In the weeks since her marriage to her beloved Henry Jekyll and her subsequent arrival at 46 Harley St., it had become Emma's custom to await her husband's presence in their shared bedroom before descending together to dinner. What the rest of the household did not know – could never know – was that as the clock struck six each evening, the man who emerged from the laboratory to meet his wife upstairs was not the man she had wed.
Emma no longer dared to say so, of course; as far as Edward Hyde was concerned, he was just as much her husband as the good doctor – and she just as much his wife. He had made that perfectly clear with both words and deeds, threats and cruel injuries from which she still recovered, and which she wished never to endure again.
That first night, their wedding night, when he had revealed himself – told her the truth of Henry's recent absence and the experiment gone so terribly, horribly wrong – she hadn't believed his claims until he struck her. But it wasn't the blow that convinced her. It was his eyes, those dark voids so utterly bereft of humanity, of mercy, of the man to whom she had pledged her body and her life. They had gleamed with carnal intent, remorseless yet somehow morose, as he demanded a husband's privilege.
Through her tears and her terror, she had tried to deny him, but there had been no stopping the monster insistent upon claiming her as his own. She had yielded to his eager hands and mouth as they teased and tasted her lips, her neck, her breasts. The stolen kisses and secret, tender caresses of she and Henry's courtship, promising such joys as this, had ignited in Emma a craving for that body, and with closed eyes and memories of a gentler touch, she imagined the man she had wed in place of the scoundrel who had usurped him.
Before she could even understand the desire surging deep within, his ravenous tongue was between her legs, devouring her sex. A joy unlike anything she'd known had torn cries and sobs of bliss from her throat, and when at last he filled her, the sting of first entry giving way to ecstasy, she had screamed her pleasure long into the night.
Would the man she loved have satisfied her so well? She must think so, but could not know; upon waking, Henry had recoiled in horror, distraught, and had since refused her company. Every morning, despite the eager arousal pressed against her back, her husband absconded from their bed in haste, staying just long enough to assure himself of her safety – or, upon finding her injured, tended to her with tears and apologies that could not begin to sooth her loss. Only his love could do that – and it was denied to her.
The man with whom she had first shared her marriage bed had taken everything: her innocence, her husband, her happiness. He would never have her heart.
The clock chimed upon the fireplace mantle, foretelling Edward's imminent arrival, and Emma contemplated the bottle of fine liquor he kept there, wondering if it might steady her nerves. More likely, it would only prove a mark against her; how dare she drink without him? Instead, she turned to the window, her last moments of solitude spent watching the firelight dance upon the glass.
She needn't wait long. It was only minutes before the sound of footsteps approached behind her, softened by the lush carpet, and a second reflection appeared over her shoulder. The cold of encroaching winter and the heat of the fire had clouded the windowpane with condensation, a fog through which Emma could only scarcely make out the man at her back. His long dark hair was mussed, stray locks casting shadows over his eyes. A strong hand rose to brush her cheek, warm, so gentle, and a flicker of desire kindled within her. She almost dared hope…
"Who is it?" she asked, leaning into the touch.
"Who do you want it to be?"
His tone was neutral; were it not for the mocking nature of the question, she couldn't have said which of them had asked it. Her Henry would not have made such a query without the sorrow and doubt that so plagued him – alongside the fear she might, in secret, prefer his darker half. The answer her true husband refused to demand of her, she would readily have given: she loved him. Henry. Always him, and no other. Not even the man who at that very moment held her body captive as surely as her husband's own.
"Does it matter?"
"No. But I have to wonder why you asked," Edward said, his voice resonating now with that unmistakable dark timbre. "Was it to spare your dear Henry from hearing my name upon your lips – or did you simply wish to know which name to scream?"
A heated kiss to her neck assured her a promise, not a threat, had been made. He knew very well how Henry neglected her. Still, it would be unwise to rise to Edward's taunt. She would never cry his name in pleasure – the household would at once presume a humiliating circumstance upon hearing of Henry's "colleague" in their bedroom, if they did not suspect her of adultery outright – and he must know that as well.
She could not, however, say the same of pain; if she should be made to beg for the avoidance of violence again, her tongue would not know caution in naming her tormentor. The revelation of Edward's identity to their servants was almost guaranteed, along with the carnage that would result. It was bad enough she need endure this. She would not have innocent blood on her hands as well.
