The Cyreniac Scandal

This is a fantasy scenario that involves themes of non-consent and incest. Despite the tag, all participants are willing and consenting parties and will be made explicitly so in the text

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The Duchess was flustered even before their weekly meeting began. The Duchess Marie's face was red, even under her heavy powdered makeup. Her silvery blonde hair was pulled up into a lavish pouf, in imitation of the Queen's style with whom she shared her name, but at the moment the Duchess fully lacked any queenly composition.

She glanced over at her companion and longtime confidant as if noticing her for the first time.

"My dear Sophia you simply wouldn't believe the day I'm having," Marie said dryly, continuing to fan herself as she reclined across the chaise lounge, propped up on her elbows at one end with her heaving bosom rising and falling against her tight dress.

"Do tell," Countess Sophia encouraged her friend. The woman was an incomparable gossip, and there was no dish Sophia craved more than the latest royal outrage.

The olive skinned, southern woman sat patiently across from her overly dramatic northern companion. While her host was dressed in a stuffy white dress with pink accents, Sophia had wisely chosen a more open, broad shouldered black dress in keeping with her the traditions of her Spanish side. She crossed her legs and settled in for a long story.

"I came upon a letter," Marie explained, as if she'd casually stumbled on the parcel rather than rifling through all the mail she could get her hands on. "It was from my youngest daughter, Veronique, addressed to her sister."

"The one in the convent?" Sophia asked. The elder sibling had a year ago been shipped off after her illicit activities had begun to provoke scandal.

"She has no other," Marie snapped, recognizing the obvious jab.

"What harm is there in communication and love shared between siblings?" Sophia asked.

Marie scoffed.

"It's the nature of that love that has me concerned."

Marie's cold blue eyes darted over to a servant, and flicked her hand to usher the man away. When they were alone, she reached into her bosom and retrieved a crumpled letter that had been held in those caverns. She flicked through a few pages before finding what she was looking for, and then began to read it aloud.

— I have heard of those riots even here in the far north. We've heard of fighting over bread and marches to the palace —

Sophia reached for her wine.

"Well there's nothing wrong with a woman taking an interest in poiti-"

Marie shot her a glare that silenced her and froze her mid-reach.

— Though the situation is frightful, I admit that on some nights when I'm alone in my bedroom I can't help but imagine something like that happening here. Many a warm summer evening have I laid in that bed and explored myself imagining there to be an angry mob gathered outside.

It's terrifying, yes, but how I dream of some horde of unwashed, grim-visaged peasants bursting into my room bearing knives and pistols, hungry looks of lust captured in flickering torchlight.

In my dreams we still share this room. After all, what knowledge I have of the intimacy between genders comes only in peeking through the blankets late at night and watching you tumble with some young noble. I treasure those memories of watching your body, a near replica of my own, in pale blue moonlight on hands and knees while some boy thrusts against you from behind. How easy it was to see the face of one who might as well be my twin contorted in an ecstasy I had yet experienced, and imagine myself in your high-heeled shoes.

But these dark dreams of which I speak, my oldest friend, twist that memory.

I know that in your convent, it's likely you may have taken to some more prudish habits that might lead you to rebuke any fantasies of non-consent, so please know that in all of these fantasies it is the you I remember, that in these dreams we are only playing at a struggle as our captors arrive at our express invitation.

In these dreams, the mob rips the clothes from your body, shedding your thin night-shift. They would render bare those rounded, teardrop shaped breasts so cruelly now hidden by the Nun's habit. The man's lips press firmly down against yours as his fingers tangle in your golden hair.

A man and a woman, featureless in my mind save for their savagery, they hold me down between the beds on my knees. My wrists bound behind my back, and as I try to scream they tie a rag between my lips.

I know not how to interpret this, dear sister, but the rag is not to keep alarm from spreading. In the rooms all around us we can hear the screams of servants, even our mother and father, facing humiliation at the hands of the vindictive mob. No, being gagged here is an act of humiliation. Another agency stripped —

Sophia stood and started pacing around the room, mostly to hide her own excitement behind the wine glass.

