Against Her Will by Carolyn FaulknerThis is a breeding story, containing elements of non-consensual sex, kidnapping, degradation, humiliation, and non-consensual discipline and punishment.
NOTE: For reviewers, this title is published on Amazon as "Captured by The Count" by Carolyn Faulkner. It's the same story.
With her stunning white blonde hair, Cassandra Juliet Winthrop was always the belle of the ball in the Colonies, so much so that she began to think that it was a bit of a bore. But a tour of the Continent, now that would be exciting! Her indulgent father acquiesced with surprising ease, and she found herself, one night, at a splendid gala in Paris fairly that wreaked of European elegance.
There was one fly in her ointment – one man that refused to fall into line with the rest of her easy conquests, and for a reason she couldn’t possibly realize until, in the wee hours of the morning as the dance is ending, the very same man, Count Victor Andreiv Kaspersky Salkov, kidnapped her.
Gone were the parties and balls and galas and dances, and in their place was a daily regimen of punishment, degradation and complete and utter humiliation – all for one purpose, and one purpose only: to get – and preferably keep – her pregnant, constantly forced to produce an ongoing line of white haired babies, barely allowed to recover from one birth before her mate and match was on her to breed another... and another... and another...
Warning: This is a breeding story, containing elements of non-consensual sex (for the purpose of animalesque reproduction, aka studding), kidnapping, degradation, humiliation, and non-consensual discipline and punishment. If such elements might disturb or make you uncomfortable, please do not purchase this story.
Your reviews will instantly be made available for editing within your Blushing Books account. After making the review, please reload the browser page to see your own. Troll reviews or reviews without a Username or Email attached will be deleted from the system. If you make a review but your name does not appear above it, please let customer service know so we can link that review to your email and your Blushing Books account as soon as possible, including the Book Title and the time you left your review.
Please see our "Review Rewards" page to read the rules and fill out your rewards form if you've left more than 5 or more reviews (that qualify for a reward--please read the rules!) on our products here at Blushing or for our books sold on other sites.Add Your Review
Against Her Will (Sample Chapter)
This is a breeding story, containing elements of non-consensual sex, kidnapping, degradation, humiliation, and non-consensual discipline and punishment.
© Carolyn Faulkner and Blushing Books, 2012-2013
“Sissy! NOOOO! YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME!”
Cassie struggled futilely against the well-muscled men who were each holding an arm. There was no way she would ever be able to break free of them; they outweighed her by three hundred pounds or so, each of them.
But as she watched the last familiar face in this abominable place walk towards the door she couldn’t help but continue to try to extricate herself, wiggling and gyrating and twisting, knowing full well that all of her contortions were just giving her slavering audience a show because of her nakedness, but completely unable to stop herself. If Sissy walked out that door, she knew any chance of getting home again would walk out with her.
And that was a fate so horrible that Cassandra Juliet Winthrop couldn’t even begin to conceive of it. Had it only been a day or so ago that she was being whirled around a ball room in Paris as she single-handedly conquered the city and had suitors climbing over each other for – not even a dance - but just the smallest of her attentions?
It was all her father’s fault! He should never have allowed her to go on what had started out to be, at least, a Grand Tour of the Continent with just her lady’s maid, Sissy, for protection. Granted, they had been thoroughly enjoying the hospitality of friends of the family along the way, never actually having to stay alone in a hotel, even, thankfully. But, considering her current position, she realized that the security at the Costello’s grand maison on the outskirts of Paris to be considerably lacking.
The evening had started out all right. She had been very fashionably about two hours late, of course, partially due to Sissy’s incompetence with her hair. If there was one feature Cassie was vain about – or, rather, more vain than usual – it was her glorious, glowing crown of thick, curly, white- blonde hair. When she was a little girl, it had seemed to have a life of its own, and she – dirty little tomboy that she was – paid as little attention to it as she could, often catching it in a rag at her neck just to keep it out of the way of the day’s adventures. It was always a rat’s nest, and whenever she saw Sissy, who was several years older than her charge but still young for her position, reach for the brush, Cassie would flat out bolt. And she could always out distance and out fox poor Sissy, simply by running hell bent for leather down the long, tree lined driveway to the edge of the plantation and standing in the road, where the slaves were not allowed to go without permission.
