tagNovels and NovellasThe Ravishing of Constance Ch. 04

The Ravishing of Constance Ch. 04


A balmy evening breeze stirred the curtains of Constance's window. She tipped her face into the welcome scents of mingled salt air, flowers, and spicy food being cooked in the village below.

Festival time. How she had loved the festivals as a girl!

Strange to think of it like that. Only a year ago, she'd gone to the festival with her father, the two of them enjoying the revelry of music and dancing. That time now seemed ages past. She was no girl anymore.

Rob had seen to that.

A hopeless sigh that nearly became a sob escaped her as she turned from the window to the silver mirror above her dressing table. The mirror had been her mother's, not that Constance had any recollection of sitting and watching her mother make ready for a party, a dinner. Anna deGranville had died too early for that.

The mirror, like many of her mother's things, had been saved for Constance to be of age. Yet now, as she peered into it and studied the cosmetics she'd applied, and the way she'd done her hair, she shuddered to think what her mother might say if she knew how that mirror was being used.

Make yourself pretty for me, sweet sister-mine, Robert had told her.

They were waiting for her downstairs. She had seen them arrive, thundering up the estate road as they always did. Racing hell-bent, as Father would have said. Their racing was nothing new on Veradoga. Now, though, it had a steelier edge to it. The boyish competition, the friendly rivalry, had grown sharper in recent days.

Constance knew the reason for that, oh, knew it all too well. The tension between her blond brother and his dusky lifelong friend was solely because of her. Enrique wanted her. It had been his attempt to steal kisses that had led to her initial downfall.

She cringed to think of that first night, how Rob had slyly coerced her into pleasuring Enrique with her mouth while he did the same to her. How shamefully her body had betrayed her at that unexpected sensation! And then he'd defiled her, deflowered her, committed incest upon her all the while telling her that it was her fault.

A terrible confusion held her in its sway. Was it her fault? She had never so much as kissed a man before that night, barring the dreams that she never dared admit to a soul. Yet she had writhed against Rob, against the slick sliding push of his cock, until her loins had shivered with release and prompted him to complete the act by sinking deep within her.

Since then, he'd avowed to keep her for his prize, his whore, his secret plaything. It was this more than anything else that drove a wedge between Rob and Enrique. Privy to their lewd conversations, Constance now knew that they had long been in the habit of sharing their women. Yet Rob, selfishly according to Enrique, refused to allow his friend to plumb the depths of his sister's cunny. That, Rob swore, was his alone.

Desperate to have her, Enrique had devised a plan. He would marry Constance, a match to which their fathers, both governors of prosperous islands, would have readily agreed. And then, once she was Enrique's legal-bound wife and property, Rob would become a frequent visitor.

The notion terrified Constance. She thought of Enrique's family estate, rich and lush but remote. Private. No one there would be bothered to care that she was at the mercy of the two men. Her life would be a torment of sensual captivity, and who knew to what other atrocities they might eventually force her to submit?

She could hear them downstairs, the tenor of their voices testifying to their argument although the words themselves were indistinct. Constance knew well enough what they'd be. Enrique was mad to have her, to … she made herself think the word … to fuck her. Rob's refusal was adamant. Not until the wedding night.

Her only solace was that a wedding night would be far in the future. With her father away on his business, no such arrangements could be made. She had to escape before the jaws of fate closed around her.

Escape … but to where? She had been born on Veradoga, and her father, with memories of his wife's abduction and long imprisonment by pirates always a thorn in his mind, refused to let her travel elsewhere. School in England? Out of the question, for had not Anna deGranville been on her way to England when the ship had been seized? Visits to girls her age on other islands? No, for the rogues of the sea were a high plague this year – so it had been told to her every year.

If she told anyone the true circumstances for her wish to leave, it would be the end of her. William deGranville could not bear such a disclosure. It would destroy him. It would destroy their family. How could she tell him that her own brother, his own and firstborn son and heir, had ruined her maidenhood? Worse, how could she tell him that it had happened more than once, and that she had become an eager – if not willing – participant in the hideous incestuous act?

