Obedient: Submissive or Beguiled: Brighid, #1

By A.G. Ryde

An orphan passed around kin with doubtful motives and provenance. Brighid was neither innocent nor worldly. Yet when she crossed the entrance of the house on St. Stephen's Green, she had no comprehension of the direction her future would take.
Brighid craved her Dàibhidh's touch and approval. Thus, she was willing to submit and forgive without boundaries or conditions. Dàibhidh needed a young woman's obedience and worship to fill the void in his life. 
Who had the greater need? Brighid knew no answer made sense.

Obedient: Submissive or Beguiled? is set primarily in Dublin, Ireland, during the Regency Period—a time of social and economic upheaval. The Napoleonic Wars had ended, and the Puritanical Victorian Era beckoned.
 

Obedient: Submissive or Beguiled is recommended for mature (18+) readers. This book contains graphic sexual scenes, non-consensual penetration, violence, kink and taboo content, and hard and rough kink depictions. This book is strictly fictional and is not meant to represent realistic expectations of BDSM or kink.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A Wee Publishing Company, LLC
• Release date: Oct 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986575643

Book preview

Chapter One

WESTPORT, CO. MAYO, IRELAND―1816―EASTER

Between men and women, there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.

― Oscar Wilde

Brighid Connolly was an orphan. Her father, a soldier of middle rank, met his death in the wars with the French Emperor, Napoléon Bonaparte. Her mother, unable to accept the loss, faded and passed away a few years later.

So far, Brighid’s life had been a series of stopovers with well-meaning but increasingly distant relatives. Her life was a constant parade of aunts, uncles, and cousins, many with doubtful provenance. There was no place Brighid could honestly call home.

A young woman approaching the age of consent, Brighid, had a body ripe with promise. She was of average height and slightly overweight. Her hair was a lustrous auburn, much redder than brown. When not pinned to the top of her head in one of the impossible but currently fashionable styles, it fell lovingly to brush against the tantalising separation between her ample, arse cheeks.

Brighid loved to touch herself. However, being the product of a conservative Catholic upbringing, this engendered guilt and pleasure in equal measures. She boarded at a convent school where the Mother Superior took a proactive approach to discourage sex. Regardless of blame, overzealous nuns caned all, enjoying a perverse, sadistic, and likely carnal pleasure.

Hence Brighid’s frequent masturbating was rewarded with numerous welts on her bare arse. Still, as evidenced by the gasps of orgasmic pleasure and the scent of adolescent cunt in the dormitory at night, the punishment regime did not appear to deter many. That said, the association of pain with desire followed many into their future lives.

On this wet Friday afternoon in March, Brighid had a few hours before dinner and an evening of boredom. She examined her naked reflection critically in the Cheval mirror. Brighid was neither fat nor slim. Her body flowed with soft curves that men often desire and wish to possess. Her skin was porcelain pale and mostly unblemished.

The young woman was incredibly proud of her full, round breasts—a legacy from her mother. Her youth kept them high and firm. Thick nipples, which a thumb-sized thimble would barely contain, were perfectly positioned above the under-curve of her tits.

They were the centrepieces of dark areolae that one of her aunt’s China teacups would scarcely cover. Blue veins flowed like river tributaries from her nipples to the furthest reaches of her breasts. They throbbed when Brighid was aroused.

Brighid experienced puberty at ten years of age. Her distaste for dealing with her body’s messy blood flow was compensated by the attention her growing breasts brought. Her tits, she had always enjoyed the crudeness of the term, developed fast. At the merest thought of impropriety or when her pimply-faced cousins shouted, Show us your tits, Brighid! her nipples responded.

She rarely disappointed as it was not Brighid’s nature to be a tease. Her pulse would race as she exposed her tits and watched young cocks stroked. If they were lucky, and most times they were, she would wank and suck them. Unable to control their ardour, some soaked her face and breasts in cum. Brighid did not mind. The smell and taste of cum made her juices flow down her thighs.

