Chapter Text
Chapter 1: First Time
Benedict Bridgerton, second son of the Honorable Bridgerton Household, stares down the cunt he intends to devour this evening, with great offense.
“How—how dare you?” He breathes indignantly, from between the woman’s thick thighs.
Naturally, that had been the wrong thing to say. She instinctively recoils, hastily closing her legs and nearly trapping his head in her haste.
To be clear: His head would’ve happily found residence at its current location. But such entrapment was not conducive to the ogling he wished to complete first.
Realizing his error, he emphatically shakes his head, hands gently coaxing her back open. “Forgive me, darling, but you are just so lovely. Please do not hide from me.”
Her body relaxes at his words and she gifts him a shy little smile, cheeks blushed scarlet. He smiles back at her, before turning his attention back to her center, his palms caressing her thighs.
It’s the loveliest cunt he’s ever seen. Truly. Benedict has dedicated many a year to his (diligent) research of woman’s anatomy. He’d like to think himself a Master of the subject. He usually gets a screaming ovation or two (or three, or— well, you get the idea) at each study session; such is his (most humble) expertise.
And let it be known he is also a Patron of the Arts! While he may not be as masterful in creating paintings as he is in the study of the female form, he’s developed, nay cultivated, a keen artistic eye indeed. (His current hiatus with creation has not impeded his curation of pieces from both famed and up in coming artists).
All this to say, Benedict Bridgerton is incredibly qualified (perhaps overly so), in beholding and appreciating all kinds of beauty. The woman splayed before him, all voluptuous curves, is a true work of art. Their Divine Creator’s Magnum Opus, lovingly realized through her sinuous form.
This isn’t to disparage the other women he’s had the pleasure of acquainting himself with. Every single one was unique and beautiful in their own way. But this… her…
She‘s exquisite. A perfect rosebud between her thighs, her arousal glistening like dew drops. He wants to taste her, devour her, gorge himself upon her. But now he’s let his mind run off into fantasies he means to actually manifest, leaving the goddess in front of him uncertain. And that just won’t do. He’d promised to worship her after all, and he’s rather desperate to start.
“You are absolute perfection, did you know?” His gaze flicks back up to her face, eyes roving over her features. She wears a black lace mask, rendering her just unrecognizable enough to be a stranger, but not covering her up completely. He can still make out her lovely high cheekbones, her plush pink lips, and her striking ocean eyes. Those had captivated him in their own right; in fact they’d been what initially drew him to her after their chance encounter.
She bites her lip, somehow managing to look so demure, so shy, despite being stripped bare of every stitch of clothing. What a luxurious feast she makes for him, his mouth salivating to taste her every hill and valley.
He’s met with a restless sea as their eyes lock and she shakes her head, ’No’. He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Well, that just won’t do. Because you are,” he declares emphatically.
She really, really is. He’s a lucky bastard to be her chosen companion for the night. He runs the tips of his fingers along her inner thighs, a whisper of nails on her soft skin. Goosebumps trail his wake, she’s so intoxicatingly responsive to his touch.
He brings his face back closer to her core, aiming to sip her directly from the source. Her breath hitches, muscles tensing just the slightest bit. Huskily, he murmurs into her center, “Will you allow me to convince you?”
At her whispered “Yes”, he descends upon her, tongue licking a stripe right up her seam.
Oh fuck.
Benedict was already consumed by the portrait she made, splayed out in front of him. His hands twitched not only with the need to touch her, but to immortalize her on canvas; in charcoal, in paint. Lord, there’s even the desire to carve her form into marble, despite his utter lack of experience (and likely skill) in sculpture.
She deserves this and more; she should have infinite adoration, yet her demeanor implies she’s not received the attention, the appreciation she’s due. It’s unfathomable to Benedict, for she is Venus made flesh again.
His true downfall beckoned with the first taste of her cunt, remaking him into her faithful acolyte. He, a desperate wretch marooned in the desert, somehow stumbled upon the divine mercy of her oasis. He would’ve happily remained at her altar for the rest of his days, subsisting on her essence alone, if she so allowed.
His groan is pained, for he’d never tasted someone so intoxicating, that he himself surrendered; not just to the sensation of the moment, but directly to the woman angel he’s serving, worshipping. He licks again, with a firmer, broader stroke, and is rewarded by her gasp, and an instinctual pulling of his hair.
