The Circassian (closed)

Marcel lost concept of time and place. The universe was the mouth and hands that were working so hard, to bring him pleasure. A moan rumbled in his chest, "Yeees.."

Katirah suckled his cock while massaging his balls. Her tough light and loving, needful on some level as well. Her mouth left his cock a moment as she repositioned herself between his legs.

Slowly, Katirah kissed the head and then down the ridge that dominated the underside of his manhood. A peck each millimeter, soft wet, a caress with a mouth as she worked her way to his balls. She sucked in one nut while her hand wrapped around his shaft, slowly working it up and down.
 
Katirah looked at the Comte again. His eyes were closed as he moaned. It made her smile again.

She wished they were in the bedchamber. She had oils and creams that would make this even more pleasurable. She could suggest that at another time.

She used her hand to work his manhood while she sucked first one ball, then the other into her mouth. She swirled her tongue and gently sucked. Her hand gripped his thigh for leverage and worked her other hand faster on his shaft. The Comte had great stamina, she knew that from experience. She wondered how long he would last.

She let his nut fall from her mouth and nibbled in his thigh. She went back to his cock with renewed enthusiasm. She could feel how wet she was getting herself. She resisted the urge to touch herself and focused on the Comte. She moved her mouth faster and faster on his shaft. She moaned as she worked thinking what it would feel like to be pumping herself up and down on it. She moaned louder as she worked.
 
Marcel got lost in pleasure. He no longer could think about what Katirah was doing to him. Once she started moaning into his cock and balls as she lavished them with her mouth and tongue, his mind blanked out. The absolute pleasure over riding everything else.

His hands reached down, twining in her hair, clutching at her, a man drowning hoping to save himself, even as he became lost.

The dichotomy of that thought was suppressed as another moan, deeper, longer, stronger, rumbled from her and through him.

Part of him wondered 'Would, could, she cum because of the pleasure she gave him?'

That thought too, fleeting as it was, disappeared as Katirah pulled at his balls gently. It was too much.

Arching his back, balls of his feet and the ttop of his head on the cushions as he fiercly gripped her head. His balls contracted, and then violently expanded, firing his seed into her mouth, much like the Greek Fire projectiors he had read about.
 
Katirah felt the Comte's hands in her hair, twisting pulling. He pushed on her head giving her the tempo he wanted. She took him in as far as she could without choking. Thoughts of herself disappeared. It was only his cock and her mouth, her hand cupping his orbs. She moaned again.

She felt the change in him. He gave her no word of warning but his body told her all she needed to know. She felt his balls contract, his body stiffen. She prepared herself.

His seed shot into her making her sputter and choke before she gained control. She kept her mouth on him sucking down all that he had to give. When he finished and was at last softening in her mouth, she released him with a sigh and licked the last of his seed from his cock.

She sat all the way down on the cushion, knees open, her bottom between her heels. She rubbed her cheek on his thigh, one hand on his hip. Her breathing was still rapid, her heart still beating fast. The fabric of the pillow felt rough against the still sensitized skin of her nether parts. She rocked her pelvis against the cushion. Her breath hitched a little.
 
Katirah's head rest against his thigh her hot ragged breath blowing along his inner thigh, tickling the hair surrounding his sack and semi flaccid member. Her hair was matted framing her face indelicately, yet somehow giving her an ethereal look.

He felt her slight movements as her hips ground her wanton sex along the cushion beneath her.

Marcel's fingers traced along her chin and cupped her face gently, tenderly, as if it were a snowflake that would melt away.

"There are none as beautiful as you. You never as beautiful as you are this very moment." His voice tender, an audible caress.
 
Katirah looked up into the Comte's dark eyes. He had never looked at her like that before. Never used that tone. Things between them had happened so quickly.

She held his eyes as she stood up on her knees and pressed her chest against his. She had no words to tell him how his compliment made her feel.

She kissed him on the lips and straddled his thigh. She rubbed against him. Her hard nipples were teased by his chest hair. She kissed the soft skin behind his ear and breathed, "My Comte."
 
She was slowly riding his thigh. Her soft swollen womanhood spreading its quim all over his leg, as if marking it territory, or preparing to. Her kiss, softer more soulfull than any kiss in a decade quickened his heart, blood starting to drain into his cock, a twitch of life.

Her two whispered words carried her heart, an unabashed declaration to him.

A his member instanly became turgid, pointing straight up in the air. Her knee gently rocking his balls as Katirah rotated her hips back and forth.

Marcel rolled them over, pinning her beneath his body, the tip of his strength resting at her opening. One languid motion and his cock slid into her nether regions, inward deeper and deeper until he filled her completely.
 
Katirah clutched at the Comte when he rolled them over. He had recovered his strength in no time at all. She was again impressed at his vigor. Not that comparing him to old men or boys meant much.

