FIC: The Urge to Fall (Kurt von Kolb/Ursula, NC-17)
Title: The Urge to Fall
Author: snowgrouse
Fandom: Escape (1940)
Pairing: Kurt von Kolb/Ursula
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Older man/younger girl, some rough sex. All consensual.
Length: ~5600 words
Summary: He is an older man with a perverse streak, she a seventeen-year-old tired of her virginity.
As he locks the drawing room door behind them, she knows there is no turning back. Now, now, the words echo through her mind, now it will happen. The Countess is away on business, the other girls tucked into bed, his Excellency has arrived through the back door and she's ready. The clock strikes midnight, the hour she will give herself to him. She is playing the lamb to the lion and she wants to, the sound of his approaching boots sending swirls of arousal up her legs, thighs, lashing through her torso, making her so sensitive that the very brush of his hand on her shoulder makes her start.
"It's warmer by the fire. Come sit in my lap."
She's smarter than the other girls, he'd said. Already a woman when the others were but giggling girls, he'd said. Wouldn't she prefer to spend time with him in the manner of adults, just the two of them, he'd said? "Yes," she'd replied, as she does now, sitting in his lap in the Rococo chair, her arm wrapped around his shoulder, the blue smoke of his cigarette wrapping around her in turn. His monocle glints in the firelight as he runs his eyes up and down her body, the black velvet dress she'd caught him admiring her in.
"You wore it just for me," he murmurs; not a question but a statement of fact. "Already, you know how to use your womanly wiles upon a man," he chuckles upon a plume of smoke through uneven teeth, through thin, cruel lips. It's a mouth that will soon kiss hers, and the thought makes her heart race, makes her wonder if the prey does not feel a perverse thrill before the predator, moments before it's eaten alive.
"You wanted to ask me something, your Excellency."
He stumps his cigarette, amused by her modesty. "Kurt. Please."
She nods, feeling the shape of his name in her mouth, the shift of power inherent in the familiarity. "Kurt. What was it you wanted to ask me?" she asks the man she is now on first-name terms with, friendly with, unlike the other girls who so jealously covet his affections.
He wraps his large hands around her willowy girl's waist, long fingers curling in the space between the bones of her hips and her ribs. The ideal measure of a Victorian lady's waist, she remembers, the span of a man's hands around it, his fingertips touching around flesh and whalebone. He presses into her belt clasp with his thumbs, as if contemplating snapping her in half, cracking her open to better feast upon her.
"I only meant to ask, my dear Ursula, whether you had ever been kissed."
There had been fumblings, yes, ones she is now embarrassed to admit. She tells him of a stable boy, clumsy and awkward, his tongue like a cold slug in her mouth, and how disgusted and disappointed she had been afterwards. Kisses were overrated, she had decided, and had spurned all boys' advances since.
He caresses her hair, his thumb brushing over her ear, pulling her closer to his sparkling eyes, to his crooked grin. "What about a grown man? Would you let a man kiss you, to prove the boys wrong?" He tilts her chin up. "Would you let a man of experience prove to you kissing can be pleasurable?"
She stiffens in his arms, her hands digging into the coarse fabric of his jacket. For a few heartbeats, she does not breathe, just stares into his eyes, shivers as he runs his fingertips down her neck, her nipples hard against the satin lining of her dress. "Yes," she chokes out, then more audibly, "Yes."
"Close your eyes."
She does, and the first touch she feels is his cheek against hers, a soft nuzzle, the brush of his lashes against her temple. In a slow, lightly stubbled caress, he drags his lips from her cheek to her mouth and nuzzles there, too, unhurried. He sinks his fingers into her curls, tilting her head back as he kisses the corners of her mouth, traps first her upper and then her lower lip between his, sucking on them lightly, wetting them with his saliva. She can't help but moan into his mouth, making him respond with a soft chuckle as he ventures further, dipping his tongue in just a little, opening her mouth with the softest of licks. Oh, but his tongue feels wonderful, and not at all like a cold slug, no, all soft and sinuous and warm. It's a real kiss, her first real kiss, and she's burning with it, wet between her legs when he finally pulls back for breath.
"Better?"
"Oh, God. Yes."
His grin is wider than ever before, and he reaches for the brandy, pouring himself a glass. "Would you like a drink?"
"I'd rather have another kiss," she blurts out. Oh, blast, just one kiss and look what has happened: she has become very unladylike indeed, and bites her lip in embarrassment.
Luckily for her, he is merely amused. "Then, as a gentleman, I should offer you both." He takes a sip and kisses her again, trickling brandy into her mouth, filling her with the burn of sugar and alcohol and lust. Her eyes snap open and she gasps, a drop of brandy escaping the corner of her mouth, running down the side of her neck. Quickly, he darts his head down and licks it up, mouth wide, lapping at her jugular, and his eyes glow so that for a moment she thinks he will bite.
"I am sorry. I almost ruined your dress." He cups her breast through it, pressing his hand against the velvet, kissing her lazily. "It would have been such a shame."
She reaches past him and empties the glass of brandy, leaning into his caress with a smile. "Yes. Such a shame. I might have had to take it off."
He shakes his head, laughing, undoing the first two buttons on her blouse. "And we couldn't have that, could we? Unless, of course, there was a very good reason."
"It would have to be of some educational value," she agrees, sliding her hand over his sleek head and pulling him into another kiss.
Her head is spinning from arousal and alcohol, and it's all happening so fast, and yet she is eager to go further, faster still. All the way, as the stable boy once asked her to, only for her to refuse his advances. And now she has found the perfect partner for her education, with a wicked knowledge in his eyes, a firm certainty in his hands as they unbutton her blouse further. He hasn't said he loves her once, and she realises she does not need it: she astonishes herself at how little she minds, how clear it is to her that she is here to satisfy her sexual curiosity, not a romantic fantasy. The situation is romantic all right, and wonderfully so, but she doesn't expect him to offer her a ring or spirit her away in his car, drive off to Switzerland and leave everything behind. No. He is an older man with a perverse streak and perhaps a desire to hurt the Countess, to make her jealous; she a seventeen-year-old consumed by lust, tired of her virginity, her every cell screaming out to be touched by a man, taken by a man, pleasured by a man.
And it's pleasure he gives her when he lifts her breasts out from her dress, frames them with the lace of her undone blouse and leans down to worship. She takes it eagerly, luxuriates in what he gives her breasts with his hands, his mouth, his teeth, until she moans out loud and straddles him, wraps her legs around his waist, grinds against him in her need.
