Mr. L. Breeding, Esq.byDiscipleN©
The following is a work of FICTION.
Copyright (c) 2002, by DiscipleN. All rights reserved.
This work may not be used for any commercial purposes without prior, documented consent from the owner.
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"Mrs. Caravell, I could hardly mistake your predicament, but I never offer compensation for the rigors and expenses required to manage this particular condition. You must look to your husband. That is his role in society. Our bargain was at an end four months ago." Lawrence inhaled his lungs full of Turkish opium fumes to indicate his conclusion of the discussion.
"But sir, my husband, he's sick. You led me to believe you would provide for us. My Henry has consumed the total of your most generous original gratuity. Can I not persuade you that... Hey! let go of me!"
"I'll remind the lady of her modesty, outside, Mr. Breeding, sir." The butler grasp the woman firmly and bowed slightly.
"Thank you, Smith. Ahhh. You may fuck her for all I care." Lawrence debated his greater enjoyment. To fill one's lungs with the sharp toxins or to breath them into a piteous, pregnant woman's mask of terror.
"Brute! This child is yours. Have you no love for your blood?"
"Madam, once your loins embraced my seed, I cared not a fiddler's tune for their survival. My sentiment flowed alongside the blood that filled my cock. Do not trouble my manservant if he decides to plunge his sword into your cooz. I will have the authorities detain you for threatening extortion if you persist to engage us."
"I am the daughter of a respectable family!" Mrs. Caravell hollered as Smith hefted her over his shoulder and exited the library.
Lawrence Breeding chuckled, and then he drew a new breath of smoke. "Once you were respectable, before I raped you." The plumes of his exhale, shapes like voluptuous women, writhed delightfully in the chilled air. He imagined them to be visions of the future. He consumed the drug between conquests. Only it and the pleasure of ejaculating his powerful semen into the womb of a virtuous lady of society held the power to restrain his bouts with convulsive migraines.
At the time of his maturity, he had become the unremarkable heir of the Breeding fortune, destined to maintain a minor position in circles which altogether revolved too much around the same, empty point. On his nineteenth birthday his father discovered him in the conservatory hewing his rampant member within the bleeding body of one of their celebration's guests. His aging father struck him senseless with his cane, and thereafter headaches plagued his life, worsening each year. Lawrence was nearly a shut in. He would be comatose from pain were it not for the drug.
He knew that opium rotted his faculties through different means, and to restrict its use he had searched for alternate means to control the flames that blazed in his head.
Ironically, it had been the eighteen year old girl whom he had raped on his nineteenth birthday that supplied his initial treatment. Her parents called on his father to pay for the service of a doctor for what was an obvious case of forced conception. And his father had paid! The old miser had chosen to pay for a child's abortion than to to simply blame the girl's low moral character for obviously seducing his son. It would have been the normal course of these events.
Weeks later, Lawrence was still furious. His head roared with torture. It had taken great fortitude of will to escape his sick bed and seek out the girl who had taken 'the cure'. He caught her at the theater one evening and dragged her into a cloak room as the actors bellowed their lines unto a rapt audience.
"Hush, Marie. No one can hear you. I can barely hear you. If I let go my hand from your mouth you had best not scream again, or I will sorely batter thee. And still I will have my way."
Her terrified eyes, round and desperate were a potion. He did not immediately detect the difference. Her high pitched squeals wound down like a melting tin soldier. Only her frightened breathing and pulse sounded.
Lawrence loosed his fingers. He glared.
"Please, oh please. Your father will punish you worse if you hurt me again."
"For all he knows, I am still in my bed, wracked in agony caused by his own hand. He will never believe that my hatred for you is far greater than the pains in my head."
"Oh, God help me. Don't. Please."
Lawrence dug one hand into the thick petticoats that draped his victim. He mauled her breasts, one and the other. His left hand unhooked the trousers from his engorged prick.
"Pull your dress up, wretched girl."
Lawrence consciously chose not to follow his father's manner. Instead of striking her. He simply leaned down and bit into the softness of her right ear.
"Hush, and obey me."
Marie loosed a flood of tears as she reached for the hem of her dress.
Lawrence tore at her bodice. He ripped cord and seam in order to expose the girl's slight breasts. He bit into one.
She shuddered and squawked.