"Will an honest answer bring me pain?" she asked, almost a whisper, and steeled herself against a cold shiver of fear in anticipation of his cruel answer.
"Not as much as a dishonest one," he replied, tracing her jaw with teasing fingertips. "Or silence."
The warmth of his caress did little to soften the chill his words sent through her racing heart, and the heavy fog of terror crept ever closer, counting down to her ruin with each tick of the nearby clock.
"I wanted to know if I should fear the man behind me." She drew a shallow breath, praying she had not unwittingly invited him to respond with reason for her to do so, and quickly added, "You have already answered that question."
The reflection grinned, his voice somehow darker for his cold smile. "And are you afraid?"
"Yes. Terribly." Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes, a slight waver in her voice turning quickly to panic. "Please, don't hurt me tonight."
"That depends upon what you are."
Emma met his gaze in the glass. "What I am…?"
"Are you my wife?" he asked, sliding a finger down into the cleavage of her bodice. "Or are you my whore?"
Her breasts heaved against their confinement, nipples hardening at his touch. Not even the insult of his question could quell her body's response to his seduction – and therein lay the answer. Was she not both? She was a whore, but it was her husband's body with which she lay, and it was to him alone that her love belonged. She was a wife, but her husband was gone, somewhere within the black depths so coldly focused on her reflection, asleep or else trapped in a waking nightmare.
Henry had described to her a nothingness, with only the occasional fleeting image of his time spent dormant in his own mind, like trying to recall a fading dream. Did he ever see them together – the cruelty of Edward's demands, her own disgraceful submission, their rapturous joining? She had never dared to ask.
"I am your wife," she replied, "and you have vowed to cherish me."
A low growl rumbled in her ear, shocks of fright tingling down her body. "I will cherish when you obey."
"But I have—"
His hand held fast to her throat in warning, firm but not yet painful. She swallowed against his palm, her measured breaths escaping in unsteady sighs from her lips. When he said nothing, waiting for a plea or an apology, she spoke.
"Promise you won't hurt me, and I will obey."
Even to insist upon an assurance was a risk, for a demand on her part had often led to threats of pain far worse than that which she wished to avoid, but should he relent, there was some safety; despite his cruelty, he could always be taken at his word.
"Very well." His hold loosened, fingers tracing her neck once more in an idle caress. "Obey me, and I promise no harm will come to you."
Emma nodded, and he turned her head toward him, his dark gaze meeting hers with erotic intent. "Are you willing?"
No. She was compliant, even complicit when passion moved her to seek satisfaction, but she would never be willing. That implied her body was freely given, and a choice between pain and pleasure was no choice at all. Nor was there any agency in her answer; she would give the response he wished to hear, for it was the only one that would save her from his wrath. It was the one lie with which he found no fault.
"Yes," she whispered, tilting her chin up, and pressed her lips to his.
He returned her kiss with a ferocious hunger, both frightening and exhilarating as he made love to her mouth, each stroke of his tongue recalling the wild thrusts that sent her careening into bliss. She began to turn, longing for his embrace, only to be stopped by his grip upon her waist.
"Stay where you are, my love," he said, and she looked back to their reflections as his hand strayed downward.
He cupped her sex, his palm pressed hard against the sensitive bud at its crest, separated from his touch by mere layers of soft satin and delicate skin. A shiver of lust weakened her knees, and she melted back into his chest. Why would he tease her this way, when nothing more could be done until she'd been disrobed?
Then his hand began to move, stroking the aching nub in circles, and a blissful pressure built between her thighs. Heat streaked through her body, less intense than the skillful manipulation of his fingers or tongue, yet just as pleasurable. She moaned, yearning to be bare beneath him, and when his fervent kisses descended upon her neck, a desperate plea sounded from her parted lips.
"Is your cunt wet?" he demanded.
She winced at the foul word, only nodding as desire dripped hot from her entrance. At her encouragement, he deepened her torment, rubbing harder, faster, until she felt she might cry with the need for release – indeed, may even reach it with just a little more—
He denied her, abandoning this sweet torture to urge her closer to the window. His fingers threaded through her loosely bound-up hair, pushing her head forward until she bent and braced her hands against the windowsill. Emma peered outside, watching passersby and carriages below. Dusk had fallen; they must be cast in silhouette by the firelight, visible to all those in the street beneath them. Behind her, Edward unbuttoned his trousers. Did he really mean to—?