Today, the young woman frowned at her pale belly in the long mirror. I’m becoming fat. The soft curvature of her tummy gave way to a lush sward of auburn-red hair that rested above and embraced her cunt. The pink, fleshy frills of her inner lips protruded well beyond the long slit of her pit. They were rose petals, deserving to be smelled, licked, and devoured. Her pussy was invariably moist and an irresistible temptation for her fingers.

Brighid sighed. I’m sure to go to Hell. Then she pulled and twisted her nipples. She moaned, relishing the sensation that sent ripples of intense arousal to her young cunt. She squeezed harder, flinching at the pain, but never considered stopping. The ache that continued to throb afterwards was an additional pleasure. Sticky wet between thighs that were thick yet sensual, Brighid scented the room with the light, musky-sweet fragrance of her pit.

A hand slid down her belly and between her legs. She parted her bush and plunged eager fingers inside to satisfy her mounting need. Fascinated and turned on by the image in the mirror, she sat down on the wooden floor and prayed she would avoid splinters. Legs apart and fearing interruption, Brighid fucked her cunt with feverish urgency. Pianist's fingers explored the ribbed flesh of her inner walls.

Her pink clit, hard and protruding from the apex of her inner lips, was irresistible. She twisted, smacked, and rubbed the slippery, sensitive knob. Brighid cried out as she climaxed, yet kept rubbing and twisting. She wanted more and had her reward. Panting, she lay back on the floor. The fingers previously in her cunt were in her mouth. Her honey tasted delicious, and she sucked as happily as a baby on a nipple.

Westport House as a setting was impressive for the friends, family and business acquaintances gathered to celebrate Easter. The greystone manor was a day’s carriage ride from Dàibhidh Ó Neill’s home in Dublin. Located amid pleasant parkland, the manor’s ornamental lake, terraces and gardens overlooked Clew Bay on the Atlantic coast.

To Dàibhidh, it was a boring weekend with well-meaning friends. The household’s cook lacked imagination. Thus, the food was acceptable if it was a tad plain and overcooked. On a positive note, the wine, brandy, and port were excellent, which was unsurprising. They were from Dàibhidh’s warehouse. His business traded wine, champagne and other spirits from France, Spain, and Portugal.

Dàibhidh groaned. The following day, his wife, Fionnoula, and he would say their goodbyes to their hosts and fellow guests. All would depart for various parts of Ireland. The moan was for the final dinner he had to survive. His belly felt and looked pounds heavier and more rounded. The seams and buttons of his tights were under some strain.

We should get ready for dinner, he said, withdrawing his cock from Fionnoula’s hole.

There is something deeply unsatisfying about fucking an unresponsive woman. Dàibhidh had fucked Fionnoula’s anus, not just because he loved the tightness of her hole on his cock. She loathed his cock in this, the most private place of her body. To Fionnoula Ó Neill, it was an affront to her dignity. Arse-fucking was for the lower classes and animals.

Dàibhidh raised himself into a sitting position and rested briefly before placing his feet on the wooden floor. His toenails scratched the rough wood boards in the bedroom, and he wished his hosts had invested in a parquet floor.

He flicked the last few opaque pearls of cum onto Fionnoula’s belly. She flinched as they splattered against her smoke-white skin, and he observed her draw firm, shapely thighs together. It was her way of saying, No more.

They had been married for twenty-five years. Fionnoula had emotionally withdrawn from the pleasures of fucking after the birth of their fourth child. That said, Dàibhidh could not remember Fionnoula ever enjoying being mounted or penetrated. She certainly did not like what she considered his more deviant needs.

He admired the bites and bruises on her tits. Given the period's fashions, they would be noticeable to their friends at dinner. Her impending humiliation pleased him.

