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Penelope is lost.
It is her own silly fault. Or perhaps she might place the blame on Martin the footman. For if he had not pressed her into the alcove in the downstairs hallway last night after dinner —if he had not drawn out from his trousers that thing, his member, all red and swollen and leaking, and told her she must touch it or he would tell Lady Bridgerton that Penelope was a wanton, and then she would never be invited back to Aubrey Hall again — if he had not made her put her hand upon it and caress it while he panted and whined and thrust into her fingers over and over —
Well. Then she might not have woken up early, her belly in knots, and decided there was nothing for it but a nice long walk through the grounds at Aubrey Hall to clear her head.
Not much use in portioning blame now, she supposes, and sits upon a fallen tree branch in the tangled thorn of forests that decorate the edges of the Aubrey Hall estate. Or at least, she assumes that is where she is.
In truth, her head had been so full of what had happened — of Martin's soft sighs, of the way her skin had felt hot all over, her stomach tightening and her legs quivering — that she had barely paid attention to where she was walking, tramping on and on over the misty spring morning, the sun rising in lilac clouds around her.
It has been several hours since she first sets off, and the sun hangs high in the sky. She has no idea how long it's been since she realised she was lost, but no matter which way she turns all she sees is more forest, and she does not recognise a bit of it. Her navigation is not helped by the fact that every time she closes her eyes, she sees Colin Bridgerton's beautiful face.
For just moments after Martin had spilled over her hands (she had wiped it on his waistcoat and scurried away, her heart in her throat and tears in her eyes), Penelope had hurtled headlong into the third Bridgerton brother — twenty-seven and handsome and clever and the unknowing object of Penelope's affection. Quite the worst person who could have caught her. She is fairly certain he did not see Martin's wickedness (and Penelope's collaboration with said wickedness), but he had peered at her curiously, his expression unfamiliar. He had not said a word while she stuttered and stumbled and made excuses before running to her bedchamber. Only once she was alone before her dressing table did she see that her cheeks were flushed and her chest too, pink splotches all over and — her insides curl to think of it — there was a drop of something, pearly and white and viscous, upon the bodice of her dress. Right over her left breast.
A tiny spot. And the hallway was darrk. She told herself this over and over all night, barely sleeping a wink, certain that when morning came she would be thrown out of Aubrey Hall for her terrible wantonness. (Another reason for her walk: she wished to delay the inevitable throwing out, perhaps — even though it was a tiny spot, and the hallway was dark).
But now she is lost. Perhaps she will die here on this log, she thinks. Perhaps that is better than Colin telling his mama about the spend on Penelope's bodice, or Martin telling his mistress that Penelope had touched him so. She cannot bear the mortification.
There are other feelings she cannot bear. She knows she is very wicked and very wrong, but no man has ever looked at her like Martin did last night, and no man has ever touched her so, either. And as she had touched him, she had closed her eyes and imagined for a moment that it was Colin shoving her against the wall and Colin grinding the heel of her hand against his hardness and Colin showing her how to tug him off, how to hold him firmly as she shucked her fingers up and down, how to twist at the tip with a little squeeze. And then she had not minded it as much. In fact, she had thought maybe she would have enjoyed it (she is wicked and wrong).
Even now her stomach feels melty and her face hot to think of it.
"Penelope!"
She almost falls off her log.
She grips the bark hard with her fingers and manages to stay upright. Then she wonders if in fact she did fall and hit her head. If this is in fact a dream, caused by major brain injury.
Because here is Colin Bridgerton, in only his shirt-sleeves and breeches, sitting atop his chestnut horse.
"Penelope," he says again, and slides from the saddle with all his usual grace. His riding boots stomp through the mud towards her and then he is towering over her, hands on his hips, staring down at her. She can only swallow and blink up at him, certain that her mind has conjured him up. Her face is very close to his breeches like this, she notices, and she wills herself not to look.
