Chapter 8 #4
“I’m coming,” I whisper. “Gods help me, I’m going to come.”
He thrusts faster with his curved fingers, whips his tongue against my clit, and then grinds inward, driving his mouth against me with such firm, deep pressure that the orgasm has no choice—it happens compulsively, explosively, like a match to a pool of liquor.
Beresford maintains the pressure, finishing me off.
Then he quietly stands up and shows me his cock, how thick it is, how it’s straining.
Veins trace along the side, and the tip oozes clear liquid.
When I reach toward it, I feel the heat radiating from its length, even before my fingertips make contact.
“Don’t touch me,” he says through clenched jaws. “I’m not allowed to come.”
A woman on a couch nearby clucks her tongue. “Not allowed to come? Nonsense. Bring that beautiful cock over here. I have a place for it to go.”
Beresford ignores her and kneels for me again. He’s careful of the ankle with the brace, even when he pushes my legs farther apart. “Angle your hips upward,” he says, low. And then he’s eating me out again.
He seems fiercely determined to show everyone how much he adores the taste of me.
He gobbles my pussy recklessly, messily, sometimes slurping and licking, sometimes whipping his head from side to side until I nearly scream from the overstimulation.
In the middle of one of those frenzied lashings I come again, and this time I let myself vocalize, shrill moans and sharp gasps.
The sounds are for him. I no longer care if other people hear them.
Right in the middle of the orgasm I look up, and that’s when I see it. A huge, flat centipede, long as my entire arm, with bioluminescent blue markings along its back and a blinking eye set in the center of each jointed section.
I whimper, terrified that the thing will drop into the center of the orgy.
But as the bliss coursing through my body starts to fade, the creature slithers away across the dark ceiling and disappears.
I scan the whole area frantically, but I don’t hear scuttling feet or see any blue markings glowing in the shadows.
Reaching for Beresford, I clutch his shoulder. “Wine, please.”
“Of course.”
He covers my pussy with the blanket and rises, still naked, still erect, dripping precum onto the floor. As he returns from fetching the wine, two women try to touch him, but he avoids them. Their interference annoys me.
“I’ve had enough of the others,” I tell him between sips of my drink. “Take me back to our spot.”
He obliges, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the curtain falls, cutting us off from the rest of the party. I sit on the mattress while he remains standing, a living monument to male beauty and helpless need.
“I don’t care what you promised. I want you to come.” I reach for him, but he gently pushes my hand away.
“Tonight is about you,” he says.
“But look at it.” I lean toward his straining cock. “You poor man. You’re in agony.”
“Don’t,” he chokes out. “If you do that—”
“If I do what?” Playfully I lean farther forward, my mouth hovering near the dripping head. I let the blanket fall from my body, revealing my breasts. And then I place one of my hands against his inner thigh.
Beresford cries out, and his cock jerks, pulsing spasmodically.
Thick jets of white cum fly onto my face and breasts.
Instead of jerking away, I welcome the shower of his release.
Driven by pure instinct, I take his cock in both my hands and comfort it with long strokes, similar to the way he soothed me with the pressure of his mouth after my orgasm.
With a groan of gratitude he leans into the pressure, thrusting through the tunnel of my hands as he finishes.
Uncertain, but driven by another primal impulse, I take the head of his cock into my mouth.
It’s a perfect fit—wet and hot, shiny and salty-sweet. I polish him eagerly with my tongue, a hum of pleasure in my throat.
“Fuck,” he gasps, his hands plunging into my hair. I love the way he tugs on it just hard enough to communicate his abject need, but without causing me pain.
I suckle and lick his cock head for a few more seconds before he stops me.
“I’m too sensitive right now,” he says. “But next time, you can take me between these exquisite lips.”
“Very well.” Reluctantly I cease licking him.
He throws his big body down beside me and releases a huge sigh. “You didn’t listen, Sybil. You didn’t follow the rules.”
“Technically you didn’t follow the rules.”
“You touched me.”
“Only on your thigh.”
He chuckles ruefully. “True, and it was more than I could bear.” He rolls toward me, one massive arm tucked beneath his head.
“But know this—I expect you to listen next time. When we agree on something, we must both understand what it means. No revising the agreement, no twisting of words, no machinations to avoid the consequences.”
My mind is too bliss-drunk to really grasp what he’s saying, but I nod.
