Agatha
"Griffith!"
Agatha's back stiffened in an instant, and a flush of heat swept over her as she recognized the voice. It belonged to none other than William, the Duke's younger brother—the very man who had been courting Rosalie with the intention of making her his mistress.
As the Duke turned with Agatha, they both beheld William approaching. To Agatha's dismay, Rosalie clung to his arm.
"Brother, good evening," William said the moment they stopped before them. He gently pushed Rosalie toward his chest. Without a doubt, such an act relayed that she was now his mistress.
With palpable impatience, the Duke inquired, "I thought you would not be here?"
Those words seemed to have a story behind them because William seemed to cower and became small. He stammered, "I want... I want you to meet Rosalie."
The Duke assessed Rosalie with a level of interest akin to watching paint dry and responded with a curt, "Hello, Rosalie."
Rosalie gracefully curtsied and replied, "My greetings to Your Grace."
"Now that I have met her," the Duke said, taking Agatha's hand, "I bid my farewell."
"Rosalie is not just anyone. She is—"
"She is just a friend," the Duke placated him with mounting irritation.
William took on an expression of annoyance, while Agatha felt rejection on behalf of Rosalie. This was clear-cut disapproval of the mistress from the Duke.
Agatha's attention would have been fully absorbed by the feel of the Duke's hand and this conversation quickly spiraling for the worst, if it weren't for Rosalie's intense gaze upon her.
Rosalie, unlike William, seemed to recognize Agatha.
In acknowledgment, Agatha offered a subtle nod to Rosalie, just before the Duke whisked her away deeper into the garden. The lights from the party became distant enough that they had to rely on the soft illumination of the moon overhead.
The Duke's hand was large, with long, elegant fingers that seemed to strike a balance between softness and roughness. Her own hand felt almost diminutive in his grasp, and beads of sweat began to form on her forehead as she became increasingly uncomfortable. Where was he taking her?
"Finally, I have you all to myself," Griffith spoke with much sultriness. His voice was seductive and softer than what she just heard him use on Rosalie and William.
He gently pushed her against the nearby tree trunk and took her neck at the mercy of his lips. A soft brush as if just getting a little taste, then decisive sliding of the tongue leaving a wet trail.
Agatha's head lulled as she was met with unexpected feelings. Nobody had ever kissed her neck, and oh, it felt so good.
He dragged his lips along her neck, his mouth amazingly ravenous, like a ravenous beast ready to devour her flesh. She felt her toes coil as waves of pleasure rolled from her neck to the rest of her body.
"I have been waiting to do this." His breath fanned her neck. She loved how it made her neck tingle. "You smell good too." He softly bit her and rubbed off the pain by massaging his tongue over the spot.
Agatha had not anticipated such a rapid acceleration of events. She had expected a more traditional courtship, one that would gradually lead to an agreement regarding physical intimacy.
However, the Duke was proving to be quite assertive, taking what he desired with an unmistakable urgency. Not that she found it problematic; she hadn't come here seeking love and marriage with the Duke. Her intentions were far more calculated, as she intended to make use of him just as he was making use of her.
The Duke pulled away, his dark eyes assessing her. "Who were you married to?"
"Pardon?"
His penetrating gaze seemed to study her as though he were beholding her anew. In a decisive gesture, he removed his mask and tossed it aside, revealing his striking and handsome countenance to her eager eyes. However, she felt no compulsion to do the same. Her mask remained in place, veiling around her eyes and gracefully resting on the bridge of her nose.
She looked down, realizing he thought her a widow. This was Madame Anne de Balbi's dress, who strutted in the streets pretending to be a widow. It was not the dressing of a debutant looking for a man who would court a respectable lady, nor a married woman already tied down. She might have passed for a mistress, but her refined demeanor, which was meticulously instilled by her mother, led him to believe otherwise.
He took her silence for lack of want to answer. Neglecting the talking altogether, he was on her again. He crushed her lips with his, but she went rigid. Her mouth shut tight as she shoved against his chest.
He abruptly pulled away, making no effort to conceal his evident annoyance and displeasure. His facial expression practically contorted with a scowl, leaving no doubt about his irritation.
With those threatening looks, if she changed her mind, would he let her go? She doubted it.
"No kissing," she said. Otherwise, she would feel like the cheater she was.
"Huh," he derided.
Using the back of her neck, he pulled her to him and worked on the shell of her ear. The Duke nibbled tenderly, softly stroking the back of it till he slid down to the hollow arc of her neck. She moaned, and that is when he rushed back to her mouth.
From that moment onward, everything spiraled into chaos. He seized her lips with an aggressive fervor, utilizing the opportunity to invade her mouth when she gasped in shock.
With a confident and forceful sweep, he tangled his tongue with hers, forging a connection that left her breathless. The kiss was rough and scorching, and despite the guilt that gnawed at her conscience, she couldn't deny the surge of desire that coursed through her. No one had ever kissed her with such intensity, not even—
No. No thinking about him. Then she would feel like a harlot.
However, his audacity in not heeding her demands ignited a surge of indignation within her. In a bold act of defiance, she sank her teeth into his probing tongue, causing him to abruptly withdraw with a wince of pain. A deep frown creased his features momentarily, but then, to her astonishment, it gave way to a broad and unanticipated smile—one that revealed the gleam of his teeth. It was the first genuine smile he had exhibited that entire evening.
"I fancy you," he mused.
He did not bother with her lips anymore. He tore at her bodice to reveal her breasts and feasted on her as one would at a banquet. In the same span of time, he bunched up her skirts and ripped her undergarments.