"Are you hurt, Pen? We have been going out of our minds looking for you. I am very glad indeed I found you first." And then he bends and takes her chin in hand, tipping her face up when she still cannot speak. "Are you well? Say something — please."
"I — I am lost."
"Not anymore," he says softly, and Penelope swallows, her throat thick at the proximity. She feels that strange warmth between her legs, the one that had hummed there when she touched Martin. When she closed her eyes and thought of Colin. She is terribly, terribly wicked. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"I needed to walk. To clear my head."
Colin's chin tilts downwards, and his eyes narrow. "Were you meeting someone, Penelope?"
She frowns and shakes her head, confused by the question. "Certainly not. I have no-one to meet — your family are my only acquaintances in Kent. I only needed some space for my thoughts, but before I knew it I was miles away. I could not find my path back."
Colin's fingers tighten upon her chin for a moment, but he seems satisfied by the answer. "Well, you ought to be more careful. Any sort of rogue might have happened upon you. You could have been ruined, Penelope — ruined and worse."
Penelope draws her head back from his grasp, unnerved by the raw growl in his voice. It is not like Colin to speak to her so harshly, and it is not seemly of him to speak of ruination.
She does not have time to protest, for his hand encircles her upper arm and he is dragging her towards his horse. "We must get you home. And call a doctor. I am not convinced you are well," he mutters, his fingers digging into her bare arm with enough force to sting.
Penelope pauses by the horse in dismay.
"I do not know how to mount without the step-ladder," she says pitifully, looking up at the large beast. "It is far too high for me."
"I shall help," Colin says. And then Penelope feels him against her back, and his hands grip her waist. Her breath catches in her throat at the proximity, at the wide spread of his fingers across the softness of her waist, and Colin is lifting her. Her feet kick and dangle and she squeals as he hauls her over the horses back.
It is not exactly graceful, for Penelope is plump and heavy and it is no easy task for either of them.
"My skirts —" she squawks, as they get tangled around her legs. Colin, huffing and puffing behind her, makes an irritated noise and roughly pushes her dress up, his hands moving to press against her thighs and even her buttocks in the scramble to get her upon the saddle. Penelope feels that melting heat between her legs again and commands her body to behave, because the touch is innocent. He is trying to help her. It is not his fault her body is so plump and unwieldy.
Eventually she is seated. Her skirts are full enough that they are only partly hitched up, her stockinged legs bare to the knees. She winces as her bare buttocks hits the leather of the saddle, for the sensation is strange, but she must admit the leather is cool against her burning sex. She only hopes she will not leave any sorts of marks when she finally dismounts.
She expects Colin to take the steed's bridle in hand and lead them on foot, but to her shock he swings himself up onto the saddle behind her.
"Oh — Colin —" she stutters, her body burning red. "Should you —"
"We are miles from the house, Penelope. Would you have me walk all the way on foot?" he says, as his hard warm settles behind her. The saddle is not overly large, and her back is pressed pretty much flush against his front. He feels huge behind her, like some impenetrable wall of cotton and muscle — feels even larger when his arms cradle her to reach forward and take the reins.
"No," she says softly. "Only — is it proper?"
"Surely you are not concerned with propriety," he retorts sharply, and before Penelope can ask him what he means, he has kicked the horse into a trot.
Almost immediately, Penelope realises she is in trouble.
This time, she blames Colin's smell.
Earth. Lavender, like the soap the maids use on their clothes here at Aubrey Hall. A hint of cigar smoke, probably lingering in his hair from the previous night. Sweat, rich and oaky and masculine. And something else, just the tiniest drop of it, like —
Well. She has only smelled it once before. Last night, in fact. And unless Martin got to Colin, too, then it must be his own —
Penelope burns. He does not speak and she is glad of it, because she does not think she would be able handle the rumble of his words through his body, pressed so close to her back. His arms are snaked under her waist and every now and then he must rest his head upon her shoulder as he leans forward to adjust the horses reins or bridle. She is surrounded.
