tagBDSMAfflictions of Unruly Passion Ch. 01

Afflictions of Unruly Passion Ch. 01


Act I



Picture the most glorious, deliriously lovely spring afternoon the south of England ever dared to see. It was a day of such buttery warmth, spread in fields of fragrant grass and daffodils, when her 'loving' father and mother committed her. She was deemed "unfit for polite society due to mental infirmity" and sent to Mistress Halifax's Home for Stricken Ladies.

In the truest dramatically ironic sense, it was at that emotional and mental cloister that she first became free. Herein lays the history of a troubled young woman. By troubled, naturally, I mean she was saddled with a family of polite, genteel and "proper" folk, and she was a perversion among them. Too keen of mind, too strange; well-read in Arcanum and gifted with the steel of a witty tongue.

Valentine Dora Amelia Godwin was seated in her mother's garden with two polite ladies of society, calmly sipping tea with a half-cocked smile, when "visitors" came. She remained primly seated in her pinafore, frock and frills (ridiculous, she thought, on a woman of twenty) and waited. The men advanced in their crisp starched uniforms, and Valentine knew that the harshest chemicals available had bleached out every trace of the true filth she envisioned on those fabrics. Since she was but one girl, she retained her dignity.

"We have come for Miss Godwin." Firm, and determinately, the elder gentleman so spake.

"If you would be so kind as to allow me to finish my tea," she answered softly, "I have just gotten it to the perfect sweetness." The rationality and somehow frigid gentleness of her voice gave them pause. Falling silent, the men nodded. There was no reason to make a scene when none had been created by their charge. Most... unusual. She closed her long-lashed eyelids and drank with a blissful sigh. Enough time to savour, not enough to make the moment seem a tawdry attempt at delay. Once the last liquid-gold drop had fallen to her thirst, she daubed her lips with all the affected manners of society and stood, offering her hand. The rustling of silk accompanied her movement, and the escort appeared to have quite forgotten this girl was his intended mental inmate and victim of quackery disguised as physic. But she had not forgotten so. She was a patient, coiled snake.

"I will continue with you now, gentlemen." When she spoke, her charm was venomous. "I thank you wildly for that last indulgence. Shall we?" The unsettled men gestured to their carriage, a grand affair of the highest quality. Valentine smirked to herself. Once again, mother had reminded her that she was a lady. Only the best and most fashionable luxuries would so much as touch her milky skin, at least until she was finally locked away out of sight and mind. Of course, Mistress Halifax's was the most expensive and exclusive asylum available... It boasted a seaside property, a staff that graduated from only the most prestigious medical universities and hospital experiences, and a patient list of notorious and well-known names. At least the Godwins would appear to be loving parents.

The ladies sat, watching the procession carry away the young mistress to an unknown fate.

Unnoticed by any of the women seated in the garden below, Godfrey haunted an upper floor of the manor and watched his daughter's haughty march as she followed the white-coated escorts to the carriage. He flitted room to room, following her progress, a glass of whisky gripped firmly in his hand.

When Valentine and the men at last reached the front of the manor, Lord Godwin quickly counted the trunks once more, assuring himself there were six in total. They were loaded onto a separate vehicle as Valentine herself was given a hand up into her transport. She paused only briefly to speak to the man. Finally, the girl's curls vanished in a flicker, as did the hem of her skirt, and she never once looked backward.

Godfrey watched until there was naught left of their presence but a stirring of dust up the road.

Once gone from the garden, the girl had immediately been the gleeful subject of the ladies' discussion. Her mother was Violet in name, yet lemon in disposition.

"It should have happened years ago!" The shriek in her tone could possibly be used to break glass, if enough effort were made.

"Some folk are just born rotten," the woman to Violet's left said. Catching her insult, the guest blurted "Even when their parents are as pure as the driven snow," and glanced with fright over her societal better's face. Violet Whitlock Godwin appraised the other coolly and deemed the recovery good enough to spare her the harsh snub that would have followed that remark. Gradually, the conversation continued in hushed murmurs of sacrifices for the good of the family, she'll get all the help she needs, poor dear, and can't have one bad apple spoiling the bunch. Inside, Violet smiled. Her daughter, the blight on an otherwise perfect, respectable family, was gone. The only relative who claimed any sort of fondness for the twisted vixen was Violet's own peculiar spinster sister. Edith was too settled and successful to be got rid of, and in Violet's mind, had committed the most heinous of crimes by spoiling her perfect daughter. Oh once, those chestnut curls had gleamed in mannered innocence, the perfect meek and obedient female to be auctioned off, a beautiful prize for marriage. But damned be that day when Edith came with her pestilent ideas about female strength and gave the puppet a mind of her own. There was no training her after that.

The girl's two older brothers continued to be perfect British gentlemen with respectable status and modest wives with child. Presentable. Valentine had grown willful, and too intelligent to be truly attractive. Every possible suitor was shunned after an interview with the miss herself, alone.

"I never should have agreed to that little condition of hers, you know," Violet sniffed. Her friend Margaret (the misspoken one) nodded with sympathy. "I allowed her that indulgence trying to be a good mother."

