expect you to give in return . .. down— do you feel my finger in your slit? Do you?"

  How could she not? He cupped her mound, then with one finger he stroked her slit, which, to her dismay, felt wet and creamy at his touch. All while she avidly watched where he put his hand, and avidly savored his every word.

  Petal-soft stroking, softening her flesh, softening her body for

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  the hard penetration of two of his fingers into her slit, and into her depths.

  Depths she had no idea could accommodate a man's fingers, or a man's.. . thick, hard, pulsating—that. On which a little pearl of semen seeped from its head as his fingers rammed into her slit and her whole body jolted in stunning response.

  And his fingers were unrelentingly there, in the hot, tight, wet, virgin heat of her, hard inside her, twisting and spreading insistently so she felt every movement—there.

  "Take my cream," he whispered in her ear. "Take it on your finger, go on—" he thrust his fingers hard inside her and she gasped, as much at the sensation as the sight of him with his hand deep between her legs, his penis protruding beneath it, and the knowledge and feeling of his fingers penetrating her so intimately.

  "... my cream ..." he growled again, deepening his invasion between her legs, pulling her bottom up tighter against the cradle of his hips to press his fingers deeper into her hole.

  She felt stunned; she couldn't tear her eyes away from the vision of her nakedness draped around his penis and his fingers embedded so deep between her legs she couldn't see his hand.

  This she didn't know. This was nakedness and man-fingers driving themselves into places that were not familiar with such a rampant penetration. This had nothing to do with that sensual, engulfing seduction with which he had led her on.

  This was a kind of carnal reality she could never have imagined, and him commanding her to obey.

  "Don't let it dry up . . ." his voice was hoarse, his fingers rooting and spreading inside her. But then he oozed yet another pearly drop of semen in response to his growing lust—but it was a lust for her, it was between them, as husband and wife, so how could it be distasteful to her?

  He watched her swallow, meet his eyes in the mirror, and then skew her gaze downward to his thrusting, glistening penis head.

  He watched as she hesitantly swiped the thick drop from him with a tentative finger, and looked at him inquisitively.

  "Lick it."

  She couldn't.

  She must. She knew instinctively that if she refused, the balance between them would shift. This was the part of him she did

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  not know—the part that was accustomed to commanding and getting everything he wanted, no matter what the cost.

  And she knew somewhere deep inside, that he would walk away from her bed, her body, and their marriage if she did not obey, and find everything he desired with someone else.

  This was the second hard lesson: he could see her assimilating it by the look in her eyes, and then she lifted her finger to her mouth and licked it.

  Licked the essence of him. Sticky. Not that unpleasant. . . she shot a look at him, the essence, he thought, of Eve. And his penis head pearled again. The virgin was learning how to use her power—look at how just a look from those eyes made his penis ooze with thick, ripe, succulent semen.

  He shifted her more tightly against him. "Now take that nice, fresh drop of my cream and rub it into your nipples."

  Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't demur. Whatever he wanted, she would be willing. A good wife. The perfect wife. She swiped the pearly cream onto each finger and then touched each nipple.

  "Massage my cream into your nipples," he whispered so softly she barely heard, and emphasizing his demand by massaging her deep in her hole with his fingers and spewing more cream.

  She was feeling his fingers now, in a different way—not as an invasion, but in concert with her massaging her nipples, as a natural penetration—and suddenly, her senses focused, her burgeoning feelings of pleasure heightened, and she felt unbelievably avid for more of it, deeper, harder, endlessly there.

  Wordlessly, she swiped two more fingers of his semen and brushed them against her nipples and then began lightly rubbing the taut tips.

  He made a rough, growling sound against her ear—words, sensations, she didn't know, just that it escalated her excitement to watch herself massaging his semen into her nipples, and watch him embedding his fingers still deeper into her hot, wet core.

  And suddenly she started shimmying against his fingers, riding them, pressing her body down on them—tight, hard, questing, seeking—that part of her she knew not, that part demanded surcease on his hard, pumping fingers, and her body answered the call. Her body knew, if she did not, how to move, how to seek, how to

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  spread itself against those relentless fingers to find the hot spot that would erupt.

  She held her breasts as she rode him, her head thrown back, every atom of her body focused on the pleasure—she did not need to watch, to see, to know. It was there, hovering, skirting the outside of her consciousness, teasing her, embedded in her nakedness, beckoning, waiting for her to find it there.

  He rode with her, watching them in the mirror, his body pumping, her hips writhing on the hard bark of his penis, taking her down down down again, down until her body stiffened, electric with tension, heat, and the molten pleasure coursing through her every pore.

  Down they went, hard and fast onto the floor, over they rolled; he spread her legs wide instantly, mounted her, and drove his shaft home.

  The pain bolted through the swirling eddies of pleasure like lightning.

  She stiffened again, pushed against his chest, tried to get out from under him and the jutting poker hardness that he had embedded so unceremoniously into her.

