Viola Grace - Saguinary Seduction, page 7
He resisted. Kept up his diabolical stroking, and now added to it the slightest screwing of thumbs and fingers. The slightest stretching and widening of the opening she so anxiously offered him. “They call it the seeded apple,” he murmured in his low and slow, slow and steady voice. Thrusting a little.
Thrusting into her with fingers…no telling how many.
Spreading those fingers wide. Like tines.
Drucilla’s body jerked. Several times, and quickly.
Desperate to collapse mindless and watery at his feet, if only he would give her room. If only he would ease the pressure of the partially clad body with which he held her motionless, tightly restrained against the roughness of the cabin’s wall.
Thrusting again, he spread his fingers wider. Lifting at the same time, so that the weight of Drucilla’s impaled body drove her down and down. Forcing her to accept even more of his touch. Forcing her to grant every bit of the entrance she made no effort to deny. Slipping them farther, deeper, into eagerly aching flesh that parted willingly as he used the diabolical strength of his thumbs to deny it the release of flowing back into its previous place around them, he stretched her flesh wider than it had ever been meant to stretch. He forced it to 57
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pull and strain, perhaps even to begin to tear in the face of the brutal treatment he expected it to endure.
Drucilla shuddered, caught off guard and uncertain how to react. And he paid her no mind.
Wandering deeper, his fingers jammed themselves tightly between folds of flesh so readied, so softened by their non-stop seeping and weeping of most fundamental moisture, that he easily located the nub…the incredibly special small tag of flesh and essence she had only recently discovered for herself.
The one where everything centered.
Drucilla bit back a cry that, breathless, would not have had substance of any noticeable kind even if it had been granted escape.
The cry caught tight in her throat. It lodged there, about to strangle her. And she could do nothing about it. Nothing to ease the instant, insufferable pain of it.
Gasping, she hung helpless, barely touching the floor as he pushed again determinedly. Almost ruthlessly. Catching her nub with seeking fingertips that began at once to wreak havoc and utter punishment with every careless touch and ruthless caress.
“Not only is the pomegranate deep and rich and seeded red,” he advised upon exertion of even more pressure with the tip of one finger…pressure that brought stars to her vision and then almost at once darkened it as, newly lifeless beneath crimson tides of awakened exigency, she tried again to sag to the floor. “It’s delicious as well. Rich and berry-like, shaped like the richness of a woman’s womb. And crimson as the memory of her sin.” Laughing softly, he rotated his inserted fingers. Tugged more, harder at the tag of flesh he had captured, inflicting torments of a kind even the most self-satisfied and jaded middle-eastern potentate would not know how to inflict. “As crimson as the memory of all her sins, Drucilla. My perfect Pomegranate.”
Her legs would have buckled then, for sure. Maybe they did buckle, though there was no way she could tell.
Peter jammed himself tight against her. With fingers still 58
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imprisoned within her and inflicting their will upon her, he jammed the full length of himself, the swollen hardness of the not-yet-revealed ridge she craved with every centimeter and scintilla of her being, hard against her. Keeping her in her place with a new kind of pressure, a new kind of cruelty that had her pleading desperately in her mind.
Please. More. Please, please. More. Give more. Take…more.
“Crimson,” he marveled, caught in some strange reverie of his own…inducing in Drucilla a reverie nearly as mind-numbing with the repetitiousness of his touches and thrusts against what, sensitized and fully awakened now, seemed almost incapable of feeling more. Almost incapable of registering more and understanding more. Hypnotizing her with the steady drone of words that had no outward meaning yet invested themselves with indecipherable layers upon layers of meaning simply through the richness of their sound. “And lusciously seeded. Purpled with seeds, ready to explode with seeds. Like the ripest woman’s womb.”
Convulsing silently, Drucilla saw stars.
