Sweet Little Devil

"Silence!" his thunderous voice scared her, and Leslie stopped, whimpering and sobbing in his arms limply. He carried her to his desk, and dropped her in front of it. "Bend down!" he ordered; still crying, Leslie bent herself over the table, not knowing what he intended to do. The captain fetched some rope he spied on the desk, yanked Leslie's arms behind her back—making her cry out at his harshness—and tied them together, securely—tight, bruising, and painful enough to let her know the futility of her situation.

Then, the captain dropped down on a nearby chair, lifted Leslie's skirts high, and yanked the dazed Leslie towards him. She fell onto him, her thighs around his and her legs dangling on either sides of the chair. She was still crying, but quietly now. He ignored it. He was still fuming over the fact that she had tried to run away from him. It made him sick to his core to think of his sweet, innocent, ravishing Leslie running out there, with her beautiful, long, thick hair wild and enticing, her swollen, pouty lips, her cheeks flushed, and her lovely breasts spilling in front of her freely, and his men, lusty and greedy as many of them were, would have attacked her, used her, and broken her. They would have scarred her so much to the point where he would never find her in the way she had been before.

His Leslie....Beneath her skirt bunched around her hips, the captain pushed his fingers into her underwear, and felt her dewy heat. He parted them by pressing deeper with his fingers. But he stopped when he felt something pointing against his thigh. It was a bit blunt, but he could feel it pressing down insistently, intent on producing damage. He looked up at Leslie; her face was still stained from tears, and she looked exhausted, yet the eyes that stared back at him—it glittered with trepidation, but also determination. "I'll kill you," she stammered. "If...if you touch me...I'll kill you. I really will," she said in a stronger voice.

To demonstrate that she truly was genuine about her threat, she dug the letter-knife she had behind her deeper into his thigh. He could feel her hand shaking, but she managed to keep the knife still on his thigh. She kept her gaze level on him, trying fiercely to hide how scared she was at what she was doing, or what he'll do. She had seen the letter-knife on the desk, among others, and without thinking, she had reached for it, had pulled it to her chest. When he turned her around, she had grabbed the knife behind her, her heart exploding inside her, cautioning her to hold it carefully or risked having him find out before she could do anything with it. She waited for him to give his reaction, her stomach fluttering.

Slowly he took his hand away, making no other response. His sweet, innocent Leslie...did he say that? No, she was his sweet, innocent little devil. Part of him wanted to laugh, part of him was aroused and intrigued, another part wanted to tell her how provocative she was when she looked serious, deadly, when her pouty lips opened a little, waiting for him. But he didn't want to spoil the tension she had built up. She did look very serious; her eyes flashed with hardness. "What do you plan to do if you did kill me?" he asked, holding her gaze. He could see that she distrusted him, wary that he was planning something.

"My men will be waiting outside if you come out." His eyes narrowed meaningfully, "You know what they'll do to you, especially as you're tied up as you are now." Leslie gulped, but she kept her resolution. "After I kill their captain, I'll jump into the sea and drown myself," she replied, and nothing in her voice told him that she would not carry it out; it had no false heroism. She truly was authentic about all this. His heart was quickly beating harder in his chest—she meant to go for suicide! He couldn't allow that. He tried to suppress his rage over her reckless decision. He had to calm down. "But—" he said in a controlled voice that held no hint of the turbulent emotions swirling inside him. He tried to caress her hair, but she arched away, suspicious, digging the letter-knife harder in the same spot. He stopped. "—you can't really kill me with a letter-knife. It's blunt, precious." Leslie bit her lip, but answered, "I know. At the very least, I could hurt you badly if I push it hard enough." Boldly, she added, "We could try, if you want to."

