The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales(26)

Beatrice wailed in distress.

“Ow! Stop! Stop! Let go!” she pleaded.

Rhys dug his fingers in deeper, watching as her reddened flesh turned white from the pressure of his hand.

“I asked you a question, Beatrice,” he reminded, giving no quarter.

“Yes! I promise! I promise,” she screeched, “just let go!”

The pain was unbearable. The press of his hand against her bruised flesh caused such a spasm of tortured suffering she became lightheaded from the overpowering sensation.

“Say it,” he ordered.

“I won’t do jumps,” she sputtered, tasting the salty tang of her own tears on her lips.

Rhys used her hair to guide her off his lap. Beatrice winced from the sting of pain against her scalp. He placed her upright on her feet, rising to tower over her petite frame. Beatrice felt small and vulnerable as she took in the breadth of his shoulders, his massive chest and superior height.

Without saying a word, he began to unlace his leather jerkin, never taking his eyes off her. Beatrice tentatively lowered her hands to try and cover her cunny from his view.

“Don’t,” he barked. “Hands at your side.”

Beatrice obeyed but not without visible reluctance. Despite her recent spanking, she still had fight in her. Watching him disrobe with trepidation, Beatrice could not explain the throbbing between her legs. It almost matched the pulsing pain of her bottom.

Shrugging out of the leather vest, Rhys laid it across the bench.

“On your hands and knees,” he commanded.

“Please don’t do this,” she whispered.

“On. Your. Knees.”

With a choked back sob, Beatrice crawled back onto the bench. Placing her palms and knees on the thick leather of his jerkin. The leather felt warm to the touch. Warmed by his body.

Beatrice’s body started at the touch of his fingertips on her back.

Rhys brushed his glove-covered hand over the curve of her lower back, over her punished bottom and down her thigh. Depriving himself of the silky feel of her skin, of the sensation of his roughened hand touching her porcelain softness was the only thing keeping his primal urge to fuck her in check. He would have to settle for the slight feeling of warmth that radiated through the thin leather each time he caressed her punished backside. He would not find release but he would be damned if he deprived himself of watching hers.

Her whole body thrummed with awareness. The feel of the cold night air on her feverish skin. The buzzing, rustling sound of the awakening forest as nightfall approached. The sweet floral scent of the lavender field nearby. The earthy scent of the warm leather beneath her fingertips. Most of all the musky wood scent of the man standing over her prone body.

Rhys pushed his thumb into the top of the crease between her bottom cheeks. Beatrice trembled as she tried to squeeze her bottom cheeks closed.

“Don’t.”

The one worded command was enough. Beatrice unclenched her bottom and bore the indignity of his probing finger as it slid deeper between her cheeks, briefly pressing against her dark, forbidden entrance. Beatrice bit her lip so hard she tasted blood to keep from crying out a protest that would only get her punished harder.

Swirling the pad of his thumb against her puckered entrance, Rhys pressed his two middle fingers against the tight confines of her cunny.

“You’re going to fuck my fingers,” he darkly ordered.

“Wh…what?” asked a confused Beatrice.

“I want you to move your hips back. Impale that sweet cunny on my fingers.”

Beatrice’s face burned with humiliation. This was too much. She started to rise up on her knees, preparing to fight.

Rhys gave her one resounding spank with his free hand. “You either fuck back on my fingers or I pull out my cock and force you to swallow it deep.”

Now he was just making up horrible things to scare her, thought Beatrice. She grew up in the countryside. She knew about the ways between a man and woman. She knew what he was saying was not possible. A man’s member did not go in a woman’s mouth, of that she was certain.

Rhys leaned down close to whisper into her ear, his voice a husky murmur, “Come now. You were the one who wanted to ride a horse astride. To feel the animal pulse and strain between your legs. To control all that sinewed muscle. To revel in its strength. To harness that power for your own. To feel your thighs tighten as the hard leather saddle pressed against your cunny.”

The raw, seductive power of his words mesmerized her. Her hips moved of their own volition. She found herself rocking back, mimicking the rhythm of riding a horse. With each push back, she felt the press of his fingers. First the tips, then pressure as they slid in further, forcing her body to accept, to stretch, to open for him.

There was no doubt his intended bride was a virgin. Her tight passage, the barrier pressing against the tips of his fingers. She was untouched. Rhys felt a surge of pure, primal possessiveness.

Cupping her throat with his free hand, Rhys forced her head back. The movement caused her to arch her back, emphasizing her small waist and the dimples on her lower back just above her bottom.

“Faster,” he growled as he applied the smallest amount of pressure to her throat. Just enough for her to know who was in charge.

Beatrice increased her pace, pushing her body back onto his fingers. Feeling him plunder her cunny. The unfamiliar feeling quickly gave away to a new sensation. The illicit feel of his fingers inside of her. The pressure. The tightness. The twinges of pleasure. Her breathing increased, coming in short gasps. She could feel her heartbeat against his palm where it pressed against her throat. She closed her eyes, giving in to the rioting sensations. The scent of flowers and moss. The warm feel of his hands. The press of his body along her side as he leaned in to whisper dark thoughts into her ear. The harsh sound of her own breath. It all swirled and pulsed around her.