Thrusting upward ever sharply and more than ever steadily, Peter pinched and plundered. He moved thumb and fingers to strike and stroke the miraculous nub. So expertly that he wrenched from her a cry so hoarse, so low-timbered and wanton with need that, surprised, she could not recognize it as her own.
“The flowers of the pomegranate are red,” he murmured.
“Brightest red. Whore’s red. And the fruit is tart. Thick.
Dripping its richness when bitten.” Laughing softly, he twisted his fingers inside her. “Are you tart, my lovely Drucilla? When I press my mouth to you and bite you, will my tongue feel the sting of your tartness?”
When, when? When?
Eyes closed, shivering, her palms sweat-slicked and barely capable of feeling the splintery roughness of the wall against which she pressed them hard enough almost to crush the sturdy logs to powder, Drucilla tried to concentrate upon the word. That one small word, and the concept behind the word.
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When. Did that mean, could that possibly mean…
Warmth brushed her neck. The side and the quivering small hollow at the base of her straining throat.
His lips again. Nuzzling. Stroking and exploring exactly as he explored other regions with the punishing insistence of fingers that would not stop, would not stop, would not stop!
Peter kissed. He sucked and stroked and sampled.
Endlessly. Infinitely. Intimately. Making her breath lurch and her heart hammer. Making her pulse pound and thunder inside veins weakened to the point of collapse as her every muscle stiffened beneath a debilitating chaos of agues and tremors that seized them. Muscles that then, at once, softened to nothing.
To mists of nothing when he allowed the driven agues and tremors to stop momentarily. Tauntingly.
“Will you taste tart like the Pomegranate for me, my love?”
Flinging her hands up, Drucilla stretched her arms full length. And rotated her wrists so that she could scrabble at the wide planks of rough wood far, far above her head. Embroiled in a ceaseless life or death struggle to find something, anything, with which she could console herself. Sobbing all the while beneath her breath. Sobbing out barely heard, throbbing beats of sheer anguish. Her back arched profoundly, and she thrust her still covered, forever confined breasts forward.
Instantly Peter pressed his face to them. He pressed his face against the leather that covered them. “Or will I drink grenadine instead, Drucilla? Will you bleed sweet for me, from somewhere deeper inside? Will I have the sweet-slick distillation of your seeded purple womb?”
“I…Peter…you’ve got to…g-got…to…”
His breath burned harsh against her breasts’ covering. “Will you seek to deny me, Pomegranate?”
“No. I…I mean, I…”
“I usually demand my women strip naked.” His tone grew so sultry it threatened to turn chilly air to sheets of fire. Lifting his hands a little more, he forced Drucilla all the way to tiptoe.
Forced her gasping to tiptoe. “I like to make them display themselves for me. For my enjoyment. But in your case, seeing 60
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as how you’ve gone to so much trouble to lace yourself in, I believe I’ll make an exception. I believe I’ll…”
If she had hoped to accommodate what he demanded of her, those hopes were dashed immediately. Though she rose as high as she could, with arches and ankles and calves tightened to their limit, the relentless pressure of his fingers met and quickly exceeded every one of those efforts.
No matter how she tried to lift herself away from it, no matter how she struggled to free herself of it, his touch was already the center of her existence. Its entire focus, and the one thing that seemed essential above all others if she wanted life to continue.
Peter shoved until she hung suspended, even the groping tips of her toes unable to find the floor and give herself balance against it. And then he stepped away from the wall.
Without warning, he forced her to a new and even more desperate torture. He made her teeter upon the precarious, brutally pressurized perch that was all he offered her.
Drucilla groped blindly. Her sight was gone now. As completely gone as all but the most basic and instinctive of her senses. Seeking some means of support, she struggled to right herself with sweat-slick hands that slipped and slid uselessly when she tried to press them against his shoulders and grasp their sculpted smoothness. “Peter…”
“Of course, Pomegranate is the name of a very special torture device as well,” he advised, turning slowly…oh, too terribly slowly, toward the sagging and now impossibly distant bed. “A very infamous one dating from medieval times. Or maybe earlier. No one really knows. Devices made of gold, or silver, and studded with the rarest gems. The most shimmering of gems, cut with sharp edges so that they will exert their own form of discomfort, their own gleaming daggers of torment.”