"Scandalous indeed," she said, before finally settling back into her seat and crossing her legs.

"Oh, it's not finished," Marie answered with a disgusted snarl.

— I have always loved proximity to you, sister, and in these dreams my captors shove my cheek down against your stomach. Holding my face close to your womanhood as I'm forced to watch that peasant slap his bare, swollen cock against the blooming rose petals of your womanhood.

All the while I can feel one of my captors pulling my own dress up my long legs, baring my plump, rounded ass cheeks and spanking me as they might an unruly child. I know your protectiveness, my beloved, and in the dream this infuriates your as much if not more than your own imminent violation.

And even as I write this, I can feel my blood rushing with anticipation of that ravaging. Though in the dream I sob and struggle, at night I feel my body come alive as I watch the man starting to shove inch after inch of himself inside of you. I can hear you wailing and screaming from the far end of the bed, the vibrations rippling across your body and onto mine as you struggle. The man is holding your legs up and spreads each to the side as he plows deeper and deeper.

Finally, he grunts with satisfaction as he sinks up to his hilt inside you. I can feel him bulging against your stomach, that bump pressed to my cheek.

The woman behind me runs her fingers up my legs until she claims the distinction of being the first aside from myself to touch the tight folds of my womanhood.

They are just discussing the market value of abducting us and selling our bodies for two francs when the woman makes the same realization I just had.

They squabble like crows over my body. There's some talk of keeping me intact, but with tears in my eyes it quickly becomes clear that my virginity will not emerge intact. Now all that's left to argue is who gets to breed the Royal bitch first.

In my dream, the first man to mount me was a man who beyond all conscious logic seemed to be an oiled black man from the colonies. I believe my mind drew him from that trip mother took us on to the coast. My mind could have drawn no finer specimen of his species to deflower me.

He steadied the bulbous head of his shaft firmly against my folds, his other hand steadying my hips as he aligned his body.

I tried to squirm away, but the man held me there,

There was some fortune on my part for the presence of the gag. I can't imagine the things I might have bellowed in my sleep had my mind not imagined my pouty red lips pulled taunt around a rag. It's harrowing enough to imagine that the maids might have heard my moans as I felt this dreamed dark rapist begin to thrust inch after inch inside of me.

I have not yet known the touch of a man, but I imagine every sensation of surprise pales in contrast to the way I feel him pulsing inside me. In the fantasy the violation I feel between my legs is magnified, and made manifest in some way, by my face being pressed so close to your body. Up close I'm made to witness the horrid leader of the mob shoving his manhood inside you at a similar pace to my own deflowering.

My nostrils are assailed with the acrid tang of your sweat, your skin flushing pink as the violation drags on and on. Beneath it, though, is the familiar smell of your reluctant enjoyment flowing over his shaft. The sounds of hips smacking viciously against yours grow wetter with each thrust. —

Sophia shifted uncomfortably in her salon chair. So the younger knew of her older sister's indiscretions.

She wondered if there was any risk here. It had been Sophia, after all, who threw the masked 'Cyreniac Oscène' gala where young woman's presence as a centerpiece display had been the event that broke her mother's threshold for turning a blind eye. What fun it had been to punish the daughter of a dear friend.

— I feel the man hammering inside me as though I might wake to find it a reality. His cock pulling out to the head only to slam back in to a new depth. Tears smearing my black mascara down my cheeks as I wail into the gag. His hands gripping my blonde curls and pulling back on them like the leash of some wild bitch. I'm pulled back with as equal a vigor as his hips thrust up against me.

I am able to break free for a moment as I launch myself backwards, smacking my head hard against my violator's face. He recoils and I pitch myself over to the side, fumbling on my knees towards the door.

My bindings has forced on me so languid a pace as to seem nearer to farce than a genuine attempt at escape. Impaired by the tight cords fastening my arms behind me, I must have looked quite the humorous sight to my attackers, all of whom save the one whose nose I'd battered stopping to laugh at my pathetic attempts at escape.

But when my rapist regained his composure, he set upon me with a renewed fury. Driven by a hateful vengence surpassing all base urges of lust, he leapt at me once more. My cheeks were slammed hard against the floor as my hips were raised in presentation.

