Miss Blake's Abduction Ch. 01

"I would sooner die than beg you," she managed to say.

"Oh but I so want you to beg me. I want George Blake's sister to beg me to make her spend, and to call my name when she does. Will you? Call me James, Constance. Whitham is what your brother calls me, but you know me much too intimately for that formality."

Constance let out a shuddered breath as his finger traced a lazy circle around her clitoris. Then he stopped.

She glared at him, understanding now what his intention was, the villain.

He kissed the side of her neck, and as he did his hardness pressed against her thigh. Constance gasped at the thought of it being inside of her, where she ached for his touch.

His deft fingers were stimulating her again; driving her to such distraction that she knew not what to do. When he stopped again, she was in agony. He smiled cruelly.

"Please," she sobbed, with barely a whisper.

"Please what, Constance?" He ran a teasing finger across her slit.

"Oh, please!"

"What do you want me to do?"

What words could she find for her desire?

"Touch me," she whispered at last, her yearning winning out over her shame.

"I don't understand you."

She groaned. Was he going to humiliate her so? "Touch me, James, make me spend, please. I need you—"

He did. She nearly screamed as her arousal quickly peaked.

"Oh!" she cried as spasmed in rapture. She cried his name, and other unknown things as she spent.

Whitham, with some measure of satisfaction on his face, raised himself up between her thighs, and positioned his manhood at her entrance. In her ecstasy, she did not notice his new position, until his thick shaft began to push his way into her, tearing her maidenhead away.

"Ah!" she cried, with a small frown of discomfort. She wanted to push him back, but her hands were tied. "Please, James, it's so large. Oh! I cannot bear it."

"Shhh," he whispered, kissing her furrowed brow. He went slowly, allowing her to adjust to his size. Constance could not believe the bulk of him, so much larger did it seem than just a finger. Finally, he buried himself in her up to the hilt, where he stayed for some moments, seeking some acknowledgement in her face of his triumph. Her face showed only confusion, and building lust.

He withdrew again slowly, seeing the sensitivity of the sensation play out on her face, and then sunk himself back in. She felt divine, as her wet smoothness contracted around him. Gradually he increased his speed. Constance began to give small cries of arousal, which spurred him on further. Soon he was pounding himself into her with great force. He felt her contract in pleasure again, and heard his name once more rapturously declared from her lips.

He empted his seed in her throbbing channel as he spent, in two or three great spurts. Her body clung to his still, and he remained buried inside of her, as he collapsed on top of her.

He rested only a few moments, thinking that he might be causing her some discomfort. He reached for his knife, and cut the bonds of her wrists away, but not her ankles. She rubbed her sore arms, but could not do much else to escape. For one thing, Whitham's large body was draped possessively over her own, and for another, she was so exhausted that she gave not a single thought to flight.

When the tremblings of her body subsided, and her lust abated, she wept with silent shame at what she had done, at how she had begged him to take her in the end, and the look of triumph on his face as he did. What would become of her now? Her thoughts, so perturbed, she laid awake for long moments, but eventually sleep overcame her.

When Whitham was convinced of the soft even rhythm of her breathing he rose from the bed and extinguished the candle. Outside the sky was already beginning to lighten. He crawled back into bed next to her, and wrapped his arms around her, telling himself that by doing so he could prevent her escaping while he slept.