you do not yield

b = body part: what is his favorite body part/partner's?

i have to be honest here, i think our boy benedict is really proud of his cock. i think he knows that it is a good length and girth, and just showing it off to someone - even if they don't touch it - turns him on.

on his male partners, it would probably be their ass, especially if he's topping. on female partners, i think it's probably the same. even if you don't have a bubble butt, benedict still loves kissing your cheeks, slapping them, and squeezing them any chance he gets, especially if he's fucking you from behind.

c = cum: anything to do with cum, basically?

benedict adores to give a facial. if there's one place he wants to finish, it's on your face. he won't hesitate to tell you how gorgeous you look with his cum painted across your pretty face, either.

d = dirty secret: what is his dirty secret? benedict has had to get away during balls, especially if he's danced with you, to go jack off in the washroom.

e = experience: how experienced is he? does he know what he's doing? benedict is definitely experienced! he is super open to trying different things with different people. having multiple experiences with a unique variety of partners has made benedict very skilled at figuring out the best ways to pleasure you. you were a bit intimidated by his experience at first, but you've come to learn it's only a benefit for you.

f = favorite position benedict's favorite position is what i call the 'upstanding citizen'. this is when he faces you, and you put your arms on his shoulders, and jumps up to wrap your legs around his waist. this position works well whenever benedict is fucking you pressed against a wall.

g = goofy: is he more serious in the moment? is he humorous? benedict is usually pretty serious when he's in bed with you, but he isn't afraid to laugh and joke around during awkward moments or giggle, especially if you've done something he finds cute.

h = hair: how well groomed is he? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

benedict cares quite a bit about his appearance. while he doesn't shave completely bald, he likes to keep his hair well-trimmed.

i = intimacy: how is he in the moment? when benedict is with someone he truly loves or admires, like you, he can be very romantic. he enjoys long, slow fucks just as much as quick, hard ones. he enjoys slowly pleasuring you, relishing in the sounds of your gasps and the feeling of being inside of you. some of his best orgasms have happened during those soft, romantic moments. that said, if either of you are in the mood, he isn't afraid to give it hard, fast, and dirty.

j = jack off: masturbation headcanon

benedict loves to masturbate for an audience - even of just one! some nights, he just wants you to touch yourself while he jacks off in front of you, mouth hanging open in ecstasy as his hand fists his cock.

k = kink: what is one of his kinks?

one specific kink benedict definitely has is orgasm control. he loves to bring near your breaking point as he edges you for hours before finally watching you come completely undone. he also loves being edged like the good boy he is, until he is so desperate for release he's practically crying your name.

l = location: where does he like to have sex?

benedict will get freaky anywhere, but he is old-fashioned in that he loves the intimacy and atmosphere of a candle-lit bedroom.

m = motivation: what turns him on?

benedict loves to be praised. he wants to know he is making you feel good. because of this, he also really adores hearing you be vocal for him and getting you to orgasm, especially if he can do it multiple times.

n = no

again, benedict is pretty much open to anything, but he isn't into anything involving body fluids (besides cum and spit). another hard turn-off for him is someone who is ignorant of the value of consent.

o = oral

benedict bridgerton loves to go down. whether he's eating pussy or sucking cock, benedict is happy to orally pleasure his partner(s). he's fantastic at it and always goes the extra mile to find out what you like while while he's going down on you (bonus points if you pull his hair.)

p = pace: is he fast and rough? slow and sensual?

this depends on the mood and the moment. benedict is able to sense and feel out what you want and responds in turn. that said, if he is worked up enough or has been horny too long, it is hard for benedict to control himself, so he often does give it fast and rough.

q = quickies?

benedict loves a good quickie! if you can't fit in a long fucking session, he's happy to do it fast and dirty.

r = risk: does he take risks and is he willing to try new things? yes! benedict bridgerton is an open-minded, risk-taking gentleman. he is willing to try pretty much anything once. he also really loves the thrill of a public fuck, like taking you in the powder room at a ball or in the carriage afterward.