She knows where the burn comes from, but until he is removed from her, there is no hope in dousing it. For it emanates from directly between her legs, and with each bump of the horse's trot, each rolling motion of its withers, Penelope grinds harder upon the saddle and the fire is stoked.
She tries to fight it. She stiffens her body, holding herself taut and away from Colin, but this makes the motion worse, and at one point she lifts almost bodily from the saddle as the horse kicks into a faster trot. Colin clucks his tongue, and winds one arm around her waist while the other hand takes the reins.
"You shall unseat yourself if you do not relax, Penelope," he chides, his voice soft on the back of her neck. "You must roll with the movements of the mount, or you shall be thrown in the mud and break your neck. And I will have saved you for nothing."
Penelope only lets out a strangled sort of hum and her fingers fly to his arm, the one around her waist. She plucks at his sleeves but he does not release her — in fact he drags her back against him, so her head is resting upon his chest.
"There," he says happily, once there is no air between them. "Isn't that better?"
It is not better. It is much, much worse.
For this angle seems to create more friction, Penelope's buttocks shucking forward and pressing her pussy directly upon the horn of the saddle. She bites her lower lip to prevent the sigh that escapes her as the horse's undulations grind her harder against the leather.
There is no arguing with Colin. It is part of his charm, why she holds such affection for him. Almost jealousy, really, for he is so imperiously demanding and yet so blithely charming that one finds oneself doing exactly what he says even if it goes against one's own interests. And Penelope has even less ability to deny him than others, given her feelings about him. She will laugh and pretend to argue and point out holes in his schemes, but in truth she is no more than his toy.
Penelope wished she had such command, such an ability to make her desires into reality. Perhaps then Martin would not have dared use her so poorly. Perhaps then she would not have gotten herself so lost. Perhaps then she would not find her aching, slippery sex sliding over the saddle's pommel, building such shivering pleasure in her that she does not know what to do.
Perhaps then she could tell Colin to stop; to set her down, to not touch her waist so familiarly. Perhaps then she would not be fighting whimpers and moans and feel her nipples hardening in her stays, the boning scraping rough against her sensitive peaks. The pleasure is gradual but inevitable, like tidal wave coming upon a far shore. She wishes to fight it, wishes to swim away, but there is nowhere to go. She can kick her legs and pedal her arms as she likes — she will not outswim it.
"Pen?" Colin murmurs, his voice rumbling through her, dragging her from her tortured haze. They are still thick in the forest, the world hushed and quiet around them. "Are you sure you are well? You are quite hot in my arms."
"I — I am fine," she grits out, but her voice is hushed and weak. She closes her eyes — sees the angry red head of Martin's member — opens them again, breathing hard. The movement of the horse knocks the pommel hard against her swollen pussy — she lets out a moan before she can stop herself.
"You are not. We will call a doctor as soon as we return home."
"No," Penelope breathes, her fingers winding into Colin's sleeve. "There is no need —"
"Unless," Colin goes on, as if he has not heard her. "Unless — it could not be. Surely. Surely you are not so wanton as all that?"
Penelope freezes. Her heart hammers in her ears, a terrible sinking feeling in her chest.
"Wh-what?" she breathes.
"Oh, do not be coy, Pen. I saw you last night in the hallway, pleasuring the footman. Do not pretend you did not place yourself there just so I would catch you."
Penelope feels as if she is out of her body — or rather, she wishes she was, for in truth she feels like nothing but body. Just blood pounding in her ears and heart racing in her chest and the rolling, building ache between her legs. She is nothing but sensation.
"N-no," she stutters, and feels Colin's breath hot in her ear. "I did not — I did not —"
"Hush. Do not deny it. Is that not why you went out for your walk this morning? To meet up with him, finish what you started? Or perhaps you meant for some other knave to find you and take his pleasure, hm? A dangerous game, Penelope — you are lucky indeed it was I who found you."