  He felt the primitive triumph of possession.

  There was nothing like a hot, squirming, virgin hole. So tight. So wet. So deep and unplumbed. So rare when it was coupled with such an unexpected carnal nature that loved a good nipple fuck, a good finger fuck.

  Lord of the fates—to have given him such a succulent virgin for his house wife—he stopped his frantic pumping and lifted his body from the hips so he could feel the thick, deep connection of his possession, and he howled silently in exultation.

  And then he looked down at Jancie, whose eyes were still wide with shock. "Cinderella . . ."

  She barely had any breath left; she felt as if his huge, hot possession of her most intimate place had stolen everything from her. Everything. She wanted him out of her body and out of her life. She hated this. This, the ultimate dirty secret—that a man literally occupied your body . . .

  And what was he doing? Spreading her legs wider still, and nuzzling her nipples and plucking at them with his lips and tongue. Licking them. Suckling the hot, hard tips.

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  Oh lord . .. there was something about her nipples—she was too susceptible to his fondling them. The pleasure was like a tickle at first, and then, as he began to suck harder, pulling the taut nipple deep into his wet mouth and swirling his eager tongue all around the engorged tip, wetting it, making it hot, suc
culent... then . ..

  Suddenly, unexpectedly . .. the pleasure started mounting between her legs, her body of its own volition pressing down hard against his invasive, hot thickness.

  Wait—wait. He lifted her legs and maneuvered them, one after the other, up and braced against his chest. Now she was closed more tightly around his long, hard length, and he undulated his hips to penetrate even deeper as he sucked and played with her nipple.

  Her body arched involuntarily as the pleasure suffused her body from her nipple tip to where he canted his penis between her legs.

  This now was perfect—all the pain had dissipated, and everything was hot and golden and slow and thick and ripe—her whole body was ripe . . .

  .. . she wanted his cream .. .

  The thought made her breathless. His surrendering to her, clotting her hole with the thick, visible evidence of his desire for her.

  She wriggled a little, experimenting with how it felt to work her hips against the canting angle of his possession. It felt too good. It felt just like when she rode him before, only better, because he was rooted deep within her, crammed against her pleasure part, as deep as he could possibly go.

  So deep ... so wet... so hot.. . she began to move, her hips pumping and gyrating against that possessive hardness. She understood suddenly that all the pleasure their bodies generated was cohesive, and that this penetration was involved, and now the pain was over, she had nothing more to fear, nothing she could ever hide from him.

  She had only to open herself and let it come.

  "Lujan .. ." she murmured on a breath, and the pleasure came—it rolled through her body like thunder and broke over his heat and hardness, broke between her legs and gone.

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  He felt it; felt her body shuddering with the cataclysmic seizure of her orgasm, felt the pure, male victory of having conquered her and made her his slave.

  He wanted more of her and more, before he would even allow himself to shoot his seed. In his mind, he imagined every way he would take her—on the bed, on the floor, on the chair, from behind, from below, from above, obverse, reverse—and then she would take him in her mouth and make him blow.

  It wouldn't take two minutes with her sweet virgin mouth tasting the hard, hot length of him for the first time, her licky lady-tongue lapping at his shaft inch by inch, covering it with her hot saliva, biting into him, gnawing on his jutting bone, working her way slowly up toward the thick, ridged tip which she would take into her mouth and . . .

  .. . suck out all the cream . . .

  Noooooooo!!!... He came, spurting and spewing like a geyser— thrusting into her like a piston, a bottomless well of thick, potent semen ... as she pumped his body and sucked out all his cream.

  Chapter Eight

  Lujan stretched like a cat, like a lion, a puma ... he felt powerful, persuasive, perfect. His new wife was a revelation; the corrupting of virgin flesh was the most arousing thing in life.

  He missed it. He should have taken a wife sooner. He should have fucked her sooner instead of wasting all this time courting and cajoling her.

  But then again, she might have been that much more squeamish about the conjugal details if he hadn't. With all the other faceless virgin conquests, the pain was always a problem, and then having to coax and cosset her afterward to get her back to the matter at hand. And even then, his level of excitement would wane appreciably, and he would be overcome with the feeling that it just wasn't worth the effort.

  But not the little companion. Not his wife. God, he ought to have gotten one of those sooner.

  But lord, it required so much work. All those months he had invested in her; so clever to take the time to accustom her to his hands on her body. To make her yearn for his fondling her breasts, his teasing her nipples through her clothes.

  By this tactic, he had created the perfect concubine: a virgin who was knowledgeable but innocent, hungry for his touch, sub-

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  missive, and nakedly receptive to the heft and penetration of his penis when the moment was at hand.

  And the end result was, he was avid to take her again—the ache hadn't nearly subsided with spending his seed. Thinking about her only increased his need to a much greater degree, and knowing she was mated with him legally for all time, and that no one else would ever dare touch that silky soft, naked skin, just made her capitulation that much sweeter.