One of the women handed him a riding crop I recognized as belonging to your lover from the stables (poor Fançois, I'd no idea my subconscious bore such ill will towards the boy as to imagine him too subjected to such degradation). He set upon my ass with that crop with the vigor of a herdsman breaking the will of an unruly beast, the echoing smacks of the flat head against the pale curves of my rear dwarfing my own muffled walks of protest. My cheeks rubbed against a growing puddle of my own tears, but my agony was at no end.

What occurred next was not an act of lust, but of raw domination of a creature of the lower classes inflicting a lifetime of suffering an inequity back into the tight virginal body of a noblewoman. With my mind focused entirely on preparations to a return violation of my sensitive cunt, I was so unable to fathom the alternative until the thick head had already begun to bulge inside the rim of my impossibly tight ass.

Oh how I envy you here, sister. I have seen through holes in sheets you grip the railings and bare your teeth as the stable boy claimed your lesser hole. But ever you remained in control, poised.

Even in these fantasies, I know of myself too well to hold to that belief.

I would spasm and reel and do anything to escape. I'd been holding my legs tightly together to keep him out of my womanhood, but this did nothing to stop his brutal advance. I flatten my body against the ground, my only recourse to escape, and for a moment it might grant me reprieve at it pulls him out. But he follows not more than a second later, and this invasion more harrowing for my foreknowledge of the pain to come.

He rams his obsidian rod inside me a second time like some Grecian trireme in a naval engagement. There was likely as little physical pleasure in the act for him as for me, though far more satisfaction for his more vicious cravings. My body squeezed tight to try to keep him out, and I have no doubt his push into me was all the more uncomfortable for it, but it marked no success in the count of stalling his invasion.

His dark body was entirely pressed ontop of mine, one hand pulling back on my hair and the other alternating between slapping my cheeks and squeezing around my throat. Every constriction of my breath triggered an involuntary deluge from my freshly violated womanhood against the wooden floor.

He sunk to unfathomed depths until the head of his cock seemed it might abutt some deeper organ. He held there, and I could feel his throbbing against the tight walls of my body. My eyes fluttered up as he squeezed again at my neck and all my remaining sensation was honed on the feeling of violation. The entire room, the entire palace, slipping out of existence for this one moment. Within this dream I could feel my body slipping into some new layer of unconsciousness. But whether this would convey to some other level reality or back to ours I could not say, for then the rape began in earnest. —

Sophia set down the glass for fear her grip might crack it. Instead her hands gripped the wooden knobs of the armrest, needing to find purchase on some distraction for fear she might indulge her most base desires in front of her far more puritanical associate.

What fortune for this heat, to give some other reason for the sweat she felt coursing along her olive skin.

Marie seemed to be unraveling before her. Leaf after leaf of parchment tumbled to the ground as she finished reading it aloud. A few blonde hairs had come loose from her coiffure and hung maddeningly across her face.

"Shall I take your glass," a talk, swarthy servant asked Marie, indicating her empty wine chalice. But the woman was too absorbed in her recitation to notice anything of this realm.

"Take us both," Sophia gently pled, offering up her glass and winking to the man. As he left, she tried to catch back up with the narrative.

— and as he'd pull out, the flared head of his manhood would catch around my narrow ring as if in a hook, pulling my hips up from the ground an inch or two, only to slap me back down against the wooden floor and send the puddle below me splashing to the sides and against my body.

This kind of savage abuse lasted for a sort of eternity only known in dreams. So vicious was this anal violation that even on waking I had felt a residual tinge of soreness whenever I sat somewhere.

Under the crack in the door, shadows passed and I could hear the wailing of servants, guests, family members all being dragged around to their own tableaus of debauchery.

He laughed like the baying of some abyssal creature, and only then did I realize the goosebumps spread across every inch of my pale body. As time and space had escaped from my mind, my body lost its reluctance and barreled full ahead towards la petite mort.

