Poor Lizzy

It was the best position I'd ever had. Catherine Nichols was kind, if a bit deaf and dull. She let me borrow books from her extensive library, so long as I took good care of them. It kept my mind off my own petty misfortunes, fussing over a sweet old widow's health. Most of the staff wasn't worth talking to, much, but I shared a room with Maggie the cook, who had a wicked sense of humor and kept me from being too serious. And every so often I'd meet eyes with Mrs. Nichols' son, William, during one of his visits, as I poured the tea or helped his mother into her chair, and go a little short of breath. The way he watched me made me nervous, as if in the back of his mind he was already casually lifting my skirts.

William Nichols was quite tall, broad in the shoulders, and had cheekbones you could cut your hand on. Mrs. Nichols often worried over his gambling or whether he would ever be settled. He was unfailingly polite, impeccably dressed, and laughed easily. You'd think, to see him with his mother, or with anyone of his own class, that he was the perfect gentleman-- but the first time he came to stay, Maggie had warned me to avoid him as much as possible. "That one's no angel," she'd told me, back in our room, taking down her fine, red hair. "Don't let him catch you alone." When I pressed her, she would say no more, her mouth set in a thin, disapproving line. Of course she'd only made me more curious. It was during one of Mr. Nichols' visits that my perfect situation became... well, complicated.

The young master had several guests that weekend, old friends from school. After a day of hunting they had joined Mrs. Nichols for dinner, and she retired early to leave them to their card game and their drink. I had tried to do the same, but, could not sleep. When finally the house was quiet and still I lay awake, I crept into the library. There, I could read by candlelight, enjoying the rare moment of aloneness. While Mrs. Nichols was a pious woman, she had in her collection several volumes of a scandalous nature, which I had come across one day and noted for later, more private perusal.

Why

she had such a thing I could not imagine, except that perhaps they had belonged to her late husband.

I was leafing through a rather racy novel, entitled simply, "Confessions of an English Maid" (I shall not repeat the subtitle) when a photograph fell out. I picked it up and thought immediately,

I should put it back. I oughtn't look at this.

But I confess I was fascinated. In the picture there was a pretty woman with light hair, nude, sprawled on a divan. Her breasts were bound tightly with a thin cord, so that they bulged in an uncomfortable-looking way. Her wrists were tied as well, but her legs were spread wide, revealing nothing but bare white flesh. Like a Greek sculpture, there was no hair at all between her thighs -- just her oddly vulnerable-looking, naked quim.

"Lizzy. And here I thought you were such a good girl." At the sound of his voice, I dropped both book and photograph.

"Mr. Nichols!" My face was burning. "I -- I was searching for something to read, and I found -- well,

that

, and it was so shocking that --"

"That you had to stop and stare? I've been watching you gape for the last five minutes. Can't believe you didn't hear me come in." He bent to pick up the photograph, and when he straightened he was so close his shoulder brushed mine. My breath caught, and I was now extremely aware of being in only my nightdress and thin dressing gown.

"I..." I cringed. It had to be his photograph. His book. Of course his mother could not own such a thing.

He held the picture up as if to give me a closer view. "Would you like that to be you, Lizzy?" His other hand was at my waist. There was brandy on his breath. I had not been so close to a young man in a long time, not since Charley had broken our engagement, and I felt suddenly terrified. I stepped back and almost stumbled, unsteady on my feet.

"Mr. Nichols. Pardon me, I beg you, I only--"

"Only wanted to read something smutty?" He asked, and I could see the amused curl of his lip in the flickering light. "Poor Lizzy. It must be difficult. A pretty thing like you locked away in this dreary house with my aged mother, slowly drying up. You must be dying for a fuck."

"

Mr. Nichols?" I retreated a few more steps, found my back against a bookshelf, and froze. He reached out to touch my hair, stroking it ever so gently. Then, grabbing it in a great fistful, he kissed me, pressing my body hard against the bookshelf. He tasted like cigars and enough brandy to make

me

feel half-drunk. Through my nightgown I could feel it was no impediment for him -- he was rigid already. When he withdrew I was trembling. "Mr. Nichols, please --"

"I won't tell if you don't. And truth be told, Lizzy, I think my mother would be more upset with you than with me, don't you? Better to keep this between us, if you like your place here." He was undoing his trousers as he spoke. The other hand tightened in my hair, and he forced me down onto my knees. "Come on now. Open up." And he slapped me hard across the face. I gasped in shock, tears springing to my eyes, and he stuffed his prick into my open mouth.

I didn't dare bite -- who knew what he would do? -- and he was too strong to push away. "There's a good girl," he murmured, slurring slightly. "I've been thinking about your pretty mouth for months."

Sickeningly, there was a little throb between my legs -- somehow even now, the idea he'd been thinking of me gave me a thrill. I let out a quiet sob. Had he caught me staring? Had I somehow undone myself, by letting him notice? The idea was mortifying. He pressed my head down, unyielding, and I gagged around him. He was deep in my throat and it was all I could do to catch a few ragged breaths.

I'd done it before, of course, a mere handful of times. Charley had been all but begging for it, after we'd gotten engaged, and even if it seemed a bit depraved, it would get me to my bridal bed more or less a virgin -- not that I'd had much success with

that

approach, in the end. But Charley had been so sweet with me, so gentle. It hadn't been like this, down on my knees like a Whitechapel whore.

He let his grip on my head go, just for a second, and I was up and running, ducking under his arm. I made it no more than five steps toward the library door when he caught me -- again by the hair -- and ripped my dressing gown from my shoulders, pressing me to the ground on my back.

