Page 39 of Trapped for Her Blood
And he seems to understand what’s going on inside of me again. In fact, I suspect he’s the evil genius behind it, the composer, the conductor, and the entire orchestra of players. His fingers curl inside me, stroking a place that feels attached to my clit while he still rubs that nub with his tongue.
With a silent scream, I reach the top again, less violently this time, but my hips fight to move and my entire back undulates in time with my internal contractions—endless and spectacular.
Is this my life now? Orgasm after orgasm, living with Zuben’s mouth sucking my clit, his fingers pumping inside me. If I’m now Zuben’s sex puppet, I can live with that.
As my contractions slow, his fingers slip out, and I pant into the furs at my face, trying to recover, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to imagine how I ever functioned before these orgasms happened.
His hands land on my hips from a different angle. “Forgive me.”
I open my mouth to ask what for, but can’t.
In a split second, his hands lift my ass higher and something much longer and harder than his fingers invades me in one long swift stroke.
I cry out. My face presses into my bound hands against the furs, and it all happens so quickly I don’t even register that he moved out from under me, never mind that it was his cock that so forcefully stabbed me.
Reality sinks in as his pelvis slams hard against the backs of my now raised thighs, his hands holding me firmly against him. He’s impossibly deep inside, and I can’t move. Not an millimeter in any direction.
He moans, staying completely still as he keeps me trapped by his cock, by his body weight, by his hold, and my mouth remains open in shock and pleasure as my brain tries to catch up with what’s happened.
As much as I wanted to have him inside me, the sudden unexpected penetration was like a thunderbolt strike that I fear might have halted my heart.
But no, my heart is racing as I struggle to breathe under the intense pressure radiating from the abrupt and deep intrusion. I didn’t even have a chance to see his erection, but I can tell that it’s long, longer than Ryker’s, and it seems to expand in girth while he holds still inside me.
My muscles contract in response, pulsing around the invasion.
Groaning, Zuben slides one arm across my lower hips to trap me, as he leans forward over my nearly inverted body and moves his other hand to my shoulder.
He’s raised me so high that my knees and lower legs are no longer on the furs, but his hands keep my body fully supported, bent over as he kneels behind me.
“Forgive me,” he says again, and then he begins to thrust.
My eyes squeeze shut and I try to push against the ground to keep my head from smashing into the stone, but there’s no need. As hard as he’s pumping me over his long rod, he’s masterfully manipulating my body as if I weigh absolutely nothing.
The initial pain quickly turns into pleasure, as he thrusts harder and faster, but in this position, without my being able to move, or even see, the sex feels impersonal.
I want to see Zuben’s face, to know how he’s feeling, but after that initial groan and his requests for forgiveness, he’s been silent. He barely even seems to be breathing as he thrusts stiffly, jabbing into me over and over like it’s his job.
He’s no longer making music with my body. Instead, he’s a machine, performing a repetitive task in a factory. His arm strapped across my belly and the hand at my shoulder are like vices keeping me stationary so he can precisely control me, pulling my body back in opposition to the pounding thrusts of his cock, driven by his back and hips.
His hand shifts from my shoulder to the back of my neck, pressing my face down against my hands, the only part of me not held aloft by him. I couldn’t turn to look at him now if I tried.
And even though I recognize all this, being constrained, being taken so dispassionately like he’s doing a job, my body doesn’t seem to care.
But my mind sure does. I don’t like to feel like a tool, an object he’s using, as over and over his cock stabs me. While it doesn’t feel bad…it’s too awkward and impersonal to really feel good.
“Zu…ben,” I utter on exhales, timed between several hard thrusts.
He slows. “Have I hurt you?”
“No.” I fight to catch my breath.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No, but…” I fight to breathe. “Can we…change position? I want to see your face.”
“Not a good idea.” His voice is tight and strained.
“Why?”