He looks up, making sure to lock eyes with her, his hazel with her wide, wondering blues. He had agreed to ease her into this liaison as if this was a first time, her tone implying a deflowering. He’d been surprised by her request, for she clearly was no genteel lady; with her maroon velvet and lace trimmed corset, captivating bosom near spilling over, her asymmetrically cut skirts scandalously revealing peeks at her legs. Nor was their meeting at this libertine party such that “polite” society would approve of. Such a request normally would not have sparked an interest, but there was something about her inviting yet guarded eyes. She was an all raging sea, a siren call he could not ignore. Nor could he honestly resist the pull of her figure, lush in every place he’d desire to bite, suck, caress.
He places a light kiss to her snug entrance, before dragging his lips and her arousal up to where he’ll dedicate his attentions. Another kiss, firmer this time; not quite yet a suck, but a light pressure centered upon her clit. Then comes his exploration, as he watches carefully how she reacts to a circling of his tongue versus flicking. She liked the first well enough, but it’s the latter that has her gasping out sweet little ”Oh!”s.
He flick, flick, flicks with his tongue, while his hands start to massage her, skirting carefully, teasingly, around her slick entrance.
Under his ministrations, she blooms. Yes, she’d been beautiful before; arrestingly so. But now she’s all dulcet sighs, honeyed gasps, and enchantingly flushed; from the apples of her cheeks, across the tops of her breasts, to the rosy cunt he’s tasting.
She whimpers when he stops his flicks, and he almost mourns with her, if not for his own plans to see this through the entire night if possible. He captures her clit as he’d hinted earlier, but this time he sucks, deeply, earnestly. Their connection is broken as her eyes roll back, lost to the fervor of his foray. He continues for as long as he can, drawing out her pleasure, her thighs quivering around his head. Then he has mercy on her, relenting, but only momentarily. He restarts anew, but with pulsating sucks, her broken moans encouraging his efforts.
When she finally capitulates to her pleasure, she cries skyward, mouth slack, brows scrunched. Even as she comes undone, she is beauty personified, a stunning vision. But then her eyes open, locking with his, and his heart skips a beat. Desire, it is pure, unadulterated desire with which she stares at him, heating his blood, sending his pulse racing. God, that look, those molten, intoxicating eyes; he could live off that alone.
He smirks with the charisma that only an experienced rake such as himself has, before lowering his lips to kiss her now aching center. Then he climbs back over her, tilts her chin and captures her mouth with a groan.
“Taste yourself, love. You’re exquisite.” She obliges, dragging her tongue across his lips with a hum.
“More,” she demands and he smiles into her.
“As you wish, darling.”
Benedict is especially pleased to find the flush between her thighs now a brighter, enchanting rose. He desires to lay her out next to his paints, not only to capture her form, but to match her blushed hue. She’s so, so, lovely like this, body adorned in pink. Oh how he craves to catalogue the entire spectrum of the color through his goddess, from light to dark and every shade in between.
Gently, he licks at her clit, while he starts to circle a finger around her entrance. She whimpers, hips bucking, seeking fulfillment that he’s holding back.
He pulls his mouth away, finger still circling, voice husky. “What’s wrong, darling?” He asks, as if he doesn’t already know what she wants, what she needs.
“Empty, I’m so empty,” she whispers brokenly.
He hums contemplatively before pressing his finger harder around her flesh, nearly dipping in, but not quite. “Do you need to be filled?”
A frantic nodding of her head. “Yes.”
He carefully sinks his finger in, studying her reaction. They both moan at the same time, her from the feeling, him from the feel of her. So warm, so tight around his mere finger. She’ll be a vise around his cock, one he doesn’t know how he’ll survive. (But he shall endeavor, regardless. Of course he will.)
She watches the scene at her apex, eyes half lidded. His rhythm is slow and steady, wanting to build her arousal. Her hips start bucking into him, trying to ride his single digit and he knows she’s nearly ready. His free hand gently pins her hips down on the mattress whilst he continues.
In…
Out…
In…
Out…
“More, I need more,” she begs.
His lips tip in a fleeting smile. Yes, yes she does.
This time, his mouth descends anew, tongue flicking at her clit, his finger thrusting steadily until a second digit joins the first.
“Oh.” She sighs, her thighs falling open in surrender to her pleasure.
