tagNonConsent/ReluctanceA Sinful Season Ch. 02

A Sinful Season Ch. 02


Roseton Manor had been home to Olivia's family ever since the days of her vaunted forbear, Sir Guy Henstridge, 1st Baron Henstridge, who had slaughtered and raped his way down the Burnham Coast and been named a Peer of the Realm for his troubles. Though little if anything remained of the original fortress, Roseton Manor's ancient antecedents were well visible in the hand-woven tapestries and poorly-differentiated portraiture lining its echoing corridors. (Olivia's ancestors, despite having rather fewer grandparents than was strictly recommendable, generally owed the sameness in their likenesses more to their portrait artists' habit of drawing people as they wanted to look, not as they actually looked.) Olivia's mother and grandmother had filled the galleries with an abundance of furniture made of good English oak, with Italian draperies and just enough French style to be fashionable. Thanks to their efforts, the stately manor home exuded an aura of comfort, respectability, and quiet good taste.

Walking through the front door, Olivia breathed deep of the familiar aroma of rose-scented furniture polish that Mrs. Hathaway so favored. It smelled like home, like innocence-but a home that was hers only so long as Papa endured, and so a home inherently temporary. And Olivia feared her innocence was, if not gone, then definitely packing its traveling trunk.

Entering through the front door was a calculation; the servants' entrance would be crowded with servants, who tended to gossip. Papa would be in his study, as he always was this time of day, and he truly detested being disturbed. So with Miss Hurst ill, she knew she'd likely have a clear path to her bedroom door.

As she mounted the stairs, moving as fast as she could without actually running, she decided it would be best to change her clothes, and then see if poor Miss Hurst required any assistance. Why Papa had hired a governess last November was a question that had initially concerned Olivia a great deal. Had she made some foolish mistake? Was there some necessary skill that Papa felt she had neglected? Miss Hurst was a dear, barely older than Olivia herself, slender and short, with pale brown hair, a little snub nose, and the sweetest disposition. But Olivia had been out of the schoolroom for years now, and aside from some remedial pianoforte playing, Miss Hurst never seemed to, well, instruct Olivia in anything.

After much thought, she had finally decided that Miss Hurst's primary purpose was as a chaperone, given her age, her lack of a mother, and the distance of her Wharburn relations' homes. Why Papa had not simply retained the elderly Miss Huxtable, who had taught Olivia to read, paint, and play the pianoforte with passable skill, she could not immediately say, but surely he had had some sensible reason.


Freshly clothed and refreshed with a glass of water from the kitchen, Olivia headed to the south wing to do her charitable duty. As she approached Miss Hurst's door, she noticed it was slightly ajar, with certain strange noises wafting from the crack. Concerned, Olivia edged up the door, carefully nudged it slightly further open, and peered inside.

Miss Hurst was not sick in bed. Miss Hurst was not in bed at all. She was *on* her bed. On her hands and knees on her bed, to be precise.

Stark naked.

And standing behind her, his trousers around his ankles, his buttocks clenching as his hips thrust furiously between her widespread legs, was Papa.

Olivia gaped. What was *doing* to her?



"Please, my lord," whimpered Miss Hurst, her voice so low Olivia could barely understand her. "Please take it . . . please take it out. I'm a good girl. Please, I don't want—"

Papa grinned, a cruel smirk that looked so utterly alien on his normally-warm, cheerful visage, and gave the woman he had impaled a particularly firm thrust. Miss Hurst shuddered helplessly. "Oh, my dear," he chided, "Once a man gets his cock into a woman, all the angels of heaven could not pull it out again unsated."

"Please—" she begged.

"This is what women are for," he told her, his deep baritone rumbling, "to fuck and please men." He reached around and clutched her heavy breasts with both hands, gently kneading their delicate flesh as he thrust deeply between her helplessly-splayed legs. "You like it. I know you do. You were born to fuck."

From her vantage point, Olivia could clearly see her father's organ slithering in and out of the crevice between Miss Hurst's legs. It looked much the same as Albie's, what she could see of it, though perhaps a bit thicker. The savage, glassy look in his eyes was near-identical to Albie's, as was his heavy breathing.