s = stamina

benedict can go for a few rounds. he just needs time to rest in between orgasms.

t = toys: do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?

admittedly, toys were pretty limited during the regency. that said, if they were available to him, benedict would be all about it! he would especially loved to be pegged if he was with a female partner.

u = unfair: how much does he like to tease?

as we said earlier, benedict loves orgasm control, so teasing goes right along with that. he loves taking his time kissing your nipples, biting your thighs, and just ghosting his tongue over every sensitive part of you as much as he can.

v = volume: how loud is he, what sounds does he make?

benedict himself is not too incredibly loud. he does pant and moan quite a bit, especially in your ear. you can often expect quite a few "bloody hell" and "my god"s from benedict.

w = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

benedict bridgerton loves to be called pet names in bed. he will absolutely melt if you tell him he's a "good boy" or whisper something like "benny" or "my love" to him.

x = x-ray: let’s see what’s going on under those clothes. benedict has a beautiful body. he is toned, but not overly so, still hanging on to just a bit of softness in his tummy. he keeps his chest hair trimmed but still enough that you can feel it beneath your hands when you rest it there during after-sex cuddles.

y = yearning: how high is his sex drive?

mr. benedict bridgerton is always horny. there are usually only a few days a month where he isn't in the mood to be intimate with you. to add, it does not matter what time of the day it is, either. that said, he's especially into a nice fuck to start his morning off right.

z = zzz: how fast does he fall asleep afterward?

if you don't catch him, benedict will be snoozing within ten minutes. nothing puts him into a better sleep than a good orgasm.

You spent ages worrying that your history degree would land you in a dead-end job, but now it looked like you might finally have the chance to get your dream job. You had always been obsessed with the Regency era, pouring hours of work into your final thesis on it.

Even better, this job would mean you'd be living in the house twenty-four seven. This was perfect—you could sublet your current apartment and ditch the headache of hunting for budget-friendly housing on a historian's salary in London. You took a deep breath and clicked open on the application.

You glanced over at your cat, Mr. Darcy, who was sprawled across the armchair with his tail flicking lazily.

“Do you think we’ve got a chance?,” you asked, chewing your bottom lip. His green eyes met yours for a moment before he responded with a nonchalant meow. With a sigh, you turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard before you started typing your query into the search bar of the website.

As you scrolled through the application, your heart raced with anticipation. Each question felt like a step closer to your dream. You found yourself pouring your passion into every word. You detailed your expertise in Regency-era history and your deep love for the period's literature and culture, hoping that your passion would be obvious in your answers.

Halfway through, you paused, your eyes drawn to an unusual question: "Are you comfortable with the possibility of paranormal activity?"

There were whispers about Bridgerton House being haunted, but you'd always shrugged them off as a tourist trap.

Your cursor hovered over the 'Yes' button. You weren't the type to believe in the supernatural. You took a deep breath, trying to summon some of the logal thinking tips your therapist had given you just last week. “There are no such thing as ghosts,” you said under your breath, continuing to type out your answers.

At last, you attached your resume and cover letter to the application and clicked send. You turned around happily in your swivel chair, feeling a wave of confidence wash over you.

A few weeks passed since you had successfully navigated through two rounds of interviews, and your phone suddenly began to vibrate on the kitchen counter. It nearly made you jump as you put down the bag of chips you were munching on, wiping your hands quickly on your jeans. You snatched your iPhone up quickly, your heart racing with anticipation.

"Hi, it's y/n," you said, adding that touch of office-ready polish to your voice that your friends always found hilarious. They loved to joke that they couldn't distinguish between you and your 'work persona.'

“Hello, Miss y/l/n, this is Claire Watts,” the voice on the other end said, warm and clear. “I’m calling from the Bridgerton Foundation. How are you today?”