He was amazed at her imagination, but even more astonished that she would try to take a risk on a plan that had a higher probability for failure than success. Ironically, it was making him become supremely more attracted to her, drawn to some passionate energy that emanated from the deep soul hidden beneath all her innocence. "Which will it be?" her eyes blazed. "Leave me, or I'll truly hurt you." Then, after a few seconds of quick musing: "You're really making me very hard right now, baby." He said them in a quiet, dangerous voice. Leslie was thrown off her guard, and shuddered; despite her audacity, she was still an innocent girl after all, and he knew that. "So very, very hard," he let the words flow out of his lips slowly, emphasizing them; watching her eyes grew in confusion. He held her gaze, and moved his hands over his trousers.

"W-what are you doing?" she looked terrified. "D-don't!" He ignored her; he undid his trouser, while still keeping his deep eyes on her, who was watching where his hands were. She realized what he was doing. "N-no!" she cried. Was he truly intending to violate her after what she had told him? This time, she desperately plunged the letter-knife into his thigh—there was a sickening noise as it cut through flesh and muscle—and this time, it really did drew blood—and pain. He grimaced. Yet, to Leslie's horrified fascination, he kept moving his hands, and her eyes widened, when she saw a huge, thick pole emerged from a thick nest of dark hair, pointing upwards, leering lecherously at her, seeming to throb for a nice piece of flesh. What was he? He didn't seem much affected by the pain coming from his wound. Leslie trembled, feeling more afraid than before. His lips curved into a wry, cruel smile. He licked them.

With Leslie's slower reflexes against his better, superior ones, the next actions he did were too fast for her to catch in time; he leant forward, grabbed the knife from his bleeding thigh and flung it to the far side of the room. Leslie didn't even hear the thud of it as it hit the wall, as he was already dragging her to him. With one arm gripping her securely, he easily tore her underwear off. "No! No! No!" Leslie writhed violently but of course he was stronger than her; all her efforts to thwart him were useless—especially with bound hands—and its one singular effect seemed only to drain her out of her energy and will to fight back. He forced a kiss onto her lips, distracting her, but vaguely she felt big, warm palms on either side of her bare hips, lifting her to him. To it.

He spread his thighs wider, consequently spreading her irresistible thighs apart as well, and without mercy, he slammed his cock into her, ramming through her hymen in one painful rip, his furry balls coming to settle at her bottom in a loud, wet kiss. Leslie screamed into his mouth, but he kissed harder, making her whimper pitifully. Tears of hurt streaked her face.

Not giving her time to adapt to his hard cock, he pulled out, groaning at the exquisite tightness of her vaginal walls, clenching itself on his cock as he dragged himself away, until the tip rested on her wet entrance, then—he forced himself back in, riding up her tender walls with desperate intensity. His feet firmly planted on the ground, he determinedly worked his hips into a frenzied motion of torturous thrusts—pushing his tight ass from the seat to stab his hungry cock into her, to meet her cunt in delicious, mind-blowing crushes—thrusting deeply into her again—and again.

His bruising grip on her hips forced her trembling, fragile body to concede to the brutal rhythm of his relentless pumping, to surrender all of her to the cruel fucking he subjugated upon her. It went on and on. Leslie's moans and whimpers of pain only persuaded him and encouraged him to continue driving them both mad in the throes of their—commanded by him—animalistic passion. He was so lost in her—together, moaning and grunting in their conjoined world—lost in a place of intoxicating ecstasy, that he was no longer capable of rational thought or empathy—fuck all those things to hell—all he wanted to do was to pound himself into her, deeply and deeply more, deeper than even that deep—as deep as he could go with her. And do it all over again.

He fucked her hard—fast, furious, urgent, possessive. Every motion was like a blurry, steamy performance. He held her jealously close to him, feeling her soft breasts licking his chest up and down, feeling her feverish, quivering body against him. As he pumped savagely and endlessly into her, he crushed his lips against hers, capturing all her pants and moans, turning them into something that's part of him. He wanted her to know how delirious she made him feel—what he could be like when he held her in his arms. As the fucking increased in its frenetic speed and intensity, he could feel her nearing the heights of great pleasure, could feel the flame inside her preparing to explode—as much as his was.