He responds in kind, pushing her skirt up to her hips, his kisses now wet, lewd with plenty of tongue, his voice a low, hungry growl in his throat. "Undress for me." He gifts each of her nipples with a bite, panting as he pulls away from their flush. "Let me see all of you."
She staggers back in her heels until the backs of her legs hit the coffee table. Framed by fire and his face half-hidden in the long shadows, he tries to appear the picture of composure, but she knows better. His fingers drum and curl just a little too hard over the armrests of his chair before he finds something else for them to do. With exaggerated calm, he picks up his monocle and polishes it, polishes it, until he finally replaces it and leans back into the whorls of his Rococo. There. All the better to see you with, my dear.
And so she undresses, unclasps her belt, unzips her dress and shrugs off her blouse, letting them pool at her feet. She's clad only in her panties and stockings, now, and the shoes, and hesitates. Whether it's shame, whether it's her waiting for his word, she does not know. But she is acutely aware of her body, of the shape of it, of its curves and dips and how they catch a man's eye. She remembers being harassed by drunken soldiers when she'd been skiing home in her trousers, one whistling, the other exclaiming "I can see your pussy," remembers how she'd skied home at full speed with her heart in her throat, terrified, unable to leave the house for days afterwards.
A piece of flesh between her legs, that's all the soldiers could see, and it's the part of her body his eyes fixate upon now, her panties riding up her slit, dampened by her arousal. His eyes flash, his nostrils flare, as if he can smell her even from his chair, and he lights another cigarette. "Come closer," he beckons, debauching the air with a curl of his fingers, his tongue wetting his lips.
Her heels creak on the floorboards as she steps closer, for once the one staring down at him, the five-foot-nothing slip of a girl towering over the giant of a man, in possession of something he wants dearly. Oh yes, there is power between her legs, power more intoxicating than the brandy, more arousing than his kisses. She plants her legs on either side of his, runs the palm of her hand over her mound in a tease, another, watching as his pupils widen, as ash falls off his forgotten cigarette. She puts on her sweetest smile, her sweetest voice and asks:
"Would you like to see my pussy?"
And he actually moans, masking it under a laugh, and oh, she is triumphant.
"Oh, Ursula," he murmurs as he stumps his cigarette and leans close, inhales her. "I would love to."
"You are a dirty old man," she croons, her thumbs playing at the waistband of her panties, and from his leer she knows exactly what those words are doing to him, how to a man like him they are a compliment. Slowly, slowly, she sways her hips and rolls her panties down, down, her pubic curls glinting golden and wet in the firelight, inches away from the hunger of his open mouth.
He smirks up at her, swirling his fingertips into her curls, admiring them for a long while. "Very pretty." And he clutches his hand into a fist and twists, twists, making her gasp in pain. "That's what you get for teasing an old man," he scolds, then turns his touch into a soothing caress. With his thumbs, he spreads her, inspects her through his monocle, chuckling softly as he sees how wet she is, how swollen. "All of this for me, hmm?" he croons as he slides his thumb into her slit, stroking her softly, making her lose her balance and grab his shoulders.
"Yes," is the only thing she can mumble into his shoulder, "Yes," she moans as he finds her clitoris and rubs at it gently, and it feels so good she thinks she could pass out right here, right now. That's how they'd find her, on the floor and clad in nothing but stockings and shoes, pussy still swollen and wet, him smoking in the corner with the scent of her still on his fingers. The thought makes her tremble in his arms, rub herself harder on his fingers, moaning again as he turns his rubs into slaps.
"Get up." He pushes her away, licking her off his fingers, grinning wolfishly. "I think it's about time we retreated to the sofa."
She reminds herself to breathe and somehow, manages to stagger backwards onto the sofa. She starts to roll down her stockings, but he clasps her wrists and sinks to his knees between her legs. "Keep them on." He spreads her legs and nuzzles, wet lips dragging across the back of her right knee before he drapes it over his shoulder. "It would be a waste of perfectly good silk," he breathes onto her thigh, then the other, "such a waste," his eyes closing with the rapture of the true fetishist. His perversion excites her, and she indulges him, wrapping her legs around his neck and stroking him with them, sliding warm flesh and smooth silk across his cheeks, his hair, saturating the silk with cologne and pomade.
He slides his hand to his groin and squeezes, hissing, his eyes narrow slits, his shoulders trembling underneath her legs. "Tell me no other man has tasted you," he says, jealous in his heat, in his desire to possess.
"No," she replies, her hips jerking, her pussy clenching out of its own volition as he leans closer. Again, she clenches as he spreads her legs and balances her heels on the sofa, and she's never been this wet in her life, gasping in shock and shame as she trickles down between her buttocks, oh god, she is staining the sofa, and everyone will see the stains, everyone will know--
And then his tongue is on her pussy and he's lapping at her, lapping at her like a thirsty, filthy animal. And oh god, it's good and damn the upholstery; it feels so soft and so wet she pushes instinctively back onto his mouth, onto his tongue, her eyes wide in astonishment and pleasure. She can't help but moan, not knowing where to put her hands, so she clasps one over the back of his head and he groans and presses into her harder, his teeth over her clitoris as he sucks and sucks, until she is nothing but red, wet flesh and noises. Sweet, sweet noises reverberating through her body as he fucks her with his mouth, clasps her hips and grinds his face into her as if to truly eat her, to consume her, to drink her in.
He lifts his face to catch his breath, and she will never be able to watch him smile again without remembering the sight: his crooked teeth exposed, his tongue half out of his mouth, gleaming wet threads dangling between his lips and her pussy. And his eyes, his pale eyes crinkled with laughter as he licks his lips, thumbs her clitoris and tuts. "You're making quite a lot of noise, my child. You'll wake up the entire house. And as much as it flatters me, we're going to have to do something about it."
"I am sorry," she whispers, surprised there's any shame left in her.
He brings his hands to his neck, untying his ascot. "Do you trust me?"
No, she thinks, but there's little left for her to do but nod. She's too far gone, too greedy to care, and just obeys as he tells her to open her mouth. But she is still shocked as he sits next to her and swiftly, easily gags her with the necktie. Her eyes fly wide and she whimpers against the wool, panics a little.
"Hush." He pets her hair. "Now, you can be as noisy as you like," he murmurs, sliding his hand over her pussy, rubbing it so gently, so softly he's barely touching, laughing as she shivers in his arms. "And I can do whatever I like with you." Grasping the knot with his other hand, he tips her head towards him. "Can't I, Ursula?"
She would be breathless even without the gag, panting, transfixed by his eyes. She never imagined anything like this, her body arching underneath his hands like this, her breasts jutting out, herself moaning "Yes" through the gag, meaning yes, do whatever you want, yes, just take me, however you want, take me, fuck me, please, god, fuck me.
