Miss Blake's Abduction Ch. 02

Constance woke with a start, jerking herself upright in bed. Full morning sunlight bathed the room in a yellow light, filtered through the shifting light of trees. Outside, she could hear birds calling.

She shuddered at the memory of last night. She remembered Whitham's triumphant expression as he took her; his sure thrusts, his muscles, his male organ. Oh god, thought Constance, her face crumpling in tears. Had he really done all that? But she felt the slight ache between her thighs and the tenderness of her breasts, and knew it must be true. She looked down at body as though she could still see the marks his hands had left. A few hot tears splashed onto her breasts. Worst of all, she remembered that she had begged for him in the end. She hung her head, letting the heaving sobs overtake her. How could she have done such a thing? She should have run away when she had the chance. Why didn't she wake up sooner, or run away from him in the carriage? Guild, horrible burning guilt, churned through her body.

She had trusted him, once. Throughout her childhood she had known Whitham as her brother's friend. He was always laughing, hatching a new plot with George. Constance was somewhat in awe of them and their easy friendship, when she was usually left without playmates. It seemed bizarre to admit it now, but she even once harboured the smallest romantic sentiment for Whitham, though she knew that he would never return such feelings. She laughed bitterly. How wrong she had been! In the end, Constance never expected that he would have betrayed her so awfully. In the carriage, even as he tied her to the bed, she never really believed that he could do such a thing to her, that he could rape her

She would have been missed at home by now, she realized. They would have known she was gone as early as when the maid came in to light the fire. Constance imagined the expressions of shock and disbelief on the faces of the staff. Undoubtedly the rumours were already starting to spread. She dreaded what Caroline Everett and her mother would be saying about her, both horrible gossips, who disliked Constance very much for all they pretended to be friendly with her. Would they believe that she hadn't left of her own accord?

That was a sobering thought. She dried her eyes, and breathed deeply. On the dressing table under the window someone had placed a ewer and a basin of water. Constance washed her hands and face. She felt vulnerable in her nakedness. Her nightgown, or what was left of it, was of little use. She wrapped herself in one of the cleaner sheets from the bed, reminding herself that if she wanted to escape she would have to find some better clothes. She caught her reflection in the small looking-glass. Her eyes were red from crying, but shone a brilliant blue underneath. She quickly looked away and began to examine her surroundings.

The room was small, a lesser bedroom of a fine house. There was a single door, which she found was locked when she tried to open it. Against another wall there was a small sort of fireplace, next to a fine writing desk. The fire crackled happily, and Constance was glad for the warmth; it had been a cool summer so far. Undoubtedly the same person who brought in the water had also thought to light the fire. Constance wondered about the maid. Perhaps she would help Constance to escape.

The bed, a beautiful old bed with mahogany posts and rich crimson hangings was the centrepiece of the room. Constance frowned and looked away. She was already far too well acquainted with that particular piece of furniture.

Above the dressing table there was a small window, the only one in the room. This bedroom must have been chosen as her prison for its seclusion to the outside world. Constance tried to open the window, but it was stuck. Two nails had been placed above the lower frame, preventing its being raised. A very large oak tree grew right in front of the window, blocking most of the view. She could only catch a glimpse of the green countryside disappearing into the distance. Even if she could open the window, it was a straight drop down to the garden below.

Constance sighed in frustration, and began pacing the room.

She needed to write to her brother. It was imperative that he know of Whitham's plan for revenge. He would have to send someone to free her, because he couldn't come himself without risking being killed. George had to know that Whitham wanted him dead before he discovered where she was and came himself to rescue her.

Constance quickly crossed the room to the writing desk and opened the top. It was entirely empty; all the contents seemed to have been removed in a hurry. There was not a pen or a scrap of paper to be seen. Whitham must have anticipated her.

"Damn!" she whispered, stomping her foot in aggravation.

Next to the writing desk there was a bookshelf, containing a few dusty volumes and other trinkets. She opened one of the books. As she had hoped, there were a few blank pages at the back. She tore these out and replaced the book on the shelf. Now she only needed a pen and ink. Blood, she thought, might work, but that would certainly not have the effect of calming her brother and assuring him of her safety. There must be something better.

