"I'm not finished yet."
Rosalinda shivered upon hearing this.
"Do you think you can handle the real thing?" Reynard spoke with a smile.
Rosalinda swallowed hard, her gaze momentarily dropping to his groin before returning to his face. Her voice came out hoarse, still trembling from the spasms of her orgasm.
"I... I think I..." She hesitated, biting her lip. Her body seemed to want to answer 'yes,' but her mind was still trying to process the situation.
Even after having accommodated his fist, the idea of receiving his member inside her left her breathless. She shifted restlessly, feeling a mixture of excitement and apprehension at the same time.
"I... I want to..." Rosalinda took a deep breath, gathering courage. Her face was still burning, but she managed to articulate the words. "I want to... I want to feel you... inside me..."
She admitted, embarrassed but determined.
Hearing this, Reynard didn't hesitate. "Get off the counter and take off your clothes."
His order was simple.
Without hesitation, Rosalinda slid off the counter, her legs trembling slightly. She began to remove her dress, struggling to undo the ties that held it in place.
Her hands trembled, but she persisted, finally managing to free herself from it. Next, she slipped her damp panties down her legs, letting them fall to the floor.
She stood naked, her pale body gleaming in the dim light of the inn.
She turned her back to Reynard, leaning on the counter with her fingertips, gripping it tightly. Her spine arched slightly, further exposing her back and hips.
She closed her eyes, waiting, her heart pounding against her chest.
With her back to him, Rosalinda displayed an opulent silhouette. Her large, round buttocks, like two full moons, white and soft, appeared invitingly upturned, each curve smoothly molded.
The pale, soft skin seemed almost translucent, giving the impression that it could be bruised with the slightest touch. Her thin, delicate shoulders narrowed down to the base of her neck, connecting to her back, which curved gracefully down to her waist.
Small dimples dappled the lumbar region, adding an innocent sweetness to the feminine contour. Her spine slightly projected, forming a small depression at the base of her back, before joining the generous curve of her hips.
Her breasts, full and swollen, hung slightly downward, with small, pink nipples, like two cherry blossom tips. They were large, but seemed even larger compared to the rest of her body.
Each breath caused them to tremble subtly, as if pleading for attention.
Her skin, smooth as silk, looked radiant under the faint light. Without marks or blemishes, she looked like a sculpture, so perfect and untouched...
Until now.
"Oh, dear..." Reynard's member, rigid and unforgiving, brushed against her folds, sending a shiver down her spine.
And then, he moved.
"Aaaahhh..." For Rosalinda, it was as if a lightning bolt had split her world in half. An intense mix of burning and pleasure invaded her, making her let out a muffled scream, as Reynard began to enter.
His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her buttocks. It was like holding a cloud, so soft and warm to the touch. His thumbs traced lazy circles, appreciating the texture, the shape, the weight.
Rosalinda's internal muscles contracted, struggling to accommodate his size.
She had never felt anything like this before.
Her eyes, wide open, were fixed on a point ahead, as she tried to get used to the feeling of fullness. Rosalinda felt her own moisture, mixed with the residue of his earlier fluids, facilitating the contact.
As he began to move, her entire body tensed. His member, thick and long, seemed to be stretching endlessly, opening a path inside her with agonizing slowness.
Every millimeter felt like an eternity, as she struggled to accommodate him.
Reynard held her hips firmly, pushing slowly.
She was so tight.
The initial resistance of the tissue was quickly overcome, and Reynard felt her soft, warm interior engulf him.
It was a feeling of perfect fit.
Rosalinda arched her back, a silent scream trapped in her throat.
Reynard smiled, lust clouding his eyes. He thrust his hips once more, deep, all the way, and began thrusting roughly.
"Ahh! Ah... ah... ahhh!" She moaned, her eyes glistening with pleasure.
His hips slammed against her fleshy buttocks with brutal force, the impact echoing through the room.
The sound of skin slapping against skin resonated intensely, punctuated by her stifled gasps. Reynard's movements were relentless, driving her against the counter.
Her breasts, large and round, surged forward, swaying uncontrollably with every rough thrust. They trembled and bounced, seeming to want to escape her chest, so intense were the movements.
Her legs trembled, struggling to sustain her as Reynard possessed her. Despite this, her thighs were slightly parted, allowing him to penetrate deeper, his hardness repeatedly hitting her sweet spot.
With every thrust, her body projected forward, her elbows locked to keep her upright. Her spine curved, her shoulders hunched, her face buried in her arm as if trying to protect herself.
But this lasted for only a short time.
Resistance gave way to surrender. Rosalinda stopped fighting, accepting every thrust with a resignation mixed with a growing submission. Her limbs relaxed, her fingers loosened on the counter, allowing Reynard to use her as he wished.
She said nothing, only breathed deeply, trembling, surrendered to the rhythm he imposed.
Without attempting to escape any further, the night seemed long.
***
Brannon felt as if his body were in pieces. He had run to exhaustion, fighting four men who were chasing him.
And now, hidden in the dark side alley of the inn, he was licking his wounds like a hurt dog. His left eye was purple and almost shut, and a cut was bleeding on his shoulder.
All because of that scoundrel.
"He will pay..." Brannon growled at the cold night air.
He was no longer interested in running; he was interested in revenge. He desperately needed to know which room that man was staying in.
And he desperately needed a glimpse of Rosalinda, the goddess who inspired him.
He needed to ensure she was safe, away from the worm.
Brannon scaled the inn's stone wall, using the support boards for the roof. It was a perfect hiding spot. On the top, he crawled silently, ignoring the pain in his muscles.
The full moon hovered above him, faintly illuminating the courtyard.
