The House of Borgia, book 2

CHAPTER 12

Dorotea had rejoined the Duke of Alfaro's party, explained her absence due to being lost in the crowd and then wandering in curiosity, and had finally left the carnival early. Drunks were already lying around the streets and the Duke and his entourage, who returned to his chateau with her, saw some scenes which the Pope could not officially have approved of.

The Duke, with lovesick, desire-jaundiced eyes seized every opportunity to catch her hand, to press against her, to look down the front of her dress. He seemed to her really like a child. But she could forgive him. If she hadn't come to stay at the chateau she would never have met the Duke of Valentinois, with whom her thoughts were overwhelmed. She wondered how he would execute the daring plan he had decided on for tomorrow. They said he stopped at nothing. That was what thrilled her?the thought of being in the arms of a man who stopped at nothing, to know that even as you felt his organ filling you he was a strange, iron-willed man who stopped at nothing, would take from you whatever he desired and there was nothing you could do about it.

Back in the chateau, she retired to her own suite of rooms, undressed and stood by her window, staring out over the empty grounds to the distant glow of the village. She had been violently frustrated, but now she could wait until tomorrow. But if only he were here with her in this room, if only he could see her from the grounds and find a way in. She might have suggested it…

But down in the grounds, hidden among the trees, another figure was watching her windows?the Duke of Alfaro. And when he saw her slim, tight, curvaceous form appear in its fleshly state at her window he nearly died from apoplexy. His gaze became transfixed, his eyes bulged, he hardly breathed during the several minutes that she stood gazing dreamily out over the hill and her body was there for him to see, vaguely, at a distance, but well silhouetted by the lights in her room.

The Duke nearly fainted from desire. His prick felt as if it would burst and he took it out from the robe he was wearing and fondled it, while he watched her. He had to get in the bitch!

Dorotea lay on her bed, naked and cool, thinking of her night's activity. She pressed her hands down her body. Tomorrow he would be doing that. Tomorrow her body would have no secrets from him. It would be his to do with as he wished. She smiled, her fingers touched her thigh near the lips of her vagina and she turned on her side and lost herself in a sleeping maze of thoughts and images.

The Duke of Alfaro walked softly through corridors of his castle. He did not creep stealthily in case he met any of the servants, but he walked more quietly and quickly than was usual with him. He still wore his robe under which was nothing but his fat, shaggy body. He had waited outside for some time, hoping that his erection would deflate and not push out the robe in a great protuberance. But his turmoil of sexy thoughts somehow just refused to let it go down, so now he was walking quickly and quietly, hoping he wouldn't meet a soul.

In the pocket of his robe, his clenched hand, against which he could feel the silk-covered, horizontal tower of his ramrod, rested against the cooling metal of a key?a skeleton key, a passe-partout, a gateway to heaven and perhaps hell, the key to the suite of rooms that his young, luscious guest was occupying.

The corridors were dark, with an occasional candle at the dark corners. There were old, dusty pictures on the walls and old suits of armor stood, chill and austere, at respectable tilting distance from one another. His feet made no sound on the thick carpet; the slight swishing of his robe and the grating of his excited breath, which he tried to control, were the only sounds.

He reached the door of her suite without seeing anybody, and fitted the key quietly. The first room was a salon. It was doubtful that she would be there. When he'd witnessed her nudity it had been at the large, balcony windows of her bedroom.

The key turned in the lock of the heavy door and his heart thumped furiously and he felt as if the color had drained out of his face. It certainly hadn't drained out of his prick, for his pride stood up stark and stiff still?and tingling with hope eternal.

Inside it was dark, but a vague, diffused light misted through the open archway which connected the salon with the boudoir.

Softly, his heart in his mouth, the Duke closed the door behind him. Just as softly, he locked it and slipped the key back into the pocket of his robe.

For a few seconds he leaned against the door, listening, hearing nothing but the beating of his heart, seeing nothing but the misty light from the next room and the mixed images of her that he carried in his head, the feel of her buttocks and the sight of her uncovered breasts from the torn-off towel, the outline of her firm body from the grounds below.

He tiptoed carefully toward the arch, moving with a nervous skill between the tables, chairs and other objects which sprang up in the twilight to waylay him.

He peered, on tenterhooks, around the edge of the archway. Candlelight was flickering around her huge, four-poster bed and what he saw turned him hot and cold and made his prick give a sudden throb.

She was lying on her side and the vague outline of her showed that she was still utterly naked. He moved in, almost gliding on the carpet, until he stood a few feet from the edge of the bed. She was asleep. Her regular breathing came clearly to him in the still room. Her body was still and vulnerable. The slim shoulders?he was viewing her from behind?curved down into a tight slender waist and then rounded out into voluptuously proportioned hips and buttocks. The flesh was real, alive, would yield when he touched it.

Softly he walked around the bed. His robe had fallen back from his prick and the great tower stood up and out now like a white cannon through an aperture in some battlements.

From the other side he could see her face, with some of the long, fair hair falling over it. Her lips were slightly apart and the lower lip looked ready for eating. Her breasts were not large, but, as he remembered them from his briefest of glimpses before, well-shaped and firm with those pert, pink nipples that looked like lollipops ready for the sucking. Her hips were warmly-fleshed, her thighs, rounded and superb and the hair above her vagina formed a matching triangle with that which swept down to her shoulders.