At first Sissy would have to tromp all the way back and get her mother’s – or worse, her father’s – permission to go after their wild child . . . at least until the elder Winthrops gave Sissy blanket permission to chase Cassie anywhere she needed to short of the county boarder. And George Winthrop wouldn’t have been in the least surprised to see Sissy back within a week for permission to expand her purview to the state boarder, knowing his daughter.
Cassie was, as her tutors had often described her to her beleaguered parents, incorrigible, headstrong, willful and stubborn - just as her father had been and still was. The most accurate adjective that legion of tutors she’d run through had tactfully left out was spoiled. By judicious use of either tantrums or an eerie silence, the child always knew how to get her own way from either the slaves she was surrounded by or her gullible, over indulgent parents.
Eventually, though, she grew up and began to consider the boys on the plantations around them as more than the teasing annoyances they had always been to her. As soon as she put the slightest bit of effort into it and asked to go to Atlanta with her mother to buy dresses, she became the belle of every one of the scads of balls she attended, skirts swirling, unbound curls – almost always accented in some way by the pink roses she favored – moving as if it had a life of its own which only served to accent her with unconscious sensuality.
Nearly all of the suitors in attendance flocked to her, practically coming to blows over the chance to dance with her, or, when she was resting, gathering in a large, adoring crowd at her feet. She had been proposed to no fewer than twenty times by the end of her first season, all of which she had turned down, much to the disappointment of both her family and the families of all of her competitors, who felt the distinct lack of attention whenever she was in attendance. The families with eligible daughters always issued her an invitation – which, considering her family’s wealth and position in the area really could not be avoided – but they did so with severe reluctance, knowing that, even at their own ball, their daughters didn’t have a chance of garnering many male’s interest.
And Cassie had basked in every bit of it she could soak up. Her dance card was always full, and she never wanted for punch or a plate of food to nibble on. Every young man in the place – and some of the single older ones, too – was a slave to her every command, and that was just the way she liked it. She thoroughly intended to marry someone who would continue to indulge her well beyond the extent to which her father had.
Actually getting downstairs to the Costello’s summer masked ball, however, had not been a smooth road, and the biggest problem of the evening was with how Sissy seemed determined to tear every hair from her scalp while trying to incorporate the white roses – with big bright diamonds sunken into their centers - she wanted into her hair. She was going as a white diamond, with a suitably encrusted mask, dripping them from her neck and ears, and in a dress she’d found in Paris that she’d had accented with a fortune in them.
The third time she found herself nearly bleeding from Sissy’s clumsy attempts, Cassie stood and turned around, slapping an unsuspecting Sissy across the face with the full force of her strength. “Do it right, or I will arrange to buy someone who can and you will be sent home, where I’ll make sure Father puts you in a place that’s more suited to your talents,” she threatened icily, sitting back down on the tapestried vanity chair.
Sissy knew exactly what her mistress meant by that. The Winthrop’s Two Rivers plantation was a gorgeous spread, and the family was well respected by high society, but only because everyone chose not to consider what exactly it was that George Winthrop did in order to acquire all of that money. The fact was that he wasn’t just a slave trader, but a breeder. Behind the enormously grand, columned mansion were rows and rows of one room shacks – no better than hovels – each with a single female occupant. He kept a stable – almost literally – of young bucks to service them, and got double duty from them as field hands, which kept them in optimal shape, tired them out so they were much less likely to cause mischief when they weren’t working and gave them an outlet for their baser desires – all of which benefited him quite nicely, as the products such unions were sold at a tidy profit. He had gained quite a reputation for himself amongst the landowners across the South as someone who could provide bucks with strong backs and great stamina, which were near priceless commodities for those who owned countless acres of cotton – or other crops – that needed picking.
Sissy, as a house maid and then lady’s maid, certainly knew of the plight of the females in those cell like shacks, and had heard horrible stories about how they were treated – both by the overseer and the males who were sent to breed with them. Some of them, she knew, spent most of their time tied to the bed after trying to defy the master’s wishes and trying to physically rebel against being forcibly bred.
The specter of such a fate weighed very heavily in Sissy’s mind. She would do nearly anything to avoid ending up among those poor, pathetic women, who birthed baby after baby, whether they wanted to or not.
With shaking hands and a horribly burning cheek, she did her best to achieve the effect that Miss Cassie wanted, knowing that that was no idle threat. Finally, it seemed that she had met the mark, and Cassie smiled in the mirror. Not at her, of course, but at her own reflection.
She stood and took her mask and reticule from Sissy, warning, “I’ll be late, but I’ll need your help getting undressed, so don’t you go to sleep on me or I’ll take the strop to you.” She had brought one of the favorite, formidible punishment implements with her – having made Sissy pack it for her – all the way from home, just to make sure that she could keep Sissy in line, and she had never once – since Sissy had become hers when Sissy was eleven and Cassie was six or so – hesitated to use it, or, almost worse, as far as Sissy was concerned, to slap her as she just had.
Despite the fact that some of the others at Two Rivers had encouraged her to escape while they were travelling through countries that had laws against slavery, Sissy knew herself for a coward, because all she could do was imagine just what would happen to her if she was ever caught whenever she considered that enticing idea.
No, she would stay right where she was. Better the devil you know...
The ball had been wonderful – just as she’d planned, all eyes had turned to her when she’d made her entrance, and there wasn’t a man there who hadn’t asked to dance with her.
He was Count someone or other – Cassie had never been any good at languages, but then, she blithely expected that everyone would speak – or at least understand enough to follow her orders – English, regardless of what country she was in. And he had remained quite stubbornly unimpressed by her beauty which was a state of affairs that Cassie found quite unacceptable. The one time she’d seen him glance at her, it was her hair that caught his attention, and then only for a split second before he looked away. Still, she knew better than to show her consternation. Instead, she avoided him just as casually as he was her, flirting and dancing to her heart’s content, but surreptitiously keeping an eye on him, unable to get him off her mind.
Their introduction had been perfunctory at best, even a bit curt. He had bowed over her hand, kissed it once – a bare peck, as if he had better things to do – then immediately excused himself to greet a friend of his. There was still a long line of men who were eager for an introduction, so she assuaged her ruffled feathers with that, but still, her eyes sought him out wherever he was in the room as she danced and chatted and toyed with the besotted young men that formed her coterie for the evening.
Cassie – not having paid much attention to any of it while she was growing up - had learned very quickly how to promise much but deliver nothing to the overeager entourage that always grew around her, and, as far as she could tell, that was exactly what was expected of her until she got engaged then married.
But she was having too much fun being the center of attention. She knew her father had hoped she find an eligible Duke or other such titled gentleman – who would lend an impenetrable air of quality to their family by association, but none of the simpering types that continually surrounded her held any interest at all. They were just so many lap dogs, as far as she was concerned to be teased and tantalized with the faintest of affections for her own amusement.
The Count, however, became more and more intriguing to her as the night wore on, and she became bored with the men who jumped at her every command. Cassie succeeded in putting him from her mind – sometimes – but she always knew where he was, until, just before the last dance of the evening, he disappeared. She tried to look around for him without appearing to do so, but he was nowhere to be found.
The thought that he might have gone out into the gardens – which were gaily lit with stunning brass lanterns that gleamed in the moonlight – with another woman annoyed her somehow, and for no discernable reason.
It had gotten so late that the majority of her hangers on had already left, but she couldn’t quite pull herself away, despite the fact that she found herself feeling somewhat lightheaded and woozy. In defiance – and denial – of those feelings, she rose, smiling vacantly as the three remaining devotees snapped to their feet as if she were their queen, then turned abruptly away from them and took one determined step towards the door, right into the Count’s waiting arms.
Cassie stiffened, holding her body as far away from his as she could, pulling out of his embrace and nearly stumbling back because he did nothing at all to hold her. She didn’t have to fight against him in the least – he just let her go. Damn the man! He was acting contrarily to every other man in the room under fifty, and it was driving her crazy that he seemed to dismiss her as easily as he would a trollop in the street.