"Pull them up, you slut." Lawrence pulled on his cock. His foreskin winked at the trembling woman.
Marie hoisted her skirts. Her bloomers were bright white.
Soon, Lawrence thought, they would bear the red stain of his debauching.
He tugged Marie's dainties to her knees and pinned her to the floor. Slowly, he wriggled his cock up to the slot that offered entrance to her nest of creation.
"I beg you, please. I'll do anything if you stop."
"Your begging makes me harder than my father's walking stick." He pierced her inner lips, pushing the broad head of his organ into her tight cunt.
"Aaahh! Take it out. Take it out. Please!"
Lawrence joined her closer. He moved his dry cock inward, and was surprised by the amount of wetness that began to coat it's thick shaft.
"You are a true slut, Marie. You cannot plea forgiveness for the eagerness of your womb. It loosens and floods with desire."
"I cannot help it. Oooh."
The man dragged his prick back and heaved it forward again. Her cunt fairly spit with her juice.
"Noooo. It can't be happening!"
"Shut up, or I'll bludgeon you with my staff." Lawrence started a slow pace, drumming her clit with his pelvis. Her silky innards sucked at his cock so that he could barely contain his seed, but he wanted this bitch to suffer. He refused to give that which would be until he thought her rightly punished.
"You are my slut, Marie."
"No. I don't want it."
"It matters little when I can summon your wetness to lick at my rod. Would you rather sooth my anger with your mouth?"
"Anything, so long as you don't plant a child within me!"
"Hah, I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of robbing me of my male right to conceive where I will." Lawrence speeded his fucking inside the girl's soft loins. Cock shot into the young bitch, stretching her skin. Puckering sunk and flattened on her belly as blood filled tissue dragged at her groove.
He found her moaning beneath him.
"Lawrence, I - I can't help it."
"F-fuck me. Fuck me. Oooooooh."
Lawrence beat his cock faster into the inflamed body writhing under his chest.
He felt the unavoidable stir within. His heart leaped and his mind exploded. The agony in his head vaporized under the climax of his rape. He mashed his lips against Marie's. Her labored breathing suffocated.
"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!" His balls rumbled and roared. Boiling, white richness gushed into her hole. He heaved his prick at her cervix and pulsed shot after shot of baby making semen right into her womb.
For several minutes his member twitched inside her as Lawrence regained his senses. Eventually, with a word. He wiped his sperm coated organ on her bloomers and left her sobbing.
This time no one would blame him for her pregnancy. He later heard that she had been forced into a home for wayward women and issued forth her bastard child like a beast in the wild.
Lawrence spent whole weeks free from his migraines after particularly satisfying rapes. Marie's debauching had freed his mind for over a month.
He had been young, and as he grew older, his pains only increased. He used greater doses of opium and laudenum each year, and of course he needed to find fresh, nubile and innocent victims.
Experience over the years had imparted some wisdom to his methods. If he simply raped women at whim, his stature in the community would have disintegrated like cold breath in a furnace. Instead, he looked for ways his addictions could be used to social advantage, but more often it took hard cash to supply his need for society cooz. Over time he evolved a most devious method for acting on his desires.
Aristocrats forever squandered their lives. Rich sons and daughters of ancient nobility and tomorrow's merchant barons placed no restriction on their desires. If it could be had for cash, it could be theirs.
Lawrence was their mentor, and their torturer. He sought out newlyweds of the middle class and befriended them. He found his personal affliction was a subtle tool for relaxing the guarded. Once attached, he introduced the husbands to the society of their betters. Most husbands fell into the trap head first. Those that withstood his seduction were spared further attention. Plenty others there were to feed the hunger of the elite. Often these men were quickly drained of their wages and credit, and their beautiful wives were clever enough to confront Lawrence.
Mrs. Penelope Caravell had been swifter than most.
"Mr. Breeding, the doctor says the arsenic remedy is to blame. It has cured the syphilis but left him quite unstable. He lays abed all day, muttering. He cannot work. His savings are exhausted, and new bill collectors call every day. Soon, I will have to sell the house and move in with my sister who scarcely has room for herself."
"I am most appalled. I thought Henry was a fine man, destined to great accomplishments. I introduced him to the finest of society, hoping to spark his inclusion.This is tragic, dear Penelope. What shall we do?"
