Work Text:
Penelope knew she was not supposed to be in this part of Aubrey Hall.
But she had a curious mind. Though not so outwardly disobedient as Eloise, Penelope's desire for knowledge and her stubborn streak had led her here, wandering the grounds of Aubrey Hall in the warm August night.
So warm that she was only in her nightgown and satin slippers, already stained green and brown as she clambered through the overgrown grass that sprung up around the ruins. She had to gather up her nightgown about her waist to keep it from getting caught amongst the wild fronds, and she was glad indeed that there were no gentlemen around to see her pale thighs, striped pink by the scratchy grass.
This place had been a monastery before King Henry the Eighth had had it pulled down, Penelope understood. She laid her hands upon the cold stone and thought of the centuries this building had seen — perhaps it was even older than the very first Bridgertons.
Penelope had never ventured to this remote part of the grounds until Eloise found her dozing here yesterday with her book splayed open across her chest. Penelope had been quite rudely awoken by her friend's grabbing fingers tugging her arm nearly out of her socket.
We are not allowed here, Eloise had said, marching a blinking, pink-cheeked Penelope back to the house. Not ever. Promise me, Pen. And she had pinched the soft flesh of Penelope's inner arm until she yelped and wriggled and promised her friend she would not come back.
"Eloise should know better," Penelope muttered to herself as she clambered over the threshold into the looming carcass of the church. Making Penelope promise not to do something was near enough an invitation to do just that, for although Penelope was shy, a wallflower, she was determined.
Now she was in the place she had no notion why it was forbidden. Perhaps it was the danger — ruined bricks littered the broken flagstones and there were all sorts of tangling vines and metal parts strewn about that a young lady might trip over. She looked up at the remains of the stone roof, its vaulted arches half-crumbled, and saw the bright face of the full moon winking back at her. Not exactly safe, overall, but then again Eloise cared very little about safety — had she not broken her arm just last summer from falling out of the big oak tree? Her elbow still clicked terribly.
There must be some other mystery, then. Penelope stepped deeper into the old church, and imagined the monks who might have lived here once, how their bald pates might have looked just like miniature moons — she giggled in the darkness at the thought.
"Is — is someone there?"
Penelope's entire body went still, something cold running up and down her spine like fingers sliding along a piano's keys. Her heart rabbited in her throat and she dropped her skirts, her skeleton vibrating in her body with fear.
"Hullo?" The voice called out clear through the ruins, the sound echoing from the stones. "Who goes there?"
Penelope swallowed as if she were choking down a spoonful of suet, gluey and thick. She taught her heart to calm itself and considered her options. She might run, though she did not like her chances on the uneven ground with the scratchy, grabbing grass that would tangle about her skirts (not to mention the general inadequacy of her short legs). She might hide, though she did not like the thought of crouching in the cold earth, waiting the night away until whoever it was stumbled over her.
She did not much like either option, and so considered her third.
"Hullo?" she called out tremulously. Quite foolish, of course, but Penelope was a sheltered young girl who had known only the safety of Mayfair and the quiet of the country.
"Penelope?"
Her body relaxed all at once, for she recognised the voice well.
"Colin?"
She picked up the skirts of her loose shift. Just to the ankle this time, for it would not do to have her nightgown tangled up almost to her centre in the presence of Colin Bridgerton (the grass had even brushed against her there earlier, as she was clambering over ruins, and it had made her feel quite shivery). She picked her way towards the sound of his voice, for she could not see him behind the crumbling, ruined walls. She considered that she might be in trouble for trespassing so late at night, but dismissed the thought as soon as she had it — one could never been in trouble with Colin. He was far too kind — he would keep the secret of her ladylike wanderings, she was sure of it.
"Colin? Where are you?" she called as she scurried and hopped across treacherous floors.
"Oh, Pen," his voice called back, bouncing around the bones of the church like the moonlight upon the stones. To Penelope's surprise he sounded in distress, which was very unusual for the third Bridgerton brother (and Penelope's favourite of the boys, though she could not admit so much to Eloise, who might suspect Penelope's fancy for her brother. Penelope did not like to think of Eloise's rage at that). "Oh, Pen, you should not have come."