"Mmmph?!" I squealed in alarm the tight rag, but there was no stopping it. Inertia had caught hold of my body. He propelled it along by sinking one hand down under my hips, the palm pressed against my stomach and squeezing more gushing juices out from my body while the fingers roughly circled and toyed my swollen clit.

I struggled. I cried. I begged through the gag. I tried to think of poor mother and father. I tried to think of you. But that of all things was what pushed me over. There was no escaping it.

This is, after all, one of the few sexual experiences I can vouch for first-hand. Such explosions are rare and difficult for me, but many nights I lay in bed coyly running my hands across my body under the sheets when I think you've gone to sleep. But I do know I lose those inhibitions as I advance, my body slicking with sweat and arching like a thing possessed on the bed as I move closer to that bliss. My moans becoming primal moans so loud a servant once checked to see that I was not in the midst of some night terror — not knowing terror and euphoria are for me kindred feelings. I sheepishly concealed my body with sheets, but how I wished to beg the man to fulfill those dreams then and there.

And in this dream, with the responsibility and guilt of upholding my saintly virtue stripped from me, I surrendered to that paradise of cruelty.

It was the man's withdrawing from my ass and once again spearing himself up into my womanhood that set me over the edge. My body clenched tightly around him, almost painfully I'm sure, as though he were the sole anchor tethering me to reality. The rest of me exploded. Shook. Thrashed. Any who saw me would have thought me the most addled madwoman. For several long minutes I was a helpless observer to my own body's long overdue release. Though unconscious, the stains on the sheet in the morning are testament to the transcendental power of this orgasm.

But I haven't forgotten you, beloved sister. As the man ontop of me lifts me from the ground, without his body ever leaving mine, he shoves me forcefully against the wall with my cheek turned back into the room.

There on the bed, a gangly peasant woman with a gaunt face and a tangled mess of dark hair had stripped naked and placed herself under your body, with you lying on your back atop her. I cannot recall if you'd been wearing a choker and the thigh high white stockings at the dream's start, if they'd forced you into this lingerie, or if it's sudden appearance is just some facet of the dream's unreality. But you were there in all your cherubic beauty, beset upon by demons.

Her hand was clasped firmly over your mouth, pulling your head back to cradle it against her shoulder. Her eyes seemed suddenly transfixed on me as she whispered foul portents into your ear, only the rising panic in your eyes giving indication of their content. The other hand gripped a flintlock pistol pressed to your temple and assuring your compliance.

Not that you were left with terribly great capacity to resist. Your wrists were still bound against the small of your back, like mine, arching your body to such exacerbated degree and thrusting your heaving bosom, your treasured inheritance from mother, up towards your rapists in offering. The woman below you had wrapped her legs around to hold yours apart for her husband, who was positioned on his knees between them and driving his cock inside you.

He grunted with each thrust, seeming nearer and nearer to his climactic explosion inside your tender body. Perhaps as distraction to delay this finale, he held a candle from our night stand out over your breasts.

The flickering golden glow cast the whole scene in such stark relief. Your expression of horror and pain frozen in time, juxtaposed with the other woman's fiendish glee. You wailed into her hand as thin trickles of hot wax fell from the tilted candle and splattered across the vast mountains of your chest.

But this cruel distraction was insufficient to divert the man's attention for long. His pace slowed, but my true indication of what was occurring was your wide eyes and sudden burst of frantic thrashing. The woman below you struggled to control you, grappling like a wrestler and keeping you pinned in place only with great effort. Not even the threat of the pistol could dissuade you from making every effort to keep him from planting his seed deep within you.

But it was all for naught. He threw back his head and roared with primal satisfaction, and I could see from the tears pouring down your face against the woman's hands what had occurred.

Indeed, this sight was too much to bear for my own violator. I could feel him pulsing at an increasingly frenetic pace against the walls of my body. Finally he pulled himself free. He spun me around and shoved me down onto my knees before him.

It was here that I gained solid stock of what had abused me. Unlike the glimpses of what the men of our household had to offer, this was something remarkable. It was a work of art. A 'David' cast in obsidian. The weight of the thing was so great that even aroused it hung down like an elephants' trunk if unsupported.