He knew he had bruised her cunt. In his frustration, he had fucked both holes especially hard. Yet she gave no reaction—no screaming, shouting, or swearing. Just looks and sighs of distaste tinted with sadness. Now, he would dress, and she would ring for her maid. A hot bath would wash away all traces of him. Rose water would mask the musky odours of sex and cum.

In his mid-fifties, Dàibhidh Ó Neill was a virile man with a powerful libido. A wealthy Dublin merchant, he was prosperous enough to afford the better whores and indulged himself on many occasions. Yet Dàibhidh was deeply dissatisfied with the lack of emotional contact.

It was no more than a business transaction—paid copulation. And, even though he used only the best quality strumpets, there was always the risk of nasty diseases. He had a pronounced distaste for the new trend of using assurance caps made from animal guts. Flesh-on-flesh was his preference.

A domineering man, Dàibhidh hoped he was not boorish. He knew what he wanted and moved relentlessly to achieve his goals. At this time in his life, he wanted and needed obedience—physical and spiritual.

His inherent narcissism yearned for someone to worship him or, more precisely, his cock. Dàibhidh was proud of his uncircumcised cock, fearing only the day when age or infirmity would constrain its performance.

In his mind, Dàibhidh had already decided that he needed to acquire a partner, preferably a young woman. While Dàibhidh’s sexual proclivities were not exclusively female, it was his preference. She would be his treasure, his valued property, to use and abuse. In short, he needed a long-term partner who was submissive to him and willing to fulfil his desires. Selfishly and resolutely, Dàibhidh resolved to pursue his needs as he dressed for dinner.

Fionnoula Ó Neill observed her reflection in the long mirror. She was an attractive woman. She was taller than her husband and had an hourglass figure, a narrow waist, and pert, high breasts. The latter had survived several children and, thus far, had resisted the sag of age. Emerald green eyes perfectly complemented her golden-red hair.

She used makeup lightly, preferring a natural look. Finger and toenails were perfectly manicured and tinted rose pink. Fionnoula, or, to give her her full title, Lady Fionnoula Wellesley, was a member of Britain and Ireland’s aristocracy. Although the branch of the family she was born into was far from its foundation roots in the formidable personage of the Duke of Wellington, the Wellesley name still opened many doors.

When she was fifteen, her marriage to Dàibhidh Ó Neill was a successful, if rare, arrangement negotiated by her father. His other decisions had left the family almost destitute, apart from the land they inherited, and the taxes on that were crippling.

Dàibhidh served with honour in the Napoleonic Wars. Upon his retirement as an officer from Tiffin’s Regiment of Foot, he proved to be an astute businessman. Contacts in France, Spain and Portugal enabled him to build an enviable wine and spirits trading empire.

Their children, two sons and two daughters, no longer lived at home. The eldest boy had chosen the army as a career; the youngest, Conor, preferred the business environment and planned to succeed his father. The daughters had married well and resided in London.

Fionnoula sighed. Dàibhidh was a good man and provider, and in her way, she loved him. Yet she doubted he would share her view and did not blame him. Dàibhidh was a very sexual man. Her cold response to his appetite for fucking had clouded their relationship from its embryonic days. How is that my fault?

She was barely in her teens when her brothers and several cousins dragged her into the barn on her family’s land. They stripped her, bent her over a rough wooden saddle rack, and for an afternoon, each took his turn to force his cock into her cunt, anus, and mouth.

They laughed at the trophy blood on their cocks, before abandoning her to make themselves presentable for dinner. She was left alone, shocked, bleeding, and picking splinters from her belly. Fearful of telling anyone, Fionnoula lived in dread of being pregnant until a month later when her blood flowed.

She knew she should have told Dàibhidh, and they may have been able to overcome her coldness. Twenty-five years later, she was forty. The time and opportunity to confess had long since passed. Still, Fionnoula was a passionate woman, dissatisfied with her daily masturbation and the wooden dildo stained dark with her cream. She yearned for satisfaction as much as her husband.

