Captured by Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

right now, and he would stay with her until the very last possible minute, fucking and fingering and lashing her until the last thing he did before he slipped out the window was to force her to come helplessly in his mouth. He knew he'd carry that memory with him for a very, very long time.
    With those thoughts, he began to move his tongue.
    And she was already right there, right on the edge. He recognized the pleading sound of her groans and whimpers, but he would not allow her to peak that quickly. It went against his grain. So he carefully timed both the rhythm of his mouth and tongue and his hold on her breasts—using that to back her off or move her further towards his goal for her, guiding her, tempting her, almost training her by the judicious, and vicious, use of pain and pleasure until he could hear that there was going to be no return from this last foray.
    He lifted his head for the first time in a very long time and said, "Come, missy, come. Quickly. I'm just itching to take my belt to your behind if you delay."
    He felt her hips jerk at his threat, and despite the fact that he could hear her muffled chant of, "No, no, no!" seconds later she was a mindless mass of writhing ecstasy, the breath hissing loudly out of her lungs only to be dragged slowly back in, her every muscle taut with the rigor of the intense pleasure he had brought her to, her head whipping back and forth against the pillow.
    Before she had a chance to recover much at all, he moved to position himself, pressing his overeager head against an opening he could barely find for all of the wetness surrounding it. And as much as she seemed to still be in the grips of her own bliss, she apparently had the presence of mind to have decided to fight him again, but he wasn't going to have any of that.
    Since he knew he would disgrace himself entirely if he disciplined her again, he instead pinned her wrists to the bed, one on each side of her head, and commanded, "Look at me, missy."
    She whipped her head back and forth in protest until he reached down and twisted a nipple until she complied, and that was the first time he came face to face with the stark evidence of her tears. Had she been crying all along, he wondered. How could he not have noticed it before if she had? Was it the spanking? Was he too hard on her? Surely not. He hadn't spanked her any harder than he was sure her pa had done as a child many times. Was it the sex? But how could it be? She was a whore, and, judging by how wet she was, clearly enjoying it. So why?
    He had her eyes now; they were locked with his, and although he wanted to be a good enough man to stop at this point because she was so obviously upset, he knew he wasn't that good a man. Especially now. Maybe he never had been, but events of late had stripped away a lot of his veneer of civilization, and he guessed this was just one more strip of flesh off his hide.
    At least she'd had her pleasure, he knew that without a doubt, and he'd apologize when he was done and tip her extravagantly. That would ease his conscience—for a while, anyway. And maybe this was her game. This little vixen liked to pretend she didn't enjoy it, but her juices coating her inner thighs gave away her carnivorous delight. Yes, this whore was unlike any whore he knew. She was special, she was by far the most beautiful, and she was also the most mysterious. So tears in her eyes, yes, but the hunger behind them pleaded for more.
    And when she tilted her hips toward him, silently urging his cock to possess her, he surrendered to the dictates of his body and flexed his hips forward, wanting to claim her in one swift motion, knowing that some women liked that, or at the very least, figuring that it might well trigger his own release.
    But he couldn't. Something was preventing him from claiming her, although he couldn't imagine what it could possibly be. He leaned into her further, determined to overcome whatever obstacle this was, and as he glanced up at her,