The Cyreniac Scandal

I was practically salivating against the gag, and had it been removed I know in my state I'd have debased myself pleading for a chance to touch my lips against it. Only the rag that had muffled my screaming had, in the end, preserved some shred of my dignity. Though I doubt the look I offered, with my bright eyes ringed by smeared mascara, had truly escaped his notice. His bellowing laughter was an ominous, knowing thing that spoke to the inevitability of this conclusion repeated across a thousand scenes. Even on writing this, it seems impossible that a man so fully realized in this experience can be the sole province of my depraved mind.

But even in a dream, my hope was denied. He took my hair into a fist and pulled back on it. He is hunched there over me, forcing me to arch my back and gaze up with eyes alone able to plead for mercy. The hand not seizing my blonde curls works furiously back and forth along his bulging shaft until he throws back his head and lets loose a primal grunting.

I can so vividly remember your outrage after a noble boy exploded across your back, leaving you to clean the sticky mess. But here the deviant does far worse.

I recoil with disgust as the first spurt of his manhood loosened across my face. The hot, milky white strand burst from his head and landed across my face, running from forehead in a slash along the side of my nose to the right corner of my lip. I tried to pull my face away, turning side to side, but I only offered more of my cherubim canvas for him to defile.

A spurt across my lips. Into my hair. Over an eye. On and on this went, at least a dozen ruptures more past that I thought for sure had to be the last. In my wild imaginings, the quantities of a dozen men emerged from that one shaft alone and left me kneeling, helplessly bound and gagged like an alabaster-skinned slave, my face coated in a complete glazed mask thick enough to bear a noticeable weight. As seconds passed into minutes, I could feel it running at the edges. Tendrils flowing down my chin and hanging like stalactites before dropping into the chasm of my breasts.

The man jerked back on my hair again, forcing me to gaze up at him, but with my face plastered over with his seed it was all I could manage to force one eye open. My tears had mixed with the mascara and send black jagged lines down my face where it lined the outer reaches of the thicker cum.

He reached down and twisted on my perky nipples, but so thorough was my degradation that no pain reached my mind and my whimper was purely subjugation to the utter humiliation of my circumstances.

I was hardly surprised to look over and see you on all fours. No binding around your wrist, no shackles holding you to the bed. But to watch you in that moment eagerly thrusting your body back against a rapist turned lover.

It may have just been the restrictive ordinances of society forcing themselves into this letter, but it would seem in my memories of this dream that perhaps you had arranged this whole affair, that maybe this was another of your games, of the kind that had you taken from me to the convent.

What little material was left of your braid was pulled back like a leash as the man claimed you from behind, and your eyes crossed and rolled up in an expression of utter, incontrovertible bliss.

The only prodding I required from my captors was to keep me away from rushing to your side and eagerly joining you, though I made my best effort to conceal this desire as I hungrily watched the man's thick cock ram into your lush body. Your ass cheeks rippling with the impact with every brutal thrust forward and your ruby lips parting into another orgasmic moan of relief.

I awoke that morning soaked with sweat and my virginity tragically intact. My limbs felt heavy and every orifice of my body sore from imagined use. If you recall the day I bowed out of our riding tutelage, I now disclose the true reasons.

I've nearly exhausted my parchment, so my wrap up will be brief. I miss you, beloved sister. I miss our closeness in all things, and I anticipate soon my visiting or your escape from that institution and ours lives beginning together once more. Perhaps you can introduce me to your friend the Cyreniac.

Your Beloved Veronique —

"That bitch," Sophia hissed, though she wasn't sure which sister was the more immediate target of her ire.

She knew. This Veronique whore, Sophia guesses she knew the whole affair. If she knew the name Cyreniac, doubtless the older sister had blabbed all about how Sophia had courted her and kept her as the centerpiece of a sexual extravaganza.

Her own loose lips had been her downfall, bragging to too many of the wrong people about the affair, but Sophia has assumed all that was known was the act, not the woman pulling the strings.

"That... whore," she growled again, her ire now more clearly directed at the younger sister.

She had no doubt now these letters were written to be found by her mother, written with this exact moment in mind for when the matriarch's perpetual gossip would drive her to reading them to her head friend. Of ways to get her attention, Sophia had to admit the move was bold.

"That's still my daughter you speak of!" The red faced duchess across from Sophia said, startled at the sudden outburst from her friend. "I'm... hard pressed to disagree with your sentiment, but I'll not have you say such things even in confidence."

Sophia smiled back gently and leaned across to brush a stray curl from the woman's face, fallen from the lavish arrangement.

"Of course, I'm sorry," she assured Marie.

Oh Marie. You incomparable prude. For all the span of their years together, Sophia believed the blonde woman would have been bettered by having her bodice ripped apart and being tossed around between a few men and women every once in a while. But despite years of prodding and inquiries, the woman was incorruptible, leading Sophia to fulfill her godmotherly role and step in to steer her daughter towards the sweet relief of hedonism.

Sophia sighed. It seemed there was more work to be done.

She stood from her chair and took Marie's chin reassuringly.

"It's late and I must return to the city," she said. "I'm terribly sorry for this to have befallen you, but the girl is young and I'm sure will grow out of such wild fantasies."

Marie nodded, huge grey blue eyes looking to helpless like a lamb lost in the woods. Oh Marie. You ought not to have sought comfort in the tender care of the wolf.

Sophia's black dress trailed behind her, heels clicking against the floor as she swept out of the room. Marie's dutiful servant, deep in Sophia's pay, stood at attention outside the door.

"I want this younger sister, Veronique, grabbed and brought to my house tomorrow night," she commanded in a whisper. "Speak to Mother Nightingale and have the convent release the other sister to my care for the evening as well."

The servant stared ahead, and nodded. Sophia started to walk off, but halfway down the hall paused stormed back to the servant. The man's steely expression was briefly broken into surprise as she seized his ascot and pulled his face down close to hers.

"But first, I need you to lead me into a secluded room."