by Thea Devine
And as for Jancie—well, there wasn't a girl in the whole of England who wouldn't have married Lujan had he asked, no matter what her station.
But why did Lujan choose Jancie?
On the surface, she was more perfect for him. The daughter of the merchant class, as he was a son, no matter what airs and graces Hugo had adopted with his inherited wealth.
Perhaps inherited wealth—Kyger had never been quite sure what the story was there. Even so, neither he nor Jancie had any prospects in that regard, and they were linked by a common past, and an uncommon attraction.
But it hadn't been enough. Lujan had overwhelmed her. Lujan was the one who swept away everything in his sight. Used it, discarded it, and went on to the next distracting thing.
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Well, he'd thought it before, and he considered it now: when Lujan was gone, he would still be around to pick up the pieces.
As he always was.
Although by that time, Lujan might well have broken Jancie into smithereens.
******************
They lay exhausted, side by side, on his big four-poster bed in silence, that silence of satisfaction when the body was drained and sated and the mind was sentient and at rest.
Jancie slept once again, her body utterly wrung out from his pounding, and he lay on his back, staring at the opulent canopy, and reliving the last frenetic coupling in his mind. In his body.
His penis gave him no rest. It was in a state of permanent tumescence, it seemed. It couldn't get enough of Jancie's body. He couldn't stop the ache of wanting her.
He'd never experienced this with any other woman. This lust to own, to occupy, to mark her with his scent, his teeth, the imprint of his body.
And the fact that his innocent wife—whom he had only meant to be the solution to a problem—had turned out to be as compliant as any whore . . . Well, such uncommon surprises never happened to him. Usually.
But he deserved some credit for that because of how well and thoroughly he had taught her and accustomed her to his touch and his fondling, and familiarized her with how completely he could arouse her just by his sex play.
How farsighted of him, he thought smugly. But then, she had the only reasonable cunt around Waybury in all that time of Olivia's illness. The maids didn't count, and they were no challenge anyway. So of course he would try to play with her body to the extent she would allow.
He was reaping the end reward of all that now: her utter and complete submission to his sexual demands with a voluptuous obedience that was stunning. He was still reeling from it, he fed on it, he lusted for it, he couldn't get enough of it.
The perfect wife.
The perfect vessel for his cream.
A drop pearled at the rigid penis tip in tandem with the thought. His penis elongated still more, stiffening thickly beneath
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his hand. He was ready for penetration just like that, his scrotal sacs filled and taut, his whole body gathering, tightening, spiral-ing with lust.
He wanted something different this time—he wanted her to eat him.
He climbed over her quiescent body, straddling her chest, and nudging her lips with his penis.
"Wake up, Cinderella. He needs you."
She struggled to consciousness out of a deep, lustrous sleep, lifting her head to get a better look at him looming above her. Close. Too close. She wasn't ready for any sex play this morning, and here he was, with his insatiable iron bar of a penis ready to ram it—somewhere . ..
She levered herself up onto her elbows. "What—?"
"Open your mouth, now."
Ob . . . She parted her lips to protest, but protests weren't allowed, she remember foggily. Only what he wanted, what his penis wanted, wherever he wanted to spew his cream.
He inserted his penis head between her lips.
"Suck."
She sucked because there wasn't anything else she could do with him caging her like a tiger. She sucked tentatively at the succulent tip where that luscious little drop of semen pearled.
He pushed a little deeper, and she took the whole ridged tip— and deeper, more of his shaft, but he was conscious not to push too much of himself the first time—it did take some getting used to, having a penis poked down your throat; the head was the important part anyway, and the feeling of her virgin mouth taking him for the first time.
It was indescribable, the lush, inexperienced sucking of his penis head by his submissive wife. It was the most naked feeling in the world, her naive sucking, her hot, hesitant tongue swirling over the tip, laving it, caressing it with an innocence that was still voluptuous and carnal.
Almost better than cunt, but not quite.
He couldn't work it deeper until she was more experienced, more accustomed, as she would be—soon. This was enough—her ingenuous rooting around his penis with her tongue and lips, learning it, licking it, trying it in her dovelike way.
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He would have to teach her that, too—that his penis wasn't delicate, and she could pull on it and bite it with all the ferocity he knew she felt—she would come to feel—as she came to know his penis intimately in her mouth.
But for now, it was enough to feel her learning him, sucking him, nipping his very tip, making him crazy for penetration.
"Pull it," he growled. "Pull—hard ..."
She pulled the whole ridged tip into the heat of her mouth and sucked him deeply right there, her tongue insinuating itself into that sweet, creamy place that instantly precipitated a long, slow spume of satiation deep into her throat.
And now her mouth was marked with his scent as well, as she swallowed the essence of him.
She valiantly swallowed as much as she could manage. He had penetrated her every which way but one now . .. and that was a moment to be savored for long in the future, even though the thought of it instantly made him rock-hard.
No, he had taught her enough for now.