Benedict marvels at her, at how she’s stretched against him. But it’s not enough. He wants more; wants more of her peaks, wants to witness every single second of her orgasm(s!); but there’s also the need to further relax her dripping center. Because while she’s taking his two fingers beautifully, intoxicatingly, she needs at least three. Three before she can take him, and pray he can last long enough to satisfy her. Truly, just imagining her wrapped around him properly, threatens to make him spill as if he were green lad, and that’s unacceptable. She deserves better. The best.
He starts curling his fingers upwards, a come hither motion, beckoning her to climax. Her breath hitches, her walls starting to spasm. He sucks her clit roughly, before pulling out his fingers, and she cries out, bereft.
When he enters her again, his pace is slow, slow, slow; three digits reaching into her, while his mouth drinks her in pulses.
“Oh God,” she gasps. He wishes he could gloat, full of satisfaction over the way he’s unraveling her, but he can’t stop now. He strokes her, leisurely at first, until she's accustomed to the stretch. Her hips start bucking, desperate for her orgasm. He starts to thrust faster into her, mouth diligently working her clit, and then he curls his three fingers upwards.
He knows they hit the spot intended when she cries out, “There! Gods, right there!”
Flick of his tongue. Thrust In. Thrust Out. Flick. In. Out. Suck. In. Out.
She shatters. Thighs trembling like leaves, voice shouting a hoarse cry, cunt tightening around his fingers in wild, rapid pulses. She’s drenched his hand, his mouth exploding with her taste. He rides out her orgasm, not stopping his tongue or fingers until she’s wrung out, body going lax, her peak now realized.
There’s a tugging at his hair, and he looks up. Her stormy eyes are awed, her obvious satisfaction warming his chest. She pulls him into a fierce kiss, tongue immediately tangling with his. One of her hands starts wandering his bare chest, nails scraping lightly. Her fingers venture down to his pants, and she gasps when she feels his arousal. He groans as she starts to lightly trace his form with a single finger, his cock twitching with need as she teases him back with her gentle touch.
“Cruel, wicked goddess,” he gasps into her mouth. She smiles, eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Wicked, hm?” She palms him, and then squeezes. He stutters out a curse.
He trails kisses down her neck. “Devious.”
When her hand releases its grip, he sighs in both disappointment and relief. She then tugs at his pants, murmuring her next command. “Off!”
He gently bites down where he’d been kissing, sucking at her flesh. “At your command, love.”
He quickly divests himself of the rest of his clothing, before returning to kneel before her splayed form, stroking himself. She gasps, eyes locked onto his cock, her reaction igniting a sense of male pride within him.
“Still want me?” His voice naked with desire.
She bites her lip, eyes wide as she watches his hand’s ministrations. Her gaze flicks up to his and she nods. “Yes.”
He smiles back at her, infinitely pleased she wants to continue. He bends down to place another kiss to her mound, signifying his own gratitude and admiration of her. Then he runs his cock across her entrance, coating himself in her slick. He can’t help but tease them both, delaying their gratification even further. One hand grips her hip, while he grinds against her. His mouth slack as he watches the heady sight; her cunt parting against his rocking, hinting at the pleasures untold once he’s finally inside, his head tapping her clit with each stroke. She makes the most darling little “Mm”s with each grind; her hips rising, chasing, thrilling him with how she seeks her pleasure unabashedly.
Despite being the arbiter of such delicious torture, it feels endless. Benedict himself feels desperate, nearly unraveling at the seams with every near catch he makes at her entrance. Their combined groans fill the room, utterly obscene despite being shy of fulfilling their intentions. The anticipation kills yet envives him; his pulse skittering, already anticipating his ruin, but beckoning it all the same. So he delays, he teases, he indulges in denial while he’s not yet taken her fully, that his soul remains his own.
Benedict idly wonders how many men have met his same fate at her lovely hand? An ugly feeling rises within him, something unknown but distinctly bitter. It should not does not signify, of course. She is the ultimate authority on who she bestows such grace. But the impulse remains, to try to possess her in this moment, to erase any touch from her memory beyond his own...