“Hi! Hi, Miss Watts. I’m doing great, really good,” you replied, trying to keep your excitement in check. “How can I help you?”

“After discussing with the rest of the team,” Claire continued, her tone reassuring and enthusiastic, “we believe you’d be an excellent fit to take over our museum curator position at the mansion in London.”

Your heart leapt into your throat, and you had to grip the kitchen counter to steady yourself. "Really?!" you breathed, unable to contain your excitement. "I mean, thank you so much! I'm honored!"

Claire chuckled warmly. "We're thrilled to have you on board. Now, there are a few details we need to discuss before you can start. As mentioned in the job description, you'll be required to live on-site. The curator's quarters are in the east wing of the mansion. You’ll have your own bedroom, bathroom, and access to a full kitchen. It gets pretty cold in the winter, but we do have some space heaters in there right now. The rest of the house is still undergoing renovations, as we talked about in the interview. Are you still comfortable with that arrangement?"

You could've sworn the house had been painted in a much rosier hue when they described it during the interview, but you squashed those doubts quickly. Who cares if the area you're moving into has lost some of its old-school charm?

It was once in a lifetime.

"Absolutely," you replied, your mind already painting vivid pictures of yourself wandering the shadowy, history-laden corridors of Bridgerton House. The thought of being surrounded by centuries of stories was thrilling. "And, um, is it alright if I bring my cat?"

"Of course," Claire assured you, her voice carrying a warmth that suggested a broad smile. You imagined her sitting comfortably in her home office, surrounded by family portraits and shelves of well-worn books. During the interview, she enthusiastically recounted her lineage, mentioning that she was a descendant of the Bridgertons. Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, she noted with pride, tucking her brown hair behind her ear, had been her 9th great-grandfather, or something along those lines. The details blurred together as your mind wandered.

"We find that pets often… adjust well to the unique atmosphere of Bridgerton House."

There was something odd in the way Claire emphasized ‘unique’ that sent a shiver down your spine, prompting you to nervously nibble at your fingernails. You look down at your chipped blue nail polish. What if the advertisement wasn't just a playful exaggeration? What if there truly were ghosts, or demons, or other supernatural entities lurking within the walls, and you found yourself channeling your inner Lorraine Warren, confronting spectral phenomena in the witching hours of the night?

Okay, y/n, breathe.

“When do I start?”

“We would love to have you moved in within the next three weeks.”

“Let’s call it two.”

"Great. I'll send you over some forms for human resources. Welcome to the Bridgerton Foundation, y/n."

As you hung up the phone, your heart raced. You jumped up with excitement, your feet barely grazing the floor, like a middle schooler who just snagged front-row seats to a boyband reunion tour.

"Mr. Darcy!" you squealed, reaching down to scoop up your tabby cat. His fur bristled as he let out a protesting howl, clearly not sharing your enthusiasm. "We're going to Bridgerton House!" you announced, holding him close as if he could understand the significance of the moment.

You stand in your joint dressing room with one of his cravats looped around your neck, and you are, well, there’s no getting around it, inhaling his scent from it, even sucking on the material. Even you are not sure what compelled you to do such a thing other than you caught a whiff as you went by and, well… couldn’t resist a sniff, even a taste.

“I like the feel of the silk…” your stutter, the sound muffled, knowing you are blushing.

He moves closer. “And is there any reason you are sucking on it, my dear?” he rumbles, gently tugging the end from your mouth, eying the wet patch that blooms darker from your saliva.

“I like your taste,” you mutter quietly, head bowed in shame.

“What was that?” his tease velvety, “speak up, darling.”

You know he is flirting now. You look up to meet his heated gaze and repeat louder. “I like that they taste of you, husband.” 

His eyes dilate rapidly at your statement, and he takes a deep breath.

