Colette Gale - Bound by Honor

The man behind lunged forward hard, and the woman bent her arms, resting her head on the floor as he pummeled her from behind. Her bottom rose higher now than her shoulders, her sighs and grunts filling the air with erotic sounds. Marian saw the glistening red of her quim as the cock slid in and out . . . and knew that her own was as swollen and wet, that her breathing was caught up in the same rising rhythm.

John had turned, straddling the edge of the chair, pressing against her. His fingers filtered through her hair, his breath rasping hard, low, and harsh in her ear. She could not mistake the bulge of his cock against her hip.

“More,” he ordered, lifting the goblet to her mouth again . . . and she gulped down more, the sweet wine sinking more easily into her this time.

After she swallowed half the libation, he found her hand, drawing it from where she’d clasped it against her belly, and forced it down over him . . . into the depth of his braies, where it was hot and damp and a pulsing erection raged like a smithy’s iron.

“There,” he sighed, a half command, half groan. He forced her fingers around its width, closing his hand tightly over hers, pushing his body up closer. “Now . . . mmph . . .” His command lurched to a halt as the weasel-faced man arched his back with a last violent thrust, calling out the pleasure of his orgasm with a loud moan.

Marian could not look away. The man appeared to be in agony, his face stretched and dark and pained . . . but something primal gouged her; watching him find his pleasure made something tug deep inside, leaving her skittish and out of breath . . . her heart slamming as if it had been she on the floor . . . she accepting the slick length of a cock.

John’s fingers closed tighter, and he showed her the stroke, the rhythm, and then he murmured, “And what of her?” He directed her attention to another side of the room. Though his breathing was heavy and raspy, the cadence of his voice remained smooth. “Should I bind you like so?” He lifted the wine to her lips again.

She turned to see what John was looking at and then didn’t know which was worse . . . the feel of his hot, hard erection, its skin sliding beneath her fingers . . . or the sight of the dark-haired woman splayed against the wall. Head tipped back, nude, her hands held high so that they raised her breasts, and her feet spread wide and bound in place. Another woman with short dark hair stood nearby with a whip that had clearly already left marks on her companion’s belly.

Marian swallowed, tried to catch her breath. . . . She felt the chamber walls pushing closer, warmer, redder on her until there was naught to see but the woman against the wall.

The pale man moved to take the whip, pausing to fondle the breast of the woman he’d taken it from.

“Mavis, go to her,” he ordered, and the short-haired woman moved to the wall.

“Ahh,” John sighed in Marian’s ear, forcing her hand to move faster. “Glynna is delicious, is she not? The one on the wall?”

Even if she’d had an opinion, Marian couldn’t have voiced it. She concentrated on breathing, on moving her arm in a non-stop rhythm . . . her body taut and quivering, pounding, swollen, wet . . . tight.

Her arm moved faster and faster, and she could not ignore the scene in front of her. . . . Mavis knelt in front of the bound woman, spreading wide her bare knees so that the deep red of Glynna’s quim was exposed to the room.

Marian’s breath caught as that dark head bent to the woman in front of her, and the sounds of lapping, of sloppy damp laving, filled the air over the rising harsh breaths of the prince, and the roaring in her own ears.

Almost . . . she almost felt the strokes on her, over her, her quim full and ready. . . . Her mouth was dry as she watched Glynna, bound and helpless, writhing against the wall as the kneeling woman bent to her . . . and then pulled away, running her fingers all along the insides of her thighs as the bound woman struggled and arched . . . and then the tormentor bent again as Glynna begged Please, please. . . . Marian felt the teasing, the stop-starting, the pounding and wet of her own little pearl . . . the damp growing between her legs.

“Faster,” John ordered, releasing her hand to grope for her breast, his breathing heavy and hot in her ear. Her arm ached from the motion, and yet she dared not stop. . . . She could do naught but focus on the women in front of her, and watched as the pale man pulled Mavis away, sending her tumbling across the room.

The man shoved himself inside Glynna, and Marian saw her eyes fly wide, watched as he pumped inside her, his hands clawing at her breasts. . . . Marian’s arm screamed with pain, and yet she continued on, faster, matching the rhythm of the man fucking the woman against the wall . . . her breath, her heartbeat, her eyes, all focused, centered, there. . . .

John cried out, and she felt the surge from his cock, the wet over her hand, the shuddering in his body. She pulled her hand away, turning from him, wiping his seed on the first cloth she groped, the woman’s pleading cries still filling her ears, the sounds of body slamming into body, the gasps and groans.

She couldn’t catch her breath, and the room felt close and small around her. The cries and the heavy sweet wine made her soft and loose . . . yet tight and desperate. . . . She couldn’t get away, couldn’t look anywhere but at the woman’s mouth, open in pleasure or pain, her head rolling against the stones behind her, the taut, spare muscle of the man slamming into her, his buttocks moving, his slender, ropy arms tense as they groped at her.