He drives them to the brink of madness, stoking their desire until it becomes an all encompassing need to join. And then it happens; her rocking hips, and the sliding of his cock has his tip breaching her entrance. She gasps, Benedict groans in agony, his restraint threadbare after edging them to near oblivion. And she’s so tight, a silk vise that threatens to prematurely end their liaison. A quick pinch to his skin sets him to rights, but one thing is certain: he must go slow, for both their sakes. He is (proudly) sizeable, and does not wish to cause her any discomfort. She’ll need time to adjust, to mold for him. And the pace will also assist him in prolonging his pleasure, at least until she reaches her next peak.
It’s with sorrow that he draws back, intending to build a slow rhythm until she’s stretched to accommodate his entire length, rather than selfishly bury himself to the hilt, as instinct demands. She whines, hips writhing up in protest.
“If you stop now, I shall kill you,” she breathes.
His answering smile is wide and rakish, satisfaction practically bleeding out of his pores. “Oh I would not dare.” He punctuates his declaration with a thrust, this time advancing an inch.
“I am your servant of pleasure,” he vows huskily, thumb drawing circles on her clit. “And my duty is not yet complete.”
Another painful withdrawal, another excruciating inch gained, his thumb drawing those faithful circles so she can take him as comfortably as possible. And God, is she doing so well. Taking him admirably, her little slit stretched arrestingly around him. She's filled at such capacity, he nearly dares believe they would not slot together. But they do. A perfect, snug fit.
It's torture, how slow he sets the pace, and yet he relishes it in equal measure, for every second is bliss. If he could live in her, he would. He was barely half way in, and already this experience far surpasses his countless past trysts, even the most debaucherous multi-person’d ones. There was just something about her, more so than just her body, (although she is of the most exquisite, plush, hourglass form).
Her eyes call to him, her very being familiar in a way he can’t quite comprehend. It was mad, he can admit. He’s seen every inch of her body except for her bare face. He doesn’t even know her name. She is a stranger, yet she does not feel so. And she certainly doesn’t feel so as he’s (so eternally grateful to be) inside her.
For all his restraint, it seems she's had enough; for she decisively hitches a leg around his hip in wordless, undeniable command. His cock glides smoothly, endlessly, into her cunt, his eyes rolling back as she takes control. It’s intoxicating, the way her heel presses into his arse, inviting him in. He’s not the one taking her; she’s the one taking him, leading him to Eden.
“Fuu—” He chokes, when their pelvises are finally flush, her walls fluttering around his entire throbbing length.
Perfection, utter ruinous perfection, is the feel of her, the sight of her. Before, he had the arrogance to think he would mold her cunt for him, but he was wrong.
How else can it be explained, really? For he, as a well known libertine, a heathen in truth, has sampled all sorts of… delicacies. But nothing has ever compared to this, to her.
This feels like belonging. This is where he was meant to be. He was the one made to mold for her— for hadn’t he said as such to her himself? He vowed to be her servant, and he’s more than delighted about his current position.
(Although he’d just as enthusiastically cede to her astride him, breasts bouncing with each drop onto his cock, head tossed back in pleasure, her fine hair tickling his thighs)…
He resolutely stills, for her own adjustment and his. She is a vice of which he does not wish to be free of. No; he appreciates her every pulse, her every little spasm in which she infinitesimally tightens. It is ecstasy, one far too easy to lose oneself in. But he wishes to be joined with her longer than a minute. If he so chose, time would cease to exist at all, and they would be entwined endlessly, infinitely.
Fuck!, she is such sweet, utter destruction. As much as he wishes it weren’t so, their joint paradise will end eventually, and he will mourn the loss every second they are parted. How is he to let her go after this?
Ever the impatient little minx, she cants her hips up, writhing up and down, their pelvises brushing. His eyes scrunch closed, his breath leaving him in ragged exhales.
“Fuu--, have mercy, please. I cannot spill without properly servicing you first, dear Elysium.”
She proves a benevolent deity as she grants his plea. Her lashes flutter as she considers him with a pout. His heart clenches at her expression, and he so wishes he could take off her mask, and gaze upon her fully. He decides then, that come morning he’ll pursue her anew; uncover the face yet hidden, discover the name behind the angel who’s graced earth (and his unworthy self) with her presence.
He leans in, bites down on her pouted lower lip, drawing it back slightly before releasing. She clenches around him, and it’s glorious; he’s nearly left undone.
His final thread of restraint snaps as he drags his cock out, her cunt resisting every inch. Only the tip remains, and then he snaps his hips back in.
Bliss. Unmitigated, intoxicating bliss.
“Oh, yes!,” she moans. He does it again.