“I love how utterly feral you are for me,” he snarls. You are hauled against his solid frame, one of his arms banding tight around your waist, the other gathering both ends of the cravat looped around your throat a few times. “Do you know all the ways I could tease you with these?” he rumbles, his voice skittering hot over the skin of your neck.

“Tell me,” you exhale raggedly, thrilled about where this is going.

“I could tie you up in a rainbow, my darling,” his promise so intoxicating, “cover your skin in delicate, intricate silks bound in exotic knots that only I can untie.”

You breathe harder at the very idea.

“Do you know how many cravats I own, darling?”

You glance sideways at the rack but give up at attempting to count them when his warm lips start to suck insistently on the spot right below your ear.

“Fifty-two,” he answers between nips of your skin with his teeth, “one for every week of the year.”

“That’s a lot, husband…,” you rasp, his grip on the cravat at your neck starting to restrict your windpipe just a touch, causing a dangerous slick jolt of arousal down your spine.

He hums in agreement, suddenly releases the cravat, and wrenches your dress off your right shoulder—the room echoing with the sound of a seam ripping under his harsh grip. His mouth lands hot on the skin there, and you shudder as he bites down just a little. Talk about feral.

Wordlessly he rips the rest of your light cotton dress with one fist grab, and it falls to the floor around you. It wasn’t one of your favourites anyway; the animalistic urge it has brought out in him is far more enthralling than your affection for that dress. 

Then his hands are roughly plucking the lace of your stays, your whole body jerking with the motions. All the while, he is staring you down predatory, and you daren’t look away, just hypnotised by his stormy expression. When he is like this occasionally, you are utterly mindless for it, for him, in this crazed state. Your stays hit the floor behind you, and he picks up your now naked body, except his cravat, and propels you against the wall of your dressing room, knocking over an empty hatstand as he does so.

You gasp as it slams to the wood floor, and your back hits the wall. 

“Benedict,” you splutter in surprise at how forceful he is. He’s not hurting you, but he’s not treating you gently.

“Don’t suck on my clothing like a wanton little bitch in heat and not expect me to fuck you,” he intones.

You are shocked at how aroused you get at the derogatory phrase he uses—just a flood between your thighs. Your nipples pebbled hard as they rasp against the slightly scratchy wool of his sharply tailored cropped jacket as his hand reaches between your bodies and roughly unbuttons his britches.

You feel a wave of body heat over the apex of your thighs as he pulls out his cock and swipes its hot sticky tip over your clit. You moan at the sensation, already so pulsing and swollen from his handling of you. He loops your left leg high onto his forearm, a slight burn in your thigh from the stretch, and plunges into your pussy without warning. You cry out at the sheer size and speed of his invasion. Spearing you open.

“Yes, that’s it; scream my name,” he orders through clenched teeth; your most often mild-mannered sweet husband is almost nowhere to be found under this untamed wild man. And hell, if it isn’t everything you want.

He starts a punishing rhythm right away. Just fucking you. Hard. Your hands fly into his hair and fist the luscious mass there. He groans lewdly as you tug on the strands and rake your nails over his scalp, giving almost as good as you are getting. Hungry for him in a way you're not sure polite society would understand. 

You idly wonder how many wives of the Ton get stripped, bitten and fucked against a wall by their husbands on an overcast Tuesday afternoon. You suspect very few. You also suspect fewer would do what you do, pitch forward in his rough, punishing grip and bite his earlobe, gusting encouragements right into his ear, making him stumble in his movement and growl.

You want his handprints on your body, his teeth marks, signs that you are his. And you want to mark him too, leave scratches on his skin, bruises on his neck from sucking so hard. Just possessive, dark things that he brings out in you, things that you never imagined when you married him as a maid, all those months ago. 