She surveyed the room slowly, her eye happening on anything that could be used to inscribe a message on the torn pages. She was thinking quickly. Even if she actually managed to compose the letter, she would still need to send it. For that she would need money, for the postage and to bribe the maid to take it for her. A couple of half-crowns would cover it, if that, she thought. Her frustration was immense, having always been able to obtain money when she needed it. She regretted every penny she had ever overlooked lying in the gutter, realizing now that it might mean the difference between freedom and captivity.

Absently, she walked over to the fireplace, noting that the flame would need tending or else it would go out. The fire poker had been removed, she observed, but there was still a small pair of tongs. She knelt next to the grate, careful to keep her sheets clear of the flame. The wood was smouldering inside; glowing ash and black charcoal.

Charcoal! She reached inside the fire and pulled out a blackened piece of wood that had been left untouched in the corners. It was warm to the touch, but not hot. She broke it with her fingers. It splintered easily, covering her fingers with a fine black powder.

She nearly laughed with delight. She sat on the floor and printed her message on the torn papers in large block letters like a child.

Dearest George,

Mr. Whitham abducted me in my sleep last night. He is holding me in a room in a house by the sea, I do not know where. I cannot escape, and he says that if you come to rescue me he will kill you. Do not come, but send for help when you can. I am well, and in no immediate danger.

Your loving sister,

Constance

She re-read the letter when she finished, it covered the two sheets of paper. There was not room to write much, but she hoped it conveyed everything she knew. She folded the paper over carefully. She could almost conceal it in the palm of her hand.

Constance tied the package shut with a scrap of ribbon from her old nightgown. On the front she wrote the direction, rubbing the charcoal over the letters repeatedly so that they would remain clear.

She admired the finished letter at arms' length. When her brother received it, he would surely send someone to help. Even allowing for travelling time, Constance was certain that she would be free in a week.

Smiling to herself, she hid the letter under the mattress. Then, eyeing the hangings around the bed, she decided to make herself a travelling dress.

* * *

Whitham looked up impatiently over the paper he was reading. There were sounds coming from upstairs, he was sure of it. There was a certain rhythmic quality to the thumping. Then, it would stop for a moment before continuing again. What could she be doing? It sounded like—he laughed a little to himself—it sounded like creaking bedsprings, he thought.

No, he decided, with a shake of his head. No one else knew that she was in the house, except for his trusted housekeeper, whom he had brought with him. And his butler, Richards, of course, but Richards wouldn't dare—no matter how tempting she might be.

And she was tempting, indeed. His cock stirred at the memory of her soft flesh, the way she had rocked her hips in time with his, the look of confusion and wonder on her face when he had finally claimed her virginity. He remembered the way her hair lay spread over the sheets when he left at dawn; copper rivulets gleaming in the new light, shining brightly against her alabaster skin. He should have taken her right there, grabbing fistfuls of her radiant locks, twisting her surprised face to meet his. Her mouth looked to be so soft, and yet he had not tasted it, he recalled. He imagined her lips enclosing around the end of his thick manhood, her tongue swirling around him, taking him deeper and deeper—

There was a gigantic crash from upstairs.

"Damn!" muttered Whitham, banging his unread paper upon the desk. He was gone from the library in an instant, his great, long strides thundering down the hall. He imagined the stable boy wrapped in the intimate embrace of Constance's white limbs. He was fairly running now, and fumbled with the key in the lock before finally bursting through the door.

Constance was standing on the bed, draped in the bed sheets and what appeared to be several yards of bed hangings. The drapery around the bed was in disarray, a heavy curtain rod lay in the floor.

"What the devil are you doing?" he barked.

Constance seemed at a loss what to say. She looked ridiculous, wrapped up in drapery and sheets. Her ginger hair was wild and loose. Her fingers were stained with black, and there were great smudges of it on her cheeks and forehead. She seemed terrified that he had caught her.

Whitham had to fight very hard not to laugh at her.