She opened her mouth in a silent cry as he slowly entered her. Her body shuddered. She felt the little death as her body released her nectar. It was not the mind and body shattering orgasm of earlier. The ones the Comte drove her to with teasing and toying.

She raised one knee high and pressed it against his side, the other she rested on top of his leg. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. She kissed him long, exploring his mouth with her tongue. Losing herself in the kiss. She rocked against him.
 
SLow thrusts in and out, Marcel was in no hurry. This would be a lasting coupling and he intended to enjoy it fully. Rollin ghis hips forward, he changed the angle of his penis to a more up and down trajectory, pushing and dragging the head against the back wall of her vagina.

Her super heated juices flowed copiously, covering his pelvis and upper thighs, as well as her inner thighs and the crevasse of her succulent ass. Marcel altered his speed frequently, building Katirah up to the edge of passion to keep her there, increasing his own pleasure as well as hers.
 
This was so very different from their previous tiffing. Even though the Comte always seemed mindful that she achieve the peak of pleasure, that was only to further his own. This time, however, Katirah felt the give and take was mutual. Was this what was meant when people called this 'making love?'

She ran her hands over his shoulders and back memorizing his muscles and scars. She pulled him down to her to kiss his lips until she couldn't breathe. She breathed terms of endearment. She would have spoken his name had she known it. She knew she had heard his given name at some point but could not remember it. Instead she could only moan 'my Comte' as she arched her back and shuddered.

The Comte kept bringing her to the brink, her cries rising like birds on the wing. Then he would hesitate and keep her from the full overflowing. It was gently exquisite torture. How could he know her so well?

Katirah dug her fingernails into the Comte's back as she felt the surge within her again. She arched her back again. Her throat was curved as well as the top of her head pressed against the cushions. Her eyelids as her mouth opened. Her breath was ragged.
 
Her screams of passion resonated through the chambers nad perhaps the entire inn. Marcel could care less. It was his intention to spend each possible minute with Katirah that he could, and as many of those as possible naked, and as much of that nakedness time between her shapely legs.

Her body quivered and quaked as his began to tense, the more familiar sensation of his balls about to unload them selves began to rise from between his legs.

He knew that he wouldn't have to goad her into cumming for him this time. Her body was electric, limbs arching and flailing about. Gathering her wrists into his hand, he pinned them abover her head, and began stroking her purposefully with his cock. Long powerful strokes intended to bring them both to orgasmic oblivion. As her body collapsed beneath him, the orgasm overtaking her, Marcel felt his balls let loose with their load, a grunt, a sigh and Marcel collapsed atop of Katirah.
 
The Comte's movements changed. He must have sensed that the embers burning inside Katirah were about to become an inferno. He held her with her arms stretched above her head and plowed her furrow long and deep. It was too much for her. She would surely die. "Too much. You kill me." She pleaded in French before she could do nothing but tremble and cry out beneath him.

She clutched him close to her when he finally lay spent on top of her. The tremors still ran through her though with rapidly decreasing intensity. her heart pounded so hard she thought it might break.

The man was still an enigma to her. For all she knew of poetry and tales and the ways of men. She knew nothing when it came to him. That he could be so cruel and so loving... She felt as if her emotions had been pulled out of her and hung to dry, dyed in her sweat and tears and the fluids from her loins. She closed her eyes and a single tear slid from one eye.
 
Marcel leaned into Katirah and kissed her gently. He scooped her up into his arms, and held her close. Kissing the top of her head, Marcel rocked her back and forth gently, slowly.

"Tell me you heart, Katirah, what preys on it?" Marcel asked.
 
Katirah snuggled against the Comte. She thought she should probably pour them some wine, but she just had no ambition to move at all from the confines of his arms. She sighed as she relaxed against him. She could hear the echo of his voice in his chest.

Her French vocabulary was still not very good. "What...feeds? mon coeur?" She tilted her head to look at him. At this moment her answer seemed simple, but had he asked her earlier, when she was sitting downstairs, or later when he had her tied on the table helpless...Her bottom hurt a little now that she thought about it. She was not sure how to answer. She thought she knew what would please him. Right now, in his arms, it was even the truth.

"Mon Comte." She said looking up at him.
 
Marcel looked down at Katirah and considered what she said and weighed it against what he asked, then nodded. Marcel stood and offered Katirah his hand and helped her up, then led her into the bed room.

"I'll not sleep alone again while we are here, you will sleep with me here in this room."
 
((I translated what preys on your heart to French then back to English and got 'feeds' and thought I'd go with that. I thought she might not know the word 'prey.'))

Katirah stood when the Comte helped her up. Was he ready for more? The man had a prodigious sex drive. She did not think her body could stand another coupling. She nodded. "As the Comte wishes." The Comte was actually the first man she had never spent the night with. Before she would be dismissed once her partner had his pleasure. The Comte and she would be living like lovers. The idea made her feel happy and anxious at the same time. The effendi Henri had said that the Comte would ask for much, but give much in return.