You’ll never forget the first time he was like this. You removed your shawl as you sat down in a box to watch the opera, and he saw the mark he had left on the swell of your breast, entirely by accident, in his enthusiasm. He leans over, mumbles an apology, and asks you to conceal it. Instead, you turn your head and whisper you are proud to wear his mark and don’t care who sees it. The surprise and sheer want on his face you will never forget. He made it through half a song before grabbing your hand and pulling you into a stairwell, pushing aside your underwear and taking you right there, lying on the cold stone steps. It was the fastest you had ever orgasmed in your life. And now, you aid and abet him every time he lets out his wild side, wanting nothing more than the full force of his dizzying desire.

His hipbones will undoubtedly leave marks on your inner thighs as he pounds into your body, snapping deep and making you grunt softly with each push. You will probably carry a slight ache tomorrow, and you crave it. A reminder of how much passion you can share.

He pauses his movements, leans to the side and grabs two cravats. Looping them around your wrists a few times and tying a bow as he holds you against the wall up on your tiptoe, him buried deep inside you.

“What are you doing?” you are intrigued why he has stopped to tie pretty colourful knots on your person.

He doesn't answer, but the smirk on his face as he raises your hand high makes you tilt your head up against the wall and watch as he loops the bow he made in the material around a high coat hook there.

Oh.

He does the same with your other arm. Now you are hooked to the wall.

“Green,” you breathe, and his grin is boyish and so breathtakingly handsome.

That is the word he asks you to say when he checks your comfort level with something new. You don’t even wait for him to ask, desperate for him to continue, to start fucking you again. Instead, he curls his spine outwards and sinks down to teeth your nipples. You scream and clench hard on his cock. Which just makes him clamp down harder in surprise - a carnal loop of call and response that makes you burn so hot.

“Fuck me,” you whine, rapping the knuckles of your bound hands against the wall to emphasise your point.

He chuckles richly at your apparent impatience and finally speaks for the first time since he first entered you. 

“The more you make demands, darling wife, the less inclined I am to listen. I’ll just go slower and slower and slower and keep you simmering and trembling for me. Cry pretty tears for me in sheer frustration.”

“Please don't,” you appeal, writhing between him and the wall. He is still fully clothed, just his trousers around his knees, although much of his clothing is dishevelled now by your pawings—something so commanding about him being so fully dressed as you are naked and restrained.

“Then stop making demands,” he murmurs silkily, “or I’ll gag you too.”

Your eyes flash with excitement at the idea, and he chuckles again.

“Maybe not; you would enjoy that far too much, wouldn’t you? Dear god, I am the luckiest man alive,” he breathes and cups your jaw, moving to give you a surprisingly tender kiss.

“Please, Benedict,” you beseech softly over his lips.

“Okay, my darling,” he soothes, flicking a gentle thumb over your nipple and making you whine more.

He begins to move again, building a steady cadence that burns you white-hot. You moan for more, and he obliges, snapping harder into you, precisely what you need. Nudging the hilt of your channel, making you slump into him, putty in his punishing grip on your hipbones, slamming into your body now. You wish you could touch your clit as it pulses hard, pulled taunt by every plunge of his cock. Just needing the tiniest ounce of friction to tip over the edge you are skating.

“Does your little nub want my fingers?” he intuits duskily, and you nod vigorously and bite your lower lip, even as he keeps up those rousing thrusts.

You shout his name and a few expletives as his thumb worms its way between your bodies and unerringly finds where you need him most, pressing forcefully against the swell of your clit, hooking under your clitoral hood, right to the point of most sensation. He flicks his thumb up and down rapidly, and you are hurtled over the precipice, screaming and convulsing, your pussy squeezing so hard he has to push back against your rippling to stay inside you. A sweeping tide of sensation washing out from your core through your whole body, lungs almost burning with heaving breaths, blood pounding all over, your muscles tensing and releasing as you writhe hard, your arms aching from the slight stretch of being almost suspended by them.

Then you hear him roar and stutter in his movements, mouth hot and slack on your cheekbone as he curls inward and pumps his seed deep inside you, groaning and bodily twitching with the sheer force of it. 