With one elbow on the marble mantelpiece and a glass of an excellent port in his hand, Dàibhidh smiled and laughed at what he hoped were the right moments in the conversation. The port brought a warm and rosy cheer to his cheeks. His mind, however, was elsewhere. More precisely, it was admiring the youngest woman in the room.

Brighid sat ladylike. Straight-backed, head held up, knees together, hands clasped and resting on her lap. If anything, being much younger than all present, she was more bored than Dàibhidh. She was grateful for her fan as it allowed her to mask the increasing frequency of her yawns.

This evening, Brighid wore a multi-layered white dress trimmed with blue satin at the neck and sleeves. Following current fashion, the dress had a high waist, a straight skirt, and no petticoats. Most chose not to wear pantaloons, which were considered racy. However, Brighid loved the feel of her silk knickers and ignored this trend.

Her dress was short-sleeved, and thus, she wore sixteen-button, elbow-length gloves to match it. The modern dress style meant that breasts were thrust into prominence. Brighid sighed as she surveyed the women present. Mountains of matronly flesh were on show, which, observed Brighid, no one wished to take advantage of.

The young woman looked around the room for the umpteenth time. At Brighid’s age, wine was forbidden unless diluted with so much water as to be bland and lacking any ability to induce even a modicum of intoxication.

The men in the room were old enough to be her father and a few her grandfather. Almost uniformly, they wore shirts with stiffly starched collars and neck and sleeve ruffles beneath single-breasted tailcoats. Most wore tight leggings that left little to the imagination. Unfortunately.

Brighid’s eyes were eventually drawn to the fireplace and Dàibhidh. His butter-cream shirt, cream-coloured leggings and dark-brown leather shoes perfectly matched his rich brown jacket. She observed that Mr Ó Neill looked as bored as she. His blue-grey eyes had a disturbing and beguiling intensity that drew and held her gaze. He was moderately handsome and below average height, although still a half-head taller than she. He had a slight paunch.

He favoured a short, Brutus-style hairstyle, and his brown hair was interwoven with random threads of silver. She suspected he kept his hair short as it was thinning. Yet, it also suited him. Long sideburns framed swarthy cheeks, suggesting much of his time was spent outdoors.

Brighid glanced at Dàibhidh’s crisp shirt. It was almost without wrinkles or creases. That was surprising because men had to pull their shirts on and off over their heads. She wondered if his trunk was hairy. She preferred men with hairy chests, although she was unsure why since she had no experience with them.

A giggle bubbled from her mouth, causing raised eyebrows in the room. She muttered, Sorry, and lowered her gaze to her lap. Judging her social faux pas forgotten, Brighid looked up and was somewhat startled when Dàibhidh caught her eyes, dipped his head, and smiled. Had he been waiting for her eyes to lift? She blushed deeply and could feel the heat in her cheeks increase. The fan in her right hand waved furiously as she attempted to cool down and disguise her embarrassment.

For his part, which he put down to ennui, Dàibhidh, having caught the young girl's attention, spent some time quite openly admiring her. The youngest in the room, she had a natural beauty that perked his interest. She had a lovely, oval face with high cheeks, brown eyes, and full red lips. The sudden blushing enhanced her cheeks. Thank the lord that she did not wear the ghastly white paste and rouge that the others in the room, including some men, wore.

He appreciated the current fashions that displayed the young woman’s cleavage. Still, he wondered how much was not on show. Were her breasts twin bergs of soft flesh with much more to reveal? The fashions of the day could be deceptive… and disappointing. While small breasts were attractive, he preferred cupping breasts with some weight.

In his mind, Dàibhidh mentally undressed the young woman. Hardly a woman. A girl. The thought only intensified his interest. He imagined her cunt covered in a luxurious bush the colour of her hair.

Speculation on the tightness of her young pit and the possibility that she was a virgin raised his pulse further. He hoped one of her uncles had not plucked that flower. Her hole was probably unused, a puckered, brownish-pink delight.