“T…t…torment.” Drucilla parroted the word automatically. Not understanding anything but her own urgent, exigent need to find his shoulders and curl her weakened fingers into piercing claws that would dig deep, deep into the meat around and beneath his collar bones.
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If Peter noticed, he gave no sign.
Outwardly, he remained serene. Confident. Unruffled and absolutely, positively unhurried in any discernable way at all.
“Such devices are reportedly still in use, my sweet and delirious Pomegranate. By sultans and potentates who cherish them for the way they can be used upon the inmates of their harems. Those whom they suspect of harlotry, or those they simply wish to reduce to pain-riddled submission. And oh, how I should like to use such a device upon you! How I should like to watch your face as you feel the metal pressing into you.
As you feel the screws locking it to the folds of you so that it cannot be removed and cannot be dislodged. As you feel other screws at work. Widening the device inside you. Widening it until you scream. Until you plead and beg, swearing you can take no more. Endure no more.” The sound of Peter’s voice, the content of his words and the way he illustrated them with the widening pressure of hands that might in another instant rip her to weeping, ruined shreds, made Drucilla twist inside.
Made her stomach harden to an anxious knot and her lungs all but cease to function in any way even resembling normal.
“Please, P-Pet-er.” She was nearly mindless. Utterly helpless as the man who had become her tormentor continued his slow-searing swing around. Moving her through air turned increasingly to steam.
Digging in, Drucilla sought balance. Any balance, even the smallest bit of elusive balance. Acting…reacting…entirely upon blood-borne instinct of fear, and excitement, and thrilled yearning, she lifted her voice in an anguished spiral of sound that, like everything else she’d done and tried to do within recent memory, had no effect.
He only lifted her higher. More precipitously.
Disengaging one of his hands from her, he took an instant to unfasten the smooth dark wool of his trousers and let them drop.
Blind as she was, and insensate…insensible…she retained enough awareness to know that he wore nothing beneath. That he reared forward and upward, magnificent, prepared, eager.
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If he would love her. If he would let her…
“They call it the Nur in those parts of the world, Drucilla.”
“N-n…” She’d lost track of the conversation. Not that it had ever been a conversation. She’d lost track of everything except the aching, drained and debilitated part of herself, where increasingly pain centered. And alongside it, the most inimical and inseparable part of it…the delight.
“Nur. Pomegranate.” He accompanied this with a new twisting as he stepped again toward the waiting bed.
Eyes opened again somehow, without her conscious knowledge or consent, Drucilla licked her swollen lips for the first time in eons, and fastened her gaze upon it. The bed. She fastened her entire self upon the waiting relief and further punishment inherent in the well worn sag at the center of it.
And then she screamed.
Her voice rose in expressions of the true understanding of anguish when Peter closed his fingers.
She dropped precipitously along the suddenly narrowed and infinitely more deadly narrowness of the pointed dagger he made of them. The tip of that dagger, the hard-boned tips of his gouging fingers, plunged deep into the softest, most misted and softened depth of her, and her voice soared. Thin, warbling, it still possessed power enough to reach and echo endlessly among the room’s exposed, rough rafters. “Please!
Oh, God, Peter. Please! I don’t know if I can…I need…”
“Scream all you like.” Laughing softly with a full fever of seduction quivering to life in every uttered rumble, he held her dangling next to the bed and almost above it.
For a moment he held her and she clung tightly enough, surely, to crack bone. Clung and poured increasingly incalculable quantities of wet and overheated desire over the hand that held her so inescapably.
