Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“Please what?” Lucas would demand, pausing with his hand raised. “Please punish this disobedient cunt?”
Before I could object, he would answer his own question. He would start to spank my pussy. There in the stall, I let out a little sob I couldn’t have held back for all the money in the world. The fantasy shifted, suddenly: Lucas wasn’t a soccer player but rather a marquis, and I was a peasant girl… a scullery maid whose naughty cunt, so well fucked by her noble master the night before, had distracted her from her duties in the kitchen.
I had gone to the garderobe, in my marquis’ castle… I had told myself I needed to pee… but really I had wanted to touch myself in the forbidden place where he had claimed me the previous night…
The marquis, tall and strong like Lucas… a blue-eyed warrior on the battlefield just as Lucas did battle on the field at the Stade de France… he had many other duties, a whole pays to take care of, but he… he had fallen in love with the naughty scullery maid… me. He had wanted to know how I was doing, the night after my first whipping, my first fucking, my first hard ride on his massive cock…
Oh, no… please… The scullery maid whispered it on the hard seat of the castle garderobe. I whispered it in the bathroom stall of the medieval university where my own warrior had made it possible for me to study.
The marquis… he had come to the kitchen in search of me, and the cooks had told him with a sneer that he could find his little fucking piece in the garderobe… no, they would never disrespect their lord that way, would they? The cooks would tell the Marquis de Moreau, though… they would tell him he could find his petite Alice in the garderobe, and he would stride thither on those huge, purposeful, powerful thighs.
Oh, God. My fingers between my legs worked so frantically over the abused, terribly sensitive flesh of my pussy that it hurt. I couldn’t stop, though. I didn’t even want to… I wanted to make my… his cunt feel like my lord had taken it, possessed it so thoroughly that I wouldn’t walk comfortably for a week.
The marquis’ footsteps echoed through the stone corridors, growing louder as he approached the garderobe. My heart raced, knowing I would be discovered at any moment. I tried to stop, to compose myself, but my treacherous fingers kept moving, driven by an insatiable need.
The heavy wooden door burst open. I gasped, caught in the act, my hand still between my legs. The Marquis de Moreau stood there, resplendent in his fine doublet and hose, his eyes blazing with fury and desire.
“You wanton little strumpet,” he growled, crossing the small space in two long strides. “Touching what belongs to me.”
His large hand wrapped around my wrist, yanking me off the privy seat. With effortless strength, he bent me over the rough stone ledge that served as a washbasin. The cold, damp rock pressed against my cheek as he flipped up my coarse woolen skirts.
“My lord,” I whimpered, “please, I—”
The first slap of his hand against my bare bottom silenced my protests. The sharp crack echoed off the stone walls, followed swiftly by another, and another. I squirmed beneath his punishing palm, my hips grinding against the unforgiving edge of the basin.
“You dare pleasure yourself without my permission?” the marquis snarled, punctuating each word with a stinging blow. “This cunt belongs to me. I thought I had made that clear enough to you last night.”
My fingers worked frantically between my legs as I lost myself in the fantasy. I completely stopped being Alice Morgan, modern university student; I was that lowly scullery maid bent over a stone basin in a medieval castle, at the mercy of her noble lord.
The Marquis de Moreau’s large hand came down again and again on my bare bottom, each stinging slap sending jolts of pain and pleasure through my body. I squirmed against the rough stone, my hips grinding desperately as I sought relief for the ache building between my thighs.
“Please, my lord,” I whimpered, my voice echoing off the garderobe’s damp walls. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“Oh, you most certainly will not,” the marquis growled, his voice low and dangerous. “I’m going to make sure you never forget who this cunt belongs to.”
His punishing hand moved lower, and I cried out as he began to spank my tender pussy. The pain was exquisite, each blow sending shockwaves of sensation through my core. I sobbed and writhed, torn between trying to escape the onslaught and pressing back for more.
In the university bathroom stall, I bit my lip hard to stifle my moans as I rubbed my clit furiously. The cool wood of the toilet seat was a poor substitute for the rough stone of my fantasy, but I ground against it nonetheless, chasing my release.