The Gentlemen's Club: Volume One in the 'Noire' series Read Online Free PDF Page B

spine, her head dipped: a
few more locks of hair escaped from their close-pinned arrangement.

 
    “My ebony god, having
suffered at my hand, deserves also to punish me,” smiled Mademoiselle. “Forty
lashes, but not from the whip.”

 
    She parted her legs and raised
her buttocks slightly. The giant then emerged fully from the inky shadows, naked
also, his organ at full fortitude.

 
    Mademoiselle kept her eyes on
those of Lord MacCaulay as the creature took his
position between her legs, where her secret place awaited its thrashing.

 
    “I deserve punishment for my
wicked ways don’t you think?   I’ve
caused pain and only pain will suffice in return. Forty lashes and no less:
each one deeper and harder than the last.   Offer me no respite or pity, no matter how I might plead.”

 
    The African grasped her hips,
guiding the tip of his thick phallus into position, and, with a motion
unexpected in its fierceness, rammed himself into the heart of her. Her pelvis he
pulled back resolutely against his, so that her cheeks slapped hard against his
abdomen. The motion must have rent her almost asunder. Her face contorted in
anguish: her eyes closed and mouth opened in a shriek of pain.   She grasped MacCaulay’s hands tightly.

 
    The dark creature held her
there, against his stomach, his penis deep within, relishing his fleshy burial.
Slowly, he then withdrew, his fat organ appearing inch by inch. Savouring the moment, he paused, before plunging into her
once more, hauling her hips towards him.   She cried out again, but less acutely than the first time: the cry
followed by a small gasp and sigh. The giant held her against his torso, swiveling
his hips, grinding against her. This brought forth another cry: soon
transformed into a low groan.   MacCaulay wondered that any woman could endure that dark
weapon without injury, but Mademoiselle Noire’s pain
was also her pleasure.

 
    The beast delivered several
full-bodied piston strokes, each one sending a shudder the length of her body
and evoking her song of pain and bliss. His pace quickened, thrusts coming one
upon the other with growing intensity, so that her hair tumbled every way. Her
cries became indistinguishable from sobs.

 
    MacCaulay’s head grew light. His body was present, but his legs
and arms were numb. As Mademoiselle Noire submitted to the beast’s unrelenting
pounding, MacCaulay felt aware of his own desire,
imagining that it was he administering those brutal strokes.

 
    The African lashed her
harder, opening his legs wider and bending at the knee, while lifting her rump
to allow the deepest angle of entry. His hands imprisoned her hips, so that her
passage was his entirely. He hammered into her with resolute greed and the
energy of a body indefatigable.

 
    At last, he gave his final
thrusts, arching his back and pulling her fully onto his groin. He slammed his
ebony phallus into her, skyrocketing hard through her flesh, so that his jet
seared her. She flung back her head, arching in parallel, her breasts raised upwards, so that it was all MacCaulay could do to keep hold of her hands.

 
    He watched as Mademoiselle
Noire, this woman who held him under her perverse spell, writhed in ecstasy,
face transformed. She was lost in her own world of pleasure; MacCaulay played but a minor part.

 
    At last, breathless, the
giant stepped back, fulfilled. MacCaulay let loose
her hands, so that she slumped exhausted over the divan of the chaise, her hair
in disarray, face flushed and pupils dilated from lust. She looked him once
more fully in the face, saying nothing, since no words were needed.  

 
    He had fantasized about
chastising her but her own enactment far surpassed anything his own imagination
could conjure. Once more, she had outplayed him and, simultaneously,
demonstrated to MacCaulay that her sexuality was not
to be categorized or anticipated. For him to judge would be obscene, since
every aspect of her behaviour roused