"Your friends have squeezed my husband of every penny. They are no friends of mine, and I suspect you of some hidden chicanery."
"Nonsense, my sweet child. I have spared few funds covering his debts and supporting your good name. I cannot be blamed for your husband's weaknesses. You know this."
"Yes, but I have asked myself, why. Only a few months ago, did we meet. Henry spotted you among the well-wishers at our wedding, and had to beseech your name. Long at the reception you kept him entranced with stories of your friends, and much drink did you share. He was so besotted that night I doubt we properly consummated our vows."
"That is most regretful, and I do recognize my blame in that disappointment. I have heard, though, that your husband might not have been the best of loving men. Perhaps, he would have had trouble regardless of sobriety."
"How would I know? The very next day you arrived with gifts and congratulations. You seduced my husband with promises. And even before husband and wife could revel in their honeymoon, you swept him away to the hotel's casino to meet with your friends."
"I believe he was quite lucky that night. You can only be the source of his great fortune."
"Hrrmp, fortune drained coin after coin in the ensuing months."
"Ah, yes. Henry was not he wisest of gamblers. He often hung on long after his luck ran dry. I am only sorry that you didn't know this about your husband."
"I knew more about my husband before we married. He became a stranger to me the day after. I want to know why you have done this."
"Penelope, dear girl. Please calm yourself. Let me refresh your drink. We can discuss this, but please do not give in to your womanly suspicions. I can explain everything."
Lawrence nodded to his butler, Smith.
His solemn and absolutely faithful servant did not smile. He refilled Mrs. Caravell's tumbler with potent wine, and then he left the room, locking it most silently.
Smith knew this was the moment so much effort spent had prepared for. Upon the instant Mrs. Caravell's letter arrived, requesting an appointment, Lawrence Breeding ceased to ingest even the mildest of narcotics. He let his suffering simmer. He had grown quite an ability to mask his migraines, especially as he verbally sparred with the suffering spouse.
It was the subtlest of foreplay.
Once the master was confident the door was secure, he made his move. Rising to his feet, he began his speech.
"I am the villain in this story you speak so well." He confessed overtly. "Yet even a villain has some motive that once revealed explains much, sometimes causing great sympathy. However obscured by time, buried through conscious effort, or even masked by pain, such a motive must withhold all temptation of repentance."
"You have described many times, your headaches, Mr. Breeding. I understand your use of what many people consider to be immoral agents of relief. They consume you as much as you them."
"That is not the sympathy to which I refer."
"Then what, why have you led my husband to his present state?" Mrs. Caravell accused loudly.
"It was never my intention for harm to ever befall you. Your husband, he ruined it all. I would no more sacrifice the bullock in your field than scratch your lovely hand, were I to kiss it." Lawrence stepped once, closer.
"Sir, you become most familiar."
"Penelope, are you so blind, you see the ruins but not the glory they once beheld?
"You are my light, my joy. The pains of my mind are empty this day. Look at my eyes. Drugs have not touched them. Light does not injure them. You fill them and bless them all the way through my mind and into my heart. I have fallen in love with you, and I am a miserable coward, simpering and impotent. I could not even help your husband extract himself from petty vices. Let me fall at your feet and soil your hem with my tears."
"Mr. Breeding!" Penelope leapt to her feet as he kneeled before her. "Please, sir. I need air."
"You are my atmosphere. Let me breathe you." Lawrence grabbed a handful of her skirt and held it to his nose. Did he detect the faintest hint of her sex?
"Sir! This is most peculiar! You must release me."
Mr. Breeding's skill at seduction never failed to fail. Only one woman had ever swooned after his oily words, and he had dismissed her without a moment's hesitation. If he were lucky, this one might pose especially difficult.
"I can release you less easily than I can pluck a stone from my gall. I say I love you."
"You are mistaken. I am here only to hear your confession. If this is true, then I must leave you. I could never own feelings for you sir. I love my husband."
There it was, the final key that released the battering inside his skull.
"Then I will send you to him with that which his love failed to achieve."
"Any man who forgoes his bride's fertility for the folly of status is not worthy of generating his kind upon the world."
Mrs. Caravell naturally underestimated her situation. She kicked all too slowly at the hand upon her dress. Lawrence caught her foot easily. He tugged the shoe off in one breath.
