tagBDSMAfflictions of Unruly Passion Ch. 02

Afflictions of Unruly Passion Ch. 02



Valentine found out rather quickly from there which fate her family chose.

They'd managed to catch her by surprise, she gave them that. Too proud to stop and collect any amusements for her journey, she accepted her exile and vanished without even a wistful glance over her shoulder. An escape had arrived and she took it. As she entered the carriage she addressed her escort succinctly. He lingered in the doorway to answer.

"Where am I headed, good sir? It would be awfully unsporting of you to deny me the pleasant news my own kin did not see fit to share." There was no real vitriol in her for the man just doing his job.

"Well, Miss, you're off to recover your health and wellbeing at one of the best psychiatric facilities under the crown," the gentleman said as he helped her into her coach. "We've a long journey ahead of us, so we mustn't dally!" He chided her like a babe, and Valentine rolled her eyes, unseen.

Psychiatric. So a madwoman, am I now? "Naturally," she remarked. "I could not stop for sanity, so you've kindly stopped for me."

"Beg pardon?" the man said, not quite catching her meaning. Valentine made herself comfortable and tittered.

"Not important. Carry on your duty; there's a good man." The girl reclined and turned her attention to the window. She threw one shapely leg over the other and proceeded to ignore him. He merely shook his head and closed her in. The asylum man turned toward his next task. Pudgy and cheery, the driver of the young woman's coach tipped his cap and awaited the start of his pay. Two white-dressed men, employed to supply their workplace with goods and patients alike, climbed into the large wagon needed to transport the luggage to the city and through. From London there were several legs of travel ahead of them.

The carriage created a music of squeaking accompanied by the clattering and crunching of rock and hoof. Transport to the train, and the first leg of her exile. The journey ahead was long and arduous; the asylum lay on the shore in Northern Scotland and it would take the rest of the day, and well into the next, to arrive. She had nothing but thoughts to keep her occupied, and Valentine immediately fell into those wistful amusements that so often dwelt in her mind.

It was the forbidden wish exposed by Lord Benthill she pondered during the trip from her country manor to the bustle of London itself.


When did it begin, this longing?

She had been born to privilege, and raised with utter perfection of face, voice, manner, and fashion.

But nothing in life was simple. During her... tumultuous adolescence complications arose. At the age of twelve Valentine had already begun etiquette lessons to prepare her for her debut, and she was a beautiful twittering bird, a rare treasure of beribboned, compliant innocence. On the day of her birth, thirteenth year, her aunt had come for the party. Of the many gifts Valentine received that day, including fine clothes and precious adornments, one was secretly given, and it was most (directly) responsible for the great wave of knowledge that initiated her change.

Aunt Edith had appeared perfumed with lavender and vanilla; her rich taffeta gown rustled distinctly with every step. Aunt Edith had never married, and wished never to marry. Rather, she found happiness in working for herself. A stipend from Valentine's grandfather kept her quite content aside from the independent salary she earned in owning a small shop for oddments and second-hand goods, whilst doing sewing and mending on the side. All this success (however modest) she wished to impart upon her beloved niece, for the world was cruel to women, and Edith knew well exactly what kind of woman her sister was. For years she'd watched Valentine grow like a rose in a pot. Confined, restricted; clipped by the brutal shears of Violet.

In private, Edith sat with her delicate niece and placed a pretty parcel in her hands.

Valentine unwrapped the gift with prim restraint. Under the paper lay a book.

"A Vindication on the Rights of Woman, by Mary Wollstonecraft." Young Valentine ran her fingers along the cover.

"My dear, this book will help you understand how much you are truly worth." Edith hugged her niece. The tome lay heavy with wonders in the child's lap.

After that birthday, Valentine opened her eyes. She was no longer content just being a prize for marriage. Seeking her own fulfillment, she broadened her education, studying literature, language, fencing, and history. She grew willful and witty, defying her controlling, oppressive mother. Violet was steadily more incensed. Each day her daughter grew in beauty, grace, and charm. When she was still innocent those things were endearing, but in the wake of her knowledge, they grew into deadly tools.