After a few moments of panted breaths and little aftershocks wracking his frame, you are still somewhat floating as he unhooks your wrists and brings them back to your sides, rubbing your shoulders gently and kissing your temple sweetly as you recover.

“My love,” he breathes, back to the loving, attentive husband he always is, “are you quite well?”

“Yes, husband,” you reassure, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face into the frills of his shirt that poke out of his waistcoat. “I'm going to drape myself in nothing but your cravats if this is the treat I receive,” you opine drolly as he places your foot back on the floor, slipping out from your body with a muted moan followed by a huff of amusement at your words.

“I look forward to it,” he smiles, kissing you gently on the lips and cheeks, holding your face with loving reverence.

A few weeks later, when you lean over during a dull musical recital and inform him that you are wearing one of his cravats, his brow knits in puzzlement. Until you discreetly guide his hand up under your dress to feel the silk length wrapped around the very top of your thigh, like a thickly looped garter. You don't even reach the stone steps in the quiet stairwell this time. He takes you right against the door outside your box seats where any usher or patron could walk by and see; his hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your screams. Apparently, he has lost too many cravats to your gnashing teeth to gag you with the favourite one he wears that night. Pity.

I can't even bring myself to tag this... EDIT: OK I was convinced by some lovely peeps to tag it lol @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory

His eyes widened as he began to thumb through the pages. Inside, a series of erotic drawings caught his attention. A sly, intrigued smirk crossed his dark features, his mind wandering immediately to you. The illustrations were artful, yet daring and tantalizing. He found himself stiffening at the thought of you in those positions, panting and mewing as he pounded into you.

A plan began to form in the Viscount’s mind.

A plan, he thought, that sounded dastardly fun.

You were seated in front of your vanity, running a brush over and over through your long hair. It was a normal part of your nighttime routine and brought you comfort. Truth be told, the nights since your wedding were truly quite…customary. You wondered if women dreamed of ordinary nights in their beds with their husbands or if other women were more like you, secretly wishing for something a bit more audacious.

You heard Anthony enter, turning to greet him. His handsomeness never failed to take you. It was a small pleasure to look him over; brown hair tousled just a bit, only left in a white dress shirt and black trousers, suspenders hanging at his sides. You saw that he had a book tucked under his arm, peaking out from the billowing white fabric of his shirt. His brown eyes twinkled with intent, yet held somewhat of a playful edge. You felt your stomach flip just a bit, mind wandering back to your desire for adventure in this room.

“Wife,” he grinned, holding up the brown book in his hand like a game trophy. Anthony leaned down, planting a chaste kiss on your lips. He sat down on the chaise lounge near you.

“Husband,” you let out a small smile, raising a suspicious brow. “What, pray tell, is on your mind? You appear to be in mischievous sorts.”

“I come baring something rather…educational, my darling.”

He handed you the book with an innocent air. You noticed, however angelic his tone, a devilish look blooming across his eyes. Inquisitiveness overcame you as you began flipping through the pages. You felt your cheeks turn crimson, looking at Anthony just for a moment. A few seconds then passed where you wondered if this was a jest.

You let out a girlish giggle, placing your dainty fingertips to your mouth. You were at once both amused and intrigued, yet admittedly a bit shocked. You had been raised with nothing but the most traditional of upbringings. In fact, you did not know the marital act could be pursued in such a way before casting your eyes on this book. Anthony respected you, and thus, your embrace was usually in the typical missionary as it had been since your wedding night – and not a moment sooner.

“What, pray tell, do you propose we do with such knowledge, my Lord?”

Anthony felt a twitch in his trousers. There was something about you calling him by his title that never failed to cause the blood to rush right to his cock.

“I want to test the accuracy of these illustrations. According to this book, these positions can be quite pleasurable for both man and his wife,” he breathed. You knew you were blushing now. There was no way you couldn’t be, not with the distinct feeling of a thump-thump-thump making itself clear in your pussy. Anthony reaches out, running his pointer finger along your collarbone. “I know you are so curious, my darling, about these things. Shall we try a lesson?”

