Bertrice Small - Captivated

He promptly picked up the journal. Prying her right hand free of the chair, he clasped her fingers around it. "Read, Abigail."

It was one thing for Robert to be aware of her collection of erotica; it was an entirely different thing to read it aloud.

"Robert. I really think I would prefer you to read."

"Not part of the bargain, Abigail." His voice was as intractable as his expression. "I want to hear you."

"Is that all you want?" she asked tartly.

"No, Abigail, I want far more than thatI want you to share your secret life with me. Tell me when you end a paragraph."

Licking lips that were suddenly as dry as the paper she was holding, she found the appropriate page and raised the journal to best catch the light. Her breasts bobbed up and down on her stomach with each breath she took. She had a curious feeling of d é j à vu, looking at the black print.

"My desires were excited to the highest pitch. I depicted to her the pleasure she would experience when, after arriving at the chateau, I should deflower her of her virginity, and triumphantly carry off her maidenhead on the head of this, 'dear Laura,' I said, as I took one of her hands and clasped it round my"Abigail took a deep breath, uttered the forbidden word"prick. 'Then,' said I, 'you will know all the joys and pleasures of a real,' " she took another deep breath, " 'fuck.' '

Hard, hot, calloused thumbs dug into the tops of her thighs.

Abigail peered over the top of the journal. He was waiting for her.

"I finished the paragraph."

"Read on." His voice was dark and low and gravelly.

The fluttering inside her stomach traveled to her heart.

" 'You will then,' I continued," Abigail read on in a ragged voice that bore little resemblance to her own, " 'experience all the sweet confusion, far different from what you now feel, of stretching wide apart your thighs to receive man between them, to feel his warm, naked body joined to yours, the delicious preparatory toying with your breasts, the hot kisses lavished on them and on your lips, his roving tongue to force its way between your rosy lips in search of yours, the delicious meeting of them, their rolling about and tickling each other as mine now does yours,' at the same time thrusting my tongue to meet hers."

Abigail's voice died away on a moan of wind. Heat flooded her body: A mingling of embarrassment and desire.

Without warning, Robert stretched wide her thighs. Cold air invaded her most private parts. It was immediately replaced by heatthe touch of a finger.

"You're wet, Abigail. Is this what happens when you read to yourself?"

She shivered, feeling more exposed than she ever had in her life. "Yes."

The hard, naked strength of his body pressed into the vee of her thighs. "Move the journal."

She lowered ThePearl.

His mouth swooped down on her right breast, scorching hot and wet. It felt as though he was trying to swallow her whole. Hard, hot fingers closed around the soft mound, squeezed it to fit more deeply inside his mouth, while his other hand found her left nipple, a raspy touch of pure fire.

Pain was a sharp intrusion.

Even as Abigail opened her mouth to protest the not quite gentle biting of her nipple, the teeth were gone and his mouth covered hers, still scorching hot, flavored with strawberry jam, brandy, and her.

She inhaled sharply, in response to the gentle twisting of her nipples; in response to the stroke of his tongue against the roof of her mouth.

She forgot about ThePearl. She forgot about shame. She wrapped her arms around Robert's neck and pulled him closer, closer…

He kissed her and pinched her nipples until she panted and squirmed, on fire for more. When she reached between their bodies to take more, he pulled back.

His lips were shiny wet. "Read."

Abigail suddenly realized that whatever Louis said or did to Laura, Robert was going to do to Abigail.

She rapidly scanned the page, found where she had left off.

" 'And then to feel him take his prick, and with the tips of his fingers part the lips of the flesh sheath into which he intends to shove it, putting the head of it between the lips, and gently shoving it in at first, stretching the poor little thing to its utmost extent, till, not without some pain to you, the head is effectually lodged in it. Then, after laying a kiss on your lips, he commences the attack by gently but firmly and steadily shoving into you, increasing his shoves harder and harder, till he thrusts with all his force, causing you to sigh and cry out, he thrusts hard, he gains a little at every move, he forces the barriers, he tears and roots up all your virginal defenses, you cry out for mercy but receive none. His passions are aroused into madness, fire flashes from his eyes, concentrating all his energies for one tremendous thrust, he lunges forward, carries everything before him, and enters the fort by storm, reeking with the blood of his fair enemy, who with a scream of agony yields up her maidenhead to the conqueror, who, having put his victim hor de combat, proceeds to reap the reward of his hard fought and bloody battle.' '

The journal was plucked out of Abigail's nerveless fingers. Eyes wide, she stared down between their bodies.

Robert held his swollen manhood in his right hand. He leaned forward, until she couldn't see it at all, could only feel his calloused fingertips delicately parting her nether lips. Then it was there, the bulbous head, as smooth as a plum and burning hot. Slowly, gently, he rocked forward, prodding her, stretching her, drawing back just before he breached the opening and gained admission. Again. And again. He teased and taunted, prodded and retreated until Abigail could feel her wetness leaking out of her body onto the wooden seat beneath her.

Just when she decided that the game had gone far enough, that he was not Louis and she most decidedly was not Laura, there was a popping sensation and he was inside her, just the head. It felt as big as the fist she had compared it to earlier.

He leaned down and dropped a hard, openmouthed kiss on her lips. Then his lips were gone and he was no deeper inside her than he had been a moment before.

"Robert"

He smiled, a crooked smile. "You can sigh, Abigail. Or you can cry."

He slowly sank into her, another inch, not enough, two inches, still not enough, three inches, not nearly enough. Then he pulled all the way out, teased and prodded her with the engorged head, never quite entering her, never quite leaving her.

Just when she thought she would scream with frustration, he smiled that crooked smile again.

"Or you can scream."

And lunged forward.

Abigail screamed.

She could feel their pubic hair meshing, he was so deep inside her, and it still was not enough.

A wall of paper blocked Robert's face. She blinked at the black print.

"Read."

The outspread journal shook and shimmied in her hands she was trembling. Or perhaps it was he who trembled, buried inside her body so deeply that she could not tell where he ended and she began.

She took a calming breath and read.

" 'Now he again draws himself out to the head, and slowly enters again. Again he draws out, and again enters, till the friction caused by the luscious tightness of the rich flesh which clasps tightly his foaming pego causes such delicious sensations that he is no longer master of himself.' "

It was Abigail who lowered the journal at the end of the paragraph. He would finish this, or by God, she would.

His gaze locked with hers. Still wearing that crooked smile, he dug his fingers into her hips and drew himself out, slowly, so slowly she could count the inches. And then he was easing back inside her, an inch at a time. Nine inches, all the way in. Nine inches, all the way out. Smoothly, rhythmically, until she was so wet and open it did indeed feel as if he was foaming inside her and she was coming, coming, coming