The Curse of the Succubus
Copyright© 2011 by BobRooney
Chapter 3: The Curse of the Dress
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 3: The Curse of the Dress - A highwayman finds himself as the victim when he tries to hold up the carriage of a beautiful and deadly demon.
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Reluctant Rape Mind Control Magic Heterosexual Fiction BDSM DomSub FemaleDom Humiliation
"I have not fed that well for a long, long time?" What did she mean? Dear Gods, the pain in my loins, in my wrists! This was some insane nightmare! I had to get free. I tried the chains again. They would not budge. I tried moving the carriage. No luck. Then I sighed looked about me. And saw the driver.
I had not really spared him a thought since I shot him with an arrow from my bow. But now he was resting, my arrow still in his belly, against a tree by the forest road. And the look he gave me scared me.
It was not hatred. It was hope. Hope beyond hope. He looked like a man who had just bet his last money on the tumbling dice, and now he was praying to all the Gods he knew that they rolled his way.
"Do you know," the woman said, her scent and soft voice distracting me, her head on my chest, the fabric of her black dress caressing the side of my upper thighs and belly. "Do you know how long it takes for a man to become ready again?"
I shook my head to clear it. "I don't know," I rasped, not really caring. "Half an hour?"
She shook her head, the dress sliding against me as she did so.
"More?"
Shake. Slide.
"Less?"
Nod. Slide.
Then I understood. Oh no. No, no. The dress, the stiff, shiny fabric was now caressing my limp member, and I could feel blood rushing down to it! No! Not now! Not after what just happened.
I groaned and became angry again. I shouted and fought, just like I had done before. Nothing helped, and now both the woman and her driver laughed. His laugh was bitter, hers as clear as ever.
She lifted my shirt up to my armpits and pulled the pants further down, completely undisturbed by my feeble attempts at fighting her. The woman pressed her impossibly alluring body against me, her breasts were firmer and bigger than I would have thought possible on such a slender frame.
She began to dance, a dance of slow, yet irresistible seduction. Sometimes close and intimate, sometimes barely touching me. The dress tickled, it caressed, it denied me access to the naked body beneath, yet the fabric gave me a pleasure no mere skin could emulate.
"My Lady," I gasped. "My Lady, please!"
Her tinkling laugh trickled into my ears as she danced, swaying in tune to some unheard, slow piece of music made by a master of sexual desire.
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