He's not that strong

“Are we done playing games Lady Marlton?” Randy asked shifting his position so he was sitting by her side. He should cover her nearly naked body with a thick quilt and walk away from the temptation that lay before him, but he couldn't. Instead he fingered a wave of her chestnut hair that had fallen across her face and brushed it gently from her cheek. She must have sensed the change in his intentions because she jerked her head from his touch.

“Don't!” She murmured, but Randy couldn't stop. This was what it might be like for those wicked men who bought lovely slaves to take to their beds and use in any manner that they wanted.

“I'll do what I want, Lady Marlton.” He grunted unable to stop this from happening.

“I hate you!” Randy found he no longer cared what the proud Miss Marlton thought of him, he had tried to treat her with honour and she had attacked him. Randy could still feel the throbbing pain on the back of his head and the soreness of his gut where she had kicked him. His captive squirmed futilely as he unhooked her garter belt and lace pants tossed the lace garments to the side. It did not surprise him that she hated him – Lady Marlton understood better than he that there was nothing left now between her family and his, nothing but hatred and need for vengeance. She struggled briefly as he fingered her wet slit, but this time he was ready for her kick and captured her leg under his arm before settling between her stocking covered limbs.

Charlotte really did hate this outlaw; she despised his brutal treatment and the callous disregard of the rules of civilized peoples. Most of all Charlotte hated the way the outlaw had played with her emotions. First seducing her with his deep kisses and skillful caresses until her had her completely naked and offering herself to him like a blushing bride on her wedding night. She half suspected that he had let her flee into the forest just so he could have the perverse pleasure of a hunter running her down like a fox.

She jerked her hips angrily, but with one leg securely chained to the bedpost and with way Black Brand had captured her knee she had no chance of pulling away. Her camisole still covered her breasts and silk stockings sheathed much of her legs but her all important private treasure was splayed open obscenely she was far more **** than before. Black Brand didn’t seem interested in removing the rest of her clothing, he needn’t bother. Charlotte knew what would come next; one of her hidden books recounted the fate of four women captured by the red-skinned Indians of the Americas. The author had plagiarized shamelessly from Mr. Cooper’s “Last of the Mohicans” novel but unlike the colonial author’s very proper if suggestive descriptions, the writer of this lurid romance pulled no punches as he described the fate of the captives at the hands of the lustful natives.

The heroines of the story, two beautiful daughters of a British officer were spared the fate of their young maid and a freckle-faced settler's daughter on that first horrific night after their capture but they had to watch from less than a dozen feet away as the two young teens were used by the bare-chested savages. Like her, the dresses of the pair were pulled over their heads and their linens were half torn from their bodies and then both helpless captives were held to the ground while the Indian braves took turns kneeling between the young women's thighs and used them over and over again. Just as Black Brand was now kneeling between her spread thighs.

“Oh, I hate you too Lady Marlton.” Black Brand informed her with cold passion as he pulled off his own woolen trousers with the same urgency as he had removed her frock. “I hate what your family has done to mine.” Charlotte tried to ignore his muscular body as she concentrated on his words. “Whatever fealty that I might have once felt is long gone.” What ever doubt she had left was erased! Those were the same words Mary’s brother had screamed as he had been dragged from Marlton Hall. At least she now understood this man’s hatred – not that it made what he was about to do any better.

“There is nothing that I can do that will ever fully balance the scales” Randy said as he placed the throbbing head of his cock at her entrance and slowly pushed into her tight sex. “But this at least will be a start.” He sank into her a few inches before coming to a stop. Angrily he pulled back and rammed his cock harder into her. Only when her sharp cry of pain filled the cave did he fully understand he had deflowered his captive. In that one way at least, he had evened the score between his family and Marlton Manor, but in the same instance that which made him better than Lord Marlton was lost. Randy searched Miss Marlton’s eyes for something to ease his conscience, but all he saw was contempt.

“Are you satisfied now?” Charlotte spat angrily but Randy was nowhere near satisfied. He was deeply shamed by his loss of control, but the feeling of her tight sheath clenching his manhood was unbelievably good, far tighter than anything he had ever experienced bedding lonely widows and harbor whores. The fact that Marlton’s daughter had been a virgin only added to his sense of vengeance. Mostly though, he wanted to finish what he had started, taking the proud Lady Marlton on her father’s own bed! Randy could feel a growing excitement as he felt Charlotte struggling under his hips; she was his to use as he wished, her firm young body would now pay for the injustices of her family.

“It'll take much more than this before I'm finally satisfied.” Randy growled harshly. For this tiny moment in time he was a wealthy Brazilian plantation owner sampling the sweet pleasures of his latest purchase, a lovely virgin captive whose only purpose in life was to please her new master. He pulled back and thrust forward eager to experience again both her tightness and the involuntary cry of pain that escaped her lips. His captive though had stopped crying out as he **** her, he could see her face tighten sometimes in discomfort but no further cries of pain escaped her lips.

In this one small way Charlotte defied her assailant. When she had fled, the brigand had easily tracked her through the woods, he had led her to his great bed and chaining her there for his pleasure, Fuller's strength had mastered her feminine body, just as his manhood had easily shredded her fragile maidenhead. He had taken her, but her spirit would not be broken as easily as he had broken through that fragile proof of her innocence. In a way, it was not as difficult as she thought to keep quiet - at least not at first.

With each of his strokes the pain lessened and in its place a new sensation was growing in her core. Her body was responding once again to his virile maleness, the fire that had been smoldering deep within her had been rekindled and each deep thrust fed the flame. It was like the sensation she felt when she gently stroked herself but so much more. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders and clutched at his neck; her traitorous limbs wanted nothing more than to wrap around this man and pull him into her.

Charlotte could feel her pelvis beginning to shift to meet him each time he rocked forward she fiercely reclaimed control of her body. Charlotte was determined not to give this highwayman any satisfaction, but as she squirmed under the outlaw’s **** she wondered if she’d be able to resist for much longer. In her romances the women always surrendered themselves in the end to the men who claimed them.