No, if she were to be free of Rob, free of Enrique and the future that would be hers as their perpetual harlot, she would have to take matters upon her own shoulders. She would have to forego waiting on her father and beseeching him for permission to travel, permission that would be denied anyway.

She glanced at herself one last time in the glass. The gown was another of Rob's gifts, so fine and light that it might have been spun from the substance of a cloud. It floated around her and concealed nothing. The rosy peaks of her breasts were as clearly revealed as if she were naked. A miniscule lace cache-sex covered her mound of fluffy golden curls.

An urge seized her, an urge to tear off this whore's garment and burn it. To wash the cosmetics from her face, seize up her scissors and hack her hair into a boy's cut, and run away to sea disguised as a young lad.

As suddenly as it came, that urge passed. She had blossomed in the past two years, attaining a figure far too ripe of hip and breast to pass as a lad. She'd be discovered in an instant.

And loathe as she was to admit it, even to herself, a tingle of anticipation burned within her. She knew that the evening would be a debauch, for Rob had once again contrived to dismiss the household so as to be sure of no interruptions. Some of the servants had even remarked upon how considerate the young lord was, how easygoing in his stern father's absence.

They would be waiting for her. She already knew what would happen. Rob would make her parade before Enrique, enjoying his friend's frustration. Likely, she would find herself stuffed full of cockmeat again, Rob plowing her cunny while Enrique's thick length filled her mouth.

Or would this be the night that Rob relented? Surely he would not allow something so inconsequential as his own dear sister to stand between himself and his best friend. Perhaps he'd had his fun of seeing Enrique suffer, and would grant permission to the part of her he'd so diligently reserved for himself.

As much as she inwardly recoiled from the thought, part of Constance did wonder what it would be like. Rob's clever lips and tongue knew exactly how to stir her into a treacherous lustful frenzy. Would Enrique's be so talented? Would he be as deliberate in wringing a response from her?

She hated herself for even entertaining the idea. She would not submit to Enrique in that fashion, could not. Strange, strange and awful to be grateful to Rob for his selfishness.

"Constance!" Rob called, interrupting her turmoil. "Come and dine with us, sister!"

The filmy fabric billowed as she stepped into the hall, and headed for the stairs. As she descended, she saw them in the wide, arched doorway of the dining hall. Identical looks of hunger and appreciation greeted her.

Rob, so comfortable in his temporary station of lord of the manor, was utterly at ease in an open-collared shirt and soft leather trousers. His feet were bare, his blond hair tousled, and an easy grin rested on his lips. One hand held a snifter of her father's fine brandy, which he swirled and sipped, his cerulean eyes never leaving her.

Enrique was dressed in much the same manner, with the addition of low riding boots and a vest of rich scarlet. His dusky complexion flushed toward copper and his dark gaze devoured her avidly.

"Can this be the same Constance?" Enrique murmured, shaking his head. "We've worked wonders on her, Rob. Wonders. Look at her. She sways her hips like a well-fucked woman now, to be sure."

"And indeed, she is," Rob said. "You do love it, don't you, Constance?"

She reddened and said nothing. At the bottom of the steps, she paused and looked yearningly toward the front doors. They were not locked, but they might as well have been the gates of a prison. No escape lay in that direction. If she fled, if she ran to town, what would she say? How would she explain her state?

"I thought we'd dine informally tonight," Rob said, taking her by the elbow and guiding her into the small informal dining room.

Not the parlor. Constance was glad of that, for the parlor had been the place of her initial downfall. The lounge, too. And her own bedroom. Was it his mind to shame and humiliate her in every room of the house?

A casual buffet feast had been laid out before the servants left. In deference to the warm weather and the festival, the dishes were primarily fruit salads, cold cuts of meat, platters of cheese, and an assortment of rolls and pastries. The long table was pushed to one wall.

"I may have lost my appetite for food, Rob," Enrique said. "Shall we move directly to dessert?"

He reached for Constance, and to her own dismay she retreated toward Rob. Her brother's arm slipped familiarly around her waist, and his hand dropped to squeeze her buttock.

"But Constance is going to serve us," he said. "Aren't you, Constance? As a good hostess and all?"