And just as he said the word come Penelope's foot stepped around one of the towering stacks of grey stones, and her gaze fell upon Colin Bridgerton.
Kneeling upon the cobbles, weeds thrusting up between the cracks. Stripped to his breeches, his bare chest pale as the moonlight that danced upon it. And chained at the wrists and ankles to great iron posts that had been affixed to the stone.
"Oh!" Penelope's hand covered her mouth, her body and mind reeling at the sight before her.
Colin raised his head, his lovely curls falling into his eyes. The way his arms were bound, open and splayed, he looked quite like Christ upon the cross — though much, much more beautiful than any depiction of Christ Penelope had seen before.
Penelope gathered her mind back into her body — here was her friend (if she might dare to call a gentleman that), obviously in great need, and she was thinking about his beauty instead of taking action. The shock must have stolen her senses.
Quickly, she hurried to his side, her fingers upon the great locks that bound his left wrist.
"But what villain has done such a thing to you?" Penelope asked, her fingers shaking as she explored the metal binding. She tried very hard to focus upon the task at hand and not the shirtless gentleman before her, not the fact that she had never been so close to Colin before, not the fact that he was half naked and she was in nought but her thin nightgown. "We must alert the Viscount, and the Constable — the knave shall not get away with this, I promise."
"Oh, Pen." Colin's voice was a rough burr, almost slurred. It sent a shiver across Penelope's skin. "You must go from here. Please. Please."
Penelope blinked at him. His eyes were hazy, almost black in the moonlight, so dark she thought she might see her reflection shine back in them. His lips pouted and curled, his hair wild.
"You cannot mean that. I must free you at once."
"No, no. You must not. Please, Penelope. Go."
Perhaps no-one really knew Penelope — not Eloise, who surely would not have made her promise not to come here, and not Colin, who should have known better than to think Penelope would follow such an order. She jutted out her lower lip, and her thumb found the spring-catch on the manacle.
"I shall free you, and we shall find you a shirt," she told him firmly, as she wrenched the irons open.
"No, no, you cannot — do not — God!"
The blasphemy was dragged from Colin's lips in a cry of anguish, his body twisting and his free hand curling into a fist. The terrible sound of chains rattling filled the air, and the light of the moon seemed to gleam like silver fire everywhere, so bright and sharp and clear that Penelope felt it flayed her, turned her nightgown to tissue and her skin to wax paper so that her bones and organs might be visible. She staggered back away from Colin, her mind in terrible confusion, and then a single, terrible word clattered through the ruined church, half-growl and half-sob —
"Run."
She did not. Not from her obstinacy, this time, but from her terror. As though the hand playing a sonata upon her spine now clutched at her throat, froze her in place. Before her eyes in the silver moonlight, Colin began to change.
It was terrible to behold. Limbs lengthening and thickening, muscles rippling impossibly. Hairs, thick and dark and lush as the grass, plumed all over his body. His beautiful face began to shift, drawing down, his eyes darkening to onyx, his teeth sharpening.
In the place of the beautiful boy she knew so well was a beast.
Penelope stepped backwards; stumbled a little, her back hitting a precarious pile of stones that shifted and groaned beneath her weight. If she had not seen it with her own eyes she would not believe it, but Colin was gone — instead here was this creature, a giant wolf at least seven feet tall standing upon its hind legs, its body massive and heaving. In the transformation Colin's breeches had split and fallen away, unable to contain the heft of this thing, and a tail had sprouted, lashing against the stones while the beast rattled against the chains.
The chains. Penelope knew then the grave mistake she had made, for one of the creature's large arms was entirely free, and it (he, rather, because in its nakedness Penelope could see something swinging terrifyingly between its legs, her heart cantering in unknowable fear) was now clawing at the other irons. He tore at the metal and with a screeching, groaning noise, the manacles burst open at his other wrist. He was now only shackled around the legs.
"God!" Penelope cried without meaning to, and the wolf-creature turned its awful gaze to her sharply, pointed ears pricking forward. His snout tipped up and he began to sniff at the air — sniff at her — sucking in wet, snuffling gasps and then —
He bared his teeth, pointed his nose to the sky, and howled.
Penelope ran.
The sound of the creature's moans and howls chased her back through the ruined church, the terrifying rasp of iron against stone clanking through her body. She knew she must get away from this monster or he would eat her up with those terrible teeth, shred her to ribbons with those awful claws — and yet with a cold, growing dread she realised how far she was from the main house, how long she would have to run from this creature who seemed as if he might be just as suited galloping on four legs than running on two. A creature so powerful that he was tearing iron from stone and growling into the night with a wild hunger that shook her very being.
The distance was great, and Penelope's legs were short, and the ground uneven, treacherous. Her terror propelled her forward, picked her up when she stumbled and bid her to draw her nightgown as high as she might to keep from tripping. Once she had escaped the ruins she kicked off her useless slippers and let her toes sink into the soft grass, for she supposed she might be faster like that. Surely the irons could not hold the creature much longer, she thought, as she hurried onwards across the rolling lawns. Her lungs burned and her breath caught and with each step she imagined the beast at her back, that she could feel his hot drool upon her neck, but she dared not look back — ran on and on and on through the night, the world lit blue by the light of the moon.
But, alas, a young lady of the ton was not taught much about running, about how to watch her path for treachery and obstacles, or how to hide, or climb trees, or any other trick that might have helped poor Penelope. While the great house was still small upon the horizon, Penelope's toe caught upon some burr or sharp stone, and in a great gust of air she crumpled, her exhausted legs too rubbery to keep her upright. She rolled and fell, her hands splayed into the earth to catch herself. She knew she could not delay a moment here upon her hands and knees, for each breath might be the one that saved her; she heaved herself up.
Or she attempted to. A large, rough hand grabbed her ankle, and began to drag her through the dirt, and Penelope knew then she was got.
She tried to fight, to struggle. She pulled up great handfuls of earth as the beast tugged her on her belly through the dirt; tried to kick and wriggle from his rough grasp, crying out desperately for help. But the creature's strength was impossible; he handled her like a gamekeeper flinging a brace of rabbits over his shoulder, easily pulling her towards him.
Penelope felt the heat of his body at her back and she trembled, for her nightgown was rucked to her bottom and tangled beneath her, and the warm night air could not still the shiver that passed through her being so exposed before this beast. She managed to twist in his hold for she felt she might have more of a chance if she could actually see her foe, but the moment her gaze fell upon him she regretted it instantly.
He towered over her even though he crouched, so massive and broad that he blocked out the moon. His large hands (if one could call them that, more like paws with sharp claws tapering the ends) were now pressed against her thighs, pinning her to the earth, and his touch made her quiver and shake, so rough and hot upon her pale, untouched skin. She saw the glint of his teeth as he surveyed his prey, and she was so frozen with fear that she forgot to kick or fight against him, lying limp against the cool earth.
"Help," she whimpered, though she was too far from the house for her cries to be met. Tears streamed from her eyes. "Help. Colin, please," she beseeched, hoping her friend might still be somewhere within the depths of this monster.
A foolish hope. The monster only leered over her more, dipping his head and running his wet snout across the bare flesh of her leg (now muddied from the drag across the earth). She bit her lip to keep from sobbing at the strange sensation, cool nose and hot breath, and she supposed this was it, the moment he would open up his maw and take a bite from her flesh, and such terror beyond her comprehension flooded her veins like ice, her heart beating so fast she thought it would burst from her ribs, explode within her. She half-hoped it would, so she would not have to watch as the monster ate her alive.
A low, rumbling growl left the creatures mouth, and Penelope felt it against her flesh as the nose snuffled upwards, under the ragged hem of her shift — selecting the choicest part for his consumption, she supposed. Then his claws moved to her belly, kneading against her flesh in a way that sickened her, like a cat making itself comfortable upon one's lap for a nap. With a strange keening noise the beast began to tear through her nightgown, rending the cotton into shreds and exposing Penelope further to the warm night. Penelope's terrified brain could hardly comprehend it, but her body acted automatically — covering her breasts and trying to press her thighs together enough to keep her dignity, her gentility. Ridiculous, perhaps, but one could not overcome eighteen years of breeding all at once, even when one was in great peril.