Dàibhidh’s mental musings produced the inevitable physical response. The profile of his cock in his fashionably thin, crotch-hugging tights started as a soft bulge lying to the left. It stiffened, pushing outwards like a tent pole, stretching the fabric before coming to rest erect and parallel to his abdomen. The swelling in Dàibhidh’s pants signalled his approval of Brighid’s body.

Brighid put a gloved hand to her mouth to prevent the titter on her lips from escaping. In this, she was not alone. Several ladies present appreciated Dàibhidh’s erection, coquettishly glancing in his direction. They would have cuckolded their husbands in the blink of an eye for a ride on Dàibhidh’s cock.

It was not a cock Brighid associated with an old man. From its shape, it was big, thick, and hard. The black contrast buttons on Dàibhidh’s crotch flap were clearly under some strain. Had the leggings been low-waisted, she was convinced she would be looking at his cockhead. He looked at her again and smiled, seeing the direction of her glances. Brighid squirmed on the seat, knowing her cunt was very wet. She also knew what her masturbation would focus on this evening.

Well, what do you think?

The question surprised Dàibhidh, so he raised an eyebrow, signalling a need for more information. About Brighid. She would like to spend some time in Dublin. I tend to agree that it would broaden her experience and education. The issue is where she would stay. She has no kin in Dublin.

It took Dàibhidh only a few moments to respond, I am not family, but I think you trust me. He was happy, if not surprised, to see an almost universal agreement with his statement.

Brighid can come and stay with Fionnoula and me. As you know, we have a substantial home on St. Stephen’s Green. Our children have all left the nest; hence, we have plenty of room. He laughed. It will give our under-worked servants another person to look after.

Dàibhidh knew that it was the response for which his friends were hoping. Most were of an age that they were unable or unwilling to cope with the inevitable dramas of a young woman. He smiled at Brighid.

Of course, the young lady should have a say. What is your opinion, Brighid?

Brighid stood. With her very best curtsy and a pronounced jiggle of her cleavage, she said, You are most generous, Sir. I will be happy to accept your kind offer.

Chapter Two

ST. STEPHEN’S GREEN, DUBLIN, IRELAND―APRIL

A slap in the face is more effective than ten lectures. It makes you understand very quickly.

― Leopold von Sacher-Masoch

It was late April when Brighid stepped from the black hackney carriage. She accepted the support of the footman’s arm and tried to avoid the mud and horsehite that splattered the bottom half of the coach. Pausing momentarily, she took in the impressive façade of her future home on St. Stephen’s Green North.

It was a four-storey townhouse. A chest-high, black iron rail fence bordered the small front garden. The plot was well attended and smelled fragrantly of brightly coloured rose bushes. A dense covering of dusty-green ivy shrouded the walls on the lower floors. At the bottom of the wall, a row of small windows signalled the presence of a basement.

Brighid unlatched the gate, glancing at its decorative, black, and gold wrought-iron scrolls. It swung inwards, silent on well-oiled hinges. She walked five paces and climbed two steps until she reached a slate-blue square that abutted the doorway.

The focal point of the entrance was a black, lacquered door with highly polished, solid brass fittings and a kickplate. Brighid reached upwards, but, as if sensing her presence, the door opened before her gloved fingers touched the knocker.

Welcome, Miss Brighid, said the tall, elderly gentleman who stood before her. I am Padraig, the Steward of the Ó Neill household. He indicated the short, rotund woman beside him, This is Máire, the Housekeeper. He chuckled. Máire is the keeper of keys and secrets.

Brighid glanced over her shoulder. The steward smiled and said, The footmen will unload your baggage and take it to your room. Your maid, Róisín, will assist you in unpacking and will draw a bath for you. I am sure the journey was tiring. A bath, a nap, and fresh clothes always set things in a better light.

She felt like she should curtsy but remembered that Padraig was a servant. Instead, Brighid gave him her best smile. With a nod and a Thank you, Padraