YMCB is my first WIP in GWTW and my ultimate goal for this fic is to NOT SANITIZE Rhett nor Scarlett. Margaret Mitchell's characterizations were nothing short of brilliant. Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara were so very complex, so very flawed and God's Nightgown! I am just foolish enough to take on the daunting task of writing a GWTW fan fic.

YMCB is rated M for sex, violence and sexual violence (nothing explicit).

And on that note, if you wish to read the Prologue but prefer to skip over M-rated content, please scroll down to the first line break.

(I know.I know.I know.I know... what a way to start a story! *blush* But sometimes it is best to jump right in and see if you sink or swim. Hopefully, we'll still meet at the bottom of the screen.)

Disclaimers:

•I need to reiterate that my goal at the onset of YMCB was to not sanitize Rhett nor Scarlett which invariably means that YMCB will not be everyone's cup of tea. I appreciate readers that are still willing to give YMCB a try, but I understand if you do not continue on with the story. Cheers.

•Like all authors, I LOVE comments and feedback that are constructive and useful. If the intended comment is meant to inflame, then it will be deleted. Sorry guys, no trolls on the YMCB board.

•I do not own nor profit from Margaret Mitchell's beautiful characters. In accordance with producing a transformative work, the source copyrighted elements derived from Gone With The Wind have been removed and Your Mistress, Captain B- has been submitted to the US Copyright Office for copyright protection, thereby the author retains all rights to the original creative work of this story.


Your Mistress, Captain Butler

Prologue

The Deep South

Reconstruction, 1875

"I shall finish my drink and come to your chamber directly."

Perched in front of her European Chinoiserie vanity, her fingers danced across the gleaming lacquer, validating her belief that all of the personal sacrifices were minuscule when one was afforded such exquisiteness. Tossing her curls over her shoulder, she broke from her pragmatic musings and dedicated her attention to the task before her. Her abigail divested her of the Polonaise basque, corset and undergarments. A tingle lingered on her skin, welcoming the scandalous recollection of the peignoir's lustrous silk slipping over her shoulders and shimmying down her curves. Nimble fingers dislodged the garnet hair pins, one clink on top of another as each dropped into the porcelain dish. The reflection in the mirror was a reminder of her sole offering. Many a man dreamt of finding solace from her, drowning within the depths of her beauty, her eyes, her body. She drew in a deep breath.

"I shall finish my drink and come to your chamber directly." He had dismissed her with a sideways glance, speaking over the rim of his crystal tumbler as she happened upon him in the parlor. His cool deportment and abrupt words taunted her still.

The bristles of the silver-plated brush dragged down her curls and she closed her mind off to any further thoughts. With her nightly toilette complete, she placed the brush in its habitual resting place on the dressing table. Buried within the left drawer, second from the bottom, she retrieved a small bottle of floral extracts. In its current state, the cloying scent of tuberose and yling ylang assaulted the senses, but it would have to do. Shifting her hips forward to the edge of the stool, she spread her knees and raised a shapely calf. Bracing her leg upon the inlaid Mother of Pearl edging, her filmy negligee slithered down her leg and pooled in the recess of her lap.

Her first two digits closed off the opening as her wrist tipped the bottle of oil, coating the pads of her fingers. Using her free hand she reached down between her thighs, skimming her nails across her mound of silken curls. She slipped her middle finger in the crease of her sex followed by her forefinger, gently spreading her folds apart and distributing the scented oil. Deftly rubbing the liquid up and down her slit, she circled her bundle of nerves, slowly awakening the center of her desire. Her strokes were tentative and hopeful -hopeful that his expert touch would stoke her burgeoning need. Would he touch her? ...tease her? ...penetrate her? His earlier demeanor, lacking in its usual carnal appetence, confounded more than enlightened.

Her eye lids grew heavy and her head drifted back on her shoulders as her tender flesh began to weep and throb under her ministrations. She relaxed her posture and drew one hand up her torso, palming a breast. A moan escaped her lips as she pinched and rolled her nipple between her finger and thumb. Her strokes became faster, her breathing became harder, her fingers became slicker...

...until the door closed with a 'snick'.

The conspicuous foot resting on the vanity hit the floor with a thud. She dropped her lashes, hiding her gaze, daring not to acknowledge his presence in the wake of her shocking attitude. With silence accompanying his footfalls, the aroma of tobacco was her only indication that he had closed the gap between them and stood directly behind her. Her peripheral vision locked in on the umber liquid sloshing out from the glass that he had lobbed across the dressing table. The upset caused by the distilled spirits oozing across her most cherished possession was punctuated by a tin of preventatives skipping across the veneer and landing in the expanding puddle of bourbon.

