Rochefort cradled her head on his chest, stroking the lemony curls of his angel's hair. Her fingers were absent, brushing along his nipples and the light muscle of the stomach. The stimulation made him hard instantly. Rochefort had learned long ago to supress his amazement for this little girl's ability to arouse him, even so quickly after the orgasm he'd experienced by being allowed to taste her again. Rochefort laughed quietly to himself and kissed the top of her forehead, smiling as she lifted her visage to him.
"Are you worried, MiLord?"
His eyebrows furrowed slightly, marring without destruction the gentle smile that had formed, " no, kitten. What reason do you have to think I would be worried?"
She blushed, confessing, " I am only wondering why you need to leave so quickly tonight."
"I am not leaving you, Constance. Why are you saying this?"
Admittedly, she looked a bit more than slightly impatient with him. "You kissed me. You always kiss my forehead before you leave."
"That is not true," he scowled.
Constance sat up slightly, only half- bothering to remember the sheet to cover her breasts, "yes, it is. You will kiss my forehead, say goodnight, and leave me, won't you?"
"No. Why would I ever do such a thing to you?"
"It is how it has always gone!"
She seemed so damned certain of it. Rochefort realized by her passion that Constance was saying something she'd been meaning to say for quite a long time. He was angered by her bitterness, but it was all anger at himself, " would you like it better if I slept here, you hot little bitch? Then your Lords and Ladies might know how you truly spend your nights."
Constance's eyes flooded with tears even as she screamed out, " you wouldn't know what I wanted from you if I wrote it all over my body! I would ask you to stay with me if there was any thought in my head that you would honor it!"
They were both sitting up in bed now, both unclothed and in such a raised mood that they were completely unashamed of it. " Why should I not?"
Her face was suffused with blushes, her voice shaking and passioned as she spilt out the one secret she had kept from him, the worry that had invaded her head since the first night. She stood up on the bed, her body miraculously beautiful and powerful above him, and the voice coming from her strained with tears and fury as she shrieked, " because it would keep you from your other whores!"
Rochefort went blind with anger. With a growl and a clenched fist he wrapped his arms around Constance's voluptuous form and dragged her back down to the mattress. A quick shake had her sprawled out across his bare lap, on her stomach, quite helpless.
Constance went still immediately; her thoughts flew wildly in her head. She had gone too far to yell at him. She had spoken of things that were none of her business, and he would punish her by beating her.
"I've spoiled you, " Rochefort growled.
"No... MiLord, please, " Constance's pleas were muffled by a swiftly placed pillow under her head. It left her much more comfortable than she had been, and in truth her cries might have died down from that gesture alone. She never wanted to believe that her lover would hurt her. Every scrap of affection she found in those moments relieved her fear.
Rochefort was still speaking: " You have no ideas the way of love, little girl. It is only to be expected. You are my punishment, you wicked thing."
"What do you mean?"
Rochefort's voice was filled with anger. She could tell that he was straining not to take his hand to her at least a little. But, beneath that, there was another emotion. There was a play, a slight laugh in all his words that poor Constance didn't understand until minutes later. He was not truly angry with her, but was playing a part. " I mean, my little one, that I have made you far too used to the gift I give you with my mouth. You've grown cool from it, I've known this for some time now. It must be fixed."
"MiLord, what are you going to do?! " Constance tried to struggle, but found his hand in the center of her back, pinning her really rather effectively.
"I am going to make you see. You selfish girl, you really believe that I would keep other women and still give you such generous attention? I suppose you would like it if I treated you the way I treated the whores I knew before you? " he sneered, " very well, My Lady. You shall feel it."
Rochefort's hand, which had been lain comfortably on Constance's round bottom, slipped uncerimoniously down the cleft of the twin globes of flesh. He pressed his fingers against the tight little arpeture of her ass, then stroked with greater care the warm alcove that lay below it. His fingers slipped into her easily, aided by the honey that flowed from such simple stimulation, and he handled her almost roughly, pressing into her walls and impatiently threatening the barrier hymen.
He took his time with her, plundering Constance's treasures in ways she had never even imagined. Rochefort was being so rough, so brutal, but he did not once cause her even a moment of pain. Each little stroke was given perfectly so that she could feel fear that it might hurt, but then be pleased in a most thorough way.
"Do you like that? " he whispered, still rubbing. Constance did all she could to keep from crying out in urgency, but he finally drew the sound from her by pressing his fingers against her clitoris. She meiowed out a helpless affermation, nonsyllabic and short, which she was punished for with a pinch to her sweet bottom.
"Tell me."
Constance's whole body shook when he touched her like that. This feeling, this frighteningly potent desire that coursed through her now was something she'd never experienced... No. She had experienced it. This was the same apprehension mixed with need, the same terrible sexual want that he had made her feel that first night. That night she had known, just as she knew now, that he would show her things she had never dreamed.
"Yes, " she panted, " I like it. I like it."
Rochefort's free hand found hers, and gripped it tightly as he grew still more forceful in his dance. He knew just how to bleed an orgasm from her, no matter how unwilling she was, and he performed this talent with vigor. He clutched her hand as she came, giving her the contact, the tenderness she needed to keep from feeling helpless afterward, and when it was finally over, Rochefort stroked her back and her sides gently. He waited like this, with only minimal affection showing, until he felt that her breathing had died down. In an instant, he had Constance sitting on his lap, her legs thrown around his waist. His erection was arrogantly pressed to her, throbbing against her belly.
