Marcus van Heller - The House of Borgia, book1

His victim couldn't keep back fresh tears. The pain forced them out of her eyes. The agony from her anus spread up into her throat and choked her. She felt sick and slightly dizzy. She continued struggling in her mind even when her body was not making movements, was taking no direction from the mind.

Her head was dazed, but through it all she was aware that his thick protrusion was entering her behind, spreading it, opening it up, making it wet and large, splitting it, making it ache, burn and protest with pain and indignity. She bit her lips until they were warm and wet. She didn't know it was blood on them.

The daze in her head was a mixture of pressure from her behind and noises from around her. It was only later that she realized the noises-which seemed impersonal-were those of her own groaning and his gasping on her back.

Eventually the pain meant nothing. It was simply a continuous, overwhelming cutting away of that opening between her buttocks, an enlarging which felt like the whole of her innards being pushed up into her chest and out of the way of the intruding pike.

There was pressure all around her, which she also recognized later as the weight of his body on her back and backside.

For a long time the tearing, chafing in and out which was a wave of advancing and withdrawing torment, went on, until she was aware of herself performing certain actions which were dictated by his guidance. She was kneeling up with her head left on the leaves. Her thighs were widespread and pushed in under her. Her legs felt stiff and jelly-like at the same time.

She was aware of a greater edge to the continuity of pain, an extra pricking stab which her new position had enabled him to make. Now she was sure that her body was being ripped from that tiny point which now seemed so large, as if the entirety of her behind were just a gaping hole.

She became aware of another pressure on her waist just above the hip bones. That was his hands, pulling her back onto his enormous, indefinable mass of intrusion, pulling her back as his weight pushed forward and surged into her behind with a fresh shattering wave of pain every second.

Cesare skewered and screwed in from all angles, moving his hips at and across her bottom. His prick was burning again. It had never felt so deliriously crushed and pulverized — and yet so huge and swollen because the great pressure made it more acutely sensitive along the entirety of its throbbing length.

As he swept in, his belly smacked against her bottom. The well-fleshed buttocks provided a buffer from which his body recoiled with a spring before flowing in again with a smooth, agonizing fluency.

His penis was undergoing the most voluptuous torture. He wished it could go on forever — but he wanted it to gather momentum as well, to sweep to the inevitable climax which was such sweet torment.

In and in he surged, his prick tearing right in until it was completely swallowed and his hair squashed against the down on the inner crack of her buttocks.

He felt the liquid of climax growing in intensity and his mind reeled with the pleasure of it. His mind took in the groaning of his soft-fleshed victim, the abandon of her posture, her helplessness, the fact that she was crying again through her groans. He gripped her waist like a vise as he felt the thin, fluid movement right up to the base of his rod.

The moment of oblivion, wonderful oblivion was almost on him. He gasped for breath, his chest heaving in great, gasping sighs. His prick was crushed and squeezed beyond endurance. He couldn't keep on at the same pitch. It was too much.

The fluid blocked into a great, pricking weight at the base of his penis. He couldn't hold it. His mouth twisted into a multitude of ungovernable shapes. Her buttocks were there containing his penis, glossy and smooth, lovely and exciting and her prostrate back and her thighs like a tripod under her and her groans and her sobs. He couldn't hold it. It was rushing suddenly along the thick length of his staff, terribly clear and acute like scalding water. And it flowed straight through and burst from his knob with a force which dragged a long, grating cry from his mouth. Twisting his mouth under the cries he smashed his prick home again and again, ridding himself of a great-weight of sperm letting it shoot up into her, hearing her cry out sharply every time he shattered in.

By the time he felt sufficiently recovered to dress and return to the clearing, the sun had gone down and the twilight was on its way.

His men were waiting for him. Their naked victims were already grotesquely attached to the surrounding trees in positions which were at once revealing and comic.

It was close on the following dawn before Carlotta and her women were found by the search party the King sent out a couple of hours after dusk.

The captain who led the party was hard put to stop his men from committing too many indiscretions with their wandering hands as they untied the unfortunate women. And many a lady-in-waiting had her breasts and behind slyly stroked in the process of being set free. But, so relieved were they after a chilly night in the woods at the mercy of any vagabond who might happen upon them, that the women didn't even notice that they were being rather unnecessarily felt as hands fought with their bonds.

Carlotta was too ashamed and exhausted to be indignant about the fate she'd suffered. She mounted a horse with difficulty and conserved all her energy to prevent the physical pain she felt from showing on her face as, surrounded by their fresh escort-bodies of the dead flung over the horses' rumps-they headed back to the court. By that time, Cesare and his men were sleeping soundly in their beds-a sleep of exhausted passion.

The following day a large band of men-at-arms, including many of Cesare's retinue, set out to scour the woods in search for the villains who had attacked the ladies of the court.

But, although they spent the whole day, they I found no trace of any possible aggressors-in [fact the forest seemed to be totally deserted! and uninhabited for many miles around the spot.

There was much discreet talk about the dastardly fate of the ladies, but nobody seemed even to think of Cesare Borgia as the possible dispenser of the treatment. The King was restrained by Carlotta from offering a large reward for information leading to the capture of the unknown rogues. The less said the better, she decided. As it was she felt unable to leave her chambers for shame.

His Majesty, after a few more days of searching and interrogating, called off the hunt. But not before half his kingdom was aware of the story-often in a grossly exaggerated form. Some even suggested in the countryside's inns that the King himself had already tired of his wife and desired the haughty Carlotta, who had enhanced her desirability in refusing to accept Cesare's suit. Certainly many were the tongues which wagged over the Duke's part in the plot. But they wagged only among the peasants, who loved to talk about things connected with nobility, and the more scandalous the better. In the court itself, Cesare, who had always conducted himself in a manner of the utmost courtesy and delicacy, was considered beyond reproach. Besides, he had never had a definite refusal to his plan for marriage from the princess.

Such a scandal, however, certainly put Carlotta out of the marriage market for the time being, and Louis, still wishing for a firm alliance between the Pope and himself, presented Cesare with two fresh possibilities for a wife. He was offered either one of the King's nieces or the daughter of the Due de Guyenne, Charlotte d'Albret.

Charlotte was only seventeen, beautiful and she was a sister of the King of Navarre. It was she that Cesare chose.

For a short time her father appeared to oppose the proposed marriage. But the King of Navarre needed the friendship of France to withstand any possible attack from Castille and pressure was brought to bear on the girl's father so that he eventually consented.