Marcus van Heller - House of Borgia,book 2

He moved his other hand down past his massive boom and stroked his balls with his fingertips. He imagined she was stroking them and the tickling sensation in the twin sacs became all the more intense for his imaginings. I must have her now, he thought intensely. I must have her now?I could be in her with any luck before she realized what was happening.

Strangely, he now felt nervous. His breath seemed to be stifling both his stomach and his chest and he found himself trying to hold his breath. But the turbulence in his loins, reaching up to its zenith in the reddening flower of his passion, was his only raison d'etre for the moment and he had to have his passion slaked in her body. Nothing less would do.

He moved up still closer so that his knees and thighs touched the coverlet of the bed and he was looking directly down on her prostrate nudity, her sleeping face. That was the face which taunted him. The eyes, of course, were closed and he was deprived of their sudden fluctuation from sphinx to wildcat, but the other features remained to view, the same, voluptuously the same as usual. But she didn't know he was there. He was leaning over her studying those very same features which looked at him with scorn, every detail of which he knew?and she didn't know he was there. Now was the point of crisis. Before now was peace and the sleeping body and features. Beyond now was unknown wakefulness and fighting and… who knew? He felt the impulsive importance of this moment on the brink?and then, with a little intake of breath, he fell on her, knocking her other thigh away as he lay between her legs.

Dorotea was lying in a huge bed with the Duke of Valentinois. He had pulled her close and was stroking her buttocks. She was bathed in a light dew which was the faint sweat of her passion breaking out like a rash all over her body. He was beautiful and warm and she desired him more than she had ever desired anyone or anything. She could feel the warmth of his great weapon of manhood against her hips and she wanted it inside her. But he only went on stroking her buttocks until she was quivering with excitement.

She wanted to show him how much she desired him and she rolled over onto her back and opened her thighs ready for him, inviting him to mount her and fill her with his lust.

But he seemed to hang back and transferred his stroking hand to her aching breast.

When she moved her lips, slightly, and opened her lips to him he moved at last and kneeled over her ready to lower himself and ride her body like a stallion riding a mare, riding, riding in a euphoria of sexuality. His face came down to her and suddenly his body.

But his body was heavier than expected and seemed to be scrabbling, there was confusion and unexpected sensation… she awoke with a start and a low scream. A face was over hers, its eyes dilated with lust?that of the Duke of Alfaro's and it was his heavy, fat body which covered hers.

For several seconds she didn't know whether this was dream or reality. And in that moment or two in which she lay, petrified, wondering where and who she was, a great, fat prick had thrust roughly into her cunt, finding it moist from her dream, and torn up toward her cervix, while its owner gave a cry of ecstasy.

She began to struggle. She beat him with her fists, lashing his fleshy face. She twisted her legs and writhed her body. She felt his penis drubbing up into her, wider and wider. He was gasping little gasps of pain at her blows, of agonized joy at the tight contraction of his penis in her Dorotea, of the teasing face, of the blue eyes, of the jutting lip, into her firm, slim body.

For several seconds they struggled together. He thrust several strokes into her. But she was stronger than he was, in his fleshy decay. Her firm, athletic body was more capable of tension and thrust than his limp flabbiness and she realized that with a strong effort she could wriggle away from him.

But the Duke's preface of rubbing over her body, his palpitating excitement of getting in her cunt at last, raced him to a record climax. Even as she gathered her strength, he gave a grating, grinding, heart-shaking groan of a gasp and came in the channel he was spearing. As she pushed him roughly off her, a stream of viscid liquid streamed after his knob out of her vagina and splayed across her thighs. “You beast, you beast!” she shouted. He lay back on the bed, slightly frightened, sorry in many ways that it had been so quick, feeling slightly cheated, feeling that he hadn't really enjoyed her, would remember only with regret the time when he'd snatched at her body only to lose need for it almost immediately. But she had seized a candelabrum and bashed it down across his chest. Her eyes were blazing and she looked dangerous.

He rolled off the bed, grabbed his robe, dodged her, winced with the pain of a blow on his shoulder and rushed into the salon and out into the gloomy corridors.

He spent a sleepless, regretful night, wondering if she would complain and wishing he could have had her long and languorously, with her cooperation.

It was on a road through the woods north of Cesena that Cesare waited for Dorotea Caracciolo and her retinue to come on their journey back to Venice.

He waited on his horse in the shadow of a huge tree which blocked him from the view of anyone riding along the narrow road from a southern direction. Around, in the bushes, his half-dozen officers waited with swords drawn, hidden themselves by the trailing, autumn-leafed undergrowth.

The road through the woods was deserted. In the half hour they'd been waiting, nobody had passed. It was unlikely that anyone would.

Cesare felt welling in his breast the daring delight he experienced at being in dangerous action again. That his officers had entered enthusiastically in his plan was as much their sharing of his audacity as their devotion to him. Soon, soon he would be holding the naked body of that lovely, sphinx-eyed girl in his arms. He thought of her substitute of the night before, who had cried at first and then lain passive and groaning and then become animated at approaching orgasm. For a virgin, she'd really been quite a bundle of abandon eventually?and then she'd run off into the darkness after his limp prick had come out of her as if she was ashamed of what had happened and couldn't bear to look him in the face. It wouldn't be long before she took other lovers.

“I hear them, Sire!”

The voice of one of his lieutenants hissed through the light rustle of the breeze on the dry leaves. Cesare's mind became a straining ear to catch the slightest sound. He heard them too, some distance off?the steady thud, thud of approaching hoofs.

“Everybody ready,” he called softly. Whispers echoed through the woods and an answering affirmation came back from his nearest lieutenant.

“They have to think we're a score of men, at least.” “Aye, Sire.”

Cesare's horse quivered under him lightly as they waited in a heavy silence, listening to the loudening thud of the hooves until the thud had split up into individual horse-sounds: snorts and jangling of bridles and rustling of dead leaves underfoot. There were voices, too, female voices and male commands to animals. Cesare waited. The sounds spread, seeming to stretch into the forest on either side of him in an eerie echoing. They must have passed the first of his officers. He let them come, judging the moment, holding his quivering horse into the shade of the tree. And then, of a sudden he spurred forward onto the road, arquebus in hand.

There was a startled, astonished pile-up of the leading men-at-arms. Cesare had just a second in which he glimpsed the lady of his desires in the midst of her handmaidens before he shouted immediately:

“Lay down your arms. You're surrounded.”