He nuzzles the moans from her mouth through the necktie, then tilts her head and makes her watch as he taps at her softly, pulls strings of her wetness from her pussy, marvels at them as they glint between his fingertips in the firelight. "Ah, is this it?" he croons and nods, slapping her clitoris softly, then rubs over it again, trapping it between his fingers, pulling the hood back. "Is this what you imagined when you touched yourself at night, thinking of your beloved General? Hmm?" He squeezes, pressing hard with his hand, then slides his fingers down, down, dipping inside her. "Is this what you dreamt of?" He doesn't wait for an answer as he slides two inside her, and oh, they're so big, so rough that she screams through the gag, screams even as her hips press down onto his fingers, onto his merciless hand.
"Does it hurt?" he whispers against her cheek, and she is not sure if he cares, a thought which should not make her clench around his fingers the way it does. She shakes her head, the movement interrupted by her own sob as he brings his thumb to her clitoris, sending exquisite tremors of pleasure through her. "Good girl," he tells her as he pushes his fingers in deeper, curling them, fucking her with them. "So ready for me." She's gasping for breath, and has to wrap her arms around his neck, hanging on as if drowning as he speeds up, fucking her so hard her hips are pushed back on the sofa. "So wet for me," he croons against her shoulder and she groans in shame and pleasure as the slick wet sounds fill the room, the sounds of her own wet pussy.
"Do you want more?"
She nods helplessly into his shoulder, keening, her entire body twisting and spasming between his hands.
"Then come for me."
His eyes burning, he slides between her legs and takes her with his mouth again, licking and sucking as he hooks his fingers inside her, harder than ever before, so hard her vision goes white and she cries out from the bottom of her lungs. Feverish, she stares down, clamping her thighs around his shoulders, not recognising herself as she grinds her swollen pussy into his face, onto his leering mouth, screaming through the tie, convulsing so hard the sofa's legs creak with the force of her orgasm. On and on, he fingers her, laps at her, teasing out little tremors with his mouth and hands until they subside, and it's as if pleasure itself withdraws when he withdraws, sits back on his heels. She shivers for long moments afterwards, the air cold against her nakedness, her wetness, her legs wobbling as he sits next to her, gathers her into his arms and ungags her.
"There you go, my child." Gently, he kisses her, a kiss that would be chaste if it weren't for her taste on his lips, on his tongue, his entire mouth sticky and sweet with her pleasure. She shivers again as she realises how unruffled he is: but a few strands of his hair are out of place, his suit immaculate apart from his discarded tie, and impossibly, ridiculously, like some private joke of the devil's, his monocle still sits in place over his right eye. And like the devil, he grins and takes her hand, resting it over the hard bulge in his trousers. "Would you like to return the favour?"
His hand is so huge, nearly twice the size of hers, and he presses down with it, cupping and squeezing hers over his erection. Pretending she has a choice, pretending the lack of it doesn't make lust flash through her again, she smiles at him angelically. "Maybe."
He takes that "maybe" for the hesitation of innocence, and kisses her as he undoes his fly. "Then let me teach you, my dear." This is what he's here for; to debauch, to corrupt, to teach good girls bad manners: his eyes sparkle with power as he takes her hand and guides it to his cock. Finger by finger, he arranges her little hand upon it in a manner that pleases him, the way a young girl's hand should wrap around an older man's cock. And yet there's genuine power in her hands, too, as she is the one indulging his fantasy, just as he is indulging hers: she craves experience as much as he craves the soiling of innocence. So she lets herself be guided, lets the warmth of his hand wrap around hers again and lead it in slow strokes, goosebumps all over her skin as she stirs in arousal and awe. She'd heard of hard pricks, yes, knows about the birds and the bees, but what surprises her the most is the softness of his skin, softer than silk and not unlike the softness of petals, so hot and fragile and sensitive over the hard muscle underneath. Slowly, gently, she squeezes her hand a little, feeling the slide of it over his flesh, and his head falls back, rewarding her with a small, small "oh", as round as his mouth, as soft as the skin underneath her palm.
And then there is his scent, as she bends down to nuzzle underneath his fumbling hands, as he unbuttons jacket and shirt, clawing at his clothes as if his skin was on fire. Oh yes, his scent, so different from hers, stronger, heavier, mustier, peppered with cologne, shot through with sweat. And she can't hold back any longer, she has to taste, has to wrap her lips around the head of his cock, as if made to fit inside a softly suckling mouth. And there, she moans, tongue trembling as it tastes him: salty where she's sweet, base where she is acidic, male where she's female. He mewls as if wounded, his breath coming in short, sad gasps, his fingers furiously combing her hair away from her face to better see her. His little schoolgirl, with her mouth sliding on his cock, without any prompting on his behalf, and finally, finally, he twists and shudders and groans so hard his monocle falls from his eye, clattering onto the floor.
Triumphant, she pulls back for breath and watches his entire body quiver, his shirt bunched around his elbows, his hand squeezing hers around his cock, his trousers halfway down his legs, and he is beautiful. Again, he makes that wounded noise, his cock trickling over their combined fingers, his head lolling like that of a drunkard before he can finally refocus his eyes on her. "Stop," he growls, the sound of a man desperate, one nearly defeated, and he unclasps her hand from around his cock, his fingers trembling as if even letting go causes him pain. "Undress me," he tells her as she kneels at his feet, "Hurry."
When she's stripped him, the lean and hungry length of him, he pulls her into his lap, knotting his thin limbs around her, crushing the air out of her chest with his craving. He fills his mouth with her flesh, sucking and biting her breasts as if she were a delicacy laid out on a table, sugar and the softness of melted butter, yielding easily to teeth and tongue. And she feels like it, oh, she feels like it, her sweet scent filling the room and she wants to drench him in it like perfume, rubbing herself over his cock, wanting him to smell her, smell of her for days.
He rubs right back in delight, kneading, clawing at her buttocks. "All of this is going inside you," he purrs into her mouth between kisses, "Now." Easily, he lifts her and gets to his feet, her heels beating a quick rat-a-tat against his lower back as she scrabbles for balance in his arms. Three strides, four, and he's carried her across the room, pressed her against the chill of a vast floor-to-ceiling mirror, captured her in its gilt frame. And there he ruts against her, lifting her just so until his cock starts to push inside her, until she starts to sink and tremble onto him in a twist of pain and pleasure, her breath but short, choked sobs. With wide, feverish eyes he watches her expressions as he and gravity slowly deflower her, inexorably penetrate her, force her flesh to yield around him. His forehead pressed against hers, he sips every little whimper from her mouth with his smiling lips, rocks his hips to stretch and burn and slide, fucks her with his cock and his tongue, and she thinks she will fall apart upon them, dissolve.