And as Miss Hurst begged, so pitifully and so prettily, her employer's strong, skillful hands massaging her bare breasts as he pushed his hard penis in and out of that dangerous place between her legs, Olivia was suddenly overcome with relief that she'd kept Albie unsheathed. That could easily have been *her* in the meadow, naked and mounted, with Albie's penis stuffed deep inside her. Begging that he stop thrusting, pleading that he take it out, while his hips rolled smoothly on, soothing his penis deep inside her unwillingly-mounted body. Knowing that his superior strength meant he could do as he pleased with her there, as men did with women in all things. Knowing that he wouldn't stop until he gained his ultimate relief and her utter damnation.

A heated, almost breathy tingle beat between her legs at the thought, and she had to force herself to breathe.

The world seemed to stand still as Papa pleased himself between poor Miss Hurst's legs. The more she pleaded for him to unsheathe his penis, the deeper and harder he thrust, oblivious to everything but his own pleasure, and completely oblivious to his aghast daughter standing in the half-open door. At one point, he reached around and wrapped a hand around Miss Hurst's delicate little throat, forcing her to arch her back as he hammered away between her thighs, and Olivia was suddenly overwhelmed with the certainty that this was some kind of war, with Papa the conqueror and Miss Hurst his defeated foe.

Miss Hurst seemed to be suffering some manner of physical effect from Papa's thrusts. She panted and twisted her fists in the bedclothes, quiet moans issuing almost inadvertently from her lips. She appeared to be actively trying to stop her hips from moving along with Papa's thrusts, and only succeeding intermittently.

"Please," she whimpered, "Please, take it out. You can't make me. I won't. I won't—"

"You will," Papa promised, his voice dark as the Pit. "My cock's so deep inside you it'll spew out of your mouth. I've won. Give in."

Miss Hurst's hips began to spasm then, and an almost pained wail issued from her lips, which for some reason made that evil grin on Papa's face grow. "Good girl," he breathed, pressing his lips against the side of her neck, almost as if he meant to bite her there. "Come on my cock, that's a good little girl." His heavy palms caressed her bare nipples as she writhed and shuddered upon his hard, impaling penis, her eyes gone suddenly unfocused.

Where Albie's thrusts had been frantic, Papa's thrusts were steady, controlled. Where Olivia had been in control of Albie's pleasure, Papa was clearly steering this coupling. And now, where Albie had practically screamed his fulfillment, Papa seemed determined to keep his own quiet.

"Please take it out, please I cannot get with child, please," Miss Hurst begged, apparently sensing some signal hidden to Olivia. Papa ignored her, thrusting in and holding, buttocks clenching, a quiet groan issuing, almost accidentally it seemed, from his throat. His eyes briefly closed as he shuddered, hips locked firmly against Miss Hurst's backside. She, trapped upon him, trapped beneath him, looked devastated as he pumped his seed inside her.

She looked beaten. She looked conquered.

After several seconds of shaking, his thrusts stopped, and he leaned forward onto Miss Hurst's back, palms planted against the bed, panting heavily.

Olivia quietly backed out of the room and hurried to her bedroom, trying her best to keep her boots from clicking on the floor.


Supper that evening was awkward.

Miss Hurst was not at table, pleading continued illness. Olivia was grateful for that-she did not think she could look Miss Hurst in the eye, after seeing her degradation-but that meant she was trapped alone with Papa. And though he chatted aimlessly on, Olivia was having a great deal of difficulty focusing on her father's words. Every time she looked at him, she saw, not her wise and beloved parent, but an image of his pleasure-wracked face as he forced his cream inside Miss Hurst as she pleaded futilely for reprieve.

"Darling, are you well? You look a bit flushed."

Startled, Olivia dropped her fork. "No, Papa, I am quite well." She took a small sip of water. "I fear I have been woolgathering. What is it you were saying?"

Papa laughed. "I was discussing Sir Henry's newly-purchased mare, but I fear I find that topic even more boring than you do."

Olivia blushed.

"In any case, I do have a far more important matter to put before you." Papa set down his wineglass, a serious expression in his eyes. "Your Aunt Wharburn cornered me at Sylvia's wedding and pleaded that I allow you to join her for the Season. She is bringing Ginevra out, and wishes to sponsor you alongside her. I confess, I was initially quite reluctant. You are my only child, and it has never been an easy thing to allow you to step outside of my protection. However . . ."

Olivia's heart began to race. A Season? In Town? Why, that was something she had dreamed of since she was a girl! And to come out with Ginny, Aunt Wharburn's second-youngest daughter, a sweet girl with whom Olivia had always shared a close connection.

