erotica-ghost-writer:(This story is dedicated to the wonderful woman who inspired it. My muse. The p

erotica-ghost-writer:(This story is dedicated to the wonderful woman who inspired it. My muse. The perfect match for my imagination. I hope that she smiles as she reads this, knowing it is hers. If you who read this find reason to enjoy it I ask only that you thank Her and not myself, who am only the writer. - Hungrybear)It wasn't as if her friends had not warned her adozen times or more. It wasn't as if she did not already know his reputation,which well proceeded him. Victoria knew well exactly who - and what – Françoiswas. When she received his first letter she quite sensibly tossed it in thebin. Yes, a letter. As in handwritten in an impeccable style on actualpersonalized stationary and sent by post. Most of Victoria’s matches were arrangedby phone text or e-mail. Perhaps a quick call on the cell. This was an actualletter. Lovingly scented with his lingering cologne. I mean, who does thatanymore? He had heard about her, seen her many matches, he had admired her fromafar, he loved the way her green eyes shone so brightly as she celebrated hervictories over the ruined bodies of her adversaries. She sensibly tossed the letter in the dustbin. After reading it andre-reading it several times of course.Hissecond letter she had to answer. There was no text number or e-mail address, ofcourse. Victoria still remembered sitting down at her kitchen table, pen inhand, whispering his name on her lips as she penned it across the envelopewondering just how many stamps she was supposed to use. Whispering his nameagain as she foolishly wrote the word ‘Dear’ instead of ‘Hello’. Again, as shesealed the envelope, reading his letter just one more time and marveling at theway his script curved so elegantly across the paper as compared with her own deformed chicken-scratch. Whispering it again as she felt the warmth awakening betweenher thighs just demanding to be tended to.Histhird letter came with a plane ticket, first class of course. He would be onholiday in Belgium. The Circus Festival was in town. Victoria loved the circus.Along with the plane ticket there was another. Center ring, third row. Herhotel reservation had been made. The decision was her own. She had been warneda dozen times not to face him. She knew his reputation. She knew what mighthappen. What he could do. How could she refuse?Victoriahad just arrived at the Rocco Forte, nervously admiring the view overlookingthe Rue de l’Etuve. Her bag lay unopened on the bed, instead she was drawn tothe billowing curtains of the wide-open window and the bright, happy mid-daynoises rising from the streets below. Victoria felt electric, nervous, like somecaged tigress awaiting her… her what? She did not have to wait long. Sheturned with a stab of panic as she heard his key at the door, not bothering toask permission to enter. François was simply beautiful. The crisp straight lines ofhis Italian suit did little to disguise the rough vigor of the male beneath.Even from across the room she could note his now familiar scent, aware of theslight shiver along her skin as she allowed that subtle scent to overwhelm her.She noted with alarm how her flesh grew warm under the approving gaze of his gray-blue eyes.Theymoved towards each other, charging into the other’s arms, driven by ananimalistic lust. Her hands were everywhere at once as she sought desperatelyto touch, feel, explore, pulling him closer against her writhing body as shefelt his lips burning across her cheek, along her neck as she threw her headback offering him her body in unholy sacrifice. Somewhere in the far reaches of hermind someone was shouting at her to pull herself together, to get herself inthe game. She was not here for fun after all. But whatever that voice wassaying, screaming, was lost in a lust-filled haze as his fingers began pullingup at the hem of her skirt.Hewas inside her. Fucking her, plowing her straight through the wall. Each strokeexpertly placed as he pinned her captured hair to the wall with both fists,taking her savagely as she clawed at his tailored suit jacket like some randyslut in heat. She could hear his heated grunts as he bit into her earlobe. Thetiny bursts of pain sending sharp signals to her brain forcing her to wrap herarms and legs even tighter around him as he drove the last slivers of controlfrom her mind. Something inside told her to fight back and so she squeezed downalong the length of his cock. But this only caused him to stop, his shaftgrinding deep within her, crushing her clit amid his wiry hairs. The shaking ofhis body echoed passionately within the depths of her pussy. Victoria fought tohang on, knowing he was not a lover but a rival. A competitor determined tomake her cum as hard as possible, to leave her body ruined and her spirit so much shredded cloth as he had done to so many women before her. Women who couldbarely live out their lives now that the heat of his lips and the thrust of hiscock were lost to them forever. Their world reduced to dim shadows knowing theywould never again hold the power of Apollo between their thighs. Victoria couldhave tried pushing him off, to get down between his legs and destroy him withher lips and snaking tongue. She could have tried to throw him off his rhythmsomehow and take control of the fuck. But any such thought was quickly slappedaway by the fierce pleasure roaring up from her clit, up her shivering spine,and bursting through her shattered mind sending her reeling through a sea of bursting stars.She was going to cum atany moment, her body now his to command. It would be fierce and terrible andthe first of many more that would leave her at his mercy. Leave her naught buta flailing, cunt-gushing puppet with its strings cut. She sank her lips to hisneck, intent on torturing him as he had her, but it was too late as sherealized her mistake. His cologne had combined with the wonder of his manlysweat, the scents combining to make her light headed with lust and ending anythought of attack. She was defenseless before him, for all her many victories achild in the hands of a dominant master.Had they been fucking anhour? Two? Ten? Forever? Yet, now came the words whispered into her ear. Thewords she feared most of all. Come for me. Submit. Give me what is mine. Her body waswell past any thought of disobeying. It was as if it had been waiting all ofits life for his permission to surrender itself completely. She could feel thefluttering begin in her belly, her thighs beginning to quiver, as the orgasmrose within her, impossibly strong, impossible to hold down. Visions of herselfpassed Victoria’s mind. Sad pictures of her despondent and fragile, begging himfor the touch of his fingertips, leashed like an adoring bitch at his feet.Pathetic and broken.With a last ditch burstof strength Victoria twisted towards the window, intent on nothing else butunreasoning escape. They were six stories up and the fall would kill her, butdeath would be a mercy compared to what lay in store at his hands. François wasfaster. He growled angrily as he felt his prey daring to fight for life, daringto defy his will. In a flash his hands were wrapped around her ankles as heheld her there, half in and half out of the hotel window looking down acrossthe crowded mid-day avenues. Victoria screamed for the world to hear as shefelt his cock slam home into her drenched hole, any ounce of her tatteredresistance now shattered as he resumed her delicious misery.Inch by inch, thrust bythrust, wail after impassioned wail Victoria could feel herself breaking apart.She looked down through glassy eyes at the million faces looking up, witnessingher ruin. Was it wrong that she felt that surge of pride, that she screamed andwailed ad cursed all the louder knowing that at least for the moment his cockwas hers? Blissfully awaiting his command to cede to him the last of her will?Boasting to city below that she would soon enough feel the heat of his seedrushing through her as no woman had before?Victoria had beenwarned. Victoria had known. But Victoria was no more. All that now remained was thefragile, broken wretch begging unashamed for his touch. For the taste of his lips. Only time would tell ifher soul would have the strength to return.Well, time and whoeverdecides to offer a comment of course. -- source link

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