"Should we not wait until after dinner?" she asked.
"At the moment," he said, scraping his teeth along her earlobe, "I am most hungry for you."
A blush reddened her cheeks. No. No, they shouldn't be doing this – anyone might see their writhing forms, bearing witness to her shame.
"No. Not here," she whispered. "Please…"
"Obey."
Just that one word, and Emma quieted. She bit her lip in a rush of embarrassment, another refusal on her tongue, but she dared not voice it.
She watched his reflection gather her skirts and petticoat over her hips. Her informal evening housedress had no bustle or crinoline, only pantaloons remaining between them, the linen over her sex soaked through with her desire. As he yanked the last barrier down, his rigid manhood thrust hot and hard against her backside, and a helpless cry of lust rasped from her throat.
The wetness his teasing had wrought became a torrent, dripping down her thighs. They spread wider to bare her eager sex to him, and she whimpered as the smooth head thrust into her trembling folds.
Oh, how he filled her. The long, thick instrument of her pleasure drove slow and hard, his girth stroking her aching passage so thoroughly a new spasm of bliss seized her with every breath. The greatest pleasure lay in the deepest place within her, and when at last he hit the very end of her sex, Emma cried out in joy.
His dark laugh echoed behind her. He took a fistful of her hair and pulled, making her arch her back as he bent and whispered in her ear.
"Your cunt belongs to me, wife." When she only moaned, too lost in sensation to speak, he rammed into her hard, forcing a cry of bliss from her enraptured body. "Isn't that so?"
"Yes!"
His reflection smiled with gritted teeth, releasing her hair to grasp her hips, and pulled back. Emma screamed as he impaled her sex completely, the thick head of his manhood hitting that sweetest, deepest place.
"Who owns your cunt?" he demanded.
"You," she sobbed, tears welling up in her eyes; whether they were from pleasure or shame, she could not tell.
"Call me by name." He took her with a brutal passion, pounding so furiously that the sound of their bodies crashing echoed along with her whimpers. "Tell me. Tell me who owns your cunt!"
"You own m-my…" she stuttered, more out of bliss than humiliation, "my cunt, Edward!"
No sooner had she cried his name than the ecstasy she had begged for seized her entirely. Lust spilled from her quivering sex with every shudder of release, as it often did in this position, gushing hot and wet at each deep thrust, and Emma screamed in joy.
"Yes, my love. Scream for me," he said, leaning down to growl in her ear. "Scream my name!"
The pleasure didn't relent, and neither did her cries; as a second, even more intense orgasm sent her into pure delirium, she obeyed.
"Edward!"
Her voice soared with rapturous abandon, and his own pleasure followed, his bellowing shouts matching hers. At last, their pleasure reached its peak, and Emma wept as it faded into convulsions of bliss, until all sensation had ceased. Her limbs ached and grew weak, her bound chest heaving with shuddering breaths. The window had clouded completely with the heat of their passion, and Emma realized it had been so for many minutes now; perhaps they had not been seen.
Better still that they had not been heard. Their home, though luxurious, was not as large as the grand manor she had known in recent years, nor the walls of solid stone like the family estate, but the name must have been muffled both by her soprano pitch and the oaken doors. Long moments passed with only their ragged breaths to be heard, no hurried footsteps upon the stair or calls of concern in the hall. Perhaps she had been drowned out by Edward's own shouts of pleasure. She could only pray it was so.
Still impaled upon him, Emma reveled in his embrace. She relaxed as his lips brushed the nape of her neck, and bared her throat for the possessive kisses that so often accompanied the aftermath of their lovemaking. Instead, a low, menacing growl rumbled in her ear.
"It's a shame that you disobeyed me."
Her still-racing heart skipped a beat. "Disobeyed you? When?"
"You said 'No' to me, Emma."
His voice bore the tone of a final judgement, not a mere warning. Had so meek and careless a protest endangered her?
"I only meant to ask that we—"
"You refused."
"I relented," she said, too harshly, and her voice shook as she tried to appease him. "Please, Edward, be charitable toward your wife."
Withdrawing from her, he buttoned his trousers. The sudden emptiness left her cold, and not only from his absence; no longer joined, the thought of what he might do sent chills of fear down her spine.
"A wife shows her husband love and devotion," he said, and set his hands upon the window frame on either side of her. There would be no escape. "Tonight, you were my whore."