"Papa, I am—I am beyond speech! This is magnificent news! I confess, I had always wished to have a Season in town, but with Mama gone, I feared it was but a dream."

Lord Henstridge smiled indulgently at his daughter's obvious joy. "I am glad to hear your excitement, Olivia, very glad indeed. You are expected at Wharburn House in one week, so you should have Bradfield begin gathering your belongings. Your aunt will see to your clothing and all other such things, sparing no expense I expect, but you will of course need to bring a suitable wardrobe to see you through in the meantime."

"I shall begin packing this very evening!" Olivia clapped her hands, then stopped, considering. "Shall Miss Hurst be accompanying me? As a chaperone?"

Papa's eyes, so warm and caring a moment before, now took on a predatory gleam. "No, dearest, I do not think Miss Hurst should accompany you. Your Aunt will be a more than capable chaperone. And you will be spending all of your time at balls and routs and picnics, select places of Society where Miss Hurst would of course be unable to accompany you."

"So Miss Hurst will remain here?" Olivia's tone was quiet, but her thoughts were anything but. A nagging suspicion had wriggled into her mind about the true reason why Papa was willing to send her to Aunt Wharburn now, when surely she must have been seeking to sponsor her niece in previous years, with Olivia none the wiser. "I do wonder how she will occupy herself, without me in her charge."

Papa laughed, and it sounded strangled. "Oh, I am sure Miss Hurst will find some occupation. Never fear, darling."

Olivia's stomach dropped. Papa's hidden purpose was now beyond doubt. And she could hardly claw back her acquiescence, could she?

"Perhaps I should remain," she said lightly, hoping her father would interpret it as a joke. "What need have I for a Season? I shall marry Albie, and all will be well."

Papa sniffed. "Young Mr. Stockington is a fine boy, a fine boy. But my daughter is destined for greater than the mere wife of a country squire."

Olivia forced a smile. "I was only joking, Papa. Marrying Albie! Why, the very thought!"

Papa laughed, and took a sip of wine.

"Though now that I consider it, I believe I am feeling a bit peaked. Perhaps I am coming down with the same illness as Miss Hurst."

Lord Henstridge's infinitesimal shudder would have escaped Olivia's notice, had she not been watching him so closely. "I dearly hope not, darling. If you fear such an illness, you should rest and gather your strength. It would not serve you well at all in Town, should you contract Miss Hurst's particular . . . illness."


The following day, Olivia rose early and dressed in her red riding habit. She breakfasted alone (Papa tended to remain abed until 9 or 10 o'clock), then strode to the stables, where Jack (but not Sam) had recovered enough from his illness to greet her and saddle Pepperpots. (Olivia now suspected their "illnesses" had been no more than an excess of drink, but was far too polite to ever say so.)

"Is Mr. Donnaghy around?" she asked, hoping for a tone of careless politeness rather than terrified guilt.

"He's still abed, miss," said Jack, tightening the saddle's cinch. "At his age, it'd be a miracle if he were awake at this time in the morning."

"Of course. Thank you, Jack." Olivia nudged Pepperpots with her heels, and headed for Stockington Hall.

The bright sunlight warmed her as she rode, but her heart was troubled. She needed to see Albie, to confront him about his behavior the previous afternoon and assure herself that he would not go and gossip about what she had done to him. She did not think he would, of course, but then she had never thought he would do what he had already done, and boastful young men had brought down too many young ladies for her to rest comfortably.

Cresting the hill she glimpsed Stockington Hall: a much smaller and newer house than Roseton Manor, of course, but equally as warm and inviting. Olivia turned Pepperpots toward the stables.

It had been a relatively short ride, a mere two miles separating Stockington Hall from Roseton Manor. She arrived at the stables relatively unwinded, and immediately dismounted. She would present herself through the front door, she had decided, and purport to be on a spontaneous visit to Mrs. Stockington. If Albie's mother was awake, she would gossip with her in the drawing room and hope Albie stumbled upon them so she could make some excuse to get him alone. If he did not, she would simply trust to Mrs. Stockington to mention the visit to her son, and hope Albie would seek her out. If Mrs. Stockington was not home, or was still abed, Olivia was not sure how she would proceed.

"Livvie." Startled out of her reverie, she turned. Albie marched up to her from out of the shadows, his expression unreadable. "Is Miss Hurst with you?" he asked.