He was coaxing you into his game, knowing you would soon melt under his guide and touch. You trusted Anthony implicitly. All you could do was nod as he walked you both over to the bed. You climbed in together, finding a comfortable position. You turned to him, allowing him to pull you into a gentle kiss. You leaned into the soft warmth of his lips and revelled as the kiss turned more passionate. Warmth bloomed across your chest as you parted, your eyes lingering into Anthony’s.

“Come,” he patted his chest, laying back on to the pillows. You smiled, moving to allow your head with your head against his body as he opened the book again.

He looked through the pages a bit, the only sound in the room was the paper turning and your breathing. You swore you heard him chuckle as he landed on one specific drawing. He ran his finger across the ink, guiding it along the woman’s breasts and down to her fully exposed vulva. You cocked your head to the side, realizing you had never truly looked at another woman’s body before.

“The female form…is captured in such an exquisite way here,” he whispered. “Although this woman, the subject, is no near as lovely as you.”

The viscount moved then, and you instinctually opened your legs wide, hiking your nightdress up to your hips. You shivered, feeling the pad of his finger run up and down your slit, over your hot core. It was obvious to you that you were growing increasingly drenched, a spot forming on the front of your bloomers. Anthony felt the dampness and took it as his cue to continue.

Anthony carried on with his slow, deliberate touches.

“I would like to reenact this… I want you bent over in front of me. On your knees,” he whispered again. The atmosphere of the room felt thick with desire. You feared if you didn’t remind yourself to breathe, you would forget.

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Tell me that is what you want.”

You glanced back to the picture. “I wish for you to…love me…fuck me. Like her.”

The sound of you speaking so filthily made Anthony want to completely abandon his plans and take you right there. You had never uttered that word before. It was a word his friends at Oxford used often, but not one he was used to coming from the pretty mouth of his wife.

Slowly, you both disrobed, Anthony limbered out of bed to rid himself of his shirt and trousers. You swore your mouth watered at the sight of his erect cock, proudly dripping with just a droplet of precum at the head.

“It appears you like what you see, my girl?” Anthony guided his hand up and down his length, running his thumb over his head, smearing the arousal there just a bit.

All you could do was nod. You were seated on the bed still, your dripping core fully on display for him, aching with want. He reached out, running two fingers down your slick folds. Anthony chuckled as he collected the arousal that had already pooled there. You gasped he slid his fingers into his mouth, sucking them with a loud pop. Without warning, he glided two fingers back into your cunt. You could see that his eyes were burning with desire at the truth that you were warm, tight, and deliciously wet for him. Your breath caught as he continued to thrust his first and middle fingers in and out, turning his wrist and coaxing them in a come-hither motion. It hit something deep within your core; a place you never knew existed.

“A-An..A..,” you mewed, pleasure pressing itself into you.

“That is My Lord,” he growled, but you see the playfulness in his eyes. “Tell the viscount what it is you need.”

“I need you, My Lord. Please.”

You felt a jolt of butterflies burst their way through your tummy as he smirked. You whimpered sadly as he removed his digits suddenly. You looked at them in the firelight glow, all sticky and wet with your desire for him. It was disgustingly erotic. You realized, in that moment, the nights in your bed chamber with your husband are about to change for good.

“On your knees,” he ordered. You didn’t have but a second to think before you obeyed him, moving so that your hands and knees were resting on the soft velvet of the duvet.

Anthony stood back a moment, palming his aching cock lightly as he drank in a good, long look at you. You looked perfect like this to him. Pussy on display, shining with arousal; breasts, swinging below you, hard nipples begging to be given attention. Your hair hung in long tendrils over your shoulder. You hoped in your mind you looked like the woman in the book, being claimed animalistically by her lover.

