Bella Strega

Bella Strega

Night was so easy; darkness cloaked every vice and shrouded every sin. The night was another world, another place, utterly removed from the demands of mundane day-today living. In the dark all fantasies were possible, one could give life to one's clandestine self, and no one would ever tell. And in the dark, all secrets were sacred, cloaked in the benediction of silence.

She lay awake, deep into the night, her body betraying her yet again. She could count on nothing. She wanted everything. And she was past the point of regret. Her body was tense with wanting, almost as if it had a memory apart from her own. She felt the ache to be touched, to be kissed, to lie stretched out against a hot hard male body that would…

Oh, but she didn't want to think about that. That path was futile. She was not as entitled as a man to seek her pleasure. She was only empowered to know how she could.

It was so horrendously unfair. That and the emotions that went hand in hand with it. Men could buy anyone on the street for an evening's pleasure. And walk away.

She wasn't strong enough. She thought she could do it. She had thought…

But all the powers of Eve, what use were they in the end, when she was left squirming in bed, and nothing more to be had.

She was an innocent orphan once with dreams of becoming a nun and now . . . and now she didn't know what she was except a woman in heat who knew exactly how to satisfy her lust. . . . with no one to accommodate her. And now her determination never again unleash that carnal, uncontrollable part of herself had all gone to smoke now, irretrievable, irrevocable, and irredeemable.

And with father Antonio.

It was enough to make a saint cry. And yet she didn't want it any less.

And she wanted it with him.

Her cross to bear. Her sins of the flesh. She should be wearing a hair shirt. She should be flagellating herself like the nuns in the convent to remind her that her body was weak and she was more powerless than most.

Ah, but she could never have envisioned this . Him. Them.

She ought never to have come here seeking refuge. And now she didn't know how she could ever leave.

He came to her anyway, after a night of carousing and flirting with insipid women of the night who would spread their legs on a dime and not think twice about it.

He had watched her covertly in the parlor the whole evening; the cool haughty expression on her face, the fire in her dark eyes, how, in every light, the opaque black of her gown made her seem more sensuous, and even more unobtainable.

But he knew better. He knew that body naked and rocking with indescribable pleasure. He knew those breasts and the strength of those hips, the taste of that mouth and tongue, and the hot slick satin between her legs.

But the last thing he wanted was to be enslaved by that body. The last thing he needed was to be dependant on her caresses, on the expert tug of her mouth on his cock. He didn't want to know her; he only wanted to have her.

And so, after a futile night seeking the like, he came to her in their dark netherworld where nothing had to be said or admitted.

They could live for this; the heated touch of his hand on her silky skin: her instant luxurious response, her body stretching opulently and seeking his caresses.

All he wanted to do just feel that voluptuous response; just slide his hands all over her, lifting her gauzy gown to get at her thighs, her buttocks, and the small of back that sensually curved into the flair of her hips.

She was a beautiful witch who was made for such pleasure; she couldn't wait for it as she shifted herself and spread her thighs so that he could tantalize the wet heat between.

And then he turned her boneless body so he could caress her breast. Such breasts—so firm and weighty with those hard prominent nipples that drove him to distraction.

He wanted to drive his cock between her breasts and spew all over those nipples, he was so engorged by the thought he almost came. But a man needed to cultivate restraint, even under such provocative conditions.

He undressed himself with precision as she watched and he watched her naked body writhe and arch to entice him back to her bed. Nothing could have kept him away. He climbed onto her, straddling her yearning body and began his deliberate seduction of her nipples. All he wanted, just those hard succulent pleasure points in his mouth, first one, then the other, back and forth, back and forth, until she was ready to scream for mercy, and he was on the verge of eruption.

And then, he shifted himself so he was positioned between her breasts and she immediately pushed them up and around his towering erection so that he was pillowed between the fleshy softness, just where he wanted to be.

Her eyes were bright and knowing. Her hands cupped her breasts so her nipples were erect and in his line of vision. And she licked her lips in anticipation and he began to move. Long strokes, long almost to her mouth; he pushed himself hard so that the very tip of his cock barely grazed her lips, once, twice, the third time she caught him, taking the sensitive tip right between her lips and squeezing.

And again, to a long lush lick of her tongue. And again, to an aching need, the suction of her mouth and her hot flicking tongue, devouring him, eating just the luscious tip of him, all hot wet sucking licks and tugs while she cradled him between her billowing taut-tipped breasts.

He kept going back for more. Each stroke took longer and longer as her expert mouth worked the tip of his cock toward ecstasy.

And she loved doing it. She loved him between her breasts, his rigid manhood craving her mouth, and her succulent kisses.

And he adored the lush low sounds she made at the back of her throat as if she couldn't get enough. It became a game: would he thrust deeply enough for her to catch him? And if he didn't, would he miss her juicy sucking? And could he ever get enough before he exploded . . . he felt like he could go on and on forever between her breasts and her hot eager mouth.

One more thrust, one more, one more again, between her lips and into paradise, and one more still . . . he pulled back for still another lusty plunge into the heaven of her mouth, and his potent sex erupted with the force of a volcano—wet and wild and pumping everywhere, all over her nipples, her breasts, her mouth, her face, her hair, bathing her in the sweet cream of his desire.

He could move; didn't want to. Could have died and gone to heaven right then. But she immediately began rubbing his ejaculate into the skin of her breasts, her face, her body as if she loved and craved it; into her taunt nipples as she looked at him with those dark unfathomable eyes, as if she had known all along his secret fantasy.

He had never known anyone who loved it like that. Her body arched as she continued to caress the residue, so much, it was drying fast, she wanted it so much… she rubbed it on her legs, on her dark thatch, on her belly, all the while watching him, watching his manhood respond to the caressing strokes of her fingers rubbing the essence of him into her own body.

"I'll be wearing it tomorrow," she whispered, brushing her lips with her sticky fingers. 'I'll be clothed in your cream." She licked the tip of one finger, and he wanted to cram his cock into her mouth and come all over her again.

She was primed and ready for him, he could feel the warm wet heat as he explored between her legs, and she opened wider and invited him in.

"Bella Strega," he hissed before he sank himself deep.

She went off like a shotgun, hot shuddering spasms one after another as he delved deeper and deeper into the velvet of her sex, making her bear down on him harder and harder, and then pumping faster, until she cried out for mercy.

For more of this work visit http://eroticabyfranceslagatta.com/