by Rosie Zweet
The Taboo: Older-man and Younger-woman collection
Rosie Zweet
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Rosie Zweet
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Edition: July, 2017
Author’s note: This work is only for ADULT.
All characters are 18+
** Individual pictured is model and used for illustrative purpose only
Content
For Uncle’s Heir
In My Father’s Arm
Ride to London
From an Innocent Miss to a Bride
Don’t miss out!
Also By Rosie Zweet
Excerpt #1!
Excerpt #2!
Book 1
For Uncle’s Heir
Chapter 1
1806 England
I wait in the darkness nervously for my uncle to come to my room, unsure what to do. My aunt told me just to lie down and let my uncle do the deed. She said it will painful a bit too.
I hear a muffled sound from room next door and my heart starts to race madly.
Until now, I still can’t believe when my aunt summon me at my eighteen birthday, a week ago. She asked me to give my uncle an heir in her stead. I can reject her request, of course, but they are the only family I have since my parents died ten years ago. This is the only way I can help them or lest the estate and title will fall to my cruel distant cousin. I have no other prospect besides. And my fiancé jilted me for another two months past. I know it is not because how I look. With full lips, small nose and heart shaped face, many people call me beautiful. I suspect it is because my lack of dowry. If it is succeed, my aunt promises me a dowry.
I hear another sound again, louder this time. And suddenly, I see a shaft of ray and creaking sound of the door as it opens, and my uncle walks in his nightshirt with candle in his hand.
He is not that bad looking for someone in his late forty. He is tall and still in good shape despite his thinning and graying hair. His face stern unsmiling as he puts the candle on the table.
He walks on bare feet and I noted his sturdy, rough looking calf.
I never saw my uncle bare feet before.
My heart is beating painfully now. He comes to the bed, the bed creaking under his massive weight. I immediately close my eyes in fear, but he says nothing.
I feel his body covering mine, hovering over me, I sense it. He then gathering my nightgown to my waist, still silent, saying nothing. He is not a man with many word, I know it.
He opens my legs. I feel his hand wandering on my thigh, his touch hot to the skin. His touch is sure and bold.
His hand moves slowly to the apex of my thigh. He cups my flower down there, it is bare, of course, my aunt commanded me to forgo a drawers. His fingers circling there and pinch the pearl of my womanhood. And my eyes fly open, I see my uncle stern eyes look at me hard, his nose flaring and there is feral look that I never saw before, for he is always sweet and kind uncle. But he is anything but sweet now.
Oh, my! I feel the tip of his finger inside me. I feel stretched, little painful and odd. But he keeps his finger busy down there, and then it starts to feel good. I bite my lips to stifle my moan.
His finger still circling me down there and I feel wetness and tingling sensation. He pumps his finger in and out inside me, I feel stretched more. And I hear wet smack down there.
Am I peeing?
His finger is going faster and rougher, opens me wider.
What he is doing down there?
“Uncle…” I whimper.
“Quiet, Girl,” he scolds me like he usually did when I was a little. I bit my lips again, hard, and close my eyes. Let him do whatever he wants, I am sure he knows what he is doing.
Creating a baby, sure is funny thing.
He inserts another finger inside me. It hurts yet feel good too. I hear my uncle breath is ragged now, and he lets out a growling sound. His fingers are still going fast, and I am growing wetter by the minutes.
Oh god, this feels good.
“You’re now ready, Girl,” my uncle says with tight voice, there is no trace of his gentle and sweet self now.
He opens my legs wider. Then, I feel it. It is something that much bigger than his finger. It feels hot. And I feel his hot, harsh breath on my cheek. He seems find difficulty to put it in.
I feel stretched wide, like he is going to rip me apart. I feel sting and burn sensation as the thing inched in.
What is this hot thing? I wonder.
My uncle jerks his hip further, and the thing, his tool, comes inside further. It is hurt so much, and I fight the tears that threatened to spill out.
With hard shove, my uncle bottoms me up, and I scream in pain.
“Quiet, Girl,” he growls and panting harsh, his breath ragged above me. He doesn’t touch me anywhere but down there with his spearing tool.
His hip bucks me, again and again while I howling in pain.
“Easy, easy,” he says as if to himself.
I sob. “It’s hurt, Uncle,” I whimper. But he seems can’t hear me as he keeps hammering. He has savage look in his face, deaf to my plea.
After a while, finally he slows down, and he steeled for a moment. “You’re so bloody tight, Girl,” he pants.
My uncle cursing? I never heard him cursed before.
He moves in and out me again, feeding his tool inside me, slower this time, but as if forgetting himself again, he bucks, bucks, and slams hard in me. I feel so helpless, impaled on his pistoning tool. But instead of pain, I feel pleasure, it spreads slowly inside my belly, my body feels as if it wants to burst. The funny feeling is going stronger as my uncle sawing in and out me fast, and faster.