Useless, for the creature's paws gripped her thighs and dragged them apart easily, so her most private, wicked parts, the parts her Mama told her not to touch, were spread open wide for the beast to survey. Penelope felt strange and cold and hot all at once, spasms of terror rolling over her skin, and she wished the beast would hurry up and eat her, stop toying with his food, save her the humiliation. She could make no account of it — why had he ripped off her gown, and why was he staring at her sex, and why had he not simply eaten her already? Perhaps it was like with the hunt dogs, who would rather indelicately sniff at the ladies crotches or bottoms until the hunstman called them off. Or perhaps the creature was more wicked than a mere, thoughtless animal — perhaps he enjoyed watching her squirm and redden and try to cover herself.
It happened all at once then. Penelope saw, suddenly, that the heavy, swinging thing between the creature's legs was no longer so — now it was hard, and red, and oozing something as it bobbed and pointed directly at her. Penelope did not know quite what such a member was for, being a gentle girl, but she knew it meant nothing good. Her body kicked into action then, her limbs flailing all at once and her hands pushing at the paws upon her thighs, but it was too late, for the very moment she started to struggle the creature pressed its wet, snuffling snout directly against her centre, and she could not move at all.
"Oh," Penelope whined, as she felt the hot breath of the creature against her sex, nosing and nuzzling against her. It was so wrong, so very wicked and perverse, and she pushed feebly at the creature's thick, hairy head but could not move him from his exploration. Her entire body felt aflame, her skin blushing red and horrified as the long, firm snout nudged at her secret petals, the little cunny (she could barely think the word) that her Mama had taught her was just for her husband. Oh, it felt strange, paroxisms shivering through her limbs as the creature sniffled and rubbed his nose upon her.
"No — no," she begged, for she felt something even worse — the flick of the creature's tongue.
The wolf let out a low, rumbling growl that Penelope felt in her very core, and then his broad, rough tongue slicked up the length of her in a single stripe. Christ! Her back arched and her toes dug into the earth and tears streamed from her eyes, but she might have been a butterfly fluttering at his head for all the notice the creature paid, so focused was he upon his meal. He began to lick at her hungrily, greedily, his long slavering tongue pressing against her over and over and with each lick he made all sorts of groans and whines and keens, hot breath upon her.
And God, it was strange, but worse was the things it did to her body. It made her burn all over, her skin flushed a deep red in the moonlight, each wisp of cool breeze like fingers across her sensitive flesh. It made her nipples stand on end and ache terribly, awfully, so badly that she had to put her fingers upon them to rub and soothe — and yet that only made the ache worse. And it made something wind and tangle and bloom in her belly (lower, where his tongue was licking steadily), something rising that made her so very afraid.
"Please," she wept, as the creature's tongue dipped lower, to some part of her cunny that clenched and ached. She cried out as the tongue pushed in — she had had no notion there was even an in to enter, and now here this monster was licking inside of her. She sobbed and writhed and her hips twisted in his grasp but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide from the sensations. The creature ignored her, even when she sobbed out Colin's name and pressed her hands to his furred head — he licked and licked and licked, the wet noises of his tongue against her loud in the quiet night. It was obscene and awful and so very wicked and and and —
A loud whimper escaped her as the thing winding in her belly snapped and burst like a raincloud, her body rushing and singing with a pleasure she wished only to escape. For it horrified her to feel any sort of pleasure under the mouth of this monster, when each lick might be the one which he changed his mind and sunk his teeth into her instead. She was a wicked girl, perverse and awful with a treacherous, sinful body.
So she wept and cried and begged and the monster kept licking all the while. Even when the pleasure turned to pain, when the rough scrape became unbearable against her sensitive petals. Even when she pushed her heels into the soft earth and tried to shove herself up and away from him — he merely laid his heavy paws on her hips to pin her as he ate his fill. He licked and licked until Penelope was senseless and limp, her weak cries murmuring helplessly from her lips.
Perhaps if she were Eloise she would have fought back more and the creature would have killed her fast and had it over with. Perhaps if she was Francesca she would have lain perfectly still and silent, and the monster would have gotten bored and left her alone. Perhaps if she were Daphne she might have charmed him, stroked his snout and called him handsome and had him so in love he would be convinced he did not want to eat her up, after all.
But instead Penelope had writhed, and she had moaned, and she had passed out with something like pleasure, and perhaps it was that that spurred the creature on, her body's obvious reaction only arousing him further, tempting him to wickedness. She whined as she felt herself nudged and rolled and batted about like a kitten with a ball of string. She barely registered what was happening to her until she felt her breasts crushed into the earth and felt her mouth full of grass, the fronds tickling her cheeks.
"No," she whispered feebly, her fingers winding into the grass as the wolf's head nudged her thighs apart again. "No, please. Colin, stop." The slavering of his tongue against her bottom made her body jerk and twitch, her fingers tugging against the grass. He began to lick over her other hole, his tongue sliding over the tight little bud, and Penelope began to weep pitifully into the grass for she feared he would do the same to her bottom as he had to her cunny and she would surely die if he tortured her so. But perhaps the moon, whose light had seemed only to glow upon wickedness this night, took some mercy upon her, for soon his mouth moved upwards.
He nosed cold over her spine, to her shoulder and neck, and Penelope saw then the massive paws upon the ground before her, propping his hot, heavy body over hers. She keened and tugged upon the grass at asked the heavens what new terror lay in store for her as the creature's weight pressed slowly against hers. She felt it then, felt the terrifying hardness of his sex upon her lower back, so girthy and heavy that the air was expelled from her lungs in fear. With a yipping sort of growl the creature began to rut against her, thrusting himself against her bottom and huffing out snuffled, frustrated little noises as he did so.
Penelope felt too weak to do much except cry as the creature shifted and thrust and shifted again, watching his paws sink into the earth before her. She had no notion what he was searching for except she knew when he did it could not mean much of anything good for her; she tried to keep her filthy, muddied body from shaking too hard as he thrust and growled and rutted against her.
But then he shifted and Penelope felt that thing hard and hot and insistent nudging against the ruined mess of her petals, and she tried to clench her thighs and squeeze her entrance shut but it was no use, for the monster's tongue had made her so slick and soft and easy that the massive head of him slipped into her with an aching, stretching pop.
Penelope ripped up handfuls of grass at the breach. It was terrible, impossible — he would split her in half, surely.
"You cannot," she croaked, dirt beneath her fingernails. "You cannot — it will not go in — please."
But the creature paid her no mind, of course, concerned only with his animal lust. He keened needily above her, and then she felt the horrible warmth of his breath upon her neck, his snout snuffling into her ear in a way that made her shiver. He started to lick at the top of her spine and then all at once his hips thrust forward.
Penelope was ruined. She felt it happen, felt him tear her asunder with a howl, felt his sex plunge so deep into her cunny that she could taste his monstrous cock upon her tongue. Is this how a husband would have taken her on her wedding night? Or would he have given her a moment to adjust, gone soft and sweet and kissed her cheek as he took what was his? She was ruined, and even if she survived this night she might as well be dead, for what man would have a girl with a cunny broken apart on the cock of this beast?
The monster gave her no moment to adjust to the pain, the unending stretch; he followed his animal instincts and rutted into her greedily, over and over without mercy. Licked her throat all the while, hot breath whispering against her ear as he ravished her into the soft earth. Penelope gasped and sunk her fingers into the soil and kicked up her legs to no avail as the beast fucked her (she had heard the word used by the servants).
"Please," she wept, though it was useless. "Please, Colin."
She was not sure why she kept saying his name, for her friend was surely nowhere to be found in this beast. Still she repeated it feebly as the monster raped her, stretching her slick, dripping little cunny on his massive cock over and over, the scratch of his fur upon her soft back making her snuffle and whine.
It seemed to last an eternity, though the moon remained bright and heavy in the sky. After an age the thrusts grew sloppy and rapid and the monster's breath began to catch and choke, little grunts huffed into Penelope's ear. Penelope braced for she feared some awful new terror — and she was right, for the creature let out a howl and thrust deep, his heavy body forcing her flat to the earth as he crushed her, and she felt his massive girth somehow expand, something inflating and pressing against her insides so he was locked inside of her. She wailed and pressed her fists to the earth and begged for help as she felt something hot and wet flood her insides. Spurts of it, and each time a new spurt hit her the wolf growled and ground his rough, heavy hips into her bottom.
And then the monster collapsed on top of her, panting like a dog after the hunt. Penelope muffled her tears and laid still and prayed to the heavens it was over, that her torment had ended.
