His thrusts were slow and deliberate. He pulled out to the tip and entered her by inches. He was close to her, so close that she could raise her head from the stone and nuzzle it against his chest if she could somehow part the folds of the cloak. The coven of women still chanted though Mona barely heard it. The man said nothing. They copulated in total silence but for their breathing. Her thighs were damp and she felt more fluid dripping down the rock under her hips. Minutes passed. He moved faster inside her but not fast enough to bring her to a second orgasm. She sensed something building, something more than her own climax. The chanting grew louder, his thrusts harder and deeper. Even chained to the rock, Mona felt her body floating, weightless, unmoored. Again the colossal hand found her breasts and fondled them, pulling on the hardened points, squeezing them mercilessly. The hand was perfect in all ways but for its freakish size, and she couldn't stop herself from arching against the huge palm. She was torn between her desire for his rough caresses and her need to shrink from this cloaked creature, run from it, hide. But where could she go? Even if she weren't chained to the rock, the cock inside her speared her to the boulder as completely as an iron stake through her body.
The Minotaur-the man, Malcolm, whatever or whoever he was-lifted her back off the boulder and slipped his arm under her. They were sealed together at the loins. Another spurt of seed filled her and she orgasmed again. Only with Malcolm had she ever been able to feel a man coming inside her. It should be over now. No man could come twice inside a woman and continue to fuck her afterwards. It was unnatural. It wasn't possible. Yet he continued to thrust into her hole. Her sex felt like an open wound, the tissue wet and raw and pried apart.
She needed it to stop.
She never wanted it to end.
He took his hand out from behind her head and grasped her thigh. The other hand held the other thigh. He jerked her hips toward him, impaling her on him as he impaled himself into her. The chanting grew ever louder until it was all she could hear. It was louder than her breathing, louder than his, louder than their coupling, louder than her own cries as he rode her toward a final climax. She thrashed on the rock, turned her head and buried it against her arm, screamed as muscles inside her spread, twisted and rearranged themselves to accommodate that inhuman organ thrusting inside of her.
Would it ever end? Yes, it had to. She felt it nearing its end, speeding toward the final cataclysm. She tried to hasten the end with wild gyrations, and the cloaked man responded with faster thrusts. It was a primal union of bodies. There was nothing left of Mona-not her name, her past, her life in the outside world. There was no outside world. There was the joining of their bodies, the wetness, the rock behind her and the cloak shielding her and nothing else. The Minotaur penetrated every part of that devouring orifice. It was coming. She could feel it. It was coming. Almost there. It was coming. The final spasm of union . It was coming. The closing of the wound. It was coming. The sacrifice that brought them together. It was coming. It was coming. The man pounded into her depths. She looked up at the night sky and saw all the stars turn red.
It was coming.
The man pulled back his hood and Mona screamed.
"It's me, darling," Malcolm said into her ear. "It's only me."
Mona found herself in the bed in the back room, Malcolm, naked on top of her, inside of her, moving within her. Mona's orgasm shook her down to her core, her cervix contracting wildly, painfully almost, even as she screamed again in her terror.
The Minotaur-the cloaked figure who was but was not Malcolm-was gone. So were the fire and the priestesses and the chanting and the chains around her wrists and stomach and the bolder against her back. In their place there was nothing but a candle burning on a stool, paintings of women around and about the bed, the sounds of the street, and Malcolm's own weight holding her down onto the bed.
She pushed him off her and sat back against the headboard, semen pouring out of her. Malcolm knelt in front of her, an ironic smile on his face.
"Did I give you a little fright?" he teased.
"A little fright? You drugged me."
"Never. It was nothing more than pomegranate wine. Then again, pomegranates do have very special powers."
"That was not just wine. What I saw-"
"You saw what I wanted you to see as always. When you drink it, it opens the mind."
Her heart raced like she was still chained to the boulder. Her hands shook, her entire body shook.
"I warned you I like to play games," he said. "I warned you that next time, you would hate me."
"I do hate you."
"It'll pass." He shrugged, sent her a kiss and a wink. "It always does."