He hadn't dismounted her body. He edged down toward her thighs, spreading them apart almost without thinking, and casually, because he was still so stiff and so ready, and because she was so nakedly compliant, and there, he stuffed his penis between her legs and made himself at home.
He felt a shuddering contentment. This—this was what having a wife and willing cunt was all about.
He lay heavy on her body, poled into her, not moving. He didn't need to move for all those sumptuous sensations to swamp him. Just being cradled between her widespread legs was enough. It kept the lust at bay because it was his penis nestling in her cunt. His cream clotting her hole.
The one thing he could be sure of at this moment.
No one else could have her.
Perfect.
He rocked his hips, just a little, in his never-ending need to root deeper. He didn't know why he needed to plumb her to the hilt like that, but he did. It was the lust, the obsessive possessiveness he felt, he hated feeling. He didn't know how he was going to go back to London at this rate. He wanted to occupy her cunt forever.
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Whipsawed again—
Nonsense. He would go to London in due time. And she would be here waiting, begging him to come to her, to root in her, to fuck her.
As an obedient wife should.
He shimmied against her hips. His cunt in residence. Perfect. What an incredible idea. Enough to make a man cream five times over .. .
And he did, explosively, endlessly, one more time.
******************
Her body felt syrupy, there was no other word for it: thick, heavy, treacly, dense—slow-moving as molasses, almost unable to move, utterly wrung out.
But this was a good thing—this was a measure of how possessive he felt toward her, and that her choice to marry him had been the right one.
She still could not quite believe it. Even after all these days and hours of fucking and fondling, it was still unbelievable. It was the stuff of penny-dreadful novels: the
nobody and the gentleman's son.
Only, disaster usually followed before true love was found.
She shook off the feeling.
She'd known from the start she would have to tame him. Probably with a whip. But in these first hedonistic, bedridden days, it seemed possible he might tame himself, that he would buckle down, take control, and—love her.
He'd taken control all right—of her life, of her body, and her mind.. .. And in the aftermath of his strenuous sexual possession, it was too easy to shroud all his faults and negatives and veil the truth.
That, however, was not Lujan's way, and he could not have made more plain what his expectations were. She was his receptacle. It wasn't quite how she had envisioned it, but her feelings didn't enter into it, and she didn't matter at all, except as a vessel for his lust.
Did it matter? Men didn't marry for feelings, they married to get heirs. They married for love sometimes, if they were fortunate, or for fortunes if they were not. She had nothing to recom-
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mend her in either regard, and while she had nebulous reasons for wanting to marry him, Lujan's wanting to marry her, looked at in that light, seemed curious and strange. Not that he'd have any compunction about saying he loved someone to get what he wanted. But what did he really want of her?
Besides the convenience of a body to warm his bed . . .
Hugo would have been a better match, one that made sense, one that would have provided both of them with what they wanted.
In marrying Lujan, she had chosen to play with fire and it was already raging out of control.
But this was a good thing. Whether he loved her or she was his whore, he was for the moment so besotted with her body that he couldn't think straight.
Another secret. . .
Even now, though he had removed himself from her, his hand still cupped her mound, with one finger inserted in her slit. He did it deliberately, just so she'd be aware he was there, he was always there, always lusted to be there, between her legs.
It was arousing, that one expert finger tucked into her semen-soaked heat. Even as they lay side by side, both exhausted, he had to possess her, to ceaselessly remind her that he owned that part of her.
And then he inserted another finger, two fingers penetrating, stroking, arousing him, stoking her.
Soft, hard, she enclosed his fingers between her legs and felt the full force of their caress. Felt her creaminess. Felt her power. Let him stroke and pump between her legs just like that while she lay still and he came alive, his penis elongating upward the deeper into her he pushed and palpated his fingers.
She consciously kept still, even though her body clamored to move against the rhythmic pulsing. It was a battle of wills, wholly butting up against his edict of what her purpose truly was.
Conversely, he could withdraw his massaging fingers, but that would defeat his purpose, which was to exercise his complete marital right to possess any part of her naked body whenever he wanted it.
He was too infatuated with her creamy cunt. He was hard and
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tight and thick with the obsessive need to stuff his penis into her, and cream inside her all over again.
What was it about this woman, this cunt, that made him feel so out of control? Three days with her, when another woman would have worn him out or bored him to tears, and he still wanted to fuck her into the floor, to finger fuck her hot, creamy hole, to make her come because of his fingers, his fucking, his penis.
He'd only just begun to teach her, apt pupil that she was. She was still and silent as he coaxed her cunt, but he could feel that little give in her hips as she pressed down on his fingers, exciting him, begging in her way for him to do more.
He insinuated another finger, pushing deeper, so aroused he was shaking with it. His penis spurted involuntarily, a waste of perfectly good cream. His scrotum ached with the need to spume even more.
"The hell with finger fucking," he muttered, withdrawing his fingers abruptly. "My penis wants cunt." He straddled her, mounted her, and poled himself forcefully between her legs.