"Would Sir like some wine? Or to be washed? Or is Sir ready for bed?" Katirah was very thirsty and could use at least a little cleaning up. They had made a mess of the cushions. She did not know how she would look Samara in the eye in the morning.
 
"Yes" Marcel replied, "All three, and add some food to the list, as exquisite as dinner was, it sated one hunger temporarily, leaving the stomach to know want."

Marcel stopped a moment and looked at Katirah. She was bedraggled, hair a mess, their juices leaking slowly from her core down her thighs, clothes a kilter, makeup smeared. Cupping her face gently, he said, "And I bet you want to clean yourself, do that first, then tend to my needs."
 
((actually she still has no clothes on.))

"Yes, thank you." Katirah said. She would get a proper bath in the morning. On an impulse she went on tiptoes to kiss the corner of his mouth.

She went to the pitcher and bowl to wash. She started with her face and worked her way down. She could not believe the amount of their cum that covered her. Her hair was rather hopeless. She took one of her headwraps and did it up. She pulled on a chemise and then a robe over top of it.

Katirah went out to the table and poured wine for the Comte. He could drink while he waited. "There is fruit and bread and cheese if you would like until Samara can bring up more hot food." She brought the wine cup to the Comte then went to the door.

She spoke in halting French to the guards asking them to have Samara sent up. When she came back into the room her cheeks were ruddy from embarrassment. The way the guards had looked at her, they might as well have been in the room the whole time the Comte had used her.

She cleaned up the soiled pillows and placed them near the door for Samara. "Would Sir like fresh warm water for washing?" She could have Samara bring it up for him. or she could use the water already in the bedchamber. She rearranged the pillows and cushions so the Comte would be comfortable when he sat down to eat.
 
Marcel watched as Katirah blushed and moved about the room self conscious after talking to the guards. On and on she puttered around the room, trying to clean up, trying to hide what they had done, acting as if she were shamed.

Marcel ignored her question, instead, asked, "Are you ashamed of your Comte?"
 
Katirah stopped and looked up at the comte and shook her head 'no.' She looked down at her hands. "Never." She said quietly. Her cheeks grew redder. It was not the Comte that she was ashamed of. She was embarrassed. Embarrassed by the way the guards looked at her. Embarrassed to think of how many at the inn had heard her. Embarrassed by the way the Comte had used her on the table and even more that he could wring such ecstasy from her in such a position. Her heart pounded. Had she made him angry again? She could feel his eyes boring into her. She could not lie to him.
 
He wasn't buying it, any of it. "No? then why are you red? Why do you hide your face?"

Marcel stepped up to her and cupped her chin forcing her to look at him.
 
Katirah looked into the Comte's dark eyes. Her face went redder. "I am embarrassed." her eyes darted away. "I am embarrassed to think the entire inn has heard such intimate things." It was different for him. He was a man. She was sure the other men only thought more of him and his prowess. Meanwhile, the guards looked at her as if they had been the ones making her scream. She straightened her back and looked back up at him, "I am not a sex slave. I am an entertainer. I have not been trained to be inured to such things." If that is what the Comte or the Baron wished in a slave, he should have purchased someone else. She did not care if she made him angry. Her feelings were her own. And here they were again. Every time she felt her heart melt for the Comte, something happened and he grew angry. Then she either grew angry or frightened. He could use her as he wished. It was his right. But he could not control her feelings.

---

Samara came into the room.

((or not if you aren't ready for her interruption. Perhaps she is waiting outside the door trying to decide when to enter.))
 
Marcel nodded, "I can understand that. Let me ask though, which is more important, how you think the men feel, or how you think I feel?"

He glanced at Samara then turned his gaze bqck to Katirah. "I hope you deafen mr one day with your screams of pleasure."

His hand cupped her face gently as he said, "For now the only opinion that matters is mine, yes?"
 
"The Comte is more important always." Katirah said looking at the floor.

He glanced at Samara then turned his gaze back to Katirah. "I hope you deafen me one day with your screams of pleasure."

Her cheeks flared again and her pulse quickened at his words. She wanted to bury her face in his chest. "I will try, my Comte."

Did he know how hard it was when the guards looked at her like that? Samara was one thing, they could blush and giggle together when they were alone, but having the girl clean up after them while she was still in a state of dishabille in the room...
 
Marcel nodded his head, "Yes, what I think and feel should be more important to you than what the guards think." He tilted her head up and kissed the tip of her nose. "Guards are guards, the ones I have now, likely won't live long enough to see France."

"Katirah, never be ashamed of your pleasure, or the pleasure you bring me. If they stare they are jealous. That's all."

Marcel took her hands in his and pulled her toward the bed and sat on it with her. Flipping his eyes to Samara, he ordered, "Clean up out there, then bring me a bath."

Looking back to Katirah, he whispered, "I promise I will cherish and protect you."
 
Back
Top