Page 25 of The Damsel
Four months had passed since her night with Mr. Robert Stanley, and he’d dominated her thoughts ever sense—much to her annoyance.
Millicent had warned her that once she overcame her fear of intercourse, she’d find herself yearning for more. She’d want to fuck, again, with the same man or even a different one. The urges she typically abated with the use of her dildos would become something else altogether … something that only a real cock, attached to a real man could sate.
And so it had happened, that soon after her encounter with Robert at the White Cock, she’d begun to feel the stirring in her loins that hinted at a carnal need. She had been in the middle of gathering information on a certain gentleman, one who’d cornered a debutante during a visit to her parents’ country estate and forced her to perform fellatio on him. Because she had been so focused upon her task, she hadn’t had the time to go looking for someone with which to sate her craving. She’d seen to her own pleasure for weeks after Robert, and it had only ever taken a bit of the edge off. It never satisfied her in the way that tying him to the bed and fucking him while he begged for more had.
Once she had finished with her prey of the moment, she’d taken the time to find someone else, returning to the White Cock—alone this time—and assessing each man in the room as she had the night she’d found Robert. She hadn’t needed Peter to look out for her, having grown more confident in the skills the large footman had taught her. So, she’d approached the man of her choosing, plied him with a bit of whisky, and had him accompany her upstairs. He’d agreed to her rules, even let her tie his hands and take charge of the encounter the way she liked.
It had been one of the most disappointing experiences of her life, leaving her unfulfilled afterward. Her bedmate had looked so pleased with himself, grinning up at her from where he’d lain with his hands tied up over his head.
“If you’re game, I could—”
“No,” she’d interjected while cutting him free of the ropes. “I’ve had quite enough, thank you.”
He had laughed, as if she’d just told a hilarious joke. “Don’t you want me to make you come off again?”
She’d rolled her eyes at him and pointed toward the pile of his clothes on the floor. “I didn’t come off the first time, and that you’re too dense to notice is why I’m done with you.”
He’d glared at her, but said nothing as he stood to pull his clothes back on. He mumbled something under his breath as he departed, but she hadn’t bothered to try to find out what.
Upon returning home, she’d promptly retrieved her favorite phallus from its storage chest. While using it to bring herself to the sort of satisfaction that her bumbling bedmate had failed to give, she’d thought of a different night in that same upper room of the public house. She’d thought of Robert bucking and arching beneath her, his cheeks flushed as he’d panted and groaned her name. She’d imagined the rough red abrasions around his wrists from the burn of her ropes, and the give of flesh beneath the heel of her palm. She’d pictured him under her, his cock filling her and stroking places so deeply hidden she hadn’t known they existed until he touched them. She’d heard his moans echoing through her mind when she spent, thrusting the dildo in and out of her cunt and using her other hand to stroke her clit.
It had become her practice over the following months, frigging herself while thinking of him.
It wasn’t the man, she told herself. Robert had simply been convenient, the only pleasant experience she'd ever had with a man and his cock. Bertram had been the first, and the one to almost ruin intercourse for her altogether. Robert had cleansed her palate, making it so she could experience arousal without the self-loathing and fear that had once come with it.
Then, why couldn’t she find someone else to replicate the experience with? Millicent had taken Peter as her lover years ago and the two seemed happy enough in their arrangement. But before him, she happened to know her friend had experienced many paramours, and had enjoyed herself with all of them.
If it was possible for Millicent, then it was possible for her.
As Lila arrived with her dinner, followed by the footman toting the copper tub, Cassandra resolved to do something about her little problem. One mediocre experience should not be enough to keep her from seeking out someone else she might enjoy as much as she had Robert. As soon as she was able, she would try again … and this time, she would not to let the night end until she’d had her satisfaction.
SHE AWAKENEDSOMETIME before daybreak with a start, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath and untangle herself from the remnants of her hellish nightmare. Sweat soaked her skin, making her nightgown cling to her body and strands of hair adhere to her forehead and the back of her neck. She had kicked the bedclothes aside, fighting in her sleep against a demon she only ever encountered when she slept.
Breath sawing through her parted lips, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to fight off those clinging talons of terror, reminding herself that none of it was real. Not for her, not anymore. Bertram was dead, and had been these past four months. He could never harm her or any other woman again, and she took comfort in that.
Yet, she still saw his face some nights, still relived the painful moment when he’d transformed from doting suitor to soulless monster. In the few seconds it often took for her to separate dream from reality, Cassandra could swear she smelled him—the overpowering scent of sandalwood that so many men doused themselves with.
She’d come to hate the fragrance.
She could still feel him, stabbing between her legs like a flaming knife. She could hear him, laughing and rasping filth into her ear.
But then, she would blink and come to full wakefulness, and remember.
It was over and behind her. Her monster had been sent to the deepest pit in Hell, where he belonged.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Cassandra rose, deciding there was no use in trying to go back to sleep. The sun would rise soon, and sleep meant the possibility of another nightmare. Instead, she put on the slippers she’d left near the armchair by the window, before shrugging into her warm dressing gown. Then, she crept through her bedroom door and toward the stairs, careful to remain quiet. Lila would be awake at this hour, ensuring each room with a hearth was stocked with coal. She didn’t want any of the maid’s questions or concern, nor did she want anyone thinking to follow her. If they knew what she was about, they would surely send word to Penrose House and inform Uncle Rupert that she ought to be locked away in Bedlam.
She made her way to the drawing room with the doors opening onto the terrace. The frigid air of early dawn bit at her hands and face, but she pressed on. Morning dew soaked her feet through her slippers when she stepped into the grass, ignoring the path leading into the garden and angling toward the trees. The dense woods characterizing this area was one of the reasons she enjoyed living at Easton Park— and also that her being here gave testament to the fall of the family whose son had wronged her. That her family now owned the property, and she could call a part of it her own, seemed like another bit of justice.
Moving through the trees, she made her way to her favorite spot not far from the dower house. She had discovered it while exploring the day after settling in, and when she was in residence visited the place daily. It was at its most beautiful at night, even in the darkest hours before dawn—the thick trees giving way to make room for a little pond that often reflected the light of the moon on clear nights. Just now, it was nothing more than a still sheet of black glass, its gentle glisten camouflaging the brutality of its coldness, its depth.
Her feet sank into the muddy ground as she approached its edge, the ground still damp from yesterday’s rain. Standing on the bank, she closed her eyes for a long moment, taking several long, slow inhales— breathing in the scent of earth, grass, and trees. The water itself had its own scent, some unnamable thing mingling on the air with the rest of it.
Cassandra stepped out of her slippers, shivering when the mud squished between her toes and cradled her bare feet. That did not stop her, however. She carried on, untying the belt of her dressing gown and letting the garment slither down her body to rest atop her slippers. Then, she was walking toward the water, arms stretched out wide as gooseflesh appeared along her skin.
The water kissed her feet, then lapped up over her ankles, her calves, her thighs, her hips. She walked to what she knew to be the edge of the shallows, the discovery having taken her quite by surprise the first time. Now she knew where the pause in order to linger on the edge of the black abyss, a plunge with a bottom she could not see. She let her head fall back and raised her arms high, noticing the way the sky had begun to lighten, the darkest blue in existence fading toward navy, then cerulean in the distance.
One step, and she was plummeting, down, down into the darkness. Breath held in her chest, nightgown billowing about her legs, she let herself become formless and weightless, a ghost in the water.