The young woman's transformation came at a great cost to herself. As she became strong in body and mind, her body matured to womanhood, and she also thought quite often of desire. Though she eventually resented the idea of being merely given over to the highest bidder, she came to crave a partner, a lover who could truly match her. The elusive 'prince charming' promised all those years. Yet, in her ferocity, she resolved that any man who wished to take her to wife would be worthy of all her beauty, intelligence, and physical aptitude. She desired a man of passion, one that could truly prove himself her equal and her better.

Valentine's natural libidinous appetites, orchestrated by biology and time, began to grow dark. A man who could win her surely deserved complete domain over her. If he could best her, every centimetre of her body would belong to him, and every purpose he chose to put it to would be her delight. As she came through her adolescence to maturity, the desires inherent within her grew steadily more potent. While bathing or alone in her room, she thought so singly upon the man who could claim her that it drove her to seek the woman's greatest joy. What else could she do to quell her need?


In the carriage there was no one to see her scandalous self, and nothing else to do, so, she flipped up her skirts and spread her legs wide. Her fingers undid the drawstring of her bloomers and slipped down to her heated loins. As Valentine began to touch herself, she closed her eyes and found her place before her dream-lover and slipped into the realm of pleasure and fantasy.

She imagined leather in a buckled circlet around her neck: A mark of ownership. Her breath grew heavy. She imagined a pair of burning eyes coursing every part of her naked flesh, and hands following paths up and down her skin. With eyes closed Valentine pretended her own hands were the phantom man's. She allowed her palms to caress her gloriously curved body, caring not for the modest principles of her age. It was her damned moment.

After his hands had explored her, and found her to suit his tastes, it was only natural that she please him with everything she had. In her mind his thick, strong fingers encompassed her breasts. Her hands did so. He tweaked and stroked the tender peaks, and she felt a ripple of pleasure course through her, down in her humid sex.

"Do you wish to please me?" he always growled, low.

"Yes," she cried. "How may I serve you?" Her breath heaved in frantic pants- her nipples gave her such a surge. The words spoken in her brain only served to heat her further.

"Spread your thighs." She did, and gasped when he started to touch her. At first it was a mere caress. The first little trickle of pleasure through her. Fingers grew bolder and began a true stroke. Her breath hitched; she moaned. Warmth flowed through her, molten and insistent. Her touch slipped a little in growing wetness as she fell into the rhythm of pleasuring herself. But mentally, he was pleasuring her, getting her ready to receive his cock. Valentine's cries fell more frequently. The sensation grew and radiated outward, eclipsing her womanhood and spreading to her toes, her breasts, across her scalp. She grew slippery inside, and marvelled at her body's natural reaction. Yes, why shouldn't it prepare her to be deflowered? It was the way of the world.

Roughly he dragged her toward him by her spread thighs. The girl shuddered, her body beginning to clench within. Her fantasy drew to the pivotal moment. The man in her dreams unbuttoned his strained trousers and released himself from the constricting fabric. Valentine beheld his erection, the root of his masculinity, and moaned aloud.

"Please... take me, Master..." her voice came ragged, and her body convulsed as she neared release. Her bewitching specter grinned wickedly and laughed with a husky growl. He moved between her trembling legs and smoothly, forcefully, claimed her virgin passage.

Valentine cried out in climax and her body convulsed so wonderfully.


The transport stopped at last, having arrived in the city and at King's Cross. When the asylum's man helped her out of the conveyance, he caught the edge of a pungent aroma he could not quite place. For some reason it immediately warmed him inside, but as she passed, it dissipated. The sweet tang, unidentified, faded from his olfactory memory in minutes. Nothing else seemed amiss, and in the rush to get her trunks unloaded and reloaded, he forgot the mystery. The girl acted as if nothing were amiss. She was bustled into a private car, surrounded by the white-dressed men, and she remained silent as the grave. The chilly atmosphere she cloaked herself in kept the group tongue-less.