It's then when he pulls back and lets her go, sliding out of her with a kiss. "Turn around." As she does, he moves to stand behind her, pulling her curls away from her shoulders, presenting her to the mirror. "I want you to watch yourself."
And she faces herself in the firelight, sees how wide her eyes have become, sees herself for the first time a grown woman in the flush of lust, with the marks of a debauchee on her body. There, she sees her nipples a bright red from his bites, swollen under the caresses he gifts them with, watches the way her back arches as he catches them with his fingertips and pinches, the way her entire body shudders with her moans. Lascivious, she leans back, watches as his hands slide down to frame her pussy, to cup it, to rub it, his hiss of delight slithering against her ear as his fingertips dip into her wetness. He spreads her wide, shows her how red she is, how swollen her folds, how wet and glistening her thighs. She sees herself through his eyes, sees herself desirable, and she wants more. She spreads her legs for his fingers, presses back against his cock in her greed, watches as she mouths her wish out loud: "More".
There's a dangerous glint in his eyes as he leans into her, nestling his cock into the hollow of her back. "How much more could you take, my dear? That is the question."
"How much more can you give?" It is a foolish answer, a dangerous answer when in the arms of a man this perverted, but his perversion is contagious.
He draws a sharp breath through his teeth, and she can see him considering, and not knowing the depths of his depravity arouses her all the more. Her imagination is sent galloping, flicking through the memories of books she's supposed to not have read. If he has a taste for schoolgirls and stockings, can whips and chains be far away? He is a military man, so maybe he harbours a secret taste for sodomy? Are those the reasons the Countess has grown cold for him--because she knows him too well, knows exactly what he is? All these thoughts and more flash through her mind as he contemplates her in the mirror, as he curls his fingers over her shoulders like claws, as he finally comes to a decision.
"Get on your knees."
He presses down, down, and she sinks, he sinking down with her, her hair tumbling over her face as her hands hit the floor. It's by her hair he lifts her up again, cruelly, a thousand needles of pain in her scalp as he lifts her against his body, forcing her onto his cock, forcing her to watch her own violation in the mirror. She's so small, shockingly small against his tall frame, her pussy tiny around the breadth of his cock, and it's the sight of it that makes her clench in fear, makes her hurt more now than she did when he first entered her. Calmly, he loops her hair around his wrist and tucks his chin over her shoulder, keeping his hips absolutely still.
"You wanted more, now take it," he scolds her, playfully, the consonants snapping wetly in his mouth. "Fuck yourself."
Slowly, with deep breaths she lowers herself, rocks herself, opens herself onto the length of his cock. When she exhales, it does not hurt at all, and that almost disappoints her, as if a part of her still somehow expected to struggle more, as if in the back of her mind something still disapproved of the whorish sight in the mirror. Because that's what she is, a whore, spread wide, splayed and displayed for her audience, her breaths turning into moans as she sees how easily she slides upon him, how slick and wet she's making his cock. He, too, moans, exhaling pleasure into her ear, lashes falling jagged and black against his cheeks, his entire body trembling with the effort to stay still, as if he were the one being taken. His chest is wet with sweat against her back, his fingernails scratching her ribs as she slips and sways in his grasp. "Ride me," he rasps, spreading her pussy roughly with his hand to better see where he enters her, "Ride me."
And ride him she does, keening deep in her throat as she sinks down onto him all the way, all the way, the slide of him so sweet inside her, the stretch that gave her pain now sending waves of unbearable heat rolling through her. She has to go faster, faster, lowering herself into a half-squat to better move upon him, her head thrashing in his grip like that of a bad-tempered animal. But he doesn't let go, no, too clever not to have noticed how much she enjoys his fingers pulling at her hair, how she enjoyed having her head wrenched back with the tie, and by now it has become their dirty little secret. "Good girl." He kisses the tears of pain away from her temples, pushing his wet fingers into her mouth to moan around. "Such a good girl. Do you still want more, hmm?"
"Yes," she chokes through his fingers, "Yes."
And then her face and shoulders thud against the floor, her buttocks are in the air, her wrists held behind her back and he fucks her. Sinuously, mercilessly, he slams into her with the full weight of his body, the giant crushing the girl-child, her screams and tears soaked up by the thick carpet. It's perfect, perfect, and she can't even push back into his thrusts, that's how hard he's fucking her, and she knows tomorrow she will have burn marks on her knees, her cheeks. How did you get those marks, Ursula? the other girls will ask, and she'll press her thighs tight together and smile, bite her lip and not say Kurt fucked me. Oh yes, he fucked me. On the floor. Like animals.
He feels so good inside her she can't even think any more, her consciousness shrinking, concentrating on just the friction of his cock inside her, the grip of his hand on her wrists, his other one slipping to her clitoris. He presses her into the floor, cock so deep inside her she thinks she will split in two, and she can't help but wail. "Shh, my sweet little girl," he pants in her ear as he rubs her and fucks her, "Shh, let go. Let go. That's it." She grinds onto his hand, hips spasming even underneath his weight, his cock and hand forcing pleasure to trip through her like dominoes, nerve center after another crashing into ecstasy. It's he who moans loudest as she comes around his cock, rippling on him and around him, and another shockwave of pleasure hits her as she realises he's coming inside her, pushing through her contractions, shaking all over her. Groaning from deep inside her chest, she pushes back, rocking back onto him until the last ripples fade, until he lies on top of her with his full weight, kissing her neck, gently soothing her into stillness. Murmuring without words, he gathers her in his arms and spoons her for long moments, buried deep inside her, she his sweet little girl, he her dirty old man.
And when those long moments are over, he still has the strength to carry her back to the sofa, to lick off the mess he's made, to clean up every drop spilled on her stockings. His jacket draped over her shoulders, she pets his head between her legs, tucking stray strands of his hair behind his ears. "No one can accuse you of not being a gentleman."
He looks up at her, licking his lips. "I have to uphold your reputation as a lady," he tuts. "It'd be unthinkable for you to go upstairs smelling of sex."
"Oh, but that would just make the other girls have wet dreams all night, without knowing why."
He picks up his monocle from the floor, polishes it and replaces it with a flourish. "I quite like that idea."
"I knew you would." She stretches in utter relaxation, stroking his cheeks with her legs, pulling him closer with her ankles. "Besides, you're going to have to lick very hard to get all this sex off me."