He had not said which woman was more likely to suffer his wrath, but if a whore was what he claimed Emma to be in his anger, it was the wife he had hoped for that she must play.
"If it is my love you desire, you will only win it with kindness."
It was meant to be a plea; as the words left her lips, they became a bitter reprimand, and she cursed herself for not holding her tongue.
"Your love will be mine in due time. For now, your obedience will suffice." He gripped her jaw, forcing her to look into his merciless eyes. "And it is won with pain."
"You promised you wouldn't hurt me!" she replied, beginning to sob.
"Only if you obeyed. You should not have defied me."
He had made up his mind; arguing would be fruitless, and dangerous besides. There was nothing more to do but persuade him to have mercy. As he pushed away from the window to begin whatever tortures awaited her, she turned and fell to her knees.
"I'm sorry. Please, Edward." She moved to take his hand, but it had already risen beyond her reach, poised to strike. "Please forgive me."
His fingers took her chin in a bruising grip, and she waited for a demand to be made, offering a chance at redemption in exchange for some sordid act. Instead, he only looked deep into her eyes; there, she found nothing but cruelty.
"No."
In one swift motion, he dragged her to her feet, sat upon the bed, and bent her over his knees. She dared not struggle as he snatched up her skirts, her pantaloons still low about her thighs and her buttocks bared for his punishment. Emma trembled in fearful anticipation of the first blow, wiping away her tears upon her useless satin sleeve.
"Please," she whimpered, peering up at him in a last, desperate attempt to still his hand. "I'm sorry."
His fingers entwined in her hair, but did not pull, and his dark eyes considered her for a long moment – almost enough to give her hope.
"Please, Edward," she begged once more, searching for any trace of her beloved within the monster staring back.
After what seemed an eternity, his hand cupped her face. "I will spare you the pain, on one condition."
"Yes," she whimpered. "Anything."
He smiled a victor's smile, savouring his triumph as he lay his hand upon one rounded cheek, still warm and tender from the wild crash of their bodies.
"The next time I bend you over, I'm going to stretch every one of your holes wide open." His fingers slid into her dripping folds and thrust slow, finding the spot that drove her to madness, and she clung to the pleasure with a moan. "Every. Last. One."
He withdrew, leisurely dragging their hot lust up toward her buttocks – and over the small, sensitive hole between them. A strange shiver seized her body, tensing every muscle and stealing her breath. She bit her lip to stop herself from protesting at once. What was this? Fear, certainly, and surprise, but something else as well. A delicious ache pulled from within, so deep she could not know its origin: her eager sex, or this new, forbidden place?
His thumb caressed the tiny opening in circles, and it quivered in delight, as if to draw him in.
"Yes. Open for me, my love."
He entered her slowly, sinking all the way down to his knuckle. A finger slid into her sex, stroking just where she needed it, and when a third began to pleasure her swollen peak, a sweet pressure built around his thumb.
"Edward," she moaned.
"Do you want more?"
The twin pleasures of his fingers overwhelmed her, so close to climax she could scream.
"Yes!"
"Good," he said, grinning. "Because tonight, you're going to take all of me."
She grasped for a place to anchor herself against the impending bliss, and as she clutched the side of his thigh, her sleeve brushed the massive erection straining beneath his trousers. The proud manhood fully matched her forearm's length, and was thicker besides; even aroused to the point of desperation, her sex could barely accommodate him. How could he mean to…?
Emma gasped at a sudden shock of joy, not from within her sex, but where his thumb thrust slow and searching inside her. This was a new pleasure, strange and wonderful. Another stroke, and she was undone, keening his name on the very edge of bliss.
"Do you want me to make you scream again?" he taunted.
"Yes!"
She arched, readying herself – and right on the brink of her release, he withdrew. Emma whimpered in protest.
"Please finish it, Edward. Please!"
"This is your punishment, Emma," he said, and she cried out in pain and pleasure both as he dealt her buttocks a blow that sent fiery shivers of bliss through her core; had the strike been any harder, she may have reached fulfilment from that alone. "You will not know satisfaction until I have claimed you entirely."
A second slap rained down upon her other cheek, and with the promise of pleasure gone, the force of it scalded her like a flame.
"Please stop!" she sobbed. "You promised me no pain."