She has never heard his voice like this before — melting, silken, yet ragged and strange. His words trickle into her ear and through her body, everything hot and liquid and wrong. She squirms in his arms, her heart so large in her throat she cannot find the words to defend herself.
"You are a desperate little thing, aren't you?" Colin croons. "I see your nipples hardening. Are you making a mess of my saddle, Pen?"
Penelope squeezes her eyes shut and a hot, shameful tear slips out, for she cannot deny it. The jolting of the horse presses her into the horn again and she lets out a whimper.
"God, Pen, you cannot help it, can you?" She feels his nose buried into her hair, dragging back and forth through her curls. "You are very wicked. Come now — let me see —"
And then he lets go of the reins and in that moment his hands come to the bodice of her dress. He fondles her over the floral cotton fabric, and she prays that her stays mask how hard her nipples are.
No such luck. His fingertips find them, and teases and plucks at them over the fabric, even catching his fingernails over the bumps in her bodice. She gasps and twists in his hold, trying to fight the way pleasure sparks through her body at his touch. Coupled with the way she is rocking upon the saddle, she feels the tidal wave hovering, looming over her, her body trembling upon the edge of something.
"N-no," she whines. "Wait — Colin — please —"
"Hush, hush," he says, and presses his lips to the shell of her ear. "None of that, for it will not work with me. I know what you are, darling."
Darling. How often she had dreamed of him calling her that — never had she imagined it like this. She gasps as another ripple of pleasure runs through her.
"Someone — someone could see us," she begs, helpless to the pleasure he's working out of her. She feels something hot and heavy at her back and her belly swoops, her eyes prickling hot.
"That did not seem to bother you much last night," Colin says lightly. "You know, I do believe you like being watched. Fine — let us give any lucky passersby a proper show, shall we?"
"Wha—"
Before she can get it out, his fingertips have hooked into the neckine of her bodice, and torn it down. Practically half off her, so the fabric hangs around her waist and the sleeves are tight about her elbows, pinning her arms to her sides. Her breasts heave above her stays with each desperate, gasped breath. Colin hums, his head upon her shoulder peering down her cleavage, and then his large, hot fingers delve into her stays; yank out her breasts over the top of them.
"Colin," she moans, tears in her eyes at the sight of her plump breasts spilling out bare from her bodice. She feels shame rush through her hot and sticky, but before she can even get her hands around the feeling she finds herself plunged into another grinding pull of pleasure, her sex pressed to the saddle. "You mustn't —"
"Oh, darling," Colin hushes, and his fingertips skate lightly over her creamy flesh, all splotched red with her embarrassment. "They are very big." He cups them gently, pressing them together with his fingers scissored around her hard, red nipples. Her veins run like blue currents beneath the skin. "So soft, like satin. Heavy, too. I think when we are home I shall take you in front of a mirror so I can see them swing." Colin plucks at her nipples, tugging them rhythmically, his large hands warm and unforgiving. "Imagine when they are all milky, darling. All swollen and dripping. What fun we shall have then."
He has lost his mind, Penelope thinks, though the thought is foggy and buried underneath all this shame and pleasure, beneath the relentless rolling of her sex upon the saddle and the way Colin is milking her breasts, massaging and pulling on her nipples. It hurts, and Penelope is wicked and she is very very wrong, because the harder he pulls the more her pussy seems to leak and throb and ache.
"Now, hold your elbows tight to your side, Pen," he instructs, moving his hands to her hips. "I wish to watch you bounce as we ride."
A gasp catches in Penelope's throat, goosebumps erupting over her breasts. She cannot tell if it is from the cool spring day or Colin's words. "If someone should see —" she chokes.
"Oh, now she is shy," Colin croons indulgently. "Never fear — I shall cover you with my hands and protect your virtue, little harlot."
Penelope cannot help the hot tears that stream down her face as they ride on through the forest. She knows she is wicked, knows there is something very wrong with her, for her breasts ache terribly from how they swing and bounce, and her pussy is sensitive and sore from the constant rub against the saddle, and she is horrifically, ruinously exposed in broad daylight, dress shoved down and hitched up — and yet still the dark sweetness builds, still she burns and aches and moans.