"I have come alone—" At that, Albie's eyes widened. He grabbed her arm and yanked her into the stables, practically shoving her into a small room attached to the structure's far end, and closed the door.

"Papa is out meeting with the vicar, and Mama remains abed. We haven't much time." His lips curved upward in a long, slow smile. "Yesterday was glorious, Livvie. Absolutely glorious." He slowly backed her up against the room's far wall, until his chest pressed against her breasts. Leaning down, he kissed her.

The kiss sent tingles to places low in Olivia's belly, but she had not come for this. Pushing Albie away, she was startled to discover he had already begun unlacing his breeches. "Albie, are you mad? Just what do you think you are doing? I did not come here to repeat yesterday's foul mistake! What you did, what we did, will never, ever happen again!"

The excitement in Albie's eyes died, disappointment turning his mouth sour. "Never? Please, Livvie, you do not mean that."

"Albert Edward Stockington! I am not some common trollop, to be thrown on her back whenever it pleases you!" Olivia was outraged. She had expected apologies, assurances, groveling. Not for Albie to immediately try to put her on her back again.

"Please, Livvie," he panted. "Please, I just need some relief." He stared at her hungrily. "Just the tip. You'll still be pure, and I won't come inside you. I'll just put the tip in and then I'll take it right out again."

His penis stood firm and swollen before her, and his eyes were wild. Papa's words from the afternoon before suddenly echoed in her ears: "Once a man gets his cock into a woman, all the angels of heaven could not pull it out again unsated."

Olivia could not risk that. "Albie, I said no." She pushed at him harder, and tried to head for the door. He blocked her, his swollen organ waving almost accusingly.

"All right, all right. Then maybe you could just . . . do what you did yesterday. With your hand. That might be enough." His fists clenched, as if he barely stop himself from grabbing her hand and forcing it around his flesh.

Olivia paused, considering her circumstances. They were alone, and she could not scream for help without being ruined in reputation, if not in body. Albie's face bore an expression of need bordering on anger; he would not permit her to leave so long as his body's urges remained un-sated. And he really was quite a lot bigger than her.

Yesterday's encounter, while ruinous to her clothes, had not actually harmed her. If she sated him one last time, what harm would occur?

And if she didn't . . . harm would occur. That she knew, sure as sunset.

That decided the matter. She stripped off her gloves, not willing to ruin another set, as Albie frantically pushed his breeches down to his ankles.

"Lay on your back," she told him, and he quickly complied. His body visibly shuddered the instant Olivia touched his penis, his eyes going soft.

It was strange, thought Olivia, as she gently but firmly massaged Albie's flesh, the sensation of her bare skin on his lending far more intimacy than her last glove-encased encounter. Had they wed, he would have been in complete control of her life, legally responsible for caring for her financial and physical well being. His power over her would have been, speaking practically, nigh-absolute. But for all that potential power, this one small piece of flesh (for a given value of small, that is. Olivia had nothing to compare it to, save her untimely glimpse of Papa, and it struck her as likely being rather large for its kind, and getting larger with every stroke of attention Olivia paid it) could control him in a way Olivia would have once considered impossible.

"Should I stop?" asked Olivia, struck by a sudden urge to learn the limits of her intimate power over him. She gripped the organ firmly, but ceased all stroking. "Is this too much for you? I wouldn't want to hurt you, Albie."

Albie shuddered and shook, his eyes plaintive. "Don't you dare," he whispered. "Please, Livvie, please. I need it. Please."

"What happens to you if I stop?" Olivia wondered aloud. She gave a single, firm stroke, and Albie bit his lip in pleasured agony. "Please tell me. Or . . . or I might just stop." She doubted she would—if she left off before he came to his crescendo, there was too much risk that he would decide to take his relief between her legs. She would once have stated confidently that her oldest friend would never force his way inside her, but that was before she had seen what beasts men with swollen organs became.

"It hurts," he moaned. "It's just pressure after pressure until I can't think, like a water spigot that's backed up and backed up and I can't see straight, and I try to use my own hand but it's never enough, oh god that's good, just like that just like that yes, and the maids won't be alone with me after I tried to put it in Sarah, and it's always so hard, so *hard*, and there's never any relief . . ."

Perhaps that explained his savagery, Olivia thought, as Albie thrust mindlessly into her fist, his plaintive words teetering off into incoherent moans. If a lack of stimulation caused physical pain in men, that would cast the entire situation in a very different light, wouldn't it? Nobody should ever be in pain.

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