Instead, he strode over to her, and calmly lifted the curtain rod. Half of the draperies were missing, torn completely from their fastenings. This would all need to be replaced. He let it rest again on the ground. He would send someone for it later, he thought.

If he hadn't turned around he would have missed her completely. Constance bolted for the open door. Unlike last night, she had a farther head start on him, but also unlike last night she was burdened with heavy layers of fabric. He caught her halfway down the hall.

"No!" she cried, screaming like a child. "Let me go! Please, someone help!"

He carried her back as she thrashed against him. He tried to cover her cries, but she bit his hand. "Please, he's taken me, Constance Blake, he's captured me!"

He finally wrestled her back into the room, kicking the door shut behind him and locking it. Constance cowered in the centre of the room, waiting for the blow to fall. Whitham leaned back against the door, breathing heavily.

"You will never try anything like that again," he said with a low and deadly tone. He looked livid. And yet, Constance noticed the telltale bulge at his crotch. He advanced toward her.

She held out a hand to ward him off, backing away. "Not again—please, Mr. Whitham."

He laughed. "You're willing to beg now, I see." His hands were already undoing his fastenings, and he extracted his throbbing organ. His manhood was thick, red and swollen. It drew Constance's gaze just as it had last night, only in the daylight she could see it much more clearly.

"Kneel," he ordered.

Constance looked up at him, at his wide shoulders which seemed barely contained within his coat. She knew well the power of his body. His mouth was pressed into a grim line, his jaw clenched obstinately.

"Kneel!" He gestured to the carpet at his feet.

Constance knelt, here eyes cast down, wondering what fresh torture he had devised.

He grabbed a handful of the sheets at her shoulders and yanked them roughly from her body, letting them pool upon the floor at her knees.

He cast a repulsive look at the pile of fabric. "I will not have you wearing such things in my presence. I forbid it. I will not waste my time constantly undressing you." His hungry gaze feasted on her naked flesh. Her full breasts swayed slightly and her nipples began to tighten in the cool air. Still otherwise fully-dressed, he began casually pulling on his stiff cock right in front of her face, as he watched her eyes grow wider.

"I intended to use you only for fucking," he said idly. "I want you pregnant, after all." With his free hand he stroked her face, brushing some auburn curls from her eyes. The gesture frightened her for all its apparent tenderness. His thumb brushed over her plump lips. She could see the wicked gleam in his eyes. "But there are some temptations I cannot resist," he said, as he pressed the tip of his cock against her lips.

Constance looked pleadingly up at him, pressing her lips shut. Surely he couldn't expect her to commit such a vile act!

"Open your mouth, Constance," he said vehemently.

Her eyes narrowed. She shook her head and tried to back away. Whitham responded by seizing a clump of her hair, pulling her face toward his groin, and as she opened her mouth in pain, he thrust himself inside of her.

Constance gagged and sputtered. She tried to pull away, but he held her down, until she stilled. He had only just sunk the head past her full lips. He sighed at the feeling of her mouth around him. She couldn't think, tears stung her eyes and she felt rather ill.

"Lick it, my darling," he said groggily.

Reluctantly, she did, tasting the saltiness of his smooth skin. He groaned at her touch, winding his fingers more deeply in her hair.

"I'm going to go deeper," he mumbled.

She felt him slide into her mouth, along her tongue. Surely he was too big to fit.

"Use your tongue, Constance, lick me," he urged as he groaned.

Constance did as she was asked, thinking that if she pleased him it would be over sooner.

"No teeth," he warned dangerously when she scraped a little too close to his tender flesh.

No teeth? thought Constance. She looked up at him, and he was looking right back down at her. He had such a satisfied smirk on his face, that it filled Constance with a great anger. He must have seen a look in her eye, because he pulled out suddenly, just as she was about to bite down on him.

"Fuck!" he swore. She had managed to bite him a little. He hissed in pain, limping around the room.

Constance looked away, trying to hide her laughter.

He struck her before she had time to defend herself. He slapped her right across the face, sending her flying to the floor. Her forehead scraped the bedpost as she fell. She lay in a heap, too dazed to move. A sharp pain throbbed in her temple. He stood over her body, casting a great shadow. He raised his arm again, ready to strike. Constance coiled her body into a ball, preparing to shield herself from the blows, but none came.