She nodded mutely. His bantering tone told her he had some game in mind. As he and Enrique took seats on the roomy, throne-like chairs, she moved to the table and collected plates of food for them.

"Now, set the table," Rob instructed. At her puzzled look, he smiled. "You are to be the table, Constance. Hence your fine white tablecloth. Recline there on the carpet, and we shall dine from you."

"Please, Rob, no," she said, mortified.

"I believe you might care for a morsel after all?" he inquired politely of Enrique.

"All at once, my appetite has returned," Enrique said, and ran his tongue over his lips, making them glisten.

Tears stung her eyes but Constance would not let them see her distress. She set the plates on the rug, then stretched out and balanced the dishes, one on her belly and one on her pressed-together thighs.

"Dinner is served," Rob said. He slid from his chair and knelt beside her, as Enrique took up a similar pose on the opposite side.

"My compliments to your house, mi amigo," Enrique said. "You set a most marvelous table."

They disdained utensils, plucking up food with their fingers. Constance closed her eyes and bit her lip, hoping that this would be all they'd want of her and knowing better. True enough, when they had eaten their fill, Rob carefully put the plates aside. He then raised his snifter of brandy and dribbled its contents over her breasts.

"I've spilled a bit on the fine tablecloth," he said. "How slovenly of me."

Before she could protest – which would not have deterred him – Rob leaned down and brought his mouth to her breast. He sucked brandy from the sheer cloth, which drew her wet skin against the texture of it and made her nipple stand stiff and tall.

A drizzle of tepid liquid over her loins made Constance gasp and open her eyes.

"I've spilled my wine," Enrique said. "Allow me to help you clean it up."

With that, he bent and applied his tongue to the spot in long, firm licks that made the lacy cache-sex pull taut against the flesh beneath.

"You needn't do that," Rob said, and a hint of a warning had crept into his voice.

Enrique stopped, and when he spoke his voice was tight with anger. "I was merely following your lead."

"While I pride myself on being a good host," Rob said, "my hospitality, as you know, only extends so far."

"Damn it, Rob!" Enrique shot to his feet. "I want to fuck her."

Rob stood too. From Constance's prone position, they towered over her. Their fists were clenched, their eyes flashing in anger. Would they fight? Would they kill each other? It was horrible to wish for such a thing, the death of her brother, but in that instant Constance would have wished for it, and happily.

"You will when she's your wife," Rob said. "Not before. What kind of man would fuck his bride before their wedding night? Until then, allow me my privilege. If your hard cock is so in need of release, her hands, her mouth, and even her luscious titties are at your disposal."

"I want her cunny," Enrique persisted obstinately. "You haven't let me get so much as a finger or a tongue into her, and I'm going mad for it!"

"Oh, very well, a finger, then," Rob said, gesturing magnanimously. "Go on and frig her, but be sure you treat her well, and make her like it."

Both Constance and Enrique gaped at him in disbelief. But Enrique's disbelief soon turned to delight, while Constance's turned to horror.

"No, Rob, don't let him," she begged, bunching the useless fabric of her garment over her thighs. "Don't let him, please, don't let him touch me like that."

"All will be well, Constance," he said. "I shall sit right here and watch."

So saying, he reclined in his chair, stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankles, and beamed at them both. Yet there was a sharp gleam in his eye, and Constance knew that he was none too pleased with this business. He'd made a concession to soothe a friend, but he did not have to like it.

Enrique, meanwhile, paid no notice of that dangerous glint. He cupped the back of Constance's neck and raised her head to seal her lips in a hot, probing kiss. As he explored her mouth with his tongue, his other hand inserted itself between her knees.

She held them together, and covered herself. When he broke the kiss, she pleaded with him not to do this, but of course it fell on deaf ears. He took her wrists in a none-too-gentle grip and parted them.

"Stay still, Constance," he commanded. "It won't hurt, and I promise you, you'll enjoy it."

"Go on, sweet sister," Rob said. She saw that he had unfastened his trousers and was idly stroking himself. "I'll be right here to take care of you."

She knew what he meant, what his intention for the next stage of this game was, and stifled a sob.