"So I did." His warm fingers stroked the reddened flesh, soothing the lingering sting. He pulled her up onto his lap for a slow, deep kiss before guiding her hand to his throbbing arousal. "On your knees."
She obeyed, trembling as he unbuttoned his trousers once more, the thick length smooth and hard as sculpted marble, yet warm and silken to the touch. He swept her hair back in his hands and urged her closer, and she caught the intoxicating scent of her own desire as she drew nearer to the crimson head still slick with her lust.
This was an act she always dreaded. The taste of him was not entirely unpleasant, but the thick invasion of her mouth was too much, far too much. Her lips drew him in with difficulty, stretched tight over his tip until her tongue found the ridge, and with a rumbling moan, he plunged deeper. Tears welled up in her eyes as he hit the back of her mouth and pushed forward, thrusting deep into her throat.
She gagged upon him, her body's painful attempt to rid itself of him only adding to his pleasure. There was none in this for herself; it was, at times, almost unbearable. She could not draw enough breath through her nose, and dizziness set in, clouding her view of his enraptured face as his climax approached.
With a shout, he yanked her head back and pulled out to take himself into his hand, furiously stroking his shaft. Emma closed her eyes as he roared, spurting great torrents of his seed hot and thick upon her face. When his groans of satisfaction faded, she looked to him, and though she had long since denied him her humiliation in this filthy act, tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Well done, my love," he said, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her. "But I have much left to teach you."
Emma made no reply, wiping herself clean with the soft cloth embroidered with her true husband's initials, and gazed up when she had finished, unable to help admiring the seductive body before her. Even newly spent, his manhood remained erect and massive, and she moaned as an involuntary rush of lust dripped from her sex.
Edward laughed; she had been caught staring. He wrapped his hand around his generous girth and thrust long and hard into his fist, as if filling her deep. "Is this what you want?"
"Yes." Her body trembled in need, almost angry that such passion had gone to waste. If only he had taken her again and ended this torturous ache…
But what of his demand? Could a woman even beget a child in that way? If not, was to partake in it a sin? The pleasure of his intimate caresses she could readily accept, for it made the act of lovemaking so much sweeter, but this?
Even so, she fell eagerly into his arms as he pulled her up and backed her into a bedpost, hiking up her skirts. She quivered with lust at the stroke of his fingers teasing her slick nub, then plunging deep into her sex. When he hit the spot that wrenched a desperate cry of pleasure from her lips, he withdrew, stroking the other, more delicate opening. Slowly, he thrust inside, his entry eased by her hot lust, and found again that most pleasurable spot.
"Edward," she whispered, gasping.
"More?"
"Yes. Please. Please."
He took her lips in a wild, passionate kiss as he denied her the ecstasy of climax, prolonging her pleasure by alternating the skillful teasing of both aching, eager holes. She moaned and whimpered into his mouth, begging for release. His fingers plunged deep inside that forbidden place, and when at last he curved them into the spot she craved most, she braced herself for what would surely be the most joyful—
"I told you this was your punishment," he said, breaking their kiss, and his fingers stilled inside her. "No release until I've stretched this hole wide open. And you're ready, aren't you, my love?"
"Yes." She clenched around him despite her fear of his anger, desperate for the pleasure she'd been denied. His fingertips pulsed, intense shocks of pure bliss racing through her body as she begged for more. "Please, Edward. Now. Please. Take me. Take me!"
Then his dangerous eyes looked deep into hers, and he smiled, watching her arch and writhe against him.
"No."
He withdrew one final time, parting from her without so much as another word, and she wept, falling to her knees. The ache within her turned from a sweet yearning into the pain of overstimulation. Oh, how she had been used. She could not decide which was crueler of him – to have forced such exquisite pleasure from her that first night, or to deny it now.
Behind her, she heard him wash his hands in the vanity basin; in the window, she watched his reflection run a comb through his hair and select a house coat from the wardrobe. As he donned it, the clock upon the mantle chimed, announcing seven o'clock.
"Come, my love. It's time for dinner."
Clearing away her tears as best she could, Emma adjusted her pantaloons and skirts and stood, Henry's soiled handkerchief falling to the floor. Her eyes shone with desire as she accepted Edward's waiting arm, eager to descend – for when they retired to bed, the pleasure he promised would, at last, be hers.
She would always be Henry Jekyll's wife, but until the day her husband returned to her bed, she would remain Edward Hyde's whore.