Slavemaster's Woman, The by Angelia Whiting

it as there
was, she threw her body, half somersaulting over Tarken’s chest and
shoulders.
    The unforeseen direction of the movement
caused him to lose his grip. And somehow, Tarken had no idea how it
happened, Cushla was free and scrambling away. “No, you don’t!” He
grabbed one of her ankles, but before he could tighten his grip,
she tugged it away.
    With a quick movement Tarken pounced.
    Cushla recoiled, dodging him and again, she
scampered. At the same time, she fought to get to her feet. She was
breathing almost frantically, yet persisted in her escape.
    Tarken latched onto both of her ankles this
time, clenching them firmly. He yanked Cushla’s legs out from under
her.
    With a heavy thud, she fell flat to the
floor, but not before managing to grab a bud vase that decorated
the bedside table. “Bastard!” Her arm swung around as she aimed it
at Tarken’s head.
    He ducked.
    The vase whirled by flipping end over end,
landing softly atop the cushion of a nearby chair where it bounced
one time before coming to rest. Its uneventful fate was in contrast
with the wild fight occurring in the room:
    She was clawing at the floor pell-mell, as
if her life or at least her physical well-being depended on it. She
probably thought it did.
    Perhaps with other masters that might be the
case, but Tarken had no intention of punishing her with pain.
    Of course, Cushla didn’t know that yet.
    Releasing her ankles, Tarken climbed the
length of her legs. Inch by rapid inch, he dragged Cushla toward
him until he first had possession of her hips, and then her
waist.
    She fought him all the way, slapping at
Tarken’s head, pulling at his arms wrenching her upper body so
tumultuously that when her shoulder struck a floor illuminator it
tilted, crashing on top of them both as it went out.
    The screaming—that be-damned screaming.
    If Tarken gave Cushla any physical
punishment, it would most certainly be to gag her. Never, had he
encountered a slave that resisted this mightily. “Give, Cushla!” he
bellowed, finally pinning her, trapping her arms between their
bodies, his powerful legs clamping and rendering Cushla’s legs
immobile. She felt deceivingly tiny and frail beneath him.
    The cloak she wore had fallen open, and
though he was clothed, Tarken was keenly aware of being pressed
against her naked body. Much to his amazement, his cock hardened
further, the skin so tight around it, he thought he might explode.
His position was dominant.
    Cushla was trapped though she continued to
struggle.
    If Tarken desired, he could easily free his
throbbing cock and poke her swiftly with his hardened shaft. All he
would have to do is shift his legs to the inside of hers. He could
then spread her thighs easily.
    Propping to his elbows, Tarken took Cushla’s
arms and moved them above her head, restraining them with the
weight of his own arms. They both panted heavily with the exertion.
At the same time, he did exactly what he was thinking—he spread her
thighs open with his legs. Tarken then waited, measuring Cushla’s
reaction, ignoring the throb that was causing his shaft to ache
with the need to plunge into her.
    Defiantly, Cushla tensed, as though readying
her body to refuse him entrance.
    The slavemaster clasped and restrained her
wrists with one hand. He moved his opposite hand downward, shifting
slightly to make room for it to slip between Cushla’s legs. He
skimmed an index finger through her crease, pulled back
intentionally and then rubbed the length along her clit a few times
before poising the tip of it at her entrance. Tarken dipped his
finger inside, but only slightly, surprised to find her warm and
wet.
    Nonetheless, every muscle Cushla had control
of down there revolted.
    He deduced that he could penetrate her
effortlessly with a single finger, but she clamped down so
fiercely, a cock even a fully erect cock would have difficulty
pushing its way through her tight contractions. It caused Tarken to
wonder how many men had