The handkerchief she hastily retrieved to mop up the spill fell from her grasp. In one fluid movement, his hand snaked around her waist, lifting her off of the stool and dragging her behind it. She pivoted on her heel and wrapped her arms around his neck. Grabbing both of her wrists, he dislodged himself from her embrace and spun her back around, pressing his loins into her posterior. He clutched her hips and held her in place while grinding his pelvis into the cleft of her buttocks, ensuring that she felt every inch of his arousal. Taking a half-step away from her body, he splayed his hand across her back and bent her forward over the bench until her forehead was resting on the cushion's burgundy velvet.

She twisted her neck, guiding her sight toward his likeness projecting from the full-length mirror across the room. He flaunted propriety coming to her wearing neither a jacket nor a waistcoat. His shirt, untucked and unbuttoned from cravat to breeches, hung recklessly from his broad shoulders, exposing the dark and wiry hair spread across his massive chest. His hair was slightly mussed and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. Even in such an unprecedented state of dishabille, no other man wore detachment with such elegance.

She mewled, suppressing a shiver racing up her body in conjunction with his large hand lifting a fistful of her gown up and over her hips, gathering the material in the small of her back.

Not a word was spoken but understanding did not escape her. Although the angle and positioning of her body obscured the view, she could clearly see that a seduction was not to commence when his arm disappeared behind her. All she heard was the rustling of his clothing and the blood pounding in her ears. All she felt was his deep exhalations against her hips and her flesh thickening between her legs. All she saw was his wrist fumbling with the buttons on the fall of his trousers.

And then his arm began a rhythmic motion, languidly pumping his fist up and down. And then she felt moisture dripping from her core and trickling down her leg. And then stillness. And then silence. And then nothing. There was nothing but the distinct sound of crackling as he unfurled the rubber down the length of his thick shaft.

He stepped up to the warmth radiating out from her mound of pliable flesh and dampened curls. Holding his erection in one hand, he took his other hand and sliced his finger down the seam of her secret lips. She clenched her walls around the digit that he slid up and inside her. He gifted her with a fleeting swipe of his finger over her erogenous ledge before slowly pulling out, chuckling at her wanton hips shamelessly undulating in the air. He glanced at his hand, saturated with the pungent eau de toilette and her fluids.

"Good girl," he growled with approval, slapping her voluptuous bottom with an open hand, leaving a blushing imprint on her lily-white skin. In her quivering eagerness, she bucked against him but he held her waist with one hand, quelling her advance. Bending his knees, his other hand pressed his cock at her entrance and rimmed her opening with its engorged head. His muscles tightened and his features contorted for the barest moment. He flared his nostrils and in one swift thrust, buried himself to the hilt. She sucked in her breath. Her arms flailed from the impact, forcing her to catch herself on the edge of the seat to regain her purchase. She felt the cool air nip at her sheath, unabashedly yielding to him, as he pulled himself from her depths and slammed into her once more. Biting down on her lip, she tasted blood as his blows and her heartbeat simultaneously picked up their pace. She claimed herself to be as dispassionate as he, but her overstimulated body belied her, savoring the sounds of his fine woolen trousers pounding out a muffled rhythm against her exposed sex in harmony with her wet and greedy cunnus suckling his member.

The room dimmed and the walls encroached upon them as he consummated their arrangement, one that was as ancient as the Old Testament, her flesh for his pleasure and yet on that sweltering summer's eve, he took none. His empty gaze focused on a remote corner of the candle-lit room and his unyielding expression remained as cold as stone.

Never one to dwell on introspection, something deep within her acknowledged the profundity of the occasion. Their days and nights of a mutually sensual pursuit were no more, melting away like the last snowfall in spring. Before her was a future that no longer held the promise of playing, exciting, tasting, and exploring. His lone desire was to fall into a brief emptiness found only from a physical release.

But she wouldn't think about that now.

She moaned and arched her back, vaulting her hips into his loins, meeting each thrust with vigor. Her exuberant grinding succeeded in bringing his lifeless eyes back to the moment. He grabbed a fistful of her fleshy rump, halting her quim pistoning against him. Wrapping his other hand around the base of his shaft, he pulled out his glistening cock. His opened shirt draped the expanse of her back as he leaned over and hovered near her ear. A chill seeped into the room and down to her bones when his Low Country drawl demanded through gritted teeth still clenching the tip of a smoldering cheroot, "Spread your legs. I want to go deeper."

A tickling sensation of no more than a feather heightened her senses. Her eyes darted toward his face and discovered that flecks of charcoal and silver ash were peppering down her cheek and landing on her exotic furniture. Shifting her gaze back to the mirror, she screwed her eyes shut and shifted her feet. He lowered his hands and placed them on her backside, nudging her cheeks further apart, and holding her gaping folds open until she was taut with tension. She exhaled a low grunt as he drilled into her once more, driving her chin deeper into the soft cushion.