Perhaps Colin is right — perhaps she is a harlot, after all. Is that why Martin pushed her into the alcove? Is that why Colin touches her like this now, says such wicked things? Do these men see it on her, smell it?
"You make me quite wild, Penelope," Colin grunts into her ear, and she feels him press impossibly closer. Feels his hand at her back, fiddling with the fall of his breeches. Then she feels it, hot and heavy (much larger than Martin's). She feels a little spot of damp upon the back of her dress, as though he is leaking. Martin's spend came out all at once at the end, but she wonders if Colin's comes out slower, drips like Penelope's pussy, and the idea of it makes her belly swoop again, makes her shake and moan and — oh, she cannot help it — press herself into the pommel.
"Oh, there she is," Colin murmurs, and his hands grip more tightly upon her hips, keeping her pressed close to his member is trapped between their bodies. She supposes the friction does what a hand might do (or a cunny, even — she whines at the thought), as Colin is moaning and breathing hard and pressing against her over and over. He has his head upon her shoulder and he watches her breasts bounce as he grinds.
"You are going to come, aren't you?" he says, his words thick and wet.
"No —" she sobs, and she grips her skirts for there is nothing else to hold onto. "No, no, I shan't, I shan't —"
"Come, little harlot," he orders, and his teeth graze her ear. "Or I shall make you ride into Aubrey Hall like this, tits swinging and cunt leaking over my saddle. Is this what you want, darling? For everyone to know how wicked you are?"
"No," she cries, and she realises then that the forest has thinned — they have reached the open fields. There is no-one about but they are utterly exposed. And she is wicked, she is wrong, because she imagines then someone finding them — perhaps his brothers, or even Martin — someone seeing her red and begging, her breasts bouncing, and it makes her breath catch entirely and her fingers and toes begin to tingle and then — yes, there, there —
"No, no, no, no," she begs, as the helpless tidal wave of pleasure washes over her.
"Yes, yes," Colin grunts., and his hips jam hard against her buttocks. She feels something flooding over her back and she whimpers, her body convulsing and quivering, her sex throbbing almost painfully. She slumps backwards against Colin's chest, for she cannot go in any other direction without falling from the horse. Colin chuckles indulgently, and his hands slide down her thighs. She is so fogged and broken with the shameful pleasure that she does not realise he is shucking up her skirts, bundling them about her waist. Once she realises, she attempts to grip his wrists and pull him away, but her arms are too weak to be much use. She can only whine helplessly as he exposes her drenched sex (what word had he used — cunt) to the cool air.
Colin's fingers stroke through her curls. She twitches as he brushes against her puffy, swollen cunt and he hums in approval.
"Oh, Colin," she breathes faintly. "Please do not — I am so sore —"
"Oh, darling," he coos, and she cannot help how his soft voice melts her, soothes her. "Rest upon my chest."
She lets herself sag against him —
And he presses against her sorry little pearl hard. She yelps, her body twisting in her arms.
"You shall come again for me, little harlot," Colin demands, as he begins to rub in firm, sticky circles over her poor, used cunt. "You shall let me play with you all the way home, won't you? You are very wicked, Penelope. You must make up for it — you must prove to me that you can be good." He lowers his voice, words sharp. "And if you do not, I shall make you lick up all this mess you made upon the saddle. Grind your pretty little face into it, so you can taste how wicked you are."
And that is the problem with Colin Bridgerton — why Penelope loves him — he always gets his way.
And so they ride on through the fields, Colin tugging hard on Penelope's aching nipples until they are red raw, his other hand toying with her sex. She does not know how he manages it, but he drags pleasure out of her over and over, his thick fingers deft and relentless. She sobs and squirms and begs but he does not stop, just coos into her ear and kisses away her tears and says no; another.
