Willing by Michaela Wright

stifling a whimper as figures appeared at the four corners of the stone table. Despite knowing what was coming, still she was uneasy. The masked figures touched her, running their hands over her skin, up her inner thighs, across her belly, grazing their fingertips over her nipples and her throat. Suddenly, Alisdair leaned over the table, taking her by the wrists, and spun her sideways on the table so her legs now faced the circle. The first robed figure bent before the altar as two others lifted her legs up and apart. Then just as before, a masked face descended over her and the man’s open mouth clamped down on her sex. She arched her back, groaning against the warmth of his eager mouth, holding onto the edge of the stone table as the man pulled her ass closer to him. He made satisfied noises from between her legs, like some rooting pig searching for truffles. He wrapped his arms around her hips and held her there, pressing his face to her, lavishing her with his tongue. She sighed, bringing her hands to her breasts, holding them in her hands, the way she did when a man took her properly. Suddenly, Alisdair pulled her hands away, then snapped his finger to another two robed men. They leaned over her, clamping their mouths over her breasts, sucking and nibbling at her as she shuddered.
    She could no longer watch the man between her legs, something that made sensation all the more intense. Instead all she could see were the masked faces right before her, their tongues moving swiftly over her breasts. She looked up at Alisdair, his face upside down to her, but still clearly smiling. He reached across the altar to one of the men holding her legs, and she caught sight of a familiar shape, carved of wood, solid and smooth. She whimpered, bracing herself for the familiar sensation; a sensation she relived many times in her dreams. She felt the smooth head sliding against her as the man that wielded it teased her, then slid it inside. She gasped, her whole body tensing as he slid it in and out, slowly. She pushed her legs against the masked men that held them, letting their strong arms hold her there, tightening every muscle in her body, readying herself for what was coming.
    She winced in pain, then held her breath. She waited only a moment before the phallus drove too deep again, slamming her insides enough to cause pain. She winced again, fighting to hold her cries. She didn’t want Alisdair to see, to be disappointed. The man thrust it inside her again, too deep, too hard, and she couldn’t help but recoil from it, her legs kicking in retreat. She glanced down at the man, his face hidden by a mask, but his mouth unhidden. He was smiling up at her as he pushed it inside her once more. She met his gaze, and despite the pain, did not let him see it.
    “Roman.”
    The man wielding the phallus looked up, startled, and then relinquished his duties, stepping aside as the man holding her other leg took over. This man was softer. This man knew a woman’s body. He moved the phallus with care, but enough purpose to drive deep, to hit all the right places. Constance met his gaze, and though he smiled as well, this smile carried a very different meaning. Her thighs tensed and her head fell back. A man’s mouth returned to her sex, sucking at her clitoris as she sighed. She looked up into Alisdair’s focused face. He’d delegated every one of her needs to others, the masculine heads moving over her as their mouths pleased every part of her. He stood just inches from her, but not touching her.  She cried out and the phallus moved faster, so fast it nearly hummed inside her. Constance moaned long and loud, and without reason, reached her arms over her head, and took hold of Alisdair. He let her. She curled her fingers into the fabric of his robe, feeling the shape of his hips beneath. Her head fell back and she held her breath just as Alisdair leaned over the altar, taking hold of her legs and holding them aloft. She screamed, gasped,