Suddenly, Marian felt strong hands on her . . . strong, solid hands, warm . . . and she was pulled away, turned from the sight of them fucking, her hair catching painfully. . . . Dizzy, light-headed, she stumbled and fell. . . . Those strong hands caught her and she tumbled against him, his solid, bare skin . . . an exchange of deep rumbling voices, a sharp response, and aye . . . Will.

Will.

Her dull mind recognized him, his touch, the way he moved, the rumble in his chest as he spoke something she couldn’t understand. He was around her, holding her, his hands smoothing over her body, up along her back, through the masses of hair, pulling her close to his chest with a powerful arm, and then shifting her away.

She rolled free in a swirl of hair, falling onto something soft . . . the bed. . . . It dipped when he joined her, the yellow light from the chamber about them disappearing as he yanked the bed-curtains around closed, leaving only a narrow strip of light on either side.

And then . . . nothing.

She lay there, heart still pounding, breathing heavily, unsettled, irritated. . . . The images still haunted her, teased her. Beyond their curtained space, Marian heard the unmistakable sounds of coupling, of wet, slick strokes, the slap of skin against skin . . . the pleasured moans, the pained cries. . . . She needed something . . . to move, to be touched. . . . She needed relief, to be rid of this tightness, this incessant throbbing and pounding that made her feel like crawling out of her skin.

“Will,” she whispered. . . . It came out like a soft moan, like a little plea. She reached out, felt for him, found the warm tension of his arm next to her. She became aware of his breathing, rough and heavy, and the absolute stillness of his body. As if he were frozen, bracing for something.

“I . . . please . . .” She didn’t know, didn’t know what to say, how to ask. . . . The unsettling, squirming feeling roiling inside her was strong, desperate.

He made a soft noise, like a sigh deep in his chest, and suddenly his hands were on her. The next thing she knew, he’d dragged her on top of him, half over his wide, solid chest, and he brought her face down for a hungry kiss.

His hands moved over her, catching up her breasts where they tipped above him, finding the nipples that had tightened. He released her mouth and grasped her waist to move her up, above him, settling her full, wet quim over his belly. Unable to help it, she moved, pressing her throbbing little pip into his skin, seeking relief, grinding madly into him.

He made a noise-mayhap it was her name-planting his hands on her hips as he lifted his head. Will found one of her nipples, closing his warm mouth around it.

Marian gasped. Her face lifted, her head tipping back at the sharp pleasure-at last!-shooting down, from breast to belly to the little throbbing piece between her legs. As he sucked and licked over the top of her sensitive nipple, she cried and squirmed against him, feeling his breathing roughen beneath her, conscious of the little pulses between her legs. More . . . more . . .

At last, he released her breast, tumbling her off and to the side next to him. Will moved with her too, somehow managing not to catch her hair under an elbow or a hip or leg as he levered his torso half over hers, one hand propping himself near her hips, the other near her shoulder.

Yes, aye, oh . . . please, she was ready. She wanted . . . She made a little noise, another desperate gasp, and hitched her hips impatiently. He buried his face in her neck, hot and damp, kissing her shoulder, using his strong tongue to glide along the tender part there as she twitched and writhed and thought about begging.

Urgent, desperate, she reached, her hand glancing over his belly, still damp from her moisture moments ago. She felt the rough hair growing there, then the waist of his braies. . . . She slipped her hand down into the heat.

“Nay,” he said suddenly, the word a clipped order. Lifting his face from her neck, he shifted out of reach and her hand fell away. And then she forgot all, for his fingers moved between her legs.

Marian cried out, arching up into his hand as he found her swollen pip. Oh, aye . . . he slid a finger deep inside, and then another one, filling her . . . moving in and out, sliding through the pool of dampness. He used his thumb to massage in and around, caressing her swollen labia, gently flicking over her tight little pip, slow and easy . . . and then, as she began to breathe more urgently, feeling the pleasure gather there, he teased and rubbed harder, faster, his own breath hot on her neck, his skin sticky against hers.

Marian’s eyes were closed, and she knew naught but the rise and tightening of pleasure . . . the climb toward relief, as it coiled-almost painfully-there beneath his hand strokes . . . and all at once she slipped over with a cry, bursting into delicious warmth and gasping with the rolling waves of relief as she shuddered against him.

Oh, aye . . . aye . . .

Her face was wet, her body still twitching, the little pearl between her legs heavy and pulsing, the gentle weight of his hand against it, as she sifted back to reality. Then he moved away, eased his fingers free, and she blinked her eyes open, finding the lit seam of the bed-curtains and a haze over her vision. Despite all that had happened, Marian could not keep a satisfied smile from curving her lips. . . . She had needed that so, needed the blast of release, the touch of a strong body, sure fingers, skillful mouth.

But Will . . . he’d moved away, and before she could speak, or reach for him-she wanted to touch him-he sat up, flung the curtains open.

“Come,” he said sharply, quietly, looking not at her but into the chamber beyond.

Only then did Marian become aware that the sounds of pleasure beyond their curtained sanctuary had not eased. But Will had opened the opposite side of the bed, out of sight of the others. When he beckoned, she moved sluggishly toward him, still languid and dazed from the wine and pleasure.