He crawled to the edge, looking down, searching for windows. If Reynard were in a room, he would see through the window. He looked for a lit light.
Then, Brannon noticed the faint light coming from the first floor, from the reception window, just below him.
'Rosalinda hasn't gone to bed yet?'
She would still be there!
Brannon's foolish heart leaped.
He slid to the edge of the roof, approaching the area directly above the inn's counter. There was a small ventilation opening, or perhaps just a loose board.
He put his good eye to the hole, trying to glimpse his goddess.
He expected to find her, quiet, perhaps reading. Perhaps she was worried about the fight.
Worried about him.
And what he saw made his world stop.
He first saw the mess.
The polished wooden counter, which Rosalinda kept immaculate, was disheveled. There was a dark, wet stain on the wood, just above where he knew she kept her notes. And beside it, the white apron, the symbol of her sweetness, lay discarded on the floor, crumpled like a piece of trash.
The initial shock was just disorder.
Then, he saw the color.
Rosalinda's light blue dress was there, but not on her. It was heaped and twisted, a pile of useless silk tossed near the feet of a familiar figure.
A familiar body.
Rosalinda was bent over the counter.
Not gracefully. She was turned with her back to the crack, bent over with her hands resting on the wood ahead. Her rear was upturned and completely exposed to the faint light. The pale skin of her thick buttocks and the curve of her thighs glistened.
Brannon stopped breathing.
"No... it can't be..." He whispered, his voice fading in his throat. His gaze fixed on the scene.
The cold air seemed to freeze in his lungs.
The goddess was a piece of meat.
Her expression, her mouth open in a silent scream, her teeth showing, her face bathed in sweat and lust.
She didn't look like the timid maiden at all.
He saw the movement.
The rhythm.
Reynard was behind her.
He held her by the hip with one hand, his other hand against the smooth skin of her back, pulling her into a brutal and incessant rhythm. Brannon could see Reynard's member, thick and deep, disappearing and reappearing in Rosalinda's swollen entrance with every thrust.
"N-no... M-my... Rosalinda..." Brannon's whisper sounded hoarse.
That was not what he expected.
The woman he saw was not pure.
She looked like an animal.
She was a slut, a mountain of lustful flesh exposed to domination.
The sound, muffled by the board, was wet and grotesque: a constant thwack-thwack-thwack of bodies colliding, punctuated by Rosalinda's husky, uncontrolled moans.
Their hips moved at an incessant pace, and Rosalinda's body shook with every thrust, lifting and falling with the force of Reynard's penetration.
"That's it! Ah... That's it! Fuck me!" Her scream rose, a strident sound of animal pleasure, completely devoid of the gentleness he knew.
"Yes! Fuck me! Fuck your bitch! Use me! Ah!" He saw, in the same instant, her body move instinctively. Rosalinda pushed her massive hip back, upward, seeking Reynard, begging for more depth.
Brannon's world collapsed.
His mind, already clouded by pain and revenge, focused on a single detail: Rosalinda's muscles contracted in desperate spasms with every stroke from Reynard, and she moaned, not in pain, but in a deep, shameless satisfaction.
She wanted this.
She was enjoying it.
Reynard responded to her movement with a final, wild impulse. He released her waist, using both hands to grab the base of her buttocks, lifting her slightly off the counter for deeper access.
The sound of wet impact became even louder, a disgusting smack-smack-smack that reverberated in the small ventilation opening.
"Ghhk! Faster! Reynard! I'm going to... Ah! I'm close!" Rosalinda shrieked, the sound of her voice now bordering on hysteria.
Brannon saw her face turn sideways, her forehead pressed against the counter. Drops of sweat ran from her temple, mixing with the trail of saliva that fell from her open mouth.
Her fingers, once firm, were now white as they desperately gripped the wooden surface.
Reynard's member seemed to disappear entirely within her flesh with every brutal thrust, painting the white skin of her thighs with more fluids.
It was disgusting. It was obscene. It was his goddess being reduced to this.
Brannon felt his stomach churn.
"I'm yours! I'm just your slut! Fuck me until I can't take it anymore!" Rosalinda's cry, this time, was not one of pleasure, but of desperate surrender.
Reynard laughed, a guttural, satisfied laugh that Brannon heard clearly. He responded, the sound of his deep voice muffled by exertion: "You dirty bitch."
He doubled the rhythm. Rosalinda's buttocks slammed against his hips with violent force.
"Ahhh! Oh, my God! Ah!" Her body shuddered uncontrollably. Rosalinda's spine arched with such force that it seemed about to break.
The sound of climax escaping her lips — a long, sharp, scandalous shriek.
Brannon saw her eyes widen for a second before they rolled back, her vision lost in blind ecstasy.
The ventilation hole was not enough to muffle the deafening scream that followed, a primal bellow that lasted several seconds as Reynard pounded into her with a final fury.
It was the sound of the wildest pleasure, the sound of Brannon's world shattering into pieces. The sight of Rosalinda, trembling uncontrollably, melting onto the counter, totally destroyed by the pleasure he would never be able to give, was the last straw.
Revenge.
Hatred.
Everything became irrelevant.
Brannon stepped away from the crack, his good eye stinging. The only thing he needed to do now was run.
Flee from that image, flee from the sound that continued to rise – the thwack-thwack-thwack and the cry of "Use me!" — the beat of his ideal's destruction.
He backed up, tripping on the tiles. It was impossible to stay there another second. His arms trembled, not with anger, but with humiliation and repulsion.
The image of that bare, curved rear, and the sound of her scandalous moans, were the final proof.
She was never his.
He crawled into the darkness of the roof, the smell of rotten wood and the lascivious sound being the last things pushing him to flee.