He forced my knees open with one leg and kissed me again, deeply, as he slid my nightgown up and found my cunny with his fingers. Reader, I swear to you,I hated him. I hated myself. I wanted

anything

but this. But like a traitor, my body was throwing the gates wide. I was slick and wet and dying with shame. "You really are a perfect little slut, aren't you?" he whispered. And then he thrust himself inside me.

I cried out. He covered my mouth with his hand. "Don't you dare scream," he told me. Easier said than done. He'd rammed his entire length into me in one go, and even soaked as I was, it hurt. He had a thick cock, bigger than any I'd seen, although that wasn't a large number. I was weeping in earnest now, unable to scramble away with the weight of him pinning me down.

Removing his hand from my mouth, he kissed the tears from my face, a cruel mockery of my distress. "Why are you crying?" he asked.

"P-please," I stammered. "You're hurting me. Please stop."

He laughed softly. "It hurts, does it? You want me to take it out?" Covering my face with my hands, I nodded. "Then say it. 'Please stop fucking my tight little cunny. Your cock is too big."

I gave a little moan of despair. "Mr. Nichols, please!" Slowly, he withdrew all but the very tip of his cock, the head teasing my entrance. His hips barely moved but still I felt stretched wide. "It's too big," I managed, finally.

"Your cock is too big and I want you to stop fucking my tight wet cunt" he corrected me. He reached down between my legs, his thumb stroking me, searching for the right spot. When he found it, drawing little circles, I shuddered.

"Your cock is too big," I repeated. His thumb quickened its motions and I gasped, involuntarily raising my pelvis as if to take him deeper again. He sank into me, but withdrew again, bit by bit, the head of his prick rubbing against that sweet place just inside me, which my fingers had so often found when I was left alone. He kept on like this, slow and deep, his fingers working me over still, till I could barely breathe. "And I want you to stop...." I whimpered . "Stop fucking me." It wasn't a word I was accustomed to saying aloud. It sounded cheap, whorish.

He only laughed, and shook his head, and covered my mouth again with his spare hand as he plunged his full length into me. He felt impossibly

hot

, pulsing as he drove it deep inside. His cock twitched, suddenly, and I came undone, screaming into his hand, my cunny clutching at him as I shuddered and wept. He groaned, and I knew my shameful climax had him at the edge of his own. His hand fell from my mouth as he pumped his hips into me. Shaking my head, I pleaded with him "No, please -- not inside me, sir, I beg you don't finish inside --" With another deep, animal moan, he spent his seed, the hot flood spurting out deep inside me. He silenced my protests with one last kiss.

He withdrew his softening member from me with a quiet hiss, standing and doing up his flies. Sniveling still, I sat up, pulling my nightgown down over damp thighs.

"Cheer up, Lizzy," he told me, "you've got a quim so tight I might've thought you were a virgin." He turned to go, then hesitated. "Why don't you come to my rooms tomorrow after dinner? And remember, my mother wouldn't like to hear of this. She'd almost certainly dismiss you. So it'll be our secret." The bastard actually winked at me, and then he was gone.

I gathered myself up on shaking limbs, not wanting to be found in this state. There was a damp patch on the Persian rug beneath me. I dabbed at it with my torn dressing gown, till the worst of it was gone. I wanted to move the desk, to cover it, but I'd have to shift it too far. It would make a noise, and Mrs. Nichols would notice it had moved. Praying that Mr. Nichols had gone up to bed, I went and found the brandy, and a glass, and poured out a small amount. There were only a few fingers of liquor left in the bottle, but after using me so I felt he could hardly begrudge me a drink.

Putting the bottle back on the shelf, I took my borrowed glass and returned to the library. My hands shaking, I dribbled half of it over the stain on the carpet. If it smelled like drink, no one was likely to think twice about it, although I pitied poor Vera, who was going to have to clean it properly when someone finally noticed. I drank the rest, then discreetly washed out the empty glass, put it back with the bottle, and went to bed.

Maggie barely stirred when I came in. She was snoring, softly, deep in her dreams. I cleaned myself up as best I could and crawled into bed only to lay awake, staring at her sleeping form. Was this was why she'd tried to warn me? Was it better to go to his rooms the next night as instructed, or resist? If we were found alone, I'd be dismissed, but then, who knew what he'd say to his mother if I did not come to him. Of course, if his seed took, and I bore a child, it wouldn't matter anyway -- I'd be out with no reference, no husband, and no future. If I moved home under those circumstances, my mother would truly think me a worthless slut. Following a broken engagement with a fatherless child?

My brother Albert was thirteen now, and tall, and a good student. If I lost my position it would be difficult to get another, especially with a babe in arms, and he'd likely have to leave school and go to work, unless I wanted to sell the remains of my virtue -- such as they were. There were doctors who would help girls in trouble, I knew, but it was a risky proposition, and everyone knew someone who knew some poor tart who'd died that way.

Mr. Nichols was due to depart for London in a week's time. Could I survive his attentions for that long? What else might he do to me? There had been an evil light in his eyes, watching me beg for mercy, knowing all the while he had no intention of sparing me. It frightened me to think that, despite my misery, I had responded to him with such perverse pleasure, that he had actually been able to bring me off. It had never happened with Charley. Not once. Even now, left alone in my disgrace, the memory of his weight on me made my flesh feel hot. I curled up on my side, my eyes dry and out of tears, resisting the urge to let a hand wander down between my legs. Finally, I slept.

My dreams were restless. All I could see was Charley, on our first real night together -- ironically, in the church gardens, after dark. He'd sat me in his lap and kissed me, so sweetly, so patiently, and waited till I whispered to him,

Yes, please, I'm ready for you,

before he rolled me onto my back. In my dream his face changed, and it was Mr. Nichols above me again. I saw myself writhing under him, no longer trying to squirm away, but opening to him, pleading for more.