She does not know how long it lasts, how long she is strung out in this blissful torture. Eventually she realises the horse has halted. Her entire body throbs, though her cunt is numb from over-use — she mewls helplessly when Colin gentles her from the saddle.
Her legs give out right away and she slithers to her knees. Only then does she realise where they are — outside the stables on the edge of the grounds. Penelope on her knees with her breasts bared, gazing helplessly up at Colin, where anyone could happen upon them.
He pats her head, his fingers winding into her curls. Then he moans and drags her forwards, grinding his soft wet cock over her cheeks. She feels his spend smeared over her skin and he grunts, one hand slapping his soft member over her lips. "There, darling — now you look properly ruined. Though," and he frowns down at his breeches as he puts his cock away. "I am a little ruined myself. You must clean me up, Pen, before we let the family see. I am a gentleman."
She has no notion of what he could mean, until he points to the wet gloss of spend upon his breeches. "Suck it out," he orders. "Be good and suck it out, and all shall be well. I promise."
She is wicked. She is wrong. She obeys.
And then Penelope finds herself in the air.
That cannot be correct — she is not flying, or floating, not quite. But she is being carried, her limp body tucked up in strong arms. She blinks up at Colin's handsome face, the nice cut of his jaw, the softness of his lips, and she wishes he had kissed her. At least once.
"Dear God, Colin — Benedict, get the children away at once." That is Anthony's voice, Penelope thinks, but she is too weak to move her head. "What on earth —?"
"Thank God you found her." That is Lady Bridgerton. "Though in what state —"
"I found her like this," Colin says, a frown in his voice. "She has been used very badly, Mama. Ruined."
"Oh, my poor girl," Violet says. "We were supposed to keep her safe —" Penelope feels hands upon her, cool and caring. Her dress moved up her body to cover her exposed breasts. "Poor, poor girl."
"Hope is not lost for her," Colin says. His voice rumbles through Penelope's body, like a cat's purr. She wishes to curl her body up closer to his and run very far away from him all at once. "I will marry her and she may yet be saved."
"M-marry?" Penelope stutters weakly, her hands gripping Colin's shirt in protest.
"Hush, wife," Colin says. "Do not fret. All will be well."
Penelope wonders if she did hit her head on the log all those hours ago. It is, she thinks, the only explanation.
"Colin," Violet says, her voice thick. "You are a very good man. I am — I cannot express my pride in you —"
"Did you see who did this to her?" Anthony interrupts, his voice tight.
"I have a suspicion,," Colin mutters, voice grim. "I saw — well, I hate to accuse — Martin. The footman. I saw him out early when he should not be. And I have noticed him looking at Pen more than is proper."
"He shall be sent away at once."
"We must call a doctor," Violet says.
"Give her some time to rest, Mama. Then we may call him."
"Did you say marry?" Penelope says softly, her fogged brain fixating upon the word.
Colin's face bends to hers. "Hush, hush," he murmurs, and he lays a kiss upon her forehead. "Rest now. Let your husband manage it all."
Penelope wakes in her bed at Aubrey Hall with the orange light of sunset pouring through the curtained windows. She blinks and yawns, stretching. Her body twinges and aches and she groans at the burn in her limbs.
"Good morning, beautiful girl."
Penelope starts. She is not alone; Colin sits at the side of her bed in an armchair, leaning towards her eagerly. Her heart begins to hammer, her body alight.
"What is —?" she tries to ask, but Colin is already perching himself upon the side of her bed, pushing her curls back from her face.
"I have arranged everything, Penelope." He runs his thumb over the frown lines between her brows. "Do not concern yourself. Anthony has procured a special license, and we shall be married in the morning. As is proper." He cups her cheek. "I know you shall make an excellent wife, darling. I have been thinking on it for quite some time, you see. Seeing how masterfully you took Martin only convinced me further of how suitable you are."