This was more like it. There was nothing like the moment he felt his penis working deep into the residue of his hot cream in a whore's hole.
Nothing like watching his virgin wife wriggling and writhing to accommodate his thickness and length. Nothing like the sensation of being too big, too long, too thick for her, for any woman, and then finding that somehow she enfolded every inch of his thick, hard length right up to the root.
He grabbed her hands and pinned them above her streaming hair, levering his body so that he was only connected to her by the heft, the thickness and strength, of his penis.
Her body canted upward as he began to thrust, her legs spread outward, her back arched voluptuously, her nipples peaked into hard nubs as the pleasure rippled through her.
It was the perfect moment; she was wholly his, wholly submissive to his penis and his lust. And he was lost in her, in the creaminess of her, in her willing subjugation, in her innocence, in the knowledge that his was the only penis ever to penetrate her, the only penis ever to fuck her, the only penis that ever would occupy her cunt.
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Only only only, waiting, begging for his penis only . . . hot for him, naked for him, his willing pupil in all things sexual, wanting only him, only his penis, only his cream . . . the perfect cunt, the perfect wife, the perfect naked, willing, penis-cream-clotted pupil. . .
"... I love you ..."
His penis exploded with a radiant, hot spume of long, slow, torturous come.
"I love you."
So much cream ... he didn't know he had so much ejaculate in him. It wouldn't stop, it kept rhythmically exploding from his penis and pouring into her like gunbursts, sapping his life, sapping his energy, depleting his manhood—he had not heard what he thought he heard . .. she couldn't love him—that wasn't what this was about—shit shit shit. . .
STOP IT . . . shit-He pulled himself out of her, hard and abrupt, and still his engorged penis erupted, shooting even more ejaculate all over her body, the bed, the floor.
He was out of breath, he was angry beyond rationality, his pleasure disrupted, his penis distended, his life upended, the swamping pleasure of possession doused like water on fire.
Damn damn damn shit.
He had to give her up. There was no other choice. Goddamn her, she was forcing him to give up that creamy cunt, those luscious tits, that insanely arousing body. Shit shit shit... he still wanted her, he wasn't nearly done plumbing her cunt, and he had to give it up . ..
Or had he misunderstood?
He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "What did you say?"
"I love you," she whispered into a long, hard silence.
Shit.
"I hope not, Cinderella," he said finally, coldly. "Not wise. At all." He began searching for his clothes, even as his penis still convulsed and dripped ejaculate.
"I thought I made things very clear today. I made you no promises of love. I made you my wife and the vessel for my cream. There's nothing more. So if you really gambled you could play that game in my bed to bring me to heel, you lost."
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He lost. And he had to let her go.
He sent her a cold, dousing look.
He had to go.
"Your black prince and his penis are leaving for London— tonight."
Chapter Nine
So now she was alone.
She couldn't cry; she wouldn't cry. Crying showed weakness, showed dependence. Nor would she lean on Kyger more than she had to. It wasn't as if she hadn't known what Lujan was really like. Or what to expect.
She had just hoped that his attention to her all those months had become meaningful to him as well as her. That something had happened between them that was real and blossoming.
Wilted, more like. Dead, from the lack of sun.
Lujan was the golden son, and without his presence, wh
at was Waybury? She felt that loss so deeply; heretofore the house had been filled, the house had a family, a presence, Olivia.
But now—when she was nearly alone except for the servants, Waybury seemed intimidating, cavernous, without that presence. Without Lujan hovering in the bushes. Without Hugo counting ha'pennies in the library, Olivia waiting to be read to in her room.
She felt as if they had all abandoned her here, left her to flounder and figure things out for herself.
Wasn't that what she wanted—to figure things out? After all,
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she had had her own ulterior reasons for marrying Lujan; she had made her own devil's bargain.
The question was, what had Lujan given away?
The humiliating answer was, nothing. He was still free as a bird to pursue his debauched lifestyle wherever he chose. And when he returned, he would have his receptacle waiting for him, who, if she wanted to live in comfort and wealth—and what woman in her position wouldn't?—would accommodate him every time, and eventually give him an heir . . .
The thought stopped her cold.
. . . of course—get an heir . .. that had never entered into her calculations and she knew instantly why: because she had been the one besotted—by Lujan and the prospect of marrying him. Everything else, in her mind, was for the future.
But this—a child—Lujan's child . . . son—he'd want a son— the wonder was she hadn't considered the ramifications before— not that she hadn't fully expected to have children . ..
But to Lujan—her heart started pounding painfully—an heir could mean something else altogether. Because if he hadn't stepped in, she would have accepted Hugo. And they could have had a son together . . . thus precipitating a third cut of his inheritance.
A wave of horror washed over her. Of course, of course there was a reason Lujan married her—and it had been hastened by the fact that Hugo had declared his intentions, and she was considering marrying him and the possibility of a half-brother loomed.