"Oh, yes," he grins, lowering his face between her legs, "but it's worth a try."
Author: snowgrouse
Fandom: Escape (1940)
Pairing: Kurt von Kolb/Ursula
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Older man/younger girl, some rough sex. All consensual.
Length: ~5600 words
Summary: He is an older man with a perverse streak, she a seventeen-year-old tired of her virginity.
As he locks the drawing room door behind them, she knows there is no turning back. Now, now, the words echo through her mind, now it will happen. The Countess is away on business, the other girls tucked into bed, his Excellency has arrived through the back door and she's ready. The clock strikes midnight, the hour she will give herself to him. She is playing the lamb to the lion and she wants to, the sound of his approaching boots sending swirls of arousal up her legs, thighs, lashing through her torso, making her so sensitive that the very brush of his hand on her shoulder makes her start.
"It's warmer by the fire. Come sit in my lap."
She's smarter than the other girls, he'd said. Already a woman when the others were but giggling girls, he'd said. Wouldn't she prefer to spend time with him in the manner of adults, just the two of them, he'd said? "Yes," she'd replied, as she does now, sitting in his lap in the Rococo chair, her arm wrapped around his shoulder, the blue smoke of his cigarette wrapping around her in turn. His monocle glints in the firelight as he runs his eyes up and down her body, the black velvet dress she'd caught him admiring her in.
"You wore it just for me," he murmurs; not a question but a statement of fact. "Already, you know how to use your womanly wiles upon a man," he chuckles upon a plume of smoke through uneven teeth, through thin, cruel lips. It's a mouth that will soon kiss hers, and the thought makes her heart race, makes her wonder if the prey does not feel a perverse thrill before the predator, moments before it's eaten alive.
"You wanted to ask me something, your Excellency."
He stumps his cigarette, amused by her modesty. "Kurt. Please."
She nods, feeling the shape of his name in her mouth, the shift of power inherent in the familiarity. "Kurt. What was it you wanted to ask me?" she asks the man she is now on first-name terms with, friendly with, unlike the other girls who so jealously covet his affections.
He wraps his large hands around her willowy girl's waist, long fingers curling in the space between the bones of her hips and her ribs. The ideal measure of a Victorian lady's waist, she remembers, the span of a man's hands around it, his fingertips touching around flesh and whalebone. He presses into her belt clasp with his thumbs, as if contemplating snapping her in half, cracking her open to better feast upon her.
"I only meant to ask, my dear Ursula, whether you had ever been kissed."
There had been fumblings, yes, ones she is now embarrassed to admit. She tells him of a stable boy, clumsy and awkward, his tongue like a cold slug in her mouth, and how disgusted and disappointed she had been afterwards. Kisses were overrated, she had decided, and had spurned all boys' advances since.
He caresses her hair, his thumb brushing over her ear, pulling her closer to his sparkling eyes, to his crooked grin. "What about a grown man? Would you let a man kiss you, to prove the boys wrong?" He tilts her chin up. "Would you let a man of experience prove to you kissing can be pleasurable?"
She stiffens in his arms, her hands digging into the coarse fabric of his jacket. For a few heartbeats, she does not breathe, just stares into his eyes, shivers as he runs his fingertips down her neck, her nipples hard against the satin lining of her dress. "Yes," she chokes out, then more audibly, "Yes."
"Close your eyes."
She does, and the first touch she feels is his cheek against hers, a soft nuzzle, the brush of his lashes against her temple. In a slow, lightly stubbled caress, he drags his lips from her cheek to her mouth and nuzzles there, too, unhurried. He sinks his fingers into her curls, tilting her head back as he kisses the corners of her mouth, traps first her upper and then her lower lip between his, sucking on them lightly, wetting them with his saliva. She can't help but moan into his mouth, making him respond with a soft chuckle as he ventures further, dipping his tongue in just a little, opening her mouth with the softest of licks. Oh, but his tongue feels wonderful, and not at all like a cold slug, no, all soft and sinuous and warm. It's a real kiss, her first real kiss, and she's burning with it, wet between her legs when he finally pulls back for breath.
"Better?"
"Oh, God. Yes."
His grin is wider than ever before, and he reaches for the brandy, pouring himself a glass. "Would you like a drink?"
"I'd rather have another kiss," she blurts out. Oh, blast, just one kiss and look what has happened: she has become very unladylike indeed, and bites her lip in embarrassment.
Luckily for her, he is merely amused. "Then, as a gentleman, I should offer you both." He takes a sip and kisses her again, trickling brandy into her mouth, filling her with the burn of sugar and alcohol and lust. Her eyes snap open and she gasps, a drop of brandy escaping the corner of her mouth, running down the side of her neck. Quickly, he darts his head down and licks it up, mouth wide, lapping at her jugular, and his eyes glow so that for a moment she thinks he will bite.
"I am sorry. I almost ruined your dress." He cups her breast through it, pressing his hand against the velvet, kissing her lazily. "It would have been such a shame."
She reaches past him and empties the glass of brandy, leaning into his caress with a smile. "Yes. Such a shame. I might have had to take it off."
He shakes his head, laughing, undoing the first two buttons on her blouse. "And we couldn't have that, could we? Unless, of course, there was a very good reason."
"It would have to be of some educational value," she agrees, sliding her hand over his sleek head and pulling him into another kiss.
Her head is spinning from arousal and alcohol, and it's all happening so fast, and yet she is eager to go further, faster still. All the way, as the stable boy once asked her to, only for her to refuse his advances. And now she has found the perfect partner for her education, with a wicked knowledge in his eyes, a firm certainty in his hands as they unbutton her blouse further. He hasn't said he loves her once, and she realises she does not need it: she astonishes herself at how little she minds, how clear it is to her that she is here to satisfy her sexual curiosity, not a romantic fantasy. The situation is romantic all right, and wonderfully so, but she doesn't expect him to offer her a ring or spirit her away in his car, drive off to Switzerland and leave everything behind. No. He is an older man with a perverse streak and perhaps a desire to hurt the Countess, to make her jealous; she a seventeen-year-old consumed by lust, tired of her virginity, her every cell screaming out to be touched by a man, taken by a man, pleasured by a man.
And it's pleasure he gives her when he lifts her breasts out from her dress, frames them with the lace of her undone blouse and leans down to worship. She takes it eagerly, luxuriates in what he gives her breasts with his hands, his mouth, his teeth, until she moans out loud and straddles him, wraps her legs around his waist, grinds against him in her need.
He responds in kind, pushing her skirt up to her hips, his kisses now wet, lewd with plenty of tongue, his voice a low, hungry growl in his throat. "Undress for me." He gifts each of her nipples with a bite, panting as he pulls away from their flush. "Let me see all of you."