Awareness of his fingers sliding over her mound's lips made her tremble. He stroked once or twice before pulling out his hand.
"Funny. You are not drenching as I would like."
Her teeth clenched in frustration. She did not expect all of it to be so overwhelming. She disliked his ego and arrogance as well.
"We can change that," he muttered. "I will show you, Scarlet. You will be gushing like a river when I'm inside you."
He grabbed her and pushed her down until they fell side by side on the ground. Alarming bells started to ring in her mind.
"Unhand me," she told him.
The Duke chuckled. Enjoying a bit of her resistance, he loosened his trouser pulls and pulled his cock out.
Her eyes enlarged. She knew the man's anatomy from drawings but she did not expect it to be this enormous.
"I have someone who loves me," she alluded, her words emerging unexpectedly from the depths of her conflicted heart.
"Do you now?" He rubbed the head of his cock. "Then where is he because I'm about to fuck you till they come to rescue you when you call for help."
She was clearly possessed to stupidly utter those words to him. After all, he was the man renowned for occasionally entangling himself with married women.
He pulled her until her legs were parted for him. "You say he loves you, what about you?"
"What?" Her mind was a jumbled mess as conversation kept missing her.
He settled between her legs. No response would come from him as the view of her most intimate parts held his attention. Griffith watched her with striking fascination that words could not describe.
By his sure hand, leisured strokes ran up and down her petal lips, causing the sound of her juices against her flesh and his hand to scatter in the air.
She tensed and moaned an "Oooh."
"You like that, don't you?" Two fingers nudged her entrance, teasing her. His thumb circled where nerve endings made her feel like she was flying.
"Just like that, love," he marveled when she uncontrollably held onto his hand, nudging him to go faster. "But my fingers will not do." His fingers disappeared, leaving her empty, but not for too long because she immediately felt the head of his girth at her entrance.
He started to slide up and down, paying attention to tease her by stopping at her entrance and pushing in just a little.
"You should see the two of us, we look—" He slammed inside her without warning, causing her to cry out loud. "So good!"
Never did she expect it to be that painful. Her hand balled into fists, and tears submerged her eyes, though she would never show it to him that she was a virgin.
"Oh, fuck, yeah," he cursed his pleasure. He pulled out and pushed back in slowly, as if he was savoring the feeling.
She felt herself stretch as he seemed to go deeper than before. Alas, Griffith's head rolled back as he hissed. It somehow gave her a feeling of being in control and having that much power over him.
As his intense gaze bore down upon her, she let out a sultry moan, expertly feigning pleasure. Had he taken the time to scrutinize her closely, he might have discerned the subtle nuances that hinted at her lack of experience. However, in the cold reality of the moment, he displayed no interest in uncovering the truth. To him, she was nothing more than a fleeting and insignificant liaison, a mere distraction for the night.
Griffith lifted her leg and began to worship her with it. Still pumping into her, his tongue scandalously dragged along her ankle.
"So tight... You are marvelous..." His eyes dropped to the place where he was sliding in and out. He smiled darkly, completely fascinated and in awe.
She bit her lower lip. Agatha was breathing through her nose, afraid she would cry out in pain if she opened her mouth. The pain was not lessening with each thrust. She was in the pits of hell.
Then he started to piston into her, fast and hard. So, so hard. The sound of his balls slapping against her buttocks rang out in the silence of the garden. A muffled noise came through her clenched teeth.
"You are milking me," he played with the soft tendrils of her sex. "Look at that.. ah, so good."
Amidst the relentless brutality, an unexpected and disorienting shift occurred. The excruciating pain that had dominated her senses began to ebb, gradually giving way to an unsettling sensation of pleasure.
Her initial and consuming fear that the pain would never cease began to wane, replaced by a different form of anxiety—a gnawing concern that she might let herself find solace in this forbidden pleasure. The turmoil within her intensified as she grappled with the moral dilemma: If she allowed herself to derive even the slightest gratification from this torment, would it not be a profound betrayal of the one she loved with unwavering devotion?
"Kiss me," he whispered, slowing down.
He took her lips as his fingers moved to the swollen bud carrying endless nerve endings. He circled it with just the right amount of pressure, and her body began to respond with glee. Agatha had never been owned like that. She began to whimper as he increased his pace again, the power from his body forcing her forward.
Her body contracted as the strongest climax hit her. The wildness of it could be compared to an unpredictable wave rising in a tempestuous sea. She wailed as she rode it out.
He was right behind her because he pulled out and urged her to sit. Leaves fell from her tousled hair.
"Open your mouth." He stood up.
She did, unsure what he wanted. He carelessly pumped himself until warm liquid spurt into her mouth.
Her facial expression twisted into a frown, a clear sign of her unpreparedness for the sudden and perplexing tangent her taste buds embarked upon. The surprising blend of saltiness and an elusive, subtle sweetness bewildered her palate.
"You will swallow," he told her more than it was a request.
She shook her head, ready to spit.
His massive hand exerted an overpowering grip, clamping around her delicate jaw as though he could easily shatter it with his sheer strength. Tilting her head back, he forced her to meet his imposing and menacing figure towering above her.
"Be a good girl, won't you?" His voice dripped with a tone of displeasure, reflecting his frustration at her obstinance. It was evident that he was accustomed to having his desires met without question.
As the pressure on her jaw intensified to the point where it felt like it might break, she finally yielded, giving in to his demands.
S.V