Dangerous Love by Lilou DuPont

Author:Lilou DuPont
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, spicy
Publisher: Crimson Romance, an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
Published: 2012-08-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19: KINKY CZECH GIRL MEETS SIR THOMAS MORE

“You are a kinky Czech girl, yes?”

“Perhaps,” she answered into the pillow. She was lying on her stomach. Thomas sat down on the bed and tapped on her butt with the vibraphone mallets. Their pompom ends felt soft.

“I think you are,” he said. Laura felt the reverse ends of the sticks tantalize her asshole. It actually felt pretty good. But she did not want him plunging anything up her ass. She had to draw the line somewhere.

“I cannot have foreign objects placed inside of my body.”

“Why not?”

Why not indeed? “It is against the law in my country. We have already had too many invaders in Czechoslovakia. You know, during all the wars. I — I mean they — will not allow us to have any more.”

“Am I a foreign object?”

“You are strange to me, yes, but not an object. I am completely serious about this. It is — what is the word — ignoble.”

“You mean noble.”

“No. I don’t.” She turned over to face him.

“You shaved your pussy.” He proceeded to beat the percussion wands on her lower abs. “I guess there is no national prohibition against that. ”

“I did not do this,” Laura said, as she covered herself with her hands.

“Who did?”

“I do not like to say.”

“The boyfriend who won’t care because he won’t know?” He referred to Laura’s Urban Outfitters t-shirt.

“Exactly. He did it.”

“I don’t mind. I get to reap the benefits.”

Using the blunt end of one of the vibraphone mallets, he pried open her folds. With the balled end of the other, he rhythmically rolled over her kernel. Laura suddenly thought of cornhusks and sugar. What crops did they grow in Kansas?

As if she cared. Thomas, it turned out, was a genius. That’s all she knew. How could she have ever doubted the authenticity of her desire for him? There was no doubting this Thomas! She let go of the absurd claim of a Czech moratorium on sex with inanimate objects. Why the hell not? This was so amazing and Thomas was — oh! So great!

“Oh, Thomas,” she moaned. “Sir Thomas, yes. Sir Thomas. More. Oh yes, more!” She was calling out the name of the Catholic saint, Sir Thomas More. So! Be! It! All she wanted was him, whoever he (or it) was, and the exquisite release that was his to withhold and his to grant. A violent orgasm quaked through her body, which bounced off the grungy bed sheets as if she were on a trampoline. As the convulsions eventually subsided, her screams segued into peals of laughter.

“I guess you liked that.”

“Yes, Sir Thomas. I did.” She wiped away tears. Tears? She had liked it. Like was an understatement, yet there were tears in her eyes. They were not of happiness. Sadness suddenly conquered her. Post-traumatic sex syndrome. It was ecstasy chased by grief. If she stayed in this bed — in this room — a second longer, she would burst out crying.

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