"I — I do not understand," Penelope mutters. She feels rather like her brain is leaking from her ears, and all she can think about is Colin's large hand upon her face and his soft blue eyes and how close he is. "We are — I shall be a wife?"
He nods. And then, just once, presses his lips softly against hers.
How long she has dreamed of it! How little did she imagine it like this!
"Only there is one snag, I am afraid. I hoped to wait til after the wedding, as is proper, but the doctor shall be here in the hour and he will be expecting — and if there is any hint that your virtue is intact — I shall not have anyone take you from me, darling." His frown smoothes out, and he smiles. "It is alright, though. I know you will love it, little harlot."
Penelope feels as if he is speaking another language. She feels barely awake, as if she has stepped into some foreign country, some dream world in which everything is reversed. Topsy-turvy. She is meant to be a gentlewoman, but he calls her a harlot. She has loved Colin forever, in secret, but now he says he has been plotting to marry her. He spoke to her so wickedly yesterday, debauched her beyond reason, but now he touches her softly and looks at her with adoration.
She is so turned about she barely realises he is guiding her from the bed, holding her tightly so her wobbling legs do not fail. "Do not fret, wife," he murmurs, as he leads her in front of the full-length mirror beside her dressing table. "No-one shall disturb us. You must only be good and take it, and we shall be happy forever."
He arranges her limp, shaking body like a doll, taking her chemise off carefully above her head and putting her on her hands and knees upon the Persian rug. Facing the mirror. "So we can both watch your tits swing," he tells her with some satisfaction (as though he is very pleased with his plan), as he kneels behind her, as he gets his cock out of his breeches —
And shoves it into her, all at once.
She cries out at the sting, her head dropping down. "No, no." Colin urges, and his hand winds into her loose curls, pulling her head up so she must meet her own gaze in the mirror. "I want to see your face, darling." His winds her hair into a rope around his fist and tugs her head back, holding her taut as he begins to drag and thrust, his cock working open her over-sensitized virgin cunt.
"Oh, you are very tight, Pen," Colin says. "And you are already wet. See, I knew you would love it. Your husband knows what is best for you, doesn't he?"
He feels massive, stretching and filling her, her cunt clenching uselessly as though it wishes to expel him but does not have the strength. And as she looks in the mirror she feels once again as if she is floating, flying, just as she did when he carried her into Aubrey Hall. She watches her heavy breasts swing just as he said, her raw nipples grazing the rug. She hears her breasts slap against each other, and hears the embarrassing squelch of her cunt around Colin's thick, ruining cock. She smells it too, smells the sticky, rich scent of their bodies joining. She feels as if she hardly exists except for where he touches her, except for his blue, burning eyes upon hers.
"Now you are mine," he grunts, as he hammers into her poor little cunt. "Now we shall never be parted."
"I am yours," she breathes, and Colin moans, his hips snapping faster.
Then he drags her up by her hair, the sting making her body throb and ripple with pleasure. He holds her to his chest, one arm pinning her around her waist as he fucks up into her relentlessly. Together they watch her breasts bounce, watch her belly ripple and her mouth part as moan after moan falls from her lips.
"Look what a perfect little whore you are, darling," Colin growls into her ear, as his free hand tugs hard on her nipple so that she whines. "You are mine forever — mine to play with and ruin and fuck every day of our lives. Mine to love. Mine to fill and break and breed."
She groans, her mind emptying as he fucks pleasure into her, impossibly full and stretched upon his cock. Love, she thinks, the word swirling in her fog.
"And," he murmurs, his voice like velvet, like honey, like oil. He is so perfect in the mirror, so beautiful and handsome and large, his face full of - can it be? - love. Her husband-to-be. The world is upon its head, she thinks. "I told my brothers the truth of what happened. Tomorrow, before the church, we shall all three of us go for a ride, and you shall show them what a good little girl you are, won't you?"
Penelope is wicked; Penelope is very, very wrong.
Penelope comes hard, moaning Colin's name as he finally, utterly, ruins her.