voice—tits—felt deliciously naughty. She wriggled on him, making her breasts sway. Blue lights appeared at the tips of her breasts. “Oh,” she moaned, as the tingling sensation struck her nipples. Then she felt a jolt of agony. A thrilling, shocking pain. She could barely breathe.
Then saw. The lights had vanished, leaving two metal devices that were hanging off her nipples, pinching them. They were lined with velvet, but the pressure was so intense.
The lights swirled again, and her hands were pulled back.
Ropes wound around her wrists, just as they had done to Lukos; then they whirled up her arms and wrapped around her breasts, making a tight figure eight. The ends suddenly threaded through rings on the clamps on her tits. And when she wriggled her hands, she tugged those vicelike clamps, and sent pleasure and pain rushing from her nipples to her quim.
Dominating him, indeed. She liked the feel of the ropes.
Surely this couldn’t be her doing? Her fantasy? How she realized, in that moment, she was not a normal proper woman at all.
More ropes materialized, looped around the one binding her hands, and these wrapped in an intricate pattern of knots around her thighs, then encircled her ankles. She was bound, and each time she moved, the roughness of the rope teased her skin.
Her quim ached. She was fluttering the muscles herself. She wanted, wanted, wanted to come again.
“Then put me in your fantasy, love.” He laughed. “I’ll be happy to oblige.”
“Hush, I’m in charge,” she admonished. To her shock, a gag of silk appeared over his mouth, tied so tight she could see the curves of his smile through the fabric. Had she summoned that?
She was lifted by the blue lights and set down on Lukos’s 88 / Sharon Page
face. Underneath her gown, she wore snug drawers with a lace-trimmed slit. She straddled Lukos’s chest, and he lifted his head, his eyes drinking in the sight of the drawers, pulled taut against her pubic curls. His hips gyrated slightly.
Instead of moving back down toward his groin, she pinned his biceps with her knees, and pushed her hips forward so her now damp and aching quim brushed his chin. She wriggled again, so her sex and its lips—exposed just at the tips—sank down against his gagged mouth. Her drawers and the pretty lace edging were growing wetter and she could smell her potent arousal.
Lukos breathed deeply. She felt his tongue push the silk into her. His mouth worked against her, trying to suck the lips of her sex but unable to capture them. As the blue lights rushed around them, Miranda danced her hips on him, twisting and grinding her mound into his mouth. She rocked ahead to bury his nose into fragrant silk and wet curls through the slit in her undergarments.
Ah, love, I think your fantasy is to torment me.
She heard a rhythmic pounding, turned, and saw his hips lifting and his bottom bouncing against the floor. It was thrilling to be in control—to have her wet, aroused, ripe sex on his face.
Feeling naughty, Miranda turned herself around, her cunny still against his mouth, but her silk-clad bottom pushing against his nose.
The swaying of the carriage sent her rocking against his face.
“You are not to climax,” she admonished, in a deep and threatening voice.
As you wish. I’m your prisoner, and this, my love, is your fantasy.
The erotic smell of her excitement was becoming too much to bear. His silk gag was soaking wet from her leaking fluids and his saliva as he tried to manipulate her with his mouth.
Even bound, he was trying to pleasure her.
She was so excited she could barely think. He thought she BLOOD DEEP / 89
wanted to torment him? She could think of no better torture than reaching orgasm on his handsome face while he was destined to remain unsatisfied. The ties at her hands released.
Dipping a finger between her curls, she found her throbbing, aching clitoris—Caroline had told her about that —and rocked on him while rubbing herself. He let
Then saw. The lights had vanished, leaving two metal devices that were hanging off her nipples, pinching them. They were lined with velvet, but the pressure was so intense.
The lights swirled again, and her hands were pulled back.
Ropes wound around her wrists, just as they had done to Lukos; then they whirled up her arms and wrapped around her breasts, making a tight figure eight. The ends suddenly threaded through rings on the clamps on her tits. And when she wriggled her hands, she tugged those vicelike clamps, and sent pleasure and pain rushing from her nipples to her quim.
Dominating him, indeed. She liked the feel of the ropes.
Surely this couldn’t be her doing? Her fantasy? How she realized, in that moment, she was not a normal proper woman at all.
More ropes materialized, looped around the one binding her hands, and these wrapped in an intricate pattern of knots around her thighs, then encircled her ankles. She was bound, and each time she moved, the roughness of the rope teased her skin.
Her quim ached. She was fluttering the muscles herself. She wanted, wanted, wanted to come again.
“Then put me in your fantasy, love.” He laughed. “I’ll be happy to oblige.”
“Hush, I’m in charge,” she admonished. To her shock, a gag of silk appeared over his mouth, tied so tight she could see the curves of his smile through the fabric. Had she summoned that?
She was lifted by the blue lights and set down on Lukos’s 88 / Sharon Page
face. Underneath her gown, she wore snug drawers with a lace-trimmed slit. She straddled Lukos’s chest, and he lifted his head, his eyes drinking in the sight of the drawers, pulled taut against her pubic curls. His hips gyrated slightly.
Instead of moving back down toward his groin, she pinned his biceps with her knees, and pushed her hips forward so her now damp and aching quim brushed his chin. She wriggled again, so her sex and its lips—exposed just at the tips—sank down against his gagged mouth. Her drawers and the pretty lace edging were growing wetter and she could smell her potent arousal.
Lukos breathed deeply. She felt his tongue push the silk into her. His mouth worked against her, trying to suck the lips of her sex but unable to capture them. As the blue lights rushed around them, Miranda danced her hips on him, twisting and grinding her mound into his mouth. She rocked ahead to bury his nose into fragrant silk and wet curls through the slit in her undergarments.
Ah, love, I think your fantasy is to torment me.
She heard a rhythmic pounding, turned, and saw his hips lifting and his bottom bouncing against the floor. It was thrilling to be in control—to have her wet, aroused, ripe sex on his face.
Feeling naughty, Miranda turned herself around, her cunny still against his mouth, but her silk-clad bottom pushing against his nose.
The swaying of the carriage sent her rocking against his face.
“You are not to climax,” she admonished, in a deep and threatening voice.
As you wish. I’m your prisoner, and this, my love, is your fantasy.
The erotic smell of her excitement was becoming too much to bear. His silk gag was soaking wet from her leaking fluids and his saliva as he tried to manipulate her with his mouth.
Even bound, he was trying to pleasure her.
She was so excited she could barely think. He thought she BLOOD DEEP / 89
wanted to torment him? She could think of no better torture than reaching orgasm on his handsome face while he was destined to remain unsatisfied. The ties at her hands released.
Dipping a finger between her curls, she found her throbbing, aching clitoris—Caroline had told her about that —and rocked on him while rubbing herself. He let
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