I am getting wetter, and the smacking sound growing louder, as he goes in and out me, pumping, filling me to the brim. And my hip is bucking in answer, meeting him half way.
He grabs my hip, and anchoring me to the bed, and hammering at my womanhood fast and hard.
His face twisted in silent moan. Then, he slams at me again and again. The funny feeling is spreading fast in my belly. I cry loud and I feel my womanhood clutches hard at his hot, pistoning tool, spasming and milking him.
My uncle roars, and his hip jerks, jerks and jerks. And I feel hot fluid injected inside of me. He is still jerking, once, twice in small little movement, sending more molten lava inside me.
I feel exhausted and spent. My heartbeat is slowing down now. And my uncle too, it seems.
I feel his tool softening inside me but he still keeps it there, inside my warm cave. And he keeps my hip elevated. It is to keep his hot fluid inside, I think. But I can feel it is leaking out. It is just so much, too much to keep inside.
Is it where the baby comes from?
He takes one pillow and puts it below my hip and finally pulls out his tool.
“Keep it that way, Girl,” he says sternly. He has used that tone often enough and I dare not to disobey.
Then, he gets up, leaving my bed; he takes his candle and padding to the door that connecting our rooms.
As I see his nightshirt, it just to his knee, covering his thigh and hi
s big, hard tool. And I wondering what the tool he just put inside of me look like.
Chapter 2
The dinner tonight is like usual. My uncle gave me kiss in the cheek before we begin the dinner like he often did since I was a little. He and my aunt just look like their usual selves.
We don’t entertain many guests here in the country side since we are here for hiding, at least until I give, my uncle and aunt, an heir. My aunt is my mother older sister, and she is on her early forty now, too old to have her own children.
I am fidgeting on my seat because I feel a little sore down there. My uncle just opens me wide and raw with his hot tool. My aunt gives me a stern look. Fidgeting is un-lady and bad manner, I know that.
Especially today, we have guest, a widow, Lady Augusta, and her son, Lord James, a man only few years my elder. He seems nice person but he keeps ogling my breast, and he has feral look about him, just like my uncle face last night.
After the dinner finished, the men go for their port, but shortly they join us to listen I play pianoforte.
And before they go, Lord James promises to visit tomorrow, and I wonder why.
Is he come to court me? I feel giddy at the thought.
***
I lie on my bed again tonight, waiting for my uncle. I put a candle on my table this time.
I hear the door creaking open and my uncle is padding to my bed. He still in his nightshirt, and I am disappointed that I can’t see his big tool again tonight.
I open my legs wide, eager this time, waiting him to mount me. And I feel already wet down there. I guess I really like this baby making business.
My uncle puts himself between my legs. And immediately delve his finger into my wet and hot womanhood.
“You like it, I see,” he says, his face is pulled into a scowl. I wonder why. “Is your aunt never told you that a lady shouldn’t enjoy the bedding?”
I shake my head. “I am sorry, Uncle,” I say meekly. But I can’t help it that I like when my uncle keeps moving his fingers inside and out of me like this, feeding me with his long fingers. And I have to bite my lips to stop my moan.
Aunt Clara only ever told me that a lady shouldn’t let any gentleman to kiss or dance too close. She never told me about how to react when a gentleman or uncle circles my flower down there like now. My uncle moves his fingers faster, pinching and sawing his fingers inside me.
My uncle lifts his nightshirt a little, and finally I see the tool that impaling me last night.
Oh dear god, it is so big.
It must be almost as big as my wrist and long too, about nine inches at least, and its mushroom tip looks litter bigger than the shaft. Now, I know why I feel so sore.
He guides his erect tool on the lips of my petals, rubbing on my lips down there, wetting his tool with my wetness. I feel my body going hot and cold at the same time.
“Arrgh,” he groans. “You’re too tight, Girl,” he says as he feeds his tool inside me inch by inch. And I can’t help but moaning too. And hearing my uncle groans makes me wetter.
His control snaps, he suddenly grabs my hips and slams the remaining of his tool, hard inside me, impaling me and stretching me wide open.
“Uncle, uncle, uncle,” I chant as he bucks, moving in and out fast, and faster.
He is angling my hip, and hammering inside me, faster still. He looks feral and like a man possessed.
He is so rough but I like it. The funny feeling inside my belly grows, and finally it is bursting, my womanhood leaking with my own fluid. It clutches at my uncle hammering tool, contracting again, and again, massaging, milking his tool.
Suddenly, he stops moving; he closes his eyes, his mouth opens in silent moan and he looks pained. I pity my uncle, I want make him feel good too. This must be a hard work for him.
I see him draws a deep breath, and then he starts moving again, slowly now. He puts down my hip, and swaying slowly, in, out, in, out.
He leans down and puts his hands, flanking my head. In, out, in, out as he sways gently.
“Easy, easy, now,” he says to himself.
He impales me, pumping in and out slowly for a long time. Occasionally, he stops when he comes close to erupting.