“A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,” he murmured, bowing low, but Cassie had the distinct feeling he was laughing at her as he did so, which infuriated her to no end.
The fact that she was so irritated at this man and yet so equally attracted at the same time set her off kilter a bit. Her response was brusque and hard bitten. “I nearly fell. You would do well to watch where you’re going, Count.” She made as if to go around him, but he reached out quickly and grabbed her hand, kissing it again as he had when they were introduced – dryly and perfunctorily, like she imagined she would kiss was his frail great-aunt.
“I apologize, Mademoiselle Winthrop. Sometimes I’m a clumsy oaf.” His tone indicated that he in no way thought of himself as such. “Would you do me the great honor of giving me this last dance?”
Cassie’s heart leapt into her throat and all of a sudden she found it hard to draw a breath. The idea of being whirled around the dance floor in his arms – he was head and shoulders taller than she was, with broad shoulders that strained the seams of his obviously well made coat, his trousers hugging well-muscled legs a bit more immodestly than was strictly proper, not that anyone would ever confront him about it – had her feeling somewhat dizzy.
She opened her mouth and stammered, which was unheard of for her. “I – I believe that Gilbert de Rothchilde has this dance, Sir.”
“He went home an hour ago,” one of her admirers piped up helpfully.
At a loss, she closed her mouth tightly when she realized it had been hanging open.
“Well, then, it seems our bumping into each other was fortuitous.”
He didn’t give her a chance to say no, really, but escorted her out onto the floor as the musicians struck up a slow waltz, holding her unacceptably close with an arm snaked around her waist, his hand splayed at her lower back, keeping her right where he wanted her, which was much, much too close for her comfort – indecently close, if it came to that. Cassie didn’t even bother to give him her usual fake smile as she reached behind her back to try to loosen his hold, which only got her hand trapped there by his.
Her eyes flashed angrily, not that he seemed to notice beyond the slightest of upturns to the corners of his mouth, as if he found her attempts at extricating her to be mildy – but only mildly – amusing.
He ruthlessly used her disadvantage to his advantage, forcing her lower body even more tightly against him.
Cassie tried to regain control of her other hand, through which he had his gloved fingers had interlaced with hers as he waltzed them expertly around the room that was graced by only one or two other couples, but no amount of elicit tugging – so as not to call attention to them and the scandalous position he had forced her into – did the trick.
“Relax,” he leaned forward and whispered into her ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. There are very few people left dancing and even fewer around the room. I promise you that you will survive this dance with your reputation entirely intact, Mademoiselle.”
Cassie clamped her mouth shut and narrowed her eyes at him, then looked away, vowing to herself not to react to him in any way, despite the dizziness she felt that she churlishly attributed to him. The waltz would soon be over, and then, hopefully, she would never have to see the boorish oaf again.
Count Victor Andreiv Kaspersky Salkov knew exactly what Cassie was doing and how she felt about being what she probably considered to be manhandled by him on the dance floor. But this little flower obviously knew absolutely nothing about being manhandled, although when he implemented his plot she would become quite intimately familiar with the term, whether she wanted to or not.
And he highly doubted she would want to . . . at least at first.
“You have the most beautiful hair I have ever seen, Mademoiselle. Is it a wig?”
Cassie would have vowed to her dying day that there was nothing this boor could say to her that would get her to talk to him or respond in any way. She was an old master at giving the cold shoulder, and had once, at the tender age of eight, gone for nearly two months without speaking to her Mother, despite the fact that Father required that the family eat both breakfast and dinner together. Alicia Moorhouse Winthrop had denied her daughter the opportunity to buy the horse she wanted – one that both of her parents had thought was much too spirited for her, although her father had left it up to her mother to make the final decision, as he often did in matters that concerned his daughter.
But, as far as Cassie was concerned, the Count’s comment could not have been much more incendiary if he had questioned her virtue.
“Of course it’s not!” she replied in utter outrage, wishing she could – if not leave him entirely - then at least step back from him and stop the dance as she gave him the full effect of her wrath at his temerity.