"Yes, let me kiss your feet and adore you from the lowest of places."
"You are mad!" She surprised him by cuffing his temple, but the pain that freed his repressed migraine only enraged Lawrence Breeding. He tugged her ankle, and her precarious stance collapsed. Skirt and bloomers offered little cushion to break her fall.
"You should not have done that, wench." He stood holding his throbbing skull. "I shall tear your hymen with a dagger once I defrock you."
Still she fought him. She rolled over the Persian carpet as he fell upon her, but her petticoats were too voluminous to avoid capture. Lawrence dragged her across the floor by the hem of her dress.
"Help me, someone!" She shrieked.
The cry pierced his weak brain, and he momentarily lost his grip to an unendurable bolt of agony which flashed through him.The woman leapt to her feet and raced to the door. She failed to move it.
Lawrence captured her by the waist as she pounded at the lacquered maple wood. Once again he transported her to the divan. Its red velvet alone could not disguise the many tortures dealt upon it. Repeated cleanings refused to lift all discoloration.
"Oh sir, set me free, and I promise I shall never trouble you again." The physical fight had exhausted her, a woman accustomed only to the efforts of setting tea.
"Trouble yourself to remove your bodice, else I set a metal edge to your calicoes."
"God rescue me!"
Lawrence pulled her train with the might of the damned. It tore clean away. The skirt separated at the waist and white undergarments sprung out like daisies beneath a handkerchief lifted. Pomegranates revealed their fruit more easily than common women.
"I plead you for mercy, sir!"
"I commanded you to disrobe, wretched harlot!" He cuffed her cheek vehemently.
"Ooouuuhh!" Still she failed to move, fright anesthetizing her muscles.
Lawrence was forced to pull the short blade hidden in his boot. He could not last long as pain mounted within. His fight to maintain his erection cost him important attention. He could barely see the blade he flashed before her bosom.
"I shall cut them and anything obstructing, even flesh."
"Please, no!" She wailed, but her hands finally jumped to the task of unhooking her top layer.
His other hand reached into her skirt and drew it crudely down her thighs.
"I beg you! I beg you!" Her last hook released.
"SHUT UP!" Again he cuffed her. At her screeches, pain reared above his tolerance. Lawrence turned her sideways to remove her bodice and access her corset. To the straining cords, he applied his sharp edge. They snapped like bullets.
Penelope, reduced in her defenses was reduced to whimpering. Tears flowed into her remaining, thin chemise.
At last, her bloomers were accessible. Lawrence ripped them with two hands. His knife clattered to the floor. He sank his face to breath the perfume of her secret place. It was a musk that never failed to harden his cock to iron. Even the pain reeled at her smell. Few seconds passed as he freed his strengthened manhood.
Mrs. Caravell saw man's ugliness for the first time. Her one experience with her drunken husband had occurred in darkness as was proper. She recoiled at the snake.
"Anything, sir. Please, anything but that." Her voice was barely that of a mouse.
Lawrence Breeding crawled on top of her and whispered. "Now is the angel fallen, her screams unheeded, her tortures only begun." His fists beat her thighs to release her instinctive tensing. She was tight. The outer folds of her cunt resisted, dry as grandmothers. He cupped a palm to her mouth and commanded her.
"How could I possibly...?"
His other hand grasp a thinly veiled breast, and fingers dug their nails in. She howled. The aristocrat smiled at her pinhole eyes as she worked to produce the fluid he required. His cupped hand reached between her legs and applied her spittle directly upon her lips there. Slippery fingers worked their way through them. They found her bud shrunk and hidden deep.
His splitting brain could not be restrained a second more. Lawrence thrust his cock forward and embedded himself into the woman's pit. Halfway, his decent slowed at her hymen's resistance, but like all others it died, tearing into bloody strands from his momentum. The sensation was worth twenty lungfuls of poisonous smoke. Her howl was the first to bemuse him.
Released from impending unconsciousness, he brushed his lips against the fair skin of his victim's cheek. They spoke in her ear. "Hold me secure, and I shall bring desire to your heart."
"You are," the proud Mrs. Caravell sobbed, "a fiend."
"If a fiend I must be to open your eyes to my longing, then may devils dance around us. Love shall ward them back to hell upon our completion."