"Perfectly right," the other friend, Rowena, chorused from her right side. It was always gossip with these majestic harpies. Violet was the empress of it all.

"And when that poor traumatised young man came to me, ugh! I could have died of shame!" Violet reeled dramatically. Indeed, that had been a brutal night.

Valentine's final suitor of many had come from her rooms, crying and stumbling, barely a fortnight past.


A pale, dandyish heir-of-a-lordling just a few years older than the Gorgon herself, young Lord Benthill was a gentle soul; a good match in fortune, from Violet's slanted perspective. That he appeared before her so distraught proved another failure. Dozens of eligible prospects, now! Violet was past frustrated, but had to keep singing the bloody opera.

"Good heavens, Lord Benthill! Whatever can be the matter?" Lady Godwin fluttered to his side with a handkerchief and began dabbing his cheeks. The wan and slight prospect could barely form his words.

"She- she asked me quite firmly if I would tear the clothes from her body and s-strike her!" The poor sputtering fop managed his message with shock in his voice. The woman responded with a genuine gasp of horror and managed a quick recovery.

"Gracious! Was she so frightened of you to say such beastly things?" The man eyed her incredulously.

"Frightened! Indeed, not! I have never seen such a giddy expression on the face of any conscious being!" Still trembling from his ordeal, the young man accepted a hand from a quick-footed servant (drawn, of course, by the commotion- no household servant worth their salt missed a good commotion). "Your daughter seemed quite calm and charming when she accepted me into her quarters, and I felt slightly unnerved, in truth, by her boldness. She introduced herself with such grace I began to forget my worry, until she asked me if I would answer for her a deep, personal question that could ultimately sway her to marriage. Naturally, somewhat perplexed, I asked to hear the question."

"That's when she gave you that dreadful query?" Violet shuddered with repulsion.

"Yes. I politely denied her and left, overcome with horror." John Benthill, the suitor that finally exposed Valentine's secret, collapsed into an armchair and was given a generous tot of brandy.

While her doom was being spoken in hushed tones in the parlour, Valentine had been staring at her hands. Another man had come to her room, baited by the notoriety of her beauty, and she had caused another recoiling; another shudder of disgust. So many had worn that look. Still, was the outright rejection better than the ones who tried to meet her audacity? A weary sigh passed her ruby lips. There may never be a man good enough for her mother that also could fulfill Valentine's one wish.

Violet saw that her guest was made comfortable in a private spot to recover, and then marched herself to her husband's study.

Without knocking, the enraged woman tried the door and found it unlocked. She did not hesitate to slam it as she barged right in, encountering Godfrey pacing with a bit of paper in his hand. He looked her way, caught unawares; he hoped she did not see how much she'd rattled his composure. While he quelled the panic that was beginning to rise, she took advantage of his silence.

"Your daughter is a wretched pervert!" the wrathful creature declared. Her emotions seemed to be tilting from anger to maniacal glee.

"What?" he barked in return, pulling himself together just enough.

"She's just driven out another suitor, this time in tears!" his wife shouted. "The things he told me! She has been asking men to tear the clothes from her body and- and-" Violet visibly shuddered in repulsion, and this took Godfrey by surprise even more than her sudden entrance. "Ugh, I can't even say more, it's so beastly! I have Lord Benthill taking brandy in your cigar room, so you can speak to him yourself!" Turning away again, Violet stalked back to the doorway and grabbed the handle. "She is out of control, Godfrey, and something needs to be done!" With that she slammed the door behind her as she departed. Left standing with his jaw thoroughly dropped, the unfortunate man froze in place and began to process everything.

After a time, he went. He had to speak to the young man. Everything else in turn.

Working methodically as always, Godfrey took action.

The men met, the men drank, and the men spoke. It was a long and detailed conversation, and at the end, Lord Godwin shook his wronged guest by the hand and promised to send along a little donation to his estate by way of apology. With Godwin's warm regard (and a few rounds of brandy in him), the second Lord John Alexander Benthill had enough strength in his knees to stumble to his waiting conveyance.

Valentine was confined to her room by her mother for her "extremely rude behaviour".

Godfrey and Violet met again late in the evening, each of them tense and anticipating a row. Somehow, they maintained a relative civility. Perhaps because this time, she was justified, and he, defeated. They discussed and agreed that other men their child had driven off should be interviewed for further revelations. Suggestions were made by both parties as to what to do with her- a broad range of options arose, spanning from nunnery to Bedlam. At the end there was a begrudging agreement:

"Something will be done."

Bedlam itself would have been too cruel by the standards of their peers. There were appearances to be thought of and reputations to protect... Still, of the 'solutions', the madhouse held the most appeal.

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by Anonymous

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by PhilippaMaQuente07/17/18

No worries!

Rest up, and best of health to your fur-baby.

I am very fond of historical fiction, and in truth, it is most of my work. You may have some trouble with this one, but it's not a crime if it's not for you.more...

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by Anonymous07/17/18


I hope you don't take offense but this style of writing gives me a headache and always has. It's in no way a reflection of your talent but my inability to casually decipher a cadence of speech withoutmore...

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