Enrique pushed the hem of the outer garment to her waist and stared down at the wine-spotted cache-sex. He slowly rolled the thin straps down, exposing the golden curls, and removed the tiny piece of lace. His hand settled onto the mound.

Constance closed her eyes again. She tried to send her mind away, tried to tell herself that it would be over soon and none of it would matter. It was a useless effort for she knew better. He would touch her, he would work his fingers into her and make her betraying body turn pliant and moist … and then Rob would finish what Enrique had begun.

"Open your legs," Enrique said.

She obeyed him. What good would it do to resist? They'd have what they wanted and she could not stop them.

A finger slid along the furrow of her cunny. Her back arched helplessly at the spark of pleasure.

"She's wet already," Enrique reported. "Ah, Rob, she's beautiful."

His rancor had passed. Constance realized that he probably took Rob's permission in this one act to be permission for all. He believed he was to be allowed to have her entirely, to fuck her here and now. It made him pause and savor the feel of her as he stroked her cleft, as the ball of his thumb pressed gently to her clitoris.

"Ohh," she moaned, and a single tear ran from the corner of her eye.

"Yes, how's that?" Enrique pushed two fingers into her while his thumb commenced a slow rubbing. "Still so tight, ah, the way her cunny clasps at me! Do you feel that, Constance? Is it good? Is it?"

She couldn't bring herself to answer, but the responses of her body did for her. Once again, she found her hips helplessly undulating, her breath coming in quicker and quicker cries. She was going to spend and couldn't help herself.

"Yes, yes, come for me," Enrique panted. "Let me feel it happen."

"Noo!" Constance wailed.

"Yes, just a little more, let it be good, Constance, so good."

It happened, rushing outward in turbulent waves and bringing a long, ululating cry from her throat. She coiled onto her side, dislodging his hand from her. Shaking, she crossed her arms over her chest and began to weep.

"Constance, Constance," Enrique said. "Oh, how lovely that was! And now –"

"Now," Rob said, "I believe you've had what you asked for."

"But I –"

"Frigged her, yes, and a damned fine job of it, too. She went off like gunpowder."

"I'm not done. I want to lick her, to taste the sweet honey."

"I'm sure you do. Next time, Enrique. Next time. For now, Constance, come here."

"No," she sobbed into the rug.

"Come here, sweet sister."

"What about me?" Enrique moved suddenly, and Constance heard a popping, ticking sound as of small items bouncing. "What about this?"

She didn't want to look but opened one eye, and saw that he'd torn the fly of his trousers open rather than unbutton them in his haste. The rigid spear of flesh, thicker than Rob's and of a darker hue, thrust aggressively out. The head of it was as turgid as a plum.

"Once she's done with me, Constance will, I'm sure, happily take care of that for you. Won't you, Constance? Won't you give him a good sucking?"

She curled into a ball and covered her face.

"This is not funny, Rob," Enrique said. "How long do you mean to toy with me? You know what I want."

"Her mouth, or your own hands, Enrique."

"Her mouth, then," he said grudgingly. "For now."

"Fair enough. Constance, come here."

Like a dog. He called her like a dog, and because she was afraid of what he might do – or let Enrique do – she rose and went to him on unsteady legs. He was slouched in the chair, their father's chair, massaging his cock.

"Did you ever sit on Father's lap?" he asked. "While he was sitting here? Did you ever sit on his lap and feel his hardness pressing against your little bottom?"

"No!" He knew as well as she did how reserved, how distant their father was. Sitting on laps, hugging, and other displays of affection were not things the deGranville children had received from their parents.

"Well, then," Rob said. "We'll have you sit on my lap. Turn around."

She did so. Enrique was still standing there, still disheveled with his face stormy and his cock jutting out. Rob caressed her buttocks and in a spurt of terror she thought he meant to stick himself there, which indignity she'd heard them talk about but thus far been spared.

"Not like that, Rob, please."

"Not in the ass, little sister? No, not that." He looked at Enrique. "Perhaps that's one maidenhead we'll save for your husband."

His hands held her hips and began to lower her toward his waiting erection.

The tip of it nudged her, and she was about to sink onto it – hating it and at the same time already craving the next climax – when a shocked scream split the air.


Continued in Chapter Five

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