Mr. Beautiful

I never took my gaze off hers. Those pale eyes of hers both devoured me and fed me.

They swallowed me whole and kept me intact.

I felt her around me, felt her tender flesh clench, and I went insane.

I cursed silently, groaned aloud, tensed, then started heaving like a madman, hurting her I was sure, because she wasn't accustomed to an invasion like this.

And thinking of that had me losing my mind even more.

She was sobbing out her pleasure at the end, begging for release.

I kept going, rutting in her uncontrollably, driven like a fiend.

Finally, when I reached my limit, I took her to the edge.  I started rubbing her cl*t relentlessly as I pounded in and out.  "Come, Bianca," I commanded, my eyes eating up every detail of her passion-slackened face.

Incredibly, she obeyed.  Like she was an instrument already tuned to my touch.  Like she was made for me.

Because she was.

Mine.

Irreversibly.  Irrevocably.

I jarred into her hard with one last brutal thrust and emptied my seed deep inside of her.

I couldn't stop kissing her as I came down from that giddy high.  Her lips were lush, but that wasn't why I couldn't stop obsessing about them.  It was their softness, their malleable, pulpy, trembling silkiness that had me craving, needing more.

Afterward I drew a bath, my mind reeling, racing, reconfiguring my life as I knew it.

I moved back to the bed when the bath was ready, studying her limp, sated form with vivid pleasure.

I tried to place what I was feeling.  It was beyond satisfaction.  More like something akin to fierce pride.  She couldn't know it yet, but this beautiful creature had sealed her fate in that bed.

I wasn't letting her go.  She was skittish, but I wouldn't let that daunt me.

It wasn't a question of if anymore, not after that.  I'd be keeping her.  Now it was just a question of how.

I carried her to the bath and washed her clean with my dirty hands.

In spite of my thoughts, my desires, I could tell I said something wrong when she tried to leave before dinner and only barely cajoled her into staying for a meal.

I lost all of my usual finesse with this woman; the charm I counted on seemed to have no effect.

She was close-lipped and distant, but I managed to wrestle small bits of information out of her.

She didn't trust me, or expect much from me, but I meant to change that.

I had her again, taking her on the table with dessert.

I shouldn't have.  I knew it.  I'd used her roughly her first time, but she swore she wasn't too sore, and I didn't have the self-control to keep from slaking my thirst with her luscious body a second time.

I kissed the rope marks on her wrists.  "I love seeing this on you," I spoke against her skin, voice thick with something far stronger than mere desire.

I pushed her back flat against the surface of the table, spreading her legs wide.

I moved between her legs, my c**k a whisper from her entrance.

"Look at me," I commanded.  When her eyes met mine, I continued, "Watch me.  I'll punish you every time you look away from me when I'm inside of you."

She nodded, lips trembling, pale eyes steady and relentless, claiming pieces of my soul with but a look.

"Ask me for it," I ordered, stroking myself.

"Please, Mr. Cavendish, f**k me."

I obliged, pushing into her roughly.

I couldn't contain a deep groan as I began to thrust in earnest.

"Does it hurt?" I asked without slowing.

"It's perfect," she moaned.

Even after we'd finished, I stayed inside of her, carrying her up to my room while I bounced her on my insatiable cock.

"Let me know if you reach your limit," I told her roughly when I'd carried her back to my room.  I still held her, still buried deep.  "You should be sore and tender after your first time.  I should be considerate and let your body recover."

"Please, don't."

That nearly undid me, combined with her needy tone.

"You want me to finish you like this, standing up and impaled on my cock?" I asked, anchoring her to me as I worked her up and down my stiff length.

"Y-yes please.  Oh, yes."

She was on the edge, and I was right there with her when I clipped, "Come, Bianca."

She fell apart, and I fell with her.

I stayed up all night.

I'd worn her out, and she slept like a baby.  I'd worn myself out, and somehow it wasn't enough.  I wanted, needed more.

I left the bathroom light on, door open, and left the room illuminated enough to watch her, touch her, and stare at the ceiling, wondering what the hell I was going to do.

This, this was what my agnostic mind pictured the spiritual mind feeling when it attended confession.  A leaking out of all that was bad and a flowing back in, a joyful inhalation, of the most substantial life-sustaining nourishment.

So much of this ritual had become a habit; one that I knew was designed in part to avoid intimacy.  If our bodies were temples, the things I did to my subs were meant as sacrilege.

This was not that.

This was beyond the ritual, beyond the habit.  I had wallowed in her, basking, reveling, and in my revelry, I had slaked beyond my physical thirst and delved into another need entirely.

This was different.

This was intimacy.  This was sacred.

I couldn't get enough.  I couldn't stop, even when I knew it should be enough, that I was overusing her unused body.