And he wanted to be there with her, to feel the quake of their heart-pumping union. He pulled her body even tighter against him, his arm wrapped across her smooth ass cheeks. He used his other free hand to dip into the point where their wet bodies met, to rub and stroke her weeping cunt of hot honey at her sensitive clitoris—Leslie moaned into his mouth at this invasion—before taking the wet finger out and bringing it to her back. She gasped as he pushed a finger into her tight little hole, and whimpering, tried to run away from it, but she was trapped, snugly imprisoned between his obsessive cock, his arm, and his insistent finger. She was locked in his demanding embrace. He touched her nub, driving her into melodious gasps, and imitated the crude fucking of his cock—up and down, up and down, up and down, breathlessly, repeatedly—together.

Finally, unable to hold back any longer, Leslie's body exploded into fierce ecstasy; her head rolled back, her face concentrated and intent, her shaking body arching, her thighs clamping tightly and tremblingly around his—he could feel her contracting powerfully, rocking him, mesmerizing him. Soon, he joined her, groaning along to the sounds of her cries, his body jerking inside her heavenly body. "Yes yes yes!" he roared triumphantly, digging his fingers into Leslie's ass cheeks. He threw his head back, eyes closed, as hot jets of cum spurted aggressively into her womb. "Ungh!" –they crashed together.

They were both breathing very hard right now. Leslie rested her flushed face on his broad chest. Her whole body was vulnerably sensitive; her heart was still going berserk inside of her, unused to this foreign excitement, and her eyes were glazed from the overwhelming sensation that had just overtaken her with its extraordinary madness. She had never experienced emotions so raw—was it supposed to be so...exposing? She felt as if not only her body had been wrenched away from her, but also her soul—it had been stripped away to a bareness that frightened her.

The captain enveloped her in a fierce hug, his arms touching every part of her that he could embrace, and peppering the back of her upper body with tender, butterfly kisses. He was still inside of her. It filled Leslie with anguish. It reminded her of how he had abused her body, imprinting himself upon her forcefully. It drowned Leslie with a sense of lack of control that it drove her almost insane.

Leslie wept silently, her eyes becoming blank orbs of ice. "You...brute," she said, in a quiet, hoarse voice. "Are you satisfied now? Are you done? Do you wish to take more from me?" she demanded in intensifying passion, though her voice was broken and spent. He hugged her harder, burying his face into her thick hair. "You're mine," was all he could say, uselessly, callously; he only wanted her to know that. Leslie laughed bitterly, "Of course I am. I'm yours to...to bed whenever you desire."

'I love you," he whispered, kissing her butter-colored head. He worshipped her. He was sincere. "Of course you are. You're in...love...with the idea of...possessing my body...but—" she pushed her head weakly to gaze at him, "You'll never have my heart. Never. And as far as I'm concerned," she reached up to his ear to whisper, "if you can't master it, I will...will...never...be yours."

Leslie closed her eyes and dropped her head onto his shoulder, finally won over by fatigue and overexertion. The captain tentatively caressed her hair, knowing he would try very hard to win her heart after this; he may have possessed her body, but it was only a vassal for the deep, sensitive soul inside. And he wanted the soul as intensely as he desired her body. He vowed to have both.

Slowly he got up, ignoring his thigh, though it was bleeding profusely, and gently carried Leslie's small body towards the bed situated on the other side of the room connected to his study, this room. He placed her on his big bed with as much sensitivity as the most loving mate would have given to his beloved, cherished partner, and draped the bed sheet over her.

He pushed a few strands of damp hair from her rosy face, and kissed her forehead; the touch of his lips on her was brief, almost didn't brush against her skin—he was afraid he would break her. Because, when he looked at her, fragile and delicate like a lovely flower trying its hardest to blossom in a wild, unwelcoming environment, enormous remorse stormed his whole body—and he felt like a brute for violating her. He wanted to protect her, love her—not hurt her.

"Forgive me, precious," were his last words before he left his sweet little princess to a long, restful slumber.