Author's Note: This story is loosely inspired by the works of Jane Austen. It is set in the Regency Era; it includes references to various common objects from the period. However, it was not my intention to create a story that could stylistically pass for being written during that time. It's too damn difficult and not nearly as fun. If you are looking for an off-kilter tale wherein an excessive focus on propriety leads to public humiliation, this might be your proverbial cup of tea.
Captain Hugh Fernsby stared at the bucolic scene in front of him: verdant hills, blooming wild flowers, and a small azure stream serpentining in the distance. He had recently returned from the sea, where he had been working for the past several months. In that serene moment, he appreciated feeling grounded - connected with the soil.
He had not been to Chattingham House since he was but a boy. He recalled those memories with fondness; he thought about the first time he'd successfully stalked a deer with his uncle. He had been overjoyed at having been able to demonstrate his aptitude to his father, who had always been critical of him.
After a lengthy journey, Fernsby was only a few kilometers away from his destination. It was unfortunate circumstances that had brought about his return. He had received a letter, upon disembarking, from his cousin - Miss Jane Hampton. She had written to inform him that her father had died, leaving her alone with her younger sister, Mary; her mother had died during childbirth many years before.
Fernsby had missed the funeral, which had occurred two months prior. He was hoping to offer his dear cousins his deepest condolences and provide them with support during this difficult time. Jane was twenty years old; she had yet to marry. He had heard that a local merchant had asked for her hand, but that she had declined.
Fernsby's efficient gig sped over the last hill leading to Chattingham House. He could see the charming estate coming closer into view. It was not particularly large, but it had been well-maintained. The estate's small garden appeared more unkempt. He thought that perhaps it had been overlooked in the grief of the past month.
"Captain Fernsby, it is so lovely to see you," Jane said as he hopped down from his gig. "My! You look quite different, but I suppose that is to be expected after ten years."
Fernsby thought about how Jane had been just a child when he'd last seen her. She'd been eight years old, still playing with dolls and wearing ribbons in her hair. He imagined that, at twenty and seven years of age, he must look very changed indeed. He was six-foot-one with a muscular frame. His time at sea had afforded him the ability to engage in many activities that had kept him strong. He had dark black hair, cobalt eyes, and sun-kissed skin. He had been told that he did not have a particularly rough-hewn visage, though, in spite of his sharp jawline and oft-steely gaze.
"It is good to see you as well, Miss Hampton," he said. "I was deeply saddened to learn of your father's passing. Sir Hampton was a good man. I know that he will be missed by many."
"Yes, it was quite tragic," Jane replied, letting out a small whimper. "I am still trying to find my way without father here."
"Where is Miss Mary Hampton?" Fernsby asked, trying to distract his cousin from her grief.
"How kind of you to ask. She has gone to Lyme. Her constitution has been declining in recent weeks. Lady Evans, who had been a close acquaintance of my mother, was kind enough to invite her to stay. We both feel that the fresh air and sea bathing will assist her in recovery."
"My sister now lives in Bath with her husband," he offered. "They routinely go to Lyme to benefit from the sea. I do hope that your sister finds her experience to be transformative as well."
Fernsby thought his cousin Jane looked preoccupied. He assumed that she must be feeling lonely talking about her father's death and her sister being so far away. He worried that he would just exacerbate her grief if he tried to comfort her; he decided it would be best to give her some time without disturbances to collect herself.
"I am quite exhausted from the journey," he said. "Would it be permitted if I were to rest before the evening?"
"Yes, you should lay down. It has been quite a journey for you. I want to give you ample time to recuperate before supper. Lord and Lady John Dashwood, and their companion Mr. William Abbey, will joining. They have been staying for the past week. Lady Dashwood has been such a god-send."
After being dismissed by his seemingly-dazed cousin with an errant, "It's the second door of the left," Fernsby climbed the stairs leading to the guest quarters. He entered the room in which he would be staying. A few paintings of the countryside hung on the wall; there was an unassuming bed and a small desk-set. He was indeed tired from his journey. He had not even been able to visit his sister after returning from his voyage before traveling to Chattingham House.
Fernsby decided that he would try to sleep before supper. He removed his jacket, hanging it over the desk chair. He started working his fingers through the buttons on his waist coat. He noticed that it was snug in the arms and shoulders; his increased physical activity at sea had caused his shoulders to broaden and his biceps to increase in size. He was able to quickly remove his shirt after doffing the waist coat, leaving his torso exposed.
Fernsby looked in a mirror on the wall. He had sparse black hair sweeping across his pectoral muscles. His small nipples appeared more visible due to the contrast between their soft pink tone and his dark chest hair. His vascular biceps reacted to his movements, flexing in response to each motion. He had mild muscle definition on his stomach; he could see his abs below a small layer of padding.
Fernsby noticed the uncomfortable dried sweat on his skin now that he was unrobed from the waist up. He had spied a washbowl and pitcher in the corner of the room when he'd first entered. He walked over to find that there was lukewarm water, as well as a damp cloth, on the table. He thought that perhaps his cousin had brought it up, prior to his arrival, anticipating that he would need to wash up.
Sitting on the desk chair, Fernsby took off his boots; this further sullied his hands with dirt. He swiftly removed his pantaloons, tossing them onto the bed. He was down to his stockings and small drawers. He looked in the mirror; the small drawers were riding up his large thighs, creating creases in the fabric. His legs had a thick coating of black hair; the stockings appeared as if they would burst from trying to contain his bulging calves.
Fernsby lowered his small drawers, stepping out of them. He draped them over his waist coat on the back of the chair. He could see himself in the mirror, standing nude aside from the white stockings covering his feet and calves. He looked at his dick; it swayed between his thighs. It was sixteen centimeters flaccid, and of significant girth. A blue vein ran down the length of the shaft. His pendulous nut-sack swayed in time with his penis when he moved. He had bushy black pubic hair, which extended a few centimeters over the base of his cock.
Fernsby traipsed over to the washbowl and pitcher, his back facing the door. He began to press the tepid washcloth into his chest. He gently massaged his pecs, wetting the black hair that covered them. His nipples hardened as the edge of the moist fabric stimulated them. He plunged the rag into the bowl, sopping up more water.
