The swelling made the lips part even more pronouncedly, and the slightly lighter hue of the wet flesh beneath them showed more and more. His lips nibbled up one fleshy fold and down the other, then his tongue snaked out and captured a drop of the jewel-like lubricant which appeared.
Darla watched in the nearby wall-mirror as Le Boeuf paid homage to her desirability. As his tongue searched out her erect bud, standing in its cozy hiding place at the apex of the fleshy lips, she cried out a hoarse wail of need. He licked at the small hardness until she felt she would go mad.
Then the flow of her juices really began, and he was drinking deeply of her passionate fountain, as she whimpered and moaned, then wrapped her legs around his head, hugging to her the source of this maddening excitement.
Then her back arched as she felt the tightening of every nerve and muscle in her body. A shimmering haze filled the air in front of her eyes, and a strange heat flowed through her as a great tremor pulsed from the very center of her body, reaching every fiber of her being. She relaxed and lay there, gasping for breath.
Le Boeuf gave the delicate blossom a final lick with his long, hot tongue, and then trailed a tingling path up across her belly to the dimple of her navel, where he inserted the exciting whip for a thrilling search of its wrinkled surface.
Darla's hands had been cupping her aching breasts, and now she wanted the feel of his lips on them, the suction of his mouth which might relieve the fullness they felt so painfully.
Then he was there, sucking deeply at each swollen, straining nipple, and squeezing the sponges of their erection with lips and tongue.
The hard hugeness of his dark member was thrust against her loins as he leaned over her, and in spite of her passionate involvement, she felt fear that he was going to penetrate her with it.
Then his lips left her breast, and he removed his weight from her. She felt his hands on her buttocks, as he rolled her over onto her belly. Then his hands were under her, dipping at the wet flow that still poured from her openings. He spread the slippery juices up past the bottom of her natal lips, along the crease of her body seam, to the tiny, tight opening of her anus. As his hands spread her creamy buttocks apart, he wet the tight exit with the juices he had robbed from her flowing fountain.
Then the head of his monstrous erection was pressing at the rear door of her body! She tried to scream, but her mouth was buried in the bedclothes, and she bit down on the fabric viciously as the unbelievable hugeness of him invaded her rectum!
Oh, God! He's fucking me in the ass! It wasn't meant for that! I'm not built to take that giant prick in my asshole! Oh-h-h! It hurts something fierce! It was like a white-hot truck driving up the path into her intestines. Her bottom raised up in self defense, trying to ease the tightness of the entrance. But she couldn't get away from the largeness of the invading flesh. It plowed deep into her body, forcing its way through the tender wrinkles of her guts as if nothing could stop it.
Then his hand slipped under her belly and began to massage the wet, pulsating flesh of her hot natal lips and the hardness of her erect and burning clitoris.
She felt herself responding to the stimulus, even though the pain of the swollen tissues inside continued. As his hand moved, slopping the juices around in the heated flesh, she began to move, until all she could feel was a horrendous fullness a swelling, aching, burning fullness that threatened to burst her from within. Then she began to feel the onslaught of her orgasm, climbing, working its way through her tortured flesh, until she wanted to scream at the absolute completeness of the sensations that throbbed through her, tearing her asunder with their strength.
She felt the fullness at her blossoming flesh as he thrust two fingers deep into her passage, and then the horribly wonderful swelling of his meaty maleness in her rear as it began to pump his fluids into her belly.
She moaned loudly as the twofold invasion of her body brought her up the steep, tortuous slopes to the cliff that had no retreat, then fell, gasping, to the bottomless depths below.
She felt, vaguely, the withdrawal of his shrinking but still large organ from her bowels. And his fingers retreated from her flowing fountain. Then she lay there, panting, wondering how she had lived through the sheer pain and pleasure of it all.
Le Boeuf's weight was gone for quite a while before she managed to gather enough strength to roll over onto her back. Then she saw that he was not in the room. She wondered if maybe she could make a break through the French doors, out into the garden and across the farmlands to somewhere – maybe to someone who could get help for the Flemings. Then she thought about her father, maneuvering at whatever plans he might have, in Marseilles. She might foul it all up if she went off on her own and did anything wild on the spur of the moment.
But she knew that the truth of the matter was that she was too weak, too spent, to attempt anything until she could get back her wind and her strength. The ordeal with Le Boeuf had left her a limp, quivering bundle of gelatin.
Then he was back in the room, standing over her, looking down on her defenseless body as if he could eat it up in a few bites.
"I apologize to Mademoiselle. I did not intend to enter her from the back, like that. I know it is not easy to accept a man that way for the first time. But I was carried away by my passion when the so delicious juices of Mademoiselle were in my nostrils and on my lips. I hope that I have not given Mademoiselle too much pain."
Darla looked up at him, and noted that his huge, limp organ was dripping water. Obviously, he had retired to the bathroom and washed after the anal engagement. She was still quivering and weak from the terrible onslaught, and he seemed to waver in her gaze as she looked up at him.
She tried to smile, but had no way of knowing whether her facial muscles responded. It was like the time she had been alone at home one weekend, when Daddy Chuck and Mother Ann were Christmas shopping in New York. She'd been lonely and bored, and had grown bold in her solitude. She'd gotten into the liquor shelves back of the bar in the den, and drunk herself into a solitary stupor. She recalled that she had tried to make faces into the bar mirror, and laughed at her inability to command her facial muscles to respond properly.
Le Boeuf smiled down at her adoringly. Then he sat on the edge of the sofa-bed beside her, and she felt the surprising heat of his flesh as his thigh touched her own. She wondered at the effect this chain of events was having on her mind. She felt absolutely amoral as she lay there, enjoying the play of the mild breeze on her nude body, and the contrasting heat of the Moroccan's flesh against hers.
She rolled over halfway and leaned up on her elbow, then looked at the dark skin of the huge man as he sat there, looking for all the world like an African prince in his nuptial chambers.
He was a clean man, as evidenced by his immediate repair to the bathroom to wash after the episode he'd just completed. And he was a good man, basically, trying to be honest with her, when he really needn't have, because she was absolutely under his power.
She felt a strange tenderness for this big Moroccan who had just violated the previously inviolable entrances of her body. He had torn her maiden head several days previously, and now he'd plunged his raping flesh into the tenderness of her anal privacy. Yet, he had brought her a wild, primeval pleasure in the midst of her otherwise bland existence if one were to discount the sadistic influence of Gerault on the scene.
She leaned over Le Boeuf's lap, inspecting closely the resting length of this flesh which had torn the tissues of her two most private body openings. It looked so tender and harmless, now, almost as if it were incapable of the ravages it had wrought on her vulnerable body. She leaned over it, looking at the dark skin and the fine lines of the veins which ran through its intriguingly patterned surface. Something came over her which she could not then or later define. It was a compulsion born of her strangely maternal feelings for this big man with the tender heart, and the fantastic pain-pleasure he had given her.