It was an awkward, uncomfortable stretch of time until dinner was called, and after the meal, Valentine was shown to a private room on a sleeper and given a hastily packed bag. They'd be on the train all night as her life moved between countries. The small room enclosed her, womblike, and in it she brooded. Her restless mind ticked ticked ticked ticked. What lay in her future? How could she escape from an asylum?

It might not be all bad. She just might get a chance to raise a bit of hell.

Sleep came when exhaustion finally won out.


An early knock woke her from her fitful doze, and she was served a simple meal of tea and toast. They'd breached the border of one country for another, and they'd soon be arriving in Edinburgh. Another day's worth of travel from the bustle of the Scottish capital would bring her to the seaside somewhere, and Valentine gave a serious amount of thought (as she prepared for the day) to perhaps giving her escorts the slip. Though incredibly tempting, it wasn't worth it when she considered the price of cooperating to the madhouse and then taking stock of her supplies versus the price of total freedom now, with no tools and no assets but her body. Plus, she would prefer not to abandon her written works, whatever may have made it to her trunks. Escape from an asylum, though, might prove very difficult. Valentine had read Nellie Bly. She did not have high expectations, especially if her mother had picked out the place.

Hmm. A thought flickered and took wicked root. Perhaps such a destination would be fitting for a woman like her. There were sure to be men to tempt, wrongs to right, women to rabble-rouse, perhaps even joy to be had. A new environment to stretch in could work for her.

Valentine smiled. Any place was better than home.


The men came for her and found her dressed in a knee-length, petticoat-fluffed, ocean-blue gown, curls somehow crisp, and smiling. The appearance of her cheer did not seem to boost her escorts' moods; instead it set them on edge the way sailors sometimes got when the weather was going foul.

"Our final destination lies on the coast by Nairn," the older man said. "A carriage will be fetched for you. We'll arrive late this evening, and we will stop for meals and a change of horses twice." The woman beamed.

"Of course, sirs. Might I have a moment to examine my trunks for some of my things? I will need amusements for the journey." Silver-haired tall looked at mousy-haired short, and she watched their question pass back and forth.

"I will be overseeing your luggage when the train stops, miss, and we'll see if we can let you have a look before the trunks are all loaded up for the trip." The younger man finally replied. She smiled again coquettishly.

"That will do. Whatever I can get my hands on will be enough. Perhaps there will be a newsstand or a bookshop when we disembark."

"Of course," the other one muttered. "Come, Miss, have you all your things?" Valentine asserted that she had, and followed her escorts to sit in a private parlour while they rode the remaining track to Waverly. The conversation was no more existent than it had been the previous evening. The men huddled together and discussed their work and the day's necessities, monitoring their charge sidelong. She... remained staring out the small window, wholly ignoring them. It was a most unusual situation. Not once had they needed to subdue or restrain their patient. Besides the tense silence, it had been a peaceful trip.

The train arrived at Waverly in good time, and began spilling its passengers and cargo out into the day. Valentine waited patiently, maintaining her exterior. She complied with her escorts' orders and allowed them to lead her outside. The younger man brought her to see about her trunks. There were six in total, and he told her there was only time for her to rummage through one before they must be off. Valentine looked them over, trying to pick quickly. Each trunk was the same, but one had a black splotch on the front, where something had spilled. Valentine ran her fingers over the stain. It was dry by then, but based on the shape and colour of the streak, it had probably been ink. Cursing, she threw open the lid of the one just to see the damage.

Inside the luggage everything was fine; nothing seemed stained or splattered, to her surprise. Also to her surprise, a great plethora of her writing-books and novels lay therein, and inwardly she breathed a sigh of relief. Quickly she snatched up a few things to keep her occupied and then receded from the trunk. Railway men were given some coin to move her things onto a waiting cart, and she herself was ushered to yet another fine carriage and left inside alone. At least she had something to amuse herself.

With the air of a queen Valentine took her seat and watched out the tiny porthole windows as the asylum men boarded the cart with her things and set off, her driver following. Buildings and roads stretched out before, after, and on all sides of her vehicle, and from what she could see (though smaller than London) the city of Edinburgh was gorgeous. Shame she wouldn't be able to explore it in more depth.