“I imagine this is the way the sultans’ harlots scream when they are helpless with pain, when they are forced to wear the nur inside their pulpy wombs for hours upon hours as they dance ceaselessly for their masters. Or as they stand bound with their arms high above their heads and their feet on a 63
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specially designed floor that moves and shifts even as they breathe. That never gives them an instant’s rest as the device they wear urges them to consider the sins of their bleeding harlot’s flesh.”
Brushing Drucilla’s hands from his shoulders, Peter held her so that she teetered dangerously. Just as helplessly suspended and dependent upon him for mercy.
She screamed again. Louder.
“There is no one to hear you, Drucilla. No one out there but a dead man. No one to come for you, to rescue you.”
And then she was flying. Abandoned by the fingers that had held her forever, she felt the briefest instant of air, superheated air, strumming the ruined folds of her. And then, flung without warning, with no time to prepare herself, she landed with a crash that shook the cabin and dislodged blizzards of agitated dust motes into equally agitated air. She landed on her back. With her shaking legs spread. Ready for him to move toward her.
The landing would have hurt had she not rehearsed such moves a thousand times during her Agency training. Had she not been carefully taught how to handle her weight so that she could direct it to her own advantage. So it would survive such blows and be ready to reciprocate at an instant’s notice.
Already prepared for whatever came next. Whatever her opponent…
She made no move to reciprocate this time.
“We’re absolutely alone here,” Peter said, and then he was upon her…inside her. In an instant, less than an instant, silken-sheathed and as dangerous as she’d sensed, he slipped the entirely human hardness of his shaft into her. Unerring in its instinct for finding all the depths he’d only just abandoned.
“We’re alone in these woods, Drucilla.”
Sweet God.
“So alone. So that I can finish training you. In all the ways I’ve wanted to train you from the moment I first saw you.”
Shivering shimmers swept her. They swept every part of her, the invaded as well as the yet untouched. The pleasurably 64
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violated as well as the shattered, remaining bits of dreaming virgin. And in their wake, rivulets of silky essence released.
“I’ve seen the way you look at me, Drucilla.” Peter ground down. Deeper. Using the full length of himself, he struck unerringly deep and unerringly straight at the very last reaches of her sanity. “I’ve seen the way you want me. To do the things I enjoy doing. But for the moment…”
For the moment.
This time Drucilla whimpered.
Unfinished, Peter’s promise grated and rumbled within her long after the real vibrato of his voice faded. Long after it vanished altogether.
Vibrato.
That would describe perfectly the way he plied himself to her. The way he plunged to his full extent, his maximum length, possessing her with hardness that would not be refused, would not be resisted.
Her next scream soared. Higher. Faster. Driven by waves of escalating moisture. Responding to the friction of his flesh rasping forward and then backward, into and out of the center of her.
“It’s true, isn’t it, Drucilla?”
“I…t-true?”
She had no idea.
No clue to an idea.
“You’ve wanted me to fuck you. From the first.”
“I…”
As if he read her thoughts, as if he knew how she would have to answer, Peter smiled down at her. Grinding his full and fabulous length all the way into her, he lifted a hand away from her and found the clips that held her hair in its sleek updo.
And released them.
Platinum waterfalls of living, curling, engulfing flame closed around them.
It was a silken cocoon…the most silken, made up partly of heat, partly of swirling spirals of desires awakened, and entirely of gilt-hued hair. Her hair, surging ruthlessly in cascades of 65
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freed fire that struck wondrously at the bared rounds of her shoulders and made her shiver more, even than the deep-striking things Peter was doing to the rest of her. Inside the rest of her.
He held himself utterly still. “Haven’t you, Drucilla?”
Hadn’t she what?
She didn’t know.
“Yes. Yes. Oh, God, Peter. You…” She writhed around him. “You were right, and I…I…” Pinned to the floor by his weight and his fully inserted length, helpless to resist the automatic softening of a body gone so far beyond control that it would never return, she swayed her hips. She moved them from side to side as much as his nearness would allow, and stroked every bit of herself…her inner self…against the length he offered.