She staggers back in her heels until the backs of her legs hit the coffee table. Framed by fire and his face half-hidden in the long shadows, he tries to appear the picture of composure, but she knows better. His fingers drum and curl just a little too hard over the armrests of his chair before he finds something else for them to do. With exaggerated calm, he picks up his monocle and polishes it, polishes it, until he finally replaces it and leans back into the whorls of his Rococo. There. All the better to see you with, my dear.
And so she undresses, unclasps her belt, unzips her dress and shrugs off her blouse, letting them pool at her feet. She's clad only in her panties and stockings, now, and the shoes, and hesitates. Whether it's shame, whether it's her waiting for his word, she does not know. But she is acutely aware of her body, of the shape of it, of its curves and dips and how they catch a man's eye. She remembers being harassed by drunken soldiers when she'd been skiing home in her trousers, one whistling, the other exclaiming "I can see your pussy," remembers how she'd skied home at full speed with her heart in her throat, terrified, unable to leave the house for days afterwards.
A piece of flesh between her legs, that's all the soldiers could see, and it's the part of her body his eyes fixate upon now, her panties riding up her slit, dampened by her arousal. His eyes flash, his nostrils flare, as if he can smell her even from his chair, and he lights another cigarette. "Come closer," he beckons, debauching the air with a curl of his fingers, his tongue wetting his lips.
Her heels creak on the floorboards as she steps closer, for once the one staring down at him, the five-foot-nothing slip of a girl towering over the giant of a man, in possession of something he wants dearly. Oh yes, there is power between her legs, power more intoxicating than the brandy, more arousing than his kisses. She plants her legs on either side of his, runs the palm of her hand over her mound in a tease, another, watching as his pupils widen, as ash falls off his forgotten cigarette. She puts on her sweetest smile, her sweetest voice and asks:
"Would you like to see my pussy?"
And he actually moans, masking it under a laugh, and oh, she is triumphant.
"Oh, Ursula," he murmurs as he stumps his cigarette and leans close, inhales her. "I would love to."
"You are a dirty old man," she croons, her thumbs playing at the waistband of her panties, and from his leer she knows exactly what those words are doing to him, how to a man like him they are a compliment. Slowly, slowly, she sways her hips and rolls her panties down, down, her pubic curls glinting golden and wet in the firelight, inches away from the hunger of his open mouth.
He smirks up at her, swirling his fingertips into her curls, admiring them for a long while. "Very pretty." And he clutches his hand into a fist and twists, twists, making her gasp in pain. "That's what you get for teasing an old man," he scolds, then turns his touch into a soothing caress. With his thumbs, he spreads her, inspects her through his monocle, chuckling softly as he sees how wet she is, how swollen. "All of this for me, hmm?" he croons as he slides his thumb into her slit, stroking her softly, making her lose her balance and grab his shoulders.
"Yes," is the only thing she can mumble into his shoulder, "Yes," she moans as he finds her clitoris and rubs at it gently, and it feels so good she thinks she could pass out right here, right now. That's how they'd find her, on the floor and clad in nothing but stockings and shoes, pussy still swollen and wet, him smoking in the corner with the scent of her still on his fingers. The thought makes her tremble in his arms, rub herself harder on his fingers, moaning again as he turns his rubs into slaps.
"Get up." He pushes her away, licking her off his fingers, grinning wolfishly. "I think it's about time we retreated to the sofa."
She reminds herself to breathe and somehow, manages to stagger backwards onto the sofa. She starts to roll down her stockings, but he clasps her wrists and sinks to his knees between her legs. "Keep them on." He spreads her legs and nuzzles, wet lips dragging across the back of her right knee before he drapes it over his shoulder. "It would be a waste of perfectly good silk," he breathes onto her thigh, then the other, "such a waste," his eyes closing with the rapture of the true fetishist. His perversion excites her, and she indulges him, wrapping her legs around his neck and stroking him with them, sliding warm flesh and smooth silk across his cheeks, his hair, saturating the silk with cologne and pomade.
He slides his hand to his groin and squeezes, hissing, his eyes narrow slits, his shoulders trembling underneath her legs. "Tell me no other man has tasted you," he says, jealous in his heat, in his desire to possess.
"No," she replies, her hips jerking, her pussy clenching out of its own volition as he leans closer. Again, she clenches as he spreads her legs and balances her heels on the sofa, and she's never been this wet in her life, gasping in shock and shame as she trickles down between her buttocks, oh god, she is staining the sofa, and everyone will see the stains, everyone will know--
And then his tongue is on her pussy and he's lapping at her, lapping at her like a thirsty, filthy animal. And oh god, it's good and damn the upholstery; it feels so soft and so wet she pushes instinctively back onto his mouth, onto his tongue, her eyes wide in astonishment and pleasure. She can't help but moan, not knowing where to put her hands, so she clasps one over the back of his head and he groans and presses into her harder, his teeth over her clitoris as he sucks and sucks, until she is nothing but red, wet flesh and noises. Sweet, sweet noises reverberating through her body as he fucks her with his mouth, clasps her hips and grinds his face into her as if to truly eat her, to consume her, to drink her in.
He lifts his face to catch his breath, and she will never be able to watch him smile again without remembering the sight: his crooked teeth exposed, his tongue half out of his mouth, gleaming wet threads dangling between his lips and her pussy. And his eyes, his pale eyes crinkled with laughter as he licks his lips, thumbs her clitoris and tuts. "You're making quite a lot of noise, my child. You'll wake up the entire house. And as much as it flatters me, we're going to have to do something about it."
"I am sorry," she whispers, surprised there's any shame left in her.
He brings his hands to his neck, untying his ascot. "Do you trust me?"
No, she thinks, but there's little left for her to do but nod. She's too far gone, too greedy to care, and just obeys as he tells her to open her mouth. But she is still shocked as he sits next to her and swiftly, easily gags her with the necktie. Her eyes fly wide and she whimpers against the wool, panics a little.
"Hush." He pets her hair. "Now, you can be as noisy as you like," he murmurs, sliding his hand over her pussy, rubbing it so gently, so softly he's barely touching, laughing as she shivers in his arms. "And I can do whatever I like with you." Grasping the knot with his other hand, he tips her head towards him. "Can't I, Ursula?"
She would be breathless even without the gag, panting, transfixed by his eyes. She never imagined anything like this, her body arching underneath his hands like this, her breasts jutting out, herself moaning "Yes" through the gag, meaning yes, do whatever you want, yes, just take me, however you want, take me, fuck me, please, god, fuck me.