  She lay belly-down beside him. He stroked her back, all the way down to her buttocks crease, taking his time, sliding his hand all over her body, her curves. He cupped and fondled her buttocks for a long time, and then he insinuated his fingers between her butt cheeks and caressed her there, working his way downward, between her legs to her slit, still sticky with his residue.

  The feel of his essence on her was so arousing, he started working his fingers between her still-moist labia, into that hot, tight hole that now belonged to him.

  His penis, already at half-staff, stiffened like a pole as he plunged bis fingers deeper and watched with satisfaction as she began undulating against the feeling of them, hard and insistent, inside her.

  Such a sensual little virgin, his wife. No begging or importuning here. No tantrums or threats from his luscious piece of virgin tail. No coy refusals, no spiteful withholding of cunt.

  No, the advantage of having a virgin wife was clear: she would always be naked for him and, as he educated her to accommodate his needs, she would never deny him anything he wanted.

  Even him feeling up her bottom; even his fingers penetrating her slit as she tried to sleep.

  Perfect. What man didn't want a wife like this, pliant and submissive, willing and open to his fondling her wherever and whenever he wished.

  The ache to possess her again swamped his senses. He shoved his fingers deeper. By the saints, there was nothing tighter, more enfolding, more arousing than first-time virgin cunt.

  He felt explosive. He needed to be embedded in that tightness, that heat, that wet.

  He moved over her body, his fingers still inserted in her, he

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  straddled her legs and he wound his free arm around her hips and lifted her body so that her buttocks were canted toward his ramrod penis.

  The moment, his vision of that tableau, of him holding her, the shadowy curve of her bottom, his hand rammed up between her legs, and his rampaging need to penetrate her, almost sent him over the edge.

  Aroused beyond all sense, he yanked out his fingers and jammed his penis into her, and stopped himself from pounding her further.

  Wouldn't do to rush it. Delay the pleasure. Feeling your shaft slowly sink into her hot, moist hole. Push so slowly that she feels every thick, hard inch working into her. Don't come. Hold her bottom, perfect bottom, round bottom globes so perfectly curved for my hands .. .

  Holding them, flexing his hips, incrementally insinuating his engorged penis into her body, feeling her labia around his penis head, feeling her heat envelop his shaft, pushing deeper, harder, hearing her moan as he pulled back from letting her totally encompass him.

  Not yet, not yet. There was a certain pleasure in withholding that moment of total penetration. But there was also the strain of keeping his penis wholly from her, and fighting the utter need to embed himself in her . . . Couldn't stop himself finally from grasping her hips and pulling her roughly against the cradle of his hips so that he was finally fully rooted in her.

  If he moved, he'd explode, and yet he couldn't keep himself from moving, from pushing and pushing as if he could take one increment more, as if he weren't yet deep enough. He would never be deep enough, he thought hazily, as he pushed, rhythmically pushed, in time to her involuntary moans; he could push still deeper, she was so hot, so tight... all his, this untouched virgin cunt, all his . .. claiming it, deeper, deeper, pulling her bottom even more tightly against his hips, until she was jammed against him and immobilized.

  Not enough, not enough ... he felt almost dizzy with desir
e ... stay this way, stay embedded in her forever like this. . . don't move . .. don't—

  He had to, he did—just a fraction of a movement of his hips, pushing again, seeking her depths, and he fell—he gushed—a ver-

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  itable geyser of semen erupting like a volcano before he could get control, so forceful all he could do was pump frenetically and just let it come.

  And then he collapsed, covering her body with his own, still tightly joined with her, and so sapped he couldn't move.

  He still wanted her. The realization hit minutes later, as he began to breathe again, as he became aware of her body beneath his, his still rock-hard penis embedded in her.

  His body rippled with need. Or obsession—but he didn't know if he cared. If he could fuck her again, he would. She was soaked in his semen, so she couldn't be more ready.

  And even if she weren't.. . She was his, to do with as he would.

  He eased himself away from her, and cupped his hands between her legs to wipe up some of the soak. And then he smeared it on her buttocks, on her back, her legs, all over her skin, marked her with his essence, his scent, and then rolled her over, spread her legs, mounted her, and rammed himself inside her.

  This was even better, her cunt rich with his come, hot and thickly moist. This was a man's place—a welcoming refuge where he could root and rest and live forever.

  He spread her legs further apart and pushed himself tighter still.

  She fit him like a glove, a made-to-measure glove, as deep and wide as he was thick and long.

  Perfect.

  He pinned her hips with his, and bent to nip at her nipples.

  The little diamond necklace, askew on her neck, shot colors in the firelight. Perfect diamond for the perfect jewel of a hot and wanton virgin wife.

  He swallowed her breast, as deep as he could take it, and rooted roughly at her nipple. She writhed and arched against him wildly, grabbing at his buttocks, moaning with pleasure.