The heavens did not answer. For the moment the beast's knot began to deflate and he could slide his throbbing cock out of her bruised, ruined cunny, he thrust back inside, and the ordeal began over.
"No," Penelope murmured over and again. "Please." Muttered it like a prayer unheard, her body thrumming and keening from the use as the monster began to rape her again. The noise was awful, whatever liquid he had spilled inside of her now squelching and spurting from her stretched hole. He groaned and whined over her, claws in the earth, as he fucked her to limp uselessness, until once more she felt that terrible stretch, that push against her insides that made her vision blur and sparkle with stars. Another load of his seed (for that must be what it was), and then his rough, heavy body crushed against her until he was ready to go again.
And again.
And again.
Fucked her ruined hole over and over, rutting his come into her cunny until she was barely conscious. Until that terrible pleasure began to wind again in her nethers, as though her body had metabolised the humiliation into something new. Penelope whimpered as she peaked upon the monster's ravishing cock, drooling into the earth and grunting as though she was part-beast herself. The pleasure washed over her until she was insensible, her belly full of the beast's seed and her cunny full of his cock. Everything felt wet and sore and swollen, her entire body throbbing as he used her over and over, the moonlight shining down upon the lawn as the beast howled his animal pleasure.
Penelope awoke upon the front lawn of Aubrey Hall with something pressing inside of her. Moving slick and slow, the monster's seed drooling around it.
Dawn light filtered pink around her and she whined, certain it was the monster still at work. At least now it was daylight her hopes of rescue increased (though the thought of anyone finding her knotted upon the wolf's cock and dripping with his come made her belly ache with humiliation and dread).
"Help," she whispered, her voice hoarse and sore.
"Hush, Pen."
Penelope froze, her entire body trembling.
"C-Colin?" she croaked, her heart stuttering with relief and then —
Because yes, the body pressed to her back was not rough or hairy or so heavy she thought she would suffocate. And the breath in her ear was human, the lips on her cheek soft and plush and gentle. She blinked blearily and saw graceful, long-fingered hands wrapped around her wrists.
The beast had disappeared, and here was Colin.
"Hush, Pen. Just a moment or two longer. Be good for me, now."
Colin. Lovely, human, wonderful Colin who Penelope had such a fancy for. Sweet and kind and kissing her cheek and ears and neck.
Colin who was now raping her with his human cock, his hips thrusting against the bruised flesh of her bottom, his cock sliding through the monster's seed inside of her swollen cunny.
"Colin," she breathed, and her eyes stung with tears. "Please."
"Hush, sweet girl. The wolf took you so many times, you must let me have you at least once. You are so very soft and dripping, Pen. You must only be good a moment longer — I am close."
"No," Penelope hissed, and she began to writhe beneath him. She kept her voice low for now if she were discovered, with a Bridgerton brother fucking her into the lawn, she would not be a victim, would she? She would be a harlot. She must not be discovered, not now.
"Do not pretend, darling," Colin murmured, as his hips began to slap into her, his cock thrusting lazily, sloppily. "I am not in control of the wolf but I feel what he feels. You liked it rather much, did you not? Ah, yes, there you are. Clench down on me with your poor little cunt, good girl."
And Penelope could not deny he was right, though tears sprung to her eyes, for her sex was throbbing and spasming as Colin fucked her into the earth. He was not as large as the wolf so she did not feel quite as full, but the endless sensation had made her oversensitized, her little cunny overwhelmed by the constant use. She felt her pleasure winding helplessly as the third Bridgerton boy had his way with her.
"One more load shall not make a difference, you are already so very full of them," Colin muttered, tugging her head back by her hair so he could kiss her forehead. Penelope could see him then, see his beautiful blue eyes and the hazy pout of his mouth and how his curls fell so prettily. "When you are my wife we shall keep you as full as can be, shan't we?"
"Wife," Penelope repeated dumbly, as the pleasure began to peak and crest. Her legs flailed and her fingers spread into the grass and she whined pitifully as her limp body quivered.
"Yes, yes, good girl," Colin coaxed, his voice choked as he rutted and thrust. "You shall find me a very good husband indeed, and you must not worry — the wolf shall come once a month and give you just what you need, little one."