Her anus was becoming easier. He was already half buried in her and encountering no resistance with the exploring forepart of his rod. Only around the entrance, with the thickening dimension of his sex down to its root, was the pressure still enormous and every further tearing inch thrust into her drawing fresh groans from her open lips.
The great squeezing pressure, the tight contraction of her unused back passage around his long arm of violation began to draw panting gasps from Cesare. He had never felt such overwhelming pressure before. He wriggled as his prick thrust in and pulled her right down so that she yelled out in exhausted pain.
Now he didn't push her up very far each time, but allowed the rocking movement of the wheel to do it for him, simply guiding her gently with his hands.
Every time she came down and her behind rested for a moment on his belly its elastic entrance crushed the base of his penis. His loins were in fiery turmoil and his knob seemed to itch with desire to rid itself of his load. He wanted to get farther and farther into her and he spread her buttocks wide with his hands and screwed in for all he was worth.
The strain on the Countess' wrists when he pushed her up was so great that she was relieved each time she sagged back. She began to resist his efforts to push her up away from him and he let her rest on his loins while he wriggled his prick around inside her and she gasped and moaned and began to feel a strange, unanticipated tingling.
The Countess hated herself for this unexpected reaction on her part, but she couldn't help herself. In her exhausted condition there was little resistance left and it was easier to let herself be carried away on a sexual tide, to allow this creeping in her loins to crawl forward and farther forward, tingling her inside and pulsating in her vagina. His great invasion of her backside no longer seemed so vile nor yet so painful. It was producing these sexual feelings in her which she more normally associated with ordinary sex. She could hardly believe that it could happen, but it was.
She knew that he filled her behind like a spear, not sparing her at all, shagging her pitilessly, but she almost wanted more. It was such a relief on her wrists to be able to rest on his hairy stomach and to feel that fleshy wand digging into her.
She felt his hands clasping the fleshy rotundities of her buttocks, clasping them so hard that his fingers dug into her deeply and must have made deep weals in the soft flesh. His action was becoming more and more rapid; he was virtually pummeling her with thrusts and she could feel his hard belly, rising up, straining up to meet her downward rush so that they met in a clashing embrace and his spear tore in making her shriek with the shattering advance of it.
She heard him grunting and gasping, heavy masculine grunts with a certain savage brutality in them. With the growing desire in her belly she felt an outgoing to him, to Cesare Borgia, who had dared to submit her to this fantastic experience, who respected her not one jot and was not afraid to use her as he wished.
She heard his gasping become a heavy whine of exploding breath, felt his body tense along her buttocks and press there.
Then, with a sense of disappointment and the reality of her captive situation, she felt him relax on the floor under her and she rested, sagging on his stomach as he lay for a moment, motionless, breathing heavily.
When he slipped from under her and got to his feet, she became aware of the ache at her anus. She felt sore all the way up inside her; her back passage seemed to be burning and around its portals she felt wet and open and exposed.
She had slipped down to the rugs and hung there, trying to take the weight off her wrists, with her legs up in the air toward the hub of the rack. She opened her eyes and looked sideways at Cesare Borgia. He had climbed to his feet and was looking at her with a smile of satisfaction. Her eyes dropped to his long, limp, white prick which swung down between his hairy thighs.
“How was that, my proud Countess?” he asked.
She didn't answer. She looked away from him back to the wooden slats of the rack. The desire in her loins was still there, albeit ebbing. She could not remember having felt so sexy before. It was like confession under torture only this was sexiness under torture.
She heard him pad away to a corner of the dungeon and she opened her eyes which she'd closed for a moment in an attempt to clear her head. She saw him, still nude, returning through the flame-stabbed gloom. He was carrying a short-handled whip with a dozen narrow thongs. Her eyes opened wider in fear and her throat felt constricted. She felt as if there was nothing of her left that was real; she was exposed and helpless in a way she'd never been before. She could only hope that this man would eventually spare her.
Cesare replaced the wooden prop and she found herself again hanging in midair with the straps biting into her aching wrists, the muscles of her back aching under the strain. She could hardly move at all, only press her body into the wooden wheel as she prepared for the punishment he had designed for her.
She heard the thongs swishing in the air, but nothing happened. He was tantalizing her. There was silence. She bit her lips and rested her head against the slats which were hard and unfriendly.
Suddenly she cried out and flattened involuntarily into the wood as the first lash of the dozen-thonged whip wrapped around her body, stinging it and leaping away again to leave an unbearable stinging in its wake.
Her chest and stomach cringed under the pain and then she flattened into the wood a second time as the lash flicked all over her back and buttocks. No sound would get past her lips but a deflated “Ouff.”
The next lash was around her thighs, curling in a weal-tracing embrace with a pain that sickened and made her bite her tongue.
Tears of pain forced their way from under her lashes, her belly felt like a void and down in her loins was a strange, frightened, tingling, tickling, sick, sexy reaction to the beating. The humiliation of being whipped like a slave was lost in a horror of the pain and her reaction to it. She began to sob softly as the lash rose and fell, stroking her back, buttocks and thighs in flesh-cutting caresses.
When he'd stopped and she slowly became aware of the fact, she felt the individual strands of pain across her body and that unfinished symphony of aching in her loins which craved for fulfillment. In an unreal world of pain and longing and humility she was capable of strange reactions.
“Well, Madam, now you see how it is to be a slave, to be a city councillor who can be tortured and hanged from the ramparts of your citadel.”
“Fuck me,” she croaked.
There was a brief silence and then Cesare broke into peals of astonished laughter.
“A disguised pain-lover of the first order!” he exclaimed. “Such ardent wishes should never be spurned?even though the spurning would make the torture greater.”
The act of flagellation had sparked off erotic feelings deep in his core and his penis had risen once again and was jutting out toward his prey. The proud Caterina was begging him to fuck her!
He walked over to where she sagged with the thin pattern of weals across her back. She looked exhausted. It was difficult to believe she would have the energy to make love. He untied her hands and then her ankles and she fell back onto the rugs to roll over immediately onto her stomach away from the pain of the lashes.
She lay there for some minutes with him standing over her, looking down on her pink-grooved flesh. She moved her hands and feet gently and groaned a couple of times. Then she raised her tear-washed face and looked at him. There was no hostility in her eyes, nothing but desire and her eyes dropped meaningfully to his ramrod of a prick.
“So you desire a good length of male strength inside you, my proud Madam,” Cesare mocked.
His taunting brought no reaction but a nod of almost desperate agreement. She climbed painfully to her knees. The ache of anticipation had shifted from her loins and seemed to flame all over her.
Cesare helped her to her feet. If her citizens could see this, he thought, their proud, haughty tyrant begging to be upthrust by the enemy chief!
She pressed hard against him and his prick ran up between them, crushing against the soft flesh of her hips and the sinewy mound of her belly. She joggled against him and he felt the prickling of reciprocation swimming about in his long length of rigidity.
He began to lead her to the couch. Her eyes showed no reaction to him, no feeling, but that of an inturned yearning. It was as if she were drugged.
As they stepped slowly toward the divan, she stroked his penis tenderly as if she adored every inch of it. He made way for her to lie down on the couch, but she intimated that he was to lie down himself. Her back was too