He nuzzles the moans from her mouth through the necktie, then tilts her head and makes her watch as he taps at her softly, pulls strings of her wetness from her pussy, marvels at them as they glint between his fingertips in the firelight. "Ah, is this it?" he croons and nods, slapping her clitoris softly, then rubs over it again, trapping it between his fingers, pulling the hood back. "Is this what you imagined when you touched yourself at night, thinking of your beloved General? Hmm?" He squeezes, pressing hard with his hand, then slides his fingers down, down, dipping inside her. "Is this what you dreamt of?" He doesn't wait for an answer as he slides two inside her, and oh, they're so big, so rough that she screams through the gag, screams even as her hips press down onto his fingers, onto his merciless hand.
"Does it hurt?" he whispers against her cheek, and she is not sure if he cares, a thought which should not make her clench around his fingers the way it does. She shakes her head, the movement interrupted by her own sob as he brings his thumb to her clitoris, sending exquisite tremors of pleasure through her. "Good girl," he tells her as he pushes his fingers in deeper, curling them, fucking her with them. "So ready for me." She's gasping for breath, and has to wrap her arms around his neck, hanging on as if drowning as he speeds up, fucking her so hard her hips are pushed back on the sofa. "So wet for me," he croons against her shoulder and she groans in shame and pleasure as the slick wet sounds fill the room, the sounds of her own wet pussy.
"Do you want more?"
She nods helplessly into his shoulder, keening, her entire body twisting and spasming between his hands.
"Then come for me."
His eyes burning, he slides between her legs and takes her with his mouth again, licking and sucking as he hooks his fingers inside her, harder than ever before, so hard her vision goes white and she cries out from the bottom of her lungs. Feverish, she stares down, clamping her thighs around his shoulders, not recognising herself as she grinds her swollen pussy into his face, onto his leering mouth, screaming through the tie, convulsing so hard the sofa's legs creak with the force of her orgasm. On and on, he fingers her, laps at her, teasing out little tremors with his mouth and hands until they subside, and it's as if pleasure itself withdraws when he withdraws, sits back on his heels. She shivers for long moments afterwards, the air cold against her nakedness, her wetness, her legs wobbling as he sits next to her, gathers her into his arms and ungags her.
"There you go, my child." Gently, he kisses her, a kiss that would be chaste if it weren't for her taste on his lips, on his tongue, his entire mouth sticky and sweet with her pleasure. She shivers again as she realises how unruffled he is: but a few strands of his hair are out of place, his suit immaculate apart from his discarded tie, and impossibly, ridiculously, like some private joke of the devil's, his monocle still sits in place over his right eye. And like the devil, he grins and takes her hand, resting it over the hard bulge in his trousers. "Would you like to return the favour?"
His hand is so huge, nearly twice the size of hers, and he presses down with it, cupping and squeezing hers over his erection. Pretending she has a choice, pretending the lack of it doesn't make lust flash through her again, she smiles at him angelically. "Maybe."
He takes that "maybe" for the hesitation of innocence, and kisses her as he undoes his fly. "Then let me teach you, my dear." This is what he's here for; to debauch, to corrupt, to teach good girls bad manners: his eyes sparkle with power as he takes her hand and guides it to his cock. Finger by finger, he arranges her little hand upon it in a manner that pleases him, the way a young girl's hand should wrap around an older man's cock. And yet there's genuine power in her hands, too, as she is the one indulging his fantasy, just as he is indulging hers: she craves experience as much as he craves the soiling of innocence. So she lets herself be guided, lets the warmth of his hand wrap around hers again and lead it in slow strokes, goosebumps all over her skin as she stirs in arousal and awe. She'd heard of hard pricks, yes, knows about the birds and the bees, but what surprises her the most is the softness of his skin, softer than silk and not unlike the softness of petals, so hot and fragile and sensitive over the hard muscle underneath. Slowly, gently, she squeezes her hand a little, feeling the slide of it over his flesh, and his head falls back, rewarding her with a small, small "oh", as round as his mouth, as soft as the skin underneath her palm.
And then there is his scent, as she bends down to nuzzle underneath his fumbling hands, as he unbuttons jacket and shirt, clawing at his clothes as if his skin was on fire. Oh yes, his scent, so different from hers, stronger, heavier, mustier, peppered with cologne, shot through with sweat. And she can't hold back any longer, she has to taste, has to wrap her lips around the head of his cock, as if made to fit inside a softly suckling mouth. And there, she moans, tongue trembling as it tastes him: salty where she's sweet, base where she is acidic, male where she's female. He mewls as if wounded, his breath coming in short, sad gasps, his fingers furiously combing her hair away from her face to better see her. His little schoolgirl, with her mouth sliding on his cock, without any prompting on his behalf, and finally, finally, he twists and shudders and groans so hard his monocle falls from his eye, clattering onto the floor.
Triumphant, she pulls back for breath and watches his entire body quiver, his shirt bunched around his elbows, his hand squeezing hers around his cock, his trousers halfway down his legs, and he is beautiful. Again, he makes that wounded noise, his cock trickling over their combined fingers, his head lolling like that of a drunkard before he can finally refocus his eyes on her. "Stop," he growls, the sound of a man desperate, one nearly defeated, and he unclasps her hand from around his cock, his fingers trembling as if even letting go causes him pain. "Undress me," he tells her as she kneels at his feet, "Hurry."
When she's stripped him, the lean and hungry length of him, he pulls her into his lap, knotting his thin limbs around her, crushing the air out of her chest with his craving. He fills his mouth with her flesh, sucking and biting her breasts as if she were a delicacy laid out on a table, sugar and the softness of melted butter, yielding easily to teeth and tongue. And she feels like it, oh, she feels like it, her sweet scent filling the room and she wants to drench him in it like perfume, rubbing herself over his cock, wanting him to smell her, smell of her for days.
He rubs right back in delight, kneading, clawing at her buttocks. "All of this is going inside you," he purrs into her mouth between kisses, "Now." Easily, he lifts her and gets to his feet, her heels beating a quick rat-a-tat against his lower back as she scrabbles for balance in his arms. Three strides, four, and he's carried her across the room, pressed her against the chill of a vast floor-to-ceiling mirror, captured her in its gilt frame. And there he ruts against her, lifting her just so until his cock starts to push inside her, until she starts to sink and tremble onto him in a twist of pain and pleasure, her breath but short, choked sobs. With wide, feverish eyes he watches her expressions as he and gravity slowly deflower her, inexorably penetrate her, force her flesh to yield around him. His forehead pressed against hers, he sips every little whimper from her mouth with his smiling lips, rocks his hips to stretch and burn and slide, fucks her with his cock and his tongue, and she thinks she will fall apart upon them, dissolve.