The Duke was trembling from head to foot. He moved unsteadily back to his former viewpoint, feeling, somehow, safer for the moment behind her. He took off his robe and stood, gross and naked, over her, gloating over her body with his eyes.

Gently he began to fondle and massage his prick, gazing intently all the time at her ass. His gaze tried to see through her buttocks, to feel them through sight. His penis was hot and throbbed furiously in his fingers. He rubbed the skin back and forth, pressing his legs together, pushing sensation through his loins to the aching protuberance which reared over her sleeping form.

His breathing was difficult and he opened his mouth, emitting a gasp into the room. She stirred and he froze?he hardly knew why as he had been willing for his presence to be discovered. She rolled over onto her back and raised one thigh in her sleep. It flopped outwards, revealing the fluff-shrouded mass of flesh around her vagina. Now her breasts stood out, straight and round above her ribs and the flesh of her hips seemed to reach out toward him. He shuffled nearer, with his hand still gently squeezing his knob.

The knob had flamed red and he felt a boiling in his rod as he pulled the foreskin back and forth. His chest was heaving, his eyes roamed over her as if they were physically invading her body.

He moved his other hand down past his massive boom and stroked his balls with his fingertips. He imagined she was stroking them and the tickling sensation in the twin sacs became all the more intense for his imaginings. I must have her now, he thought intensely. I must have her now?I could be in her with any luck before she realized what was happening.

Strangely, he now felt nervous. His breath seemed to be stifling both his stomach and his chest and he found himself trying to hold his breath. But the turbulence in his loins, reaching up to its zenith in the reddening flower of his passion, was his only raison d'etre for the moment and he had to have his passion slaked in her body. Nothing less would do.

He moved up still closer so that his knees and thighs touched the coverlet of the bed and he was looking directly down on her prostrate nudity, her sleeping face. That was the face which taunted him. The eyes, of course, were closed and he was deprived of their sudden fluctuation from sphinx to wildcat, but the other features remained to view, the same, voluptuously the same as usual. But she didn't know he was there. He was leaning over her studying those very same features which looked at him with scorn, every detail of which he knew?and she didn't know he was there. Now was the point of crisis. Before now was peace and the sleeping body and features. Beyond now was unknown wakefulness and fighting and… who knew? He felt the impulsive importance of this moment on the brink?and then, with a little intake of breath, he fell on her, knocking her other thigh away as he lay between her legs.

Dorotea was lying in a huge bed with the Duke of Valentinois. He had pulled her close and was stroking her buttocks. She was bathed in a light dew which was the faint sweat of her passion breaking out like a rash all over her body. He was beautiful and warm and she desired him more than she had ever desired anyone or anything. She could feel the warmth of his great weapon of manhood against her hips and she wanted it inside her. But he only went on stroking her buttocks until she was quivering with excitement.

She wanted to show him how much she desired him and she rolled over onto her back and opened her thighs ready for him, inviting him to mount her and fill her with his lust.

But he seemed to hang back and transferred his stroking hand to her aching breast.

When she moved her lips, slightly, and opened her lips to him he moved at last and kneeled over her ready to lower himself and ride her body like a stallion riding a mare, riding, riding in a euphoria of sexuality. His face came down to her and suddenly his body.

But his body was heavier than expected and seemed to be scrabbling, there was confusion and unexpected sensation… she awoke with a start and a low scream. A face was over hers, its eyes dilated with lust?that of the Duke of Alfaro's and it was his heavy, fat body which covered hers.

For several seconds she didn't know whether this was dream or reality. And in that moment or two in which she lay, petrified, wondering where and who she was, a great, fat prick had thrust roughly into her cunt, finding it moist from her dream, and torn up toward her cervix, while its owner gave a cry of ecstasy.

She began to struggle. She beat him with her fists, lashing his fleshy face. She twisted her legs and writhed her body. She felt his penis drubbing up into her, wider and wider. He was gasping little gasps of pain at her blows, of agonized joy at the tight contraction of his penis in her Dorotea, of the teasing face, of the blue eyes, of the jutting lip, into her firm, slim body.

For several seconds they struggled together. He thrust several strokes into her. But she was stronger than he was, in his fleshy decay. Her firm, athletic body was more capable of tension and thrust than his limp flabbiness and she realized that with a strong effort she could wriggle away from him.

But the Duke's preface of rubbing over her body, his palpitating excitement of getting in her cunt at last, raced him to a record climax. Even as she gathered her strength, he gave a grating, grinding, heart-shaking groan of a gasp and came in the channel he was spearing. As she pushed him roughly off her, a stream of viscid liquid streamed after his knob out of her vagina and splayed across her thighs. “You beast, you beast!” she shouted. He lay back on the bed, slightly frightened, sorry in many ways that it had been so quick, feeling slightly cheated, feeling that he hadn't really enjoyed her, would remember only with regret the time when he'd snatched at her body only to lose need for it almost immediately. But she had seized a candelabrum and bashed it down across his chest. Her eyes were blazing and she looked dangerous.

He rolled off the bed, grabbed his robe, dodged her, winced with the pain of a blow on his shoulder and rushed into the salon and out into the gloomy corridors.

He spent a sleepless, regretful night, wondering if she would complain and wishing he could have had her long and languorously, with her cooperation.