"Get up," he said fiercely, dragging her back to her knees. He shoved his cock back into her mouth. "You'll do it again until you are able do it properly," he hissed, as he worked his thick shaft along her mouth.

He held her head, fucking his cock in and out of her mouth. It was worse than before. He pushed it in so far Constance felt like gagging every time he reached the back of her throat. She couldn't breathe, and tears were running down her face.

He grunted with every thrust, going faster and deeper. He was angry, and determined to show his command over her. Her technique was poor. He could tell she had given up trying to please him, but Whitham did not care. This wasn't about pleasure anymore, but about power. She was his after all, to use as he pleased. The thought excited him in a strange way. He was coming close. "You'll swallow every drop, or you'll do it again," he warned.

Swallow what? Constance wanted to know.

"Good lord, Constance," he moaned. She felt his shaft tighten up. And then with great spasms and a triumphant shout his sperm erupted into her mouth.

Desperate now to obey him, she clamped her lips around him, fervently sucking until he finished and pulled out.

He wound his hand around his cock and jerked one last spasm of white fluid onto her breasts, before staggering away and collapsing against the door.

"Christ," she heard him say between breaths.

She swirled her tongue around her mouth, trying to dislodge the remains of his seed. The thought of his sperm swimming around in her stomach disgusted her. And then she realized that they were probably already doing the same thing in her womb. She touched one of the white globs on her skin. She felt sick at the thought of bearing his child. The stuff seemed so innocuous, she thought, how little she would have expected that it would be her downfall.

He stood and straightened himself up to his full height, once more fully clothed, drawing a deep breath. "When you become pregnant, I will dispose of you. Your brother will know where to find me. The sooner you conceive the better, I should think. I regret wasting my seed in your mouth."

Constance did not know what to say. She felt more than a little dizzy. Her body ached, her knees and mouth. Her cheek stung from where he had hit her. She reached up to her temple. Her fingers came back bloody. She toyed with the cloying scarlet between her fingers.

"When you 'dispose' of me,sir, I will have you arrested. You will hang for this, you know," she retorted with some indignation.

"Hang, will I?" he scoffed. "I would think that you would want all of this hushed up afterwards."

She glared at him, sensing that she was beginning to lose the argument. "And I imagined that you would want to proclaim your vengeance to all who could hear it."

"No, you silly girl. There is little pleasure in revenge unless it can be achieved with impunity. I certainly do not want my reputation tarnished. I will still need to marry one day to produce a legitimate heir," he looked down at her disdainfully.

"And you know that, regardless of your involvement, my reputation will be in tatters as soon as I arrive home with a swollen belly," she cried. "As such, you can hardly expect me to worry about damaging character further by refusing to name the blackguard who ruined me."

Her head ached. She crawled over to the bed. She felt cold, but did not dare to wrap her vulnerable body in a sheet.

He laughed. "Who would believe you? I would deny it. There is no evidence to suggest that I abducted you." He looked at her as though she was being quite ridiculous. "For all anyone knows, you ran away from home to elope with your lover. Would it really be a surprise that you returned pregnant with his child?" he asked mockingly. "Poor, foolish Constance."

Constance fought to restrain her tears. She hated his tone.

"You know that I would be ruined, then. No one would ever marry me in such a state."

He sneered at her.

"Did you really expect that anyone would want to marry you anyway?"

Constance bit her lip and looked away. This was too close to the truth than she was willing to admit. He knew, after all, how agonizing her entrance into society had been. He was being deliberately cruel, she recognized, to exploit one of her vulnerabilities so.

"Leave me," she said in a small voice, drawing her knees into her chest. She kept her eyes cast down on the floor, willing herself not to cry in front of him. She was defeated.

There was a long moment of stillness, but at last she heard Whitham's footsteps approaching. She tried to be as still as possible but couldn't stop herself from trembling. He knelt next to her, and she shrank away. She wouldn't look at him. When he reached out to touch her temple she flinched, whimpering involuntarily.