But he continued to usher her around the floor as if he had said nothing in the least outrageous to her. A small smile played about his lips as Cassie realized he was trying not to laugh at the vehemence of her response, and then favored her with yet another insulting question. “Is it dyed?”
Victor watched her eyes go wide, then narrow to incensed slits. This time she refused to grace his question with an answer of any sort at all. Would this dance never end? She wondered as she stood as stiffly as she could within his all too forward embrace, realizing suddenly that she felt quite dizzy.
After a few moments of complete silence between them, Victor ventured an apology that, like a lot of what he’d said to her, she felt was completely lacking in sincerity. “I am truly sorry if I’ve offended you, Mademoiselle Winthrop. I only meant to discern if I should direct my deepest compliment on that sumptuous mane of yours to you, your wigmaker or your hairdresser.”
Cassie closed her eyes and took a deep breath – advice she had often gotten from her mother but had never followed before. But then she’d never found herself in a situation in which she felt such a complete lack of control. She wanted desperately to throw a huge tantrum, as she’d done when she was younger when things didn’t go exactly the way she wanted them too, but could hardly do so now.
“Your hair is truly gorgeous,” he whispered, much to close to her ear. “It’s the very definition of a crowning glory.”
The compliment, which sounded heartfelt even if it wasn’t, went a long way towards soothing her bruised ego. Although she still refused to respond, he could feel her relax, more than just slightly.
And then he realized that she was practically in a dead faint as she leaned limply against him. Without missing a beat, Victor lifted her up into his arms and carried her out into the gardens, to the very end of them where they would be well out of eyesight of anyone at the house and the back gate was handy to his purpose, while the faint light of dawn was just beginning to appear at the horizon. As he walked out of the ballroom with her, Victor flagged down a servant for a glass of champagne and a bit of gammon to feed to her once he’d roused her, which he did with a kiss that she sputtered against as soon as she came to.
“Here, eat this,” he instructed while sitting down on one of the white marble benches that were strewn about the ornate gardens.
Cassie had a rebellious look in her eye, but his were just as resolute, she did as he asked.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“Some time yesterday, as if it’s any of your business,” she answered haughtily, still nibbling on the portion of meat he had given her.
If she had been standing, she would have stomped her foot at his autocratic manner, but it was impossible to do so when one was being held on someone’s lap, and she found herself docilely doing as she was told, although she was going to give him a piece of her mind as soon as the world stopped spinning violently.
But it seemed that the more she drank, the fuzzier she got – and she had a horrible thought in the back of her mind that it wasn’t just that she hadn’t had much to eat in a while, nor was it the fault of the champagne. There was a slightly bitter aftertaste to the bubbly, and she knew that couldn’t possibly be right. Angus Costello – the owner of the house and host of the ball – was much too much of a snob to serve anything but the best of champagnes.
It was then that she saw the slightest grains of residue at the bottom of the glass, but not before she had consumed it all.
“You – y – drug – d- mehhhhh.” Cassie was trying for an accusing tone, but her voice became a breathless whisper as she fell into unconsciousness.
Victor again lifted her into his arms and began to carry her towards the back gate, but not before he heard someone very nearby calling for her.
“Miss Cassie? Miss Cassie, where are you?”
Instead of trying to slink away, he walked towards the voice, and when he discovered a distraught Sissy, who had been told by another servant that her mistress appeared to have fainted, Victor said, “I’m taking her to my physician to make sure everything is all right. Why don’t you come with us and then you can accompany her home.”
Sissy, who had brought with her the light wrap that Cassie had forgotten, nodded passively and followed the man who was carrying Miss Cassie in his arms into a large, nondescript black coach that she was immediately terrified to realize was full of rough men who apparently took their orders from the man who was holding her mistress.
“This is her?” one of them asked in a language Sissy didn’t recognize.
“Yes. All is as it should be.”
One of the men sitting across from Sissy inclined his head towards her. “And this one?”
“I believe she’s her maid.”
“What are we doing with her?”
Victor gave the man who dared question him a sharp look. “Keeping her, until she’s no longer of any value to us.” In his experience, despite the bother of yet another mouth to feed, situations like this involving ladies of quality often went much easier if they were allowed to keep a familiar face about them at first.