Valentine watched until there was nothing left to see and turned her attention to her books. There were hours yet to drive.


The day passed glacially, punctuated by stops for dinner and supper, periods of stretching, and changing out the horses. Valentine remained isolated in her own mind; her escorts remained baffled by the continued lack of insanity or resistance from their charge. Though silent, she was cooperative and largely placid. It was a comfort, at least, that the job was easy. The group finally passed through Nairn just after nine, and their destination would soon appear down the private road they knew so well. It was almost over.

With her journey nearing its end, the young woman felt as though she was about to come out of her chrysalis. The last day and a half of her life had been spent brewing deadly little thoughts and ideas of resolve for her future. Now she felt primed, ready to act. It was almost her time. Valentine watched the horizon obsessively, and soon enough the dark sky, with its crystal spots of light, was broken by the silhouette of a large estate. The sweeping, palatial manor that was emerging, now her home, beckoned. Though difficult to see the front of the buildings or the grounds, she could tell the architecture was grand, and likely very handsome.

As they got closer, the dim gas lamps outside lit enough of the face of the building to allow her a glimpse of its character. To her, the antiquated but steadfast construction carried the wizened expression of an old dabbler in the arcane arts. As charming as that was to her sentimentality, she was simultaneously amused by the trace of stark raving madness in the expression. The wayward girl liked it rather much already.

Her carriage finally stopped in the circular driveway and her door opened shortly afterward. The nymph gathered her things and allowed the men, both wearied by travel, to escort her through the doors. Once transferred to the perfectly pristine lobby, Valentine functioned much as she always did; she was the well-bred society darling she had been trained to be. She smoothed her rumpled clothing and waited, watching the proceeds with interest. Staff members in suits and white coats flitted about, speaking to one another over their papers. Not one of her new peers seemed to be about anywhere. Impatient, she faced the masculine but ornately decorated foyer, contemplating her new situation: No warning, no pity, and there she stood in the madhouse. Still, she mused, when your tastes tended toward the work of Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Shelley, you were always a bit odd in the "proper" circles. Her own mother was frankly embarrassed by the very sight of her, though as well-dressed and crafted as any girl could be. The nature she wore was just too macabre to her family- a creature to be whispered about in quiet rooms, in danger of tarnishing their flawless family name. It was both a difficult and somehow elating way to live.

Valentine was told by the listless desk-clerk that an escort would arrive to take her to her room, her presence being then promptly forgotten. Stiff and aching from travel, she stood there stretching a bit as she watched the men set about hauling in her luggage.

A much younger-looking lad sporting yet another crisp white uniform soon came around a corner, his bread earned by the herding of patients and attending domestic chores about the place. The bored beauty stood amidst the business of lights-out, and found not many paying her mind. The two men who delivered her all the way from her English home had wrangled a few others to help move her things. As all six trunks were carried in, the escort, named Charles Richardson, could not help devouring his new charge with his eyes, from face to brazenly exposed calves and back up. The boy salivated. He looked around, searching for any assistance flocking to her side. No one was watching her. He saw one of the fetchers at the front desk, inquiring her room assignment.

His object of interest stood waiting, yawning petitely. The comely creature was impeccably dressed and it flattered the hourglass figure she boasted. She was of average height, and generously crafted in what looked to be girlish plumpness. Her skin (left cheek marked by a dark beauty spot almost dead centre) gleamed like porcelain even in the poor lighting. Her dress was midnight blue and shimmered like water; its style was precocious and childlike.

Standing there, Valentine saw him appraise her, and she knew her favourite game was about to begin. A salacious purr rumbled in her chest. After hours without much stimulation, ruminating upon how her life had led her to the madhouse, it looked as though her fortunes were livening up. Restless as always for a little sport, the young lady felt energy stirring within her, in all the places and ways she was most accustomed to feeling it burn.

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byPhilippaMaQuente© 0 comments/ 3538 views/ 3 favorites

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