It's then when he pulls back and lets her go, sliding out of her with a kiss. "Turn around." As she does, he moves to stand behind her, pulling her curls away from her shoulders, presenting her to the mirror. "I want you to watch yourself."
And she faces herself in the firelight, sees how wide her eyes have become, sees herself for the first time a grown woman in the flush of lust, with the marks of a debauchee on her body. There, she sees her nipples a bright red from his bites, swollen under the caresses he gifts them with, watches the way her back arches as he catches them with his fingertips and pinches, the way her entire body shudders with her moans. Lascivious, she leans back, watches as his hands slide down to frame her pussy, to cup it, to rub it, his hiss of delight slithering against her ear as his fingertips dip into her wetness. He spreads her wide, shows her how red she is, how swollen her folds, how wet and glistening her thighs. She sees herself through his eyes, sees herself desirable, and she wants more. She spreads her legs for his fingers, presses back against his cock in her greed, watches as she mouths her wish out loud: "More".
There's a dangerous glint in his eyes as he leans into her, nestling his cock into the hollow of her back. "How much more could you take, my dear? That is the question."
"How much more can you give?" It is a foolish answer, a dangerous answer when in the arms of a man this perverted, but his perversion is contagious.
He draws a sharp breath through his teeth, and she can see him considering, and not knowing the depths of his depravity arouses her all the more. Her imagination is sent galloping, flicking through the memories of books she's supposed to not have read. If he has a taste for schoolgirls and stockings, can whips and chains be far away? He is a military man, so maybe he harbours a secret taste for sodomy? Are those the reasons the Countess has grown cold for him--because she knows him too well, knows exactly what he is? All these thoughts and more flash through her mind as he contemplates her in the mirror, as he curls his fingers over her shoulders like claws, as he finally comes to a decision.
"Get on your knees."
He presses down, down, and she sinks, he sinking down with her, her hair tumbling over her face as her hands hit the floor. It's by her hair he lifts her up again, cruelly, a thousand needles of pain in her scalp as he lifts her against his body, forcing her onto his cock, forcing her to watch her own violation in the mirror. She's so small, shockingly small against his tall frame, her pussy tiny around the breadth of his cock, and it's the sight of it that makes her clench in fear, makes her hurt more now than she did when he first entered her. Calmly, he loops her hair around his wrist and tucks his chin over her shoulder, keeping his hips absolutely still.
"You wanted more, now take it," he scolds her, playfully, the consonants snapping wetly in his mouth. "Fuck yourself."
Slowly, with deep breaths she lowers herself, rocks herself, opens herself onto the length of his cock. When she exhales, it does not hurt at all, and that almost disappoints her, as if a part of her still somehow expected to struggle more, as if in the back of her mind something still disapproved of the whorish sight in the mirror. Because that's what she is, a whore, spread wide, splayed and displayed for her audience, her breaths turning into moans as she sees how easily she slides upon him, how slick and wet she's making his cock. He, too, moans, exhaling pleasure into her ear, lashes falling jagged and black against his cheeks, his entire body trembling with the effort to stay still, as if he were the one being taken. His chest is wet with sweat against her back, his fingernails scratching her ribs as she slips and sways in his grasp. "Ride me," he rasps, spreading her pussy roughly with his hand to better see where he enters her, "Ride me."
And ride him she does, keening deep in her throat as she sinks down onto him all the way, all the way, the slide of him so sweet inside her, the stretch that gave her pain now sending waves of unbearable heat rolling through her. She has to go faster, faster, lowering herself into a half-squat to better move upon him, her head thrashing in his grip like that of a bad-tempered animal. But he doesn't let go, no, too clever not to have noticed how much she enjoys his fingers pulling at her hair, how she enjoyed having her head wrenched back with the tie, and by now it has become their dirty little secret. "Good girl." He kisses the tears of pain away from her temples, pushing his wet fingers into her mouth to moan around. "Such a good girl. Do you still want more, hmm?"
"Yes," she chokes through his fingers, "Yes."
And then her face and shoulders thud against the floor, her buttocks are in the air, her wrists held behind her back and he fucks her. Sinuously, mercilessly, he slams into her with the full weight of his body, the giant crushing the girl-child, her screams and tears soaked up by the thick carpet. It's perfect, perfect, and she can't even push back into his thrusts, that's how hard he's fucking her, and she knows tomorrow she will have burn marks on her knees, her cheeks. How did you get those marks, Ursula? the other girls will ask, and she'll press her thighs tight together and smile, bite her lip and not say Kurt fucked me. Oh yes, he fucked me. On the floor. Like animals.
He feels so good inside her she can't even think any more, her consciousness shrinking, concentrating on just the friction of his cock inside her, the grip of his hand on her wrists, his other one slipping to her clitoris. He presses her into the floor, cock so deep inside her she thinks she will split in two, and she can't help but wail. "Shh, my sweet little girl," he pants in her ear as he rubs her and fucks her, "Shh, let go. Let go. That's it." She grinds onto his hand, hips spasming even underneath his weight, his cock and hand forcing pleasure to trip through her like dominoes, nerve center after another crashing into ecstasy. It's he who moans loudest as she comes around his cock, rippling on him and around him, and another shockwave of pleasure hits her as she realises he's coming inside her, pushing through her contractions, shaking all over her. Groaning from deep inside her chest, she pushes back, rocking back onto him until the last ripples fade, until he lies on top of her with his full weight, kissing her neck, gently soothing her into stillness. Murmuring without words, he gathers her in his arms and spoons her for long moments, buried deep inside her, she his sweet little girl, he her dirty old man.
And when those long moments are over, he still has the strength to carry her back to the sofa, to lick off the mess he's made, to clean up every drop spilled on her stockings. His jacket draped over her shoulders, she pets his head between her legs, tucking stray strands of his hair behind his ears. "No one can accuse you of not being a gentleman."
He looks up at her, licking his lips. "I have to uphold your reputation as a lady," he tuts. "It'd be unthinkable for you to go upstairs smelling of sex."
"Oh, but that would just make the other girls have wet dreams all night, without knowing why."
He picks up his monocle from the floor, polishes it and replaces it with a flourish. "I quite like that idea."
"I knew you would." She stretches in utter relaxation, stroking his cheeks with her legs, pulling him closer with her ankles. "Besides, you're going to have to lick very hard to get all this sex off me."
"Oh, yes," he grins, lowering his face between her legs, "but it's worth a try."