Page 5 of The Beast & His Beauty

I increase the speed of my own hand stroking my cock. The velvet on steel glides easily as I leak copious amounts of precum. I picture myself fisting those beautiful, reddened ass cheeks as I pound relentlessly into her welcoming warmth. Her hot sheath grips my cock as she gets closer and closer to her climax. Come for me, my beauty.

She mewls under me as I pound into her without mercy. The bench, bolted to the floor, absorbs the blows. I fuck into her harder and faster as her moans of pleasure increase in volume and fill my ears. Love what I do to you. Crave this as much as I crave you.

Desperate for her climax, her head thrashes against the bench, and she gasps for air between her screams. I own her in this moment. She is mine. All she’ll ever be is mine. I fist her hair and pull her head back, making her back arch.

She’s beautiful and utterly perfect. Her loving this is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I move my hand to her neck and squeeze around her throat, never losing my pace. She whimpers at the assumed threat. The small move causes her pussy to clamp down on my dick. Instantly, I respond by picking up my pace, releasing her throat only to strum her clit.

“Come for me.”

She screams and falls limp against the bench as her climax hits her with a force that jolts her body. I can’t help but grin as I ride straight through her orgasm. I can bring her to this point of pleasure. I can give her ecstasy. I wrap her hair around my fist, like I did the first time, and apply a bruising hold on her hip with the other hand. She’s had hers, now it’s time for mine.

Her slender neck beckons the beast to nip at her, to sink his fangs into her delicate flesh. I never relent the steady pace of my strokes. Her strangled cries of pleasure get louder now that she can no longer bury her head in her arms. The edge of her next climax quickly approaches. With my left hand gripping her hip and my right fisting her hair, I piston into her as fast and hard as I can as I feel the tingle in my spine making me aware of my own impending orgasm. A cold sweat breaks out along my skin, and I welcome it as I breathe heavily. The sound of our flesh meeting as I rut into her with a primal need fuels the need for my own release. I feel myself tighten and I find my release with hers as she screams my name.

My name…

My name…

She screams my name.

I pulse and warm come spills in my hand as I let out a low, torturous groan. My body jerks with pleasure and I lean against the wall to steady myself. I take a moment to catch my breath. In the years I’ve been trapped here, I’ve never dreamed of pleasure like that. Not in years.

Next time it will be even better.

The next time I come, it will be inside her.

ELLE

The tips of my fingers trace the raised edges of the scar on my shoulder. I stare in the mirror at the small red marks that are proof that the beast really touched me. More than touched me. With the faint smell of fresh bread filtering in the back room and the clash of pans fading in the background, I sigh deeply and close my eyes as I recall the aching feel of his hard chest against my back. His warm breath teasing my neck. The sharp sting as his fangs nip my tender flesh. His hands expertly playing my body against me. A shiver runs down my body as I remember the passion I felt. In an attempt to steady my quickened breath, I brace myself against the sink. In my dreams, I imagine it was the prince. My eyes find the scar in the mirror. I know better though; a beast did this to me.

I should be dead. Why didn’t he kill me? I wasn’t myself when I crept past the gates and into the clutches of the beast. The trance took me there. The thought is terrifying. I couldn’t resist the magic of the beast. The horror of that knowledge has kept me far from the edge of the village. My heart sinks and my blood runs cold. No one has gone to the castle, no one that’s still alive to tell the tale. Everyone fears the magic and even more so the beast. And yet, I did so foolishly.

This dark secret consumes me. I haven’t told a soul, and I don’t intend to. But every night I lay awake replaying the event and having the horrific thought that in my sleep, I’ll be entranced by the magic and walk back to the wall.

Chills flow down my arms. I not only ventured past the wall; I let him have me and I survived his embrace. I thrived at his touch. I’ve never before felt the touch of a man. Yet I blossomed under the hands of a beast. My thighs clench as my core heats at the recollection. What’s worse is that I want to feel him again. I ache to feel his hands on my body. Gripping at my blouse, I pull the fabric back up in an attempt to cover the scar and turn back toward the storage room. The desire to seek out the beast is only just shy of my fear of him and what he’s capable of. My life may seem pitiful to some, but I don’t have a death wish.

I know what he’s capable of doing. The bench groans as I rest on the edge of it, recalling the lure all over again. When I was in school, two older boys were bragging about how they were going to go to the wall. How they weren’t afraid of the beast. Instead of warning them not to go, the other kids insisted they were lying. They told the boys they’d need proof. The boys foolishly grinned and boasted that they would bring back evidence of their conquest. That was the last day anyone saw them.

My throat closes and I restrain myself from going back to that place of regret. I pull the stained apron over my lap and hold onto it as if it could change what happened. I’ve felt so guilty for not pleading with them to stay away. I was too shy and embarrassed. Too skeptical that there was a beast. Although the thought of him kept me far away and I thought, perhaps, that’s why the adults had invented the idea of him. To keep us from going too far away. The other kids didn’t seem to have the same fear of the wall that I did. I felt like a coward as the two boys bragged about their intent, so I kept my lips shut tight and swallowed the need to tell them it was too dangerous. But after that day, there was more than enough fear and guilt to keep anyone else from suggesting to ever go near the wall. Or daring to think the beast didn’t exist.

A loud crash in the kitchen brings me back to reality. With a startling jolt, I jump and quickly cover the mark before tying my apron in place. The dreadful thoughts cling to me all the while. With one last reminder that I’m at work and have responsibilities, I brace myself for the long day ahead. After all, the dough won’t knead itself.

Another loud bang and a hushed curse greet me as I open the backdoor. It creaks gently although I’m not sure the older woman heard me come in.

“Are you all right, Ara?” I peek my head around the corner and into the small kitchen, careful not to overstep. Ara is a petite blond woman with streaks of white throughout her locks and a natural beauty. She’s the epitome of motherly strength, and that’s exactly what she’s been to me since my own mother passed. Her lips purse as she clutches her hand. She doesn’t have to respond for me to know she’s not all right. I wince as she places her hand in the bucket of cool water meant to rinse the knives.

“The oven bit me,” she responds playfully. Her hands have several burn scars on them from years of baking and mishaps in the kitchen. She looks up at me with a little smile playing on her lips. It must not have gotten her too bad if she’s in good humor.

“Do you need any help?” I make my way to my small area of flour on a cutting board to continue my work but find the dough already kneaded. It’s resting in a bowl with a thin cloth laying gently across the top. I’m only slightly surprised; I wasn’t gone long but Ara is one to step in if she feels anything is behind.

“Is there more?” I’m quick to ask.

With a shake of her head, a defeated sigh leaves me. “No worries, my dear.” She dips her fingers in a cup of cold water before looking back at me. “Could you clean up the front though?”

“Of course,” I answer and return her simper.

I’m grateful to have any income at all. Especially one at the bakery. Ara lets me take home the stale bread. It’s rare that any goes unsold, but if it does, she allows me to bring it home.

There’s a constant dusting of flour throughout the bakery. Cleaning up the front is a task that will take all day, but I’m more than happy to do it. I strive to earn my keep.

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