"What are you going to do to me? " Constance's voice came out on a gasp. She was in a deep state of pleasure, there was no questioning it, but she was terrified.
"I'm going to love you, " he whispered, " the way you should be loved; as a woman, taken by a man."
She squirmed without reserve, mewing, " no. Stop it, Lord, please. I'm sorry for what I said, I take it back."
"This isn't a punishment, my love, " his voice was growing quieter now. The last word was nothing but a strained breath, that she could have mistaken it for one which carried less guarantee with it.
Rochefort bent his head and tasted the swell of her breast, " I need you, Constance. I need you so badly.... Let me have you, " he whispered. The words came as though he were embarassed, as though the admission of such tenderness would shatter his frightful appearance.
Constance's voice was as delicate as a bird's, as shrill and passionate. She whispered out the permission, a confession of her own desire for this consummation, " I have been yours, since that first night I have been yours, you know it."
Rochefort's fingers led her own to his shaft, encircled her timid hand around him, " I don't want to hurt you."
She stared up at him, her eyes hard and determined, " I want you to hurt me. Do it, my Lord, please. Do it."
He eased her down to the bed so that she was laying on her back. Constance's gilt hair lay over the blankets in a thousand curly strands, all glowing strong as moonlight, and this halo lit her face and showed off the blush that his attention created. Rochefort kissed her throat, licking and nibbling the deliciousness there. He kissed her this way while his hand made her feverish for the third time in such short succession, and he did not stop until she began to get restless, until her own palm found his erection again and gripped it to show him that she was ready. He guided himself into her with his hand, slowly, gently, and stopped when he felt the barrier against him. Rochefort was panting, moaning with the enormous pleasure that had teased, had eluded him for a month now. She was almost screaming.
"Do you... " Rochefort was stopped in mid-sentence. Constance touched her finger to his lips to silence him, then replaced the finger with her own mouth, and kissed him with such genuine love, such absolute tenderness that it left him harder and more desperate than before.
"Don't stop, My Lord... I beg you, don't. I want you to have me. I want you to own me."
"Just as you own me, " he whispered. His body moved forward, piercing the hymen and rushing to fill her tiny body in the way that it was meant to be filled. Constance shrieked in pain, begged for his embrace- which was given in an instant- and wept out a curse before she was still, before he could be invited to begin thrusting inside her.
"Why does it hurt? " she asked. The question was that of a child's. Rochefort felt, at that moment, the most overpowering sense of a father taking care of his baby. And she was, in many ways as innocent as a child just now, as ignorant and naieve.
He stroked her hair and kissed her nose, " it won't soon, My Lady. It won't soon."
"Promise me, " she begged.
"I swear on my life, sweet Princess."
Rochefort held Constance in his arms and slowly, ever so very slowly and gently, and with so much care it startled her, he began to lift her torso up. She held onto his neck, her head buried against his shoulder as he continued to pull her, and finally had her again in the position of sitting on his lap, and facing him, her legs around his. Rochefort began to let her slip, and his cock slid deep into her, all the way inside her. He held tight, hushing her cooes of pain and pleasure with potent words of love. He told her the truth that he had felt for so long; that he was drunk with the sight of her, that she was the most beautiful and the most charming woman he had ever known. His words alone added to the blushes his penetration caused, and soon, without even moving, Constance was on the verge of an orgasm.
Rochefort stroked her clitoris until he felt her shuddering. The pressure on his cock was too much to ignore any longer. As she was still convulsing, still crying out like a dove from his gift, he lay her back onto the mattress, propped his weight away from her and began to stroke in and out, to thump inside her with a sure, strong rhythm. Her hands, her fingers were on his chest, scratching and touching. They moved to his thighs, his back, and she caressed him as if she were in rapture from the touch of him, she was so in love with this body, nearly as much as she was with the soul inside it. He fused his mouth to hers, and still while he was fucking he began to tickle her clitoris again, unmerciful until the very end. She shrieked, feeling another orgasm wash over her, but the pleasure of his cock and his fingers and his tongue wasn't stopping. She scratched him in delicious agony, whimpering into his lips incoherently and recieving more, always more for her action.
Rochefort roared like a lion when he finally came inside her, his spine arching as the great beast wounded with an arrow. It was as if this one orgasm carried with it the force of all the others that he had experienced without ever touching her in this way. It seemed to last for full minutes, long, drawn out minutes of release. When he was finally spent, when the tremors were dying, he slowly moved out of the body of his lover and lay next to her, with one hand on her breast. His fingers brushed against the soft flesh, dewed with heat and throbbing still from her pleasures, and she winced against him in some helpless try to free herself of the blanket of desire.
"Constance, " he whispered. The sound bled into her ears, a thick, passionate whisper of a name that seemed so inappropriate now. She felt so big, so voluptuous- so unlike the girl she had been before, the girl with that name. The word lusty flitted into her brain. The negative connotation it had been spoken with when she first heard it was gone. She liked this word. Lusty. It was how she felt. Constance ran her hands to her breasts, the soft curve of her stomach, her tiny waist and full hips. In a delicious moment of selfishness she imagined herself a lion, and the word seemed to tack itself onto that image. Lusty. She was lusty, capable of making a man a slave while still feeling the wonderful feeling of femininity, of helplesness.
