Unmasqued

"No, not again! I could not bear it if he should have Christine. She belongs to me." This fierce possessiveness was so unlike his brother, but quite welcome, in Philippe's opinion. At last, Raoul had come to see his point of view.

Pleased, Philippe opened his trousers and his erection sprang free. "Never to worry, brother," he told him, standing at the edge of the chaise. Still holding the whip, he shoved a small bolster pillow beneath Rose's hips, pulling her tied arms and legs even tighter as her ass rose. Her plump red lips lifted and opened toward him, glistening in invitation. His cock twitched.

"Never to worry," he repeated, coming around to her face, flushed and wet with tears. Another pillow then, under her chin, raising her face so that it rested on the edge of the chaise, facing Raoul. Damn, she did look like Christine… enough that another provoking image filled his mind.

Rose and Christine. Rose on Christine. Christine on Rose. Christine twins. That would be a pretty sight.

He plunged the white dildo whip handle into her mouth so far her eyes goggled and she gagged, coughing and choking behind it. Tears streamed from her eyes and she jerked and twitched as he trickled fingers down her spine, between the globes of her ass, and down into the slick wetness of her quim. He took it, smoothed it over and around her nether lips, delighting in her moans and cries behind the ivory cock.

"Christine will be more than pleased to accept your invitation, you shall see, Raoul," Philippe said, settling himself behind the spread thighs. "I will tell you exactly how to ensure it."

And he slid inside, already quite satisfied.

Erik was back in the damp, foggy corridor. It stretched on forever, and he ran, his feet pounding on the stone floor.

The sounds of pursuit came faster and harder, closer. His lungs burned, his legs ached, yet he ran, pushing himself. A little farther… a little farther…

His vision shifted, fogging from those horrors many years ago to a new scene. A room strewn with tapestries, bedding, pillows, ornate furnishings.

Christine. Sprawled on the bed… was it his bed? Her hair spilling over the sides of the narrow mattress, dark against the rich gold silk. Her breasts, round and full, their curve echoed in the swell of her hips, nipples jutting and moist. As though someone had been sucking on them.

He stood above her, at the end of the bed, looking down. Her legs wide, not like a whore's, not crudely… but inviting, beckoning. His cock hardened, lengthened, throbbed.

Then Erik realized he couldn't move. His arms were spread, his wrists bound to the top of the tall bedposts… his legs spread, ankles bound at the corners, his feet on the mattress. Suspended at the end of the bed, looking down at the feast below him… unable to sample it.

Then Christine was touching herself. She tugged at her nipples, plucking at them with her forefinger and thumb… pluck, flick, tease… They tightened before his eyes and he pulled on his wrists, pulled, but there was no give.

She slipped a finger to her lips, over the plump red curve, inside, then out again, glistening. He watched as she moved it in circles over her nipple, around and around, jiggling and shaking her breast, her eyes burning into his.

Then, down between her legs, her hands moved. One opened her lips, holding them wide and red and wet, and the other slipped in and out, around, one, two, three fingers inside the deep, dark entrance. When she brought them out, they dripped, shone with her juices.

He struggled again, his cock straining as hard as his arms. She lifted her hips, inviting, lifted them, lowered, lifted, lowered, in a parody of the rhythm he needed.

Then it changed again… Somehow he was in her place, on the bed. His arms tied, his legs in a vee. His cock straight and towering, twitching as he watched her above him. Her breasts lifted with her arms outstretched, at each bedpost, just as his had been. Her legs wide, as though they were straddling the mattress itself. A shiny trail lined the inside of her thigh.

Then, wide, dark fingers slid from behind, covering her breasts. Lifting them, thumbing over the stark-hard nipples. Squeezing.

Christine jolted, her hips moving, and Erik saw the shadow behind her. Her head tipped back, her long, white throat convulsing as she cried her pleasure. He watched as those rough hands fondled her, covered her smooth white skin, sliding over her belly, her ribs, her hips… everywhere. One hand on a breast, pinching at the nipple, while the other slid to cover her mound.

Erik's mouth dried when that thick finger slipped down into the fluff of hair, jimmying there between her lower lips. Christine's hips moved frantically, tipping and twisting, trying to slip that finger in farther… but she was as helpless as Erik.

His cock was screaming; he probably was too, but nothing filled his ears except Christine's cries of pleasure. "Please, please," she moaned, "please…"