Beauty's Release - By A. N. Roquelaure & Anne Rice Page 0,25

Beauty was no longer conscious of anything but exquisite desire rolling up towards the long-awaited orgasm.

At last, she went over the edge, her face and breasts throbbing with fire, and she felt her hips go rigid in the air, her vagina convulsing on the emptiness, grasping for the fingers that stroked her clitoris as she felt it grow harder and harder.

She cried out—a long hoarse cry. And the orgasm went on and on, the mouths suckling her, the fingers stroking her.

It seemed she would float forever in this sea of tenderness, this sea cf delicate violation. And as she sobbed shamelessly, not conscious now of any injunction to be quiet, she felt a mouth close on hers, she felt the cries taken into another.

Yes, yes, she said mutely with her whole body, the woman’s tongue going into her mouth, her breasts exploding as they were bitten and licked, her hips lunging as if to swallow the probing fingers.

And then as it overflowed, as it passed out of her with a thousand rippling reverberations, she felt herself embraced by the softest arms, kissed by the softest lips, the long delicate tresses veiling her.

She breathed deeply, whispered aloud, “Yes, Yes, I love you, love you all.” But the mouth was still kissing her, and no one heard these words; they, like all else, were mere glorious, sensual reverberation.

But her Mistresses were not satisfied. They would not let her rest.

They took the pins out of her hair and they lifted her.

“Where are you taking me?” she cried out before she could stop herself. She looked up, trying frantically to catch the lips that had just withdrawn from her mouth. But she saw only smiling faces.

She was carried across the chamber, her body shocked and throbbing still, her breasts aching to be suckled again.

And in a moment, she saw the answer to her question. A finely made bronze statue stood gleaming in the center of the garden: the statue of a god, it seemed, with knees bent and arms outstretched to the side, and head thrown back in laughter. From its naked loins jutted a cock, and Beauty knew that they meant to impale her on it.

She almost laughed in her happiness. She felt herself placed on the hard, smooth, sun-warmed bronze, dozens of soft little hands supporting her. She felt the cock enter her wet vagina, her legs winding over the bronze thighs, her arms up to go around the neck of the deity. The cock filled her, stabbed at the mouth of her uterus sending a new contraction of pleasure through her. She pushed down, her vulva sealed against the bronze, and rocked on the cock, the orgasm rising again.

“Yes, Yes,” she cried out, seeing everywhere their rapt faces. She threw back her head. “Kiss me!” she cried. And she opened her mouth hungrily. At once, they responded as if they understood. The lips found her mouth, her breasts, the curls again tickling her, and she flung herself back into their arms away from the god, only her pubis still sealed to him, needing only his cock as they suckled her.

The orgasm was blinding, obliterating. Her hands held tight to soft, silken arms, to warm, tender necks. Her fingers were tangled in the long, fine hair. She was smothered in flesh and smothered in happiness.

And when it was finished, when she could stand it no longer and she was withdrawn from the god, she fell back on silken pillows, her body wet and feverish, her vision dazed, the creatures of the harem purring and whispering as they continued to kiss her and stroke her.

LAURENT: FOR THE LOVE OF THE MASTER

TRISTAN AND I had seen them give the purge to Beauty and Elena. And I had thought, “They cannot do that to us.” But they did it.

When they had shaved the hair from our faces and our legs, they took Tristan and me into the bath chamber together. Beauty was already gone. The Master had taken her away.

And Tristan and I knew what was coming. But I wondered if they didn’t delight in tormenting us more than the women. They made us kneel facing each other and made us put our arms around each other, as if they liked the picture of it. As if it wasn’t necessary to separate us for the sake of delicacy. They wouldn’t let our cocks touch. When we tried that, they whipped us with those humiliating little thongs that couldn’t have struck a decent blow on a