Marcus van Heller - The House of Borgia, book1

A choking cry of pain burst from her lips as he smashed through a tight channel, right in and up, bursting the hole all the way until it was just too tight to take the rest of his thickening stem.

He drew his prick back a little. It was so tight in her passage that he felt a stab of pain in his organ, a pain that was exciting because it seemed to draw the fluid from him with his first thrust. He rammed up again, tearing farther this time so that his teeth gritted with the painful ecstasy of it.

Carlotta uttered a low groan which seemed to expand and contract as if she couldn't get her breath. She seemed to fade into a half-stupor, still crying and very white.

The sight of her pale, agonized face acted as a spur to Cesare penetrating her. He wanted to get up and up, right up into her haughty belly so that he could see that haughty face creased in the painful knowledge that a man was raping her, shagging that guarded treasure of hers so that it was numb with pain.

The pull on his penis was like the hug of a mountain bear. It was almost unbearable, but just bearable because it was so exquisite at the same time.

He flexed his hips at the horizontal bar of her legs and pelvis in sharp, powerful movements. His prick ran solidly up, bringing his loins against the fleshy undersides of her thighs with a bump. He was panting hard. There was such a tight pull on his organ.

He felt warmth and wetness. She had bled. It made it easier. He crammed it in short strokes, flicking up the last with an extra thrust until he could feel his knob right up in her as something separate from the rest of his penis. It seemed to make contact with something in its path in addition to the crunching pressure all around its hot, drawn-back length of skin.

This seemed to be the most pulverizing screw he'd ever had, and the sweet sensation of vengeance made it all the better, all the more sadistically exciting to grit his teeth and curl back his lips in passion as he seared into her squirming channel.

He grasped and squeezed her thighs in a grip that brought her out of her semi-coma and made her groan with a fresh awareness of reality.

He slipped his arms around her, grazing them on the leaves, and hugged her to him, crushing her in his strong arms. She was utterly in his power, crushed in his arms, crushed by his great, in-tearing mast. As a final possession he crushed his lips again on hers, forcing them savagely apart, feeling them yield and slip back on her clenched teeth. He bit her lips and the teeth came apart enabling his tongue to invade her mouth.

His prick and loins were boiling. With each thrust it seemed as if matter were being drawn from his penis with a hot poultice. His loins were churned with chilling, twisting clasps which seemed to be tearing out his very guts.

“Oh, God… oh, wonderful!” he breathed- and then half-remembered that he shouldn't speak and fresh words merged into animal sounds of passion.

He leaned his body up from hers, pressing his knees into the leaves. Now he could exert more weight, more of a thrust from his loins. He slipped his hand down holding her buttocks, each oval of smooth flesh in his hands. At each stab he pulled her lower body hard against his loins, letting out a groan of pleasure.

Carlotta, her face wet with tears, could manage no more than a continuous whimper- the proud beauty was reduced to a sniveling, agonized toy. Her lips trembled, the bandage around her eyes was soaked from her weeping.

Cesare felt the end approaching in a delicious agony. He pushed his prick ruggedly in to its full length and pressed there, trying to push farther than was possible, while he wriggled his hips against her pelvis, brushing her pubic hair with his, flattening the fleshy rims of her vagina.

He reached to her breasts with his hands as he felt the scorching helter-skelter from his stomach to his genitals. He grasped them, twisted them so that she cried out afresh with pain. He pulled her nipples. His face was a mask of lost, bacchanalian sensuality. His hips jerked and jumped, screwed and squirmed as if of their own volition while his hands trounced her breasts and his eyes glazed over.

“Ah, ah, ah!” He couldn't hold back the eruption of his breath. Carlotta cried out in despair, recognizing that she was soon to be filled with the polluting sperm of her tormentor, the final, cruel, inescapable indignity.

A rack seemed to be torturing Cesare's organ, pulling it, distending it, punishing it with a voluptuous, throbbing clench.

His hands moved off her marked, reddened breasts, clamped on her waist, jerked her hips at. his prick. He slowed his stroke, surging into her to the very root of his pulsating tube. His head swayed back on his neck, his chest heaved with choking breaths, his buttocks clamped together as he flexed inwards, his hands made fresh marks on her waist. It was here, here, gathered ready to fly, gathered, gathered, couldn't be held. “Uuuuugh!” His head jumped, his teeth gritted and fell apart, gritted again as he pumped the full extent of his lust between her legs, discharging it into the slim, gripping channel.

The princess lay under him, her head turned sideways into the leaves. It was over now, over and done, an eternal, ineradicable shame. The tears dried on her face, her head ached, her vagina ached and throbbed. It felt swollen and inflamed and her breasts hurt. She wished she were dead.

Slowly Cesare climbed off her. He stood up, wiped his penis on one of her garments and looked down on her. There was nothing haughty or inaccessible about her now. Her body was marked in a number of places from the rough usage he'd subjected her to. And her gaping legs were divided by a red, raw-looking area of flesh where his prick had scourged her.

He looked down at his organ as he wiped it. It was red and hot and there were traces of her blood around its limp base. He wiped the blood off and threw the garment down beside her.

He dressed with a feeling of triumph and satisfaction and, leaving her fastened and spread-eagled, walked back through the trees to the clearing.

Most of his men had finished loosing their lust on Carlotta's ladies-in-waiting. Some were dressing, others still naked, yet others still bobbing on the nude bodies of their prey. Many hadn't bothered to seek the privacy of even a small bush in order to indulge their sexual appetites.

Cesare gave a loud whistle and after a few minutes lookouts rode in. They had taken up their posts as a matter of course although it was highly unlikely that there would be any wanderers at this depth of the forest.

The Duke indicated to the newly-arrived that they were to take the places of their companions, a task they fell to with gusto, while those who had worked out their passion moved off through the trees to keep guard.

Beckoning to three of his men, Cesare led them off toward the spot where Carlotta lay.

“Have her one after the other,” he told them in low voice on the way, “and make her suffer.”

The men grinned lasciviously. They considered themselves lucky to be offered the most noble lady of the group.

For a while Cesare watched his men tormenting the prostrate body of the princess as a preliminary to fresh rape, then he walked off through the trees to make sure the lookouts were well posted.

He felt highly satisfied with the day's events. He had taught Carlotta a lesson she would never forget. It was very probable she'd feel it necessary to leave the French Court. In any case he wouldn't have her now even if she suddenly agreed to his suit. She could keep her dowry.

Cesare had no fear of discovery. The coup had been well planned and executed. He was aware there was a slight possibility that in some quarters suspicion might fix on him. But he was not afraid of suspicion. And for the most part it would not be dreamed that such a dastardly crime could be authored by any but the crudest of brigands.