And again.
Again.
Thrust in. Out.
In.
Out.
Both of her heels dig into his arse now, coaxing him harder, deeper. He laves at her pulse point, her moans, gasps, sighs, a private symphony just for him.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
The sound of their joining fills the room, she leaks all over his cock, down his balls, a complete gorgeous mess. He’s drenched in her essence, each thrust punctuated by a gasp or groan, and a clench of her cunt. Every drag out followed by a discontent whimper.
Dear God, does she love it when he’s deep, when she’s full. She’s so perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect.
He reaches back, gently unwrapping her legs from around him as he shifts his stance back upright, onto his knees. She whines as he stills again, denying her the friction she craves. Her body heeds her protests, suddenly clamping around his cock with a vigor that has him choking. He’s locked into her, unable to draw back a single centimeter.
“Oh my god, holy fuuck,” he groans, nearly on the brink of climaxing. She is exquisite, she is torture. He can’t get enough of her.
“No, don’t stop, please don’t stop.” Her sweet pleas have his cock throbbing, his balls drawing up tight.
He pinches himself again, a shock to his system to keep from succumbing to release yet. It would be best if he left her completely, let his pulse return to normal. He could eat her again, would love too even, while he steps away from the brink he teeters off of; but he can’t bear to part from her. No, he is going to spend (and enjoy) every single second he can inside her, burn the feel of her rhythm into his memory, into his senses, into his very being.
And she had no need to fear. He doesn’t plan to stop yet. He grips her hips in his hands and draws them up, her back instinctively arching up. His next thrust finds more depth, going impossibly deeper yet. Her eyes roll back as she screams, lost to this sea of ecstasy. He pounds into her like this, and she reaches back desperately over her head, hands searching for purchase, before white knuckling the bronze bed posts.
He moans his approval. "Yes, love. Like that, God, just like that."
With her arms securing her position, she doesn't slide back with his hard thrusts. It’s just what he needed to pick up the pace, allowing him to draw in, out, in, out, in, out, intently.
Her silhouette is a dream; breasts bouncing with each thrust, back impossibly arched, the curve of her hips fitted perfectly in his two palms as he drives into her canted, needy little pussy.
”Yes, yes, yes,” she gasps, followed by a delirious, ”Oh God, oh God, oh GOD.”
She tightens and tightens and tightens, her grip around his cock absolutely excruciating. She’s whimpering, thighs trembling and she’s just on the cusp, and so is he. But despite the deeper pleasure found in this position, and the mouth watering vision of her reddened cunt parting, clinging desperately to him, she feels too far away.
He needs her pressed up to him, to feel every inch of her skin that he can, lest he discover she was but an ephemeral illusion. So he draws one hand to the curve of her back, and presses her up.
“Oh!”, she squeals as she’s pulled flush into his lap, both his arms coming around to embrace her tightly. Warmth blooms in his chest now that they’re face to face, chest to chest, buried to the hilt inside her. Her arms circle around his neck, brows adorably furrowed, cunt quivering at this new angle.
He plunders her mouth with insatiable hunger, as he guides her into a rocking motion. She moans into his kiss and he swallows it away, hands traveling down to grip her plush arse. He sets another fevered pace, fingers digging into her arse as he thrusts up into her.
She catches him off guard when she’s the one to bite his lip, then suck on the tender flesh. He jerks inside her, so so close to that edge, but fortunately she’s right there with him.
She flutters dangerously around his length, nearly there, nearly fucking there. He reaches a hand to swipe at her clit. Once, twice, and on the third she ruptures, clamping down on his cock in complete ownership. He tumbles into a world shattering climax with her, mind completely blank of everything except her, his mystery enchantress, his darling Elysium.
Her entire body shudders, their lips still locked together; no longer in a kiss, but an exchange of broken moans and gasping breaths. She pulses and squeezes his cock ruthlessly and he spills and spills, swept away by her tide.
He loves it, he loves it, he loves he–
Their rapture is everlasting; an actual ascension to heaven from which he does not wish to return, or at the very least, not without her.
He holds her tight through every single wave of pleasure. He holds onto her still when they both succumb to exhaustion, falling back onto the bed. He curves his body around hers, entwining their limbs; a wordless claim, a surrender not of her, but rather to her.
Some way, somehow, he had stumbled into something someone precious, and he had no desire to ever let her go.