You turned your head, glancing back at him. “Is this what you desire, My Lord?”

Anthony moves around the bed, looking at you up and down. He was inspecting you like you are were a fine piece of art - a sculpture, even.

“A sweet creature you are,” he murmured. He reached out, giving your nipples a little twist and audibly chuckling as you whined. “It is almost perfect. But…back up. I need you closer to the edge of the bed,” Anthony’s voice came again, and you wiggled yourself back so you could meet him at the edge.

“Perfect, perfect,” his voice was barely audible as he reached down to land a soft smack on your ass. Now it was your turn to giggle, enjoying the way your cunt fluttered at the feeling of being spanked.

Anthony smiled as you looked back at him over your shoulder.

“I believe you should insert your cock, now, My Lord.”

He practically growled at your playfulness. He was standing, muscular legs apart, as he guided his thick and swollen cock into your waiting pussy.

He let out a grunt as a curse fell from his lips. “Damn it all, that’s my good girl.”

You only moaned in response. His praise caused something in you to only burn brighter. You pushed back, meeting his thrusts to bring his cock even further into you. It felt different this way, his cock stretching you out in a pleasurable but unfamiliar fashion. You felt yourself shudder as his hands clasped around your hips, fingernails digging into your supple skin.

“And then, it would appear that I would begin to fuck you this way,” he groaned, play-acting as if you were truly just conducting an experiment. He began slowly, bouncing your ass off of his hips. But then he began to rut faster, moving his hips upward to hit the sweetest of places inside of you.

“Touch your pearl,” he commanded, reaching out to put a hand in your hair. You used your free hand to steady your body as you reached down to find your clit. You rubbed in circles, the overwhelm of his pulsating member in your wetness and his hand in your hair pushing you closer to the edge of ecstasy. “Touch yourself for me.”

Anthony was attentive yet teasing, mirroring the sensuality of the artwork you had looked upon together. He reached down to slap your ass cheek again. You moaned, wishing your other hand was free to tweak your nipples.

“You are so perfect. Oh,” he leaned forward a bit, and you can only answer with a breath sigh in response. “Fucking perfect for me this way. Cunt split open my cock. Do you like this? Do you? Being fucked like this?”

“Yes, my Lord. Yes, my Lord,” you could only repeat the phrase over and over, head tipping back in euphoric bliss. Your reaction only encouraged him further, his thrusts now becoming harder and faster as nothing but the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room along with your syncopated, breathy pants.

You felt yourself reaching that place you so longed for. It built first in the pit of your tummy, and then before you could think, it was bursting through your entire body. The room went black for a moment. Every muscle in your body tightened before releasing. You let out a loud yell and whimper, crying out his name, knowing you were absolutely soaking his cock at that moment, contracting around him.

It was Anthony who came next, his chest falling onto your back as he brutally pumped out his orgasm. “Fuck, fuck, my love, my girl,” he whined loudly. You felt the warmth of his cum spread inside of you. You stayed like this for a moment, allowing him to completely empty himself into you. As he pulled out, you could have cried at the emptiness, feeling his cum drip out of you.

You flipped onto your back as Anthony moved to grab a handkerchief from a nearby dresser drawer. He reached down, cleaning you off attentively.

“You have quite a bit of scholarly dedication, Anthony Bridgerton,” you giggled. He tosses the handkerchief into a nearby laundry basket after cleaning himself also, crawling into bed next to you. You are tangled in one another’s embrace, the book lying forgotten on the floor.

Anthony chuckled, brushing his lips over your sweaty forehead. “I have not ever been this eager to study.”

As he looked at you, his face turned tender. “I do love you,” he whispered with a sigh, holding you close to his warm chest. You place your hand on his chest, running your fingers along the space between his pecks. The shared intimacy lingered in the air, leaving you feeling content and sleepy.

“Perhaps next time, I shall choose the picture to imitate?” you ventured daringly.