Luke and Beatrice at the Brothel



“Now, what I’m about to do,” he said as he settled himself between her legs, “requires my mouth. So it’s going to be a little bit difficult to speak.” He chuckled in a most wicked manner. “But I shall do my very best.”

Beatrice drew in a breath to enquire further, but it froze in her throat as he began placing kisses over the mound of flesh between her legs. More moisture seeped towards her opening. Slowly Beatrice’s hips tilted up, pressing against his face as if seeking more kisses—harder kisses.

He growled and suddenly his mouth came down on her, separating the folds of her flesh, adding the wetness of his tongue to her already soaked womanhood.

She sighed, thinking she was going to die from the ultimate pleasure of his naughty attentions.

When his fingers joined his lips and took over holding her open, she cursed aloud.

“Oh yes, you like this,” he murmured against her.

Absolute understatement.

His tongue licked her as if she were a sweet from a candy jar. She’d never felt anything so exquisite in her entire life. His lips closed around her and he moaned, the sound reverberating through her whole body. When he began to suck on her, she knew her episode was going to be the grandest she’d ever experienced.

His hands slipped under her bottom and he raised her hips. She felt as if she were being offered up for sacrifice.

She panted and gasped as he drew her in and out again, over and over until she sang out her conclusion loud and long. He denied her a respite until she was so frenzied she could no longer stand to have his mouth on her. She tried to squirm away but he held her there, pressing his tongue against her sensitive flesh.

Beatrice sobbed his name and he finally lowered her hips to the bed. However, before she could form a coherent thought, he plunged into her. Her insides rebelled pleasurably against the intrusion, squeezing and undulating with every surge of his hard, demanding manhood.

“Come, my sweet little trollop,” Luke said through clenched teeth as he rammed into her. “Tell me you love it. Tell me you want more and you want it hard.”

“Yes,” her voice was shrill in her own ears as she answered him, “take me harder. I want you to.”

“You’re a wayward little priss, so sweet and wet.”

Suddenly, Beatrice felt Luke’s hand slide between their bodies and his fingers began toying once again with her sensitised nub, manipulating it up and down, matching the rhythm of his body.

She held her breath as another wave was about to crash over her.

“Yes, that’s it,” he groaned. “Come with me now.”

They both cried out in violent passion as their bodies climaxed, long, intense, shattering exquisitely. Repeated convulsions shuddered their muscles until, finally, all went quiet and they lay there sated, their breathing the only sound in the room.

Luke reached up and lifted the blindfold from her eyes. She blinked. The room seemed brighter than it had been before. He then untied her hands and set them, one by one, carefully upon her chest. Her arms ached, as did her entire body, but she didn’t protest. He brought her feet back onto the bed, then gathered her body tenderly to his, settling with her on the narrow bed.

“That was…” she began when she found her voice, but was unable to find the right phrase.

“I know.” Luke hugged her close. “It was for me, too.”

A serene smile warmed her heart as she drifted off to a dreamless sleep.


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