The musky smell of sexual congress that permeated the air, of which never failed to titillate her, was masked by an amalgam of cigar smoke, whiskey, and repugnance. His unique scent of liquor, tobacco, cologne, and leather defined him as a gentleman, polishing his exterior with gentility while cloaking the predatory beast lurking deep within. Their combined essence had always made her heady. But as he was seated within the confines of her body, she did not shudder with delight, rather she shrugged her nose.

He was a man who once reeked of sexuality and sin, but in the cloistered chamber, defined by their gyrating bodies secreting sweat and burdens, the stranger in the mirror merely reeked of drink.

And yet she was desperate to remove her hand and wrap it around his base and fondle his sensitive spot or to find her clit and heighten her own pleasure, for he offered none.

Her soft flesh absorbed his cock, hot and throbbing, against her thrumming walls. She felt the stirrings of her release build within her. The liquid, burning sensation pulsed within her wet core, spreading to her fingers and toes. Her buttocks rocked back and forth against his erection, matching his every pounding with her own pushes. The stool creaked on the woolen carpet in time with his grunts. Leaning on her forearm, she lifted her torso and raised her upper body off of the seat. Her negligee slipped further until it hung loosely around her neck. Raw and aroused, her nipples occasionally scraped across the bench as her full and heavy breasts circled and swayed, slapping against each other.

Her lips emitted lusty cries, deep moans and an occasional whimper. Venturing another glance toward the looking glass, she found their reflection. Beads of sweat marked his forehead and his expressionless mask had melted away. The pressure of his white knuckles, gripping her waist and dimpling her skin, intensified. His eyelids were clenched together and his mouth held on tight to a bared-teeth grimace and that goddamned cigar. Answering her silent plea, he caught her stare in the mirror and their eyes locked.

Another resounding crack upon her porcelain skin broke the humid air.

"Close your eyes, darling."


The Deep South

Nine Months Later

Fighting against the bright spots of light swimming over her head, she cried out from the searing pain that bore into her flesh. She squinted her eyes, peering through slits. Flashes of color, white hot and frigid blue, marred her vision. Nothing came in to focus. Nothing was familiar. Her eyelids, too heavy with fear to beckon for help, drifted shut again.

Another fleeting break in her unconscious state assaulted her. Her eyes flew open again. "NO!" She wailed thrashing her legs, kicking at the indiscriminate beast hellbent on subjugating her. Shapes and surfaces blurred. Her eyes saw only gray. Her ears only heard distant murmuring. Pounding footsteps. Scraping wood. Bustling bodies. Keening women. Wailing children. Voices babbled in foreign tongues. Praying men. But why?

She wrenched her head to the side pressing her cheek against the boards of pine, realizing that her body laid upon a bare floor. But where? Lifting a leaden hand, she curled her fingers around her neck. She could not swallow past the constriction in her throat. Her eyes widened as she felt her neck muscles reflex and her body began choking itself. She gasped for air and flailed about until a gentle arm reached around her back and lifted her head. The gentle arm offered her salvation in a glass of water. Cries of exultation interspersed with cries of anguish erupted around her. More pain was inflicted upon her at the hands of the relentless and pitiless Almighty Devil himself.

Bodies of all different forms and statures floated near the edge of her consciousness. The gentle arm laid a thick cloth on the floor so that she could lie back and rest her head. Her hand fell to her breasts swathed in an unfamiliar cloth, neither silk, nor organza, nor linen, -but cotton. A shroud of simple cotton. Muzzy images only brought forth hazy recollections. But why?

Her hand gripped the sheet as she lifted the edge and drew up her head to peer down at her body. Unraveled stitching and torn buttons adorned the remnants of the tattered periwinkle silk. Spotted linens hung limp from her unclothed body. Her eyes crept down her ivory skin and saw only a fury of red markings, red streaks. . . and a red hand print. Her insides burned. Her head throbbed. Her lungs stung. No longer able to support herself, her neck collapsed and her eyes rolled up towards the heavens. Her cheek fell back to the cloth.

More crying. Screeching. Praying.

The gentle arm attempted to ensnare a delicate hand frantically grasping for her. The scratchy lids of her eyes fluttered. Would that the gentle arm provide her with just one more drop of water. Forcing her neck to raise its burden, she shifted her head to the side of the soft cloth only to feel stickiness, in the color of red, filling the cloth and adhering to her hair and face. Another flash pain wracked her body, bearing chills and nausea. Her empty stomach convulsed and she heaved up traces of bile. Relief pooled out through every pore of her shaking body as she collapsed for the final time.

Clinging to the remnants of lucidity, she cowered at a piercing shriek that accompanied the delicate hand desperately clawing at her sheet and her person. Time and suffering were suspended. Drifting away from awareness, she lost her resolve as she found her voice.

"Dear God, please take me."


© 2017-18 Olivia E. Landry. All Rights Reserved.