He pushes the rest of the blanket off me, revealing my body. He smooths his hand along my breast, my waist, and my hip. “What beautiful skin you have. Like silk.”
“And what blue eyes you have, like the sky.”
He laughs, and the sound is so hearty, so relaxed, so joyful that I can’t help laughing too. I shift closer to him, and he keeps playing with me idly, thumbing my nipple, stroking my shoulder, then tucking his fingers comfortably between my thighs.
To my own surprise, I feel the flutters of arousal starting to intensify again, so I roll my hips and open my legs once more. Beresford gives me a lazy smile and keeps petting me, rippling his fingers across my pussy lips. Now and then he pops a finger inside me up to the knuckle.
The casual, careless touches are just as exciting as what he did to me with his mouth. “This feels lovely,” I tell him, my voice thin with breathless pleasure. “I never imagined that sex could be good in so many different ways.”
“There are many more ways to enjoy each other,” he replies. “It might take a lifetime to explore them all. That’s why I’d like you to marry me.”
My world flips upside down, and I’m left hanging over a vast, sparkling void, clinging to the edge of reality with my fingernails. Beneath me is a realm of dazzling possibility, the polar opposite of the life I expected to have.
I thought Anne, Mama, and I might have to endure another wretched winter.
If we managed to survive it, we’d face an ever-worsening struggle to stay in the house, until we finally admitted that we couldn’t keep it any longer.
Once we lost our home, we would move to the sooty, smelly city, and I’d labor at some menial job alongside my sister, all while trying to hide my ability from people who would be far less accepting of its effects.
Since Beresford entered my life, I’ve entertained thoughts of marrying him—but I never believed any of those dreams could come true. I never actually thought he would care for me enough to pose this question.
His fingers twitch against my pussy, and heat pools there, while delicious tingles travel into my body. The connection between us is undeniable, and it’s more than sexual attraction—at least I think it is. We’ve talked about deeper things… like secrets. Like the past he wants to keep hidden.
“You’re not married, are you?” I ask.
Confusion furrows his brow. “If I were married, I wouldn’t be asking you to marry me.”
“I heard a rumor that you had a wife.”
“And I heard a rumor that you’re a witch. Why should either of us give credence to such nonsense?”
“Nonsense. Of course.” I vent a hollow laugh.
His hand cups me warmly, and he continues to fondle my pussy lips, taking each one separately and exploring its shape.
My head goes light and dizzy, maybe from the question, and maybe because every bit of my flesh is uniquely sensitive to him.
His fingers slip easily through the growing wetness. “Will you marry me?”
“You make your case eloquently.”
Beresford grins, the pad of his index finger finding my clit. “Marry me, Sybil.”
“Fuck…” I whisper, wrapping one arm around his neck. I need leverage and stability, but I have to be careful not to put pressure on my ankle, or the subtle soreness will spike into pain and undo the pleasure I’m feeling.
Beresford flattens his fingers against my clit and moves them rapidly back and forth, jiggling the little bud in a rhythm that’s wildly titillating, completely irresistible.
“Will you marry me?” he says in my ear.
My mouth is open wide, and breath rushes in hectic gasps from my lungs.
My skin is filmed with sweat as I struggle for this third orgasm, the most difficult and the most craved.
I’m writhing, gasping, frantic, on the verge of begging him aloud.
But I don’t have to beg, because he already understands what I need.
Beresford plunges two fingers inside me and pumps them in and out several times, so rapidly that my cunt makes a splashy sound as he fucks me with his hand.
When I’m practically screaming through each gasp, he goes back to the lightning massage of my clit.
Everything is wet—his hand, my thighs, the mattress.
His face is tucked against the side of my throat; his beard grazes my shoulder and collarbone.
The momentum of his hand hits a new level of frenzy. “Fucking marry me,” he growls, and as the orgasm crashes over me I scream, “Yes, yes!”
He sinks two fingers all the way inside me, and my cunt clenches around them.
“I love feeling you come,” he says. “Those little spasms and flutters… perfect.”
When the orgasm fades, he draws his wet fingers out of me and places his hand over one of my breasts. “Keep breathing like that,” he whispers, his eyes on my chest. “I love the way they rise and fall. Godsdamn you, why are you so beautiful?”
I can’t answer him. I’m too spent, utterly washed out from the intensity of the pleasure.
He gives me a warm, salty, wine-flavored kiss. “Was that a real yes, or an orgasmic one?”