Beauty's Release (Page 51)

Beauty’s Release (Sleeping Beauty #3)(51)
Author: Anne Rice

She took his bu**ocks firmly in hand and spread them. This was almost going too far. He shuddered, and the muscles tightened.

"Open to me. I want to have a look at you."

"Princess!" he gasped.

"You heard me, Prince," she said gently but authoritatively. "Relax these beautiful muscles so that I can examine you." She thought she heard a little gasp as he obeyed. The well-molded flesh went soft, and she parted the cheeks and looked at the hair-ringed anus. It was so small and pink, wrinkled, secretive. Who would have thought it could take a stout phallus, a cock, a fist clad in golden leather?

But for this tender fledgling something smaller would do. Almost anything really. She looked lazily about the room. A candle was the obvious thing, and there were many of them, some only an inch in width.

And as she went to take one from its holder, she remembered how she had pierced Tristan in this way when they had made love together in Nicolas’s house in the village. The memory galvanized her. She felt a totally unfamiliar sense of power.

When she turned, she glanced up and saw tears wetting the Prince’s face, and this further excited her. In fact, the wetness between her legs surprised her.

"Don’t be frightened, my darling," she said. "Look at your cock. Your c**k knows what you need and what you desire, even better than I do. Your c**k is grateful that you’ve found me."

She moved behind him again and, opening him with one hand, her fingers spreading him wide, she slowly inserted the wick end of the candle. Gently, and kindly, she worked it in, a fraction of an inch at a time, ignoring the Prince’s deep moans until he held a good six inches of it. It jutted out, a splendidly humiliating sight, and it moved as he contracted his bu**ocks again, his moans soft but resonant and imploring.

She backed away, heady with the sense of possessing him. Why, she could do anything to him, couldn’t she? In time….

"Keep it in," she said. "If you force it out or let it fall out, I’ll be very disappointed and angry with you. It’s there to remind you that for now you belong to me, you’re mine. You’re speared by it, and it claims you, holds you powerless."

To her pure and sweet amazement, he nodded slowly. He did not argue with her.

"We’re speaking a universal language of pleasure, aren’t we, Prince?" she said in a low voice.

Again, he nodded. But it was so difficult for him, he was suffering so much. Her heart went out to him, and mingled with her compassion was a terrible loneliness, a terrible envy. It was strong, this feeling of power, but stronger still were her memories of being overpowered. Best not to think of both simultaneously….

"Now, Prince, I want to whip you. Drop down and take your belt from your clothes and give it to me."

As he moved slowly to obey, his hands shaking uncontrollably, the candle sticking out from his backside, she went on talking in a soothing voice:

"It’s not that you’ve done anything wrong. I will whip you because I wish to," she said. He turned to her and put the belt in her hand, but he didn’t move away once she had it. He stood right in front of her, trembling. And she touched his curling chest hair with her fingers, tugging on it, running her fingers around his left nipple.

"Yes, what is it?" she asked.

"Princess…" he said haltingly.

"Speak, my dear," she said. "No one has said you may not speak, after all."

"I love you, Princess."

"Of course you do," she said. "Now back on the stool, and after I’ve whipped you I’ll let you know whether or not I’m pleased. Remember, keep the candle tight in place. Now move, my love. We must not waste these private moments."

She moved behind him as he obeyed. She swung the strap hard and watched in fascination as it left a broad pink impression on the side of his right buttock. Again she struck him, marveling that the strength of the blow seemed to be echoed by his whole frame, even the shivering of his hair, his hands still trembling though he clasped his neck obediently. Now she gave him the third blow, harder than the other two sweeping him under the bu**ocks, beneath the jutting candle, and she liked the sight of this the best, and so she gave him more and more good smacks there, making the candle move as he moved, making him rise on the balls of his feet as he struggled to keep still, his groans strangely eloquent.

"Anyone ever whipped you before, Prince?" she asked.

"No, Princess," he said in a raw, torn voice. Exquisite. And in thanks she worked on his thighs and on his calves, on the flesh behind his knees and on his ankles, his legs seeming to move without moving. What control he had. She tried to remember if she had had this control. What did it matter? That was all gone for the present. And she had this instead, and she thought back not to the whippings she had suffered but to the times at sea when she had seen Laurent strapping Lexius and Tristan.

She came round in front of the Prince. His face was more stricken than she had imagined.

"You behave beautifully, my darling," she said. "I am truly impressed with your demeanor."

"Princess, I adore you," he whispered. He was gifted with extraordinary looks. Why hadn’t she fully appreciated them before now?

She gathered the length of the strap in her hand, leaving only a good tongue of it free, and with this she whipped his c**k hard, clearly frightening him and startling him.

"Princess!" he gasped.

She only smiled. Better to whip his firm little belly, and she did, and then his chest, watching the marks shine out like tracks in water. She whipped his ni**les.

"O, Princess, I beg you…" he whispered, barely parting his lips.

"Would that I had time to make you sorry that you begged me," she said. "But there isn’t time. Get down here, Prince, on your hands and knees. You will now pleasure me."

As he obeyed, she opened the lower hooks of her skirt, her gown falling back below the waist. That was all he needed to see of her, she reasoned. And she felt her own fluids melting down her thighs. She snapped her fingers for him to approach.

"Your tongue, Prince," she said, and she parted her legs, feeling his face against her, and the tongue lapping at her. It had been so long, so dreadfully long! And his tongue was strong and quick and ravenous. He nuzzled into her, his hair pushing the velvet skirts farther away, tickling her lower belly. She sighed and slipped a few steps back. He reached up and took hold of her.

"Take me, Prince," she said. She couldn’t bear the clothes anymore. She tore them open, let them drop off. He pulled her down on the hard stone floor.

"Ah, my darling, my darling," he gasped. He pushed her legs wide apart as he went into her. She reached for the candle and found it with both hands and worked him with it. He gritted his teeth and rode her hard, as she rode him with the candle.