He pinches his eyes. “Tight, hot, wet, oh god, oh good girl,” he groans often.
Time is ticking, seconds, minutes, almost half an hour maybe. He seems in no hurry, still pistoning, in and out.
“My sweet, beautiful niece, letting her old uncle put a baby in her,” he croons.
Hearing his praise, the funny feeling is coming back in my belly with vengeance. I need to scratch that itch. So, I start to sway, hoping Uncle Jason will go faster.
“Uncle,” I plead and pout my lips like I did when I want a new ribbon or bonnet.
“Hush, Girl,” he says, but he moves a little faster now, in, out, and the smacking sound grows louder. I just so wet down there.
“Do you know how a mother feed a baby?” he asks with dark eyes and pained look in his face.
I shake my head. I don’t care about baby. I only care for his big, hot tool down there. It is impaling and stretching me so good.
“Let me show you,” he says with a growl, and fumbling opening my nightgown with one hand.
When he sees my naked breast, I feel his manhood twitching inside me.
Then, he comes down, licking my right breast, and puts my nipple into his hot mouth, suckling my nipple like a baby.
“Uncle,” I moan.
He suckles me harder, and his hip swaying faster. His balls are smacking my bottom. He is going wild again now, slamming in and out me faster, pounding madly.
Oh, Uncle Jason knows how to pound for sure.
His mouth alternates between my right and left breast. His hip bucks me hard.
“Uncle,” I shout, and shout.
The feeling just too much, and I feel my womanhood become tighter, hotter as it clutches my uncle pistoning tool, and then I burst again. I feel his tool become large, and harder as his hip move erratically, bucking, jerking, short and fast. And soon, he shoots me with his hot fluid, his hip slams, and slams, filling my belly with his essence. I am filled until overflow. And I feel the sticky fluid leaks, pooling on the bed.
Our ragged breaths mingle.
“Good, Girl,” he says between his harsh breaths. I feel his hip jerks a little, once more, flooding me.
He puts a pillow under my bottom again.
“Uncle proud of you,” he says as he pulls out his dwindling manhood ever so slowly. He said this often before when I made an accomplishment. So, I smile wide, beaming at him. I am happy that I can make my uncle proud.
He pets my flowers now with his gentle hand in reverence. It starts to tingle again. I know my uncle loves me so much.
“Uncle will back again tomorrow,” he says and stops petting me.
I feel sore down there but sad for the lost. Despite my exhausted body, I want my uncle to stuff me again. I sigh in disappointment as he walks out, leaving me.
Author’s note: This is first of five books in the series.
Book 2
In My Father’s Arm
Miss Hope Davies
1835, England.
I bring my candle near the painting on the wall. I can see my mother’s signature clearly on the corner.
I fight a sudden urge to cry. After crossing the big ocean from America to London, and then shamelessly inserting myself in Lady Cecilia’s house party, finally, I find him. It must be true that Lord David Lloyd is my real father.
I lean closer, looking at the painting more clearly. Before seeing this, I am not sure if my suspicion is correct. But this painting chases away all my doubt.
This painting looks like the sketch I found inside my mother hidden box, three years ago. In both, he was still young man, handsome with lively auburn hair and sparkling green eyes.
He looks little different from the current Earl of Rossford I know, though.
But it is expected for one to look different when t
hey getting old. The young man in the painting smiles so openly while Rossford, I suspect he never smile. He is stern and forbidding.
I exhale loudly, remembering what his daughter—Lady Cecilia or I should call her my half-sister—said about her father’s unfriendly demeanor. But I am his daughter. I wonder, will he love me if he knows the truth? Will he ask me to live with him here in England?
Honestly, I don’t want to go back to Boston. My mother, my stepfather and little sisters are a picture of happy family there. And I am an odd one among them. I want to belong and loved too.
Before I meet Lord David, I always wondered why my mother left a man she loved back in England, but now, I know that he was already a married man at that time. I surmise he must be different back then, not brooding like nowadays.
A deep voice from the darkness, makes me jump, startled.
“What are you doing here, Miss?” Lord David says, disapproving.
I want to fly to his arm, telling him that I am his daughter. But his dark looks stopping me.
We are standing so close. I can see his handsome face so clearly, noting slight indention in his square chin.
Another discrepancy.
I fight back my tear.
Papa, I want to call him but, “Forgive me, my lord,” I say instead.
He scowls darker. “Things different here, in England, Miss Davies. You should go back to your room, lest people will mistake you for something else,” he scolds me, making me shiver under my sheer nightgown.
“Ummm… ahh… I just miss my father and you look just like him,” I blurt.
“Really?” he asks in disbelieve. Then, his green eyes narrowed. “It’s not a mistake, I see,” he adds.
What mistake?
“Ahhh… yes, that’s it, my lord,” I say, smiling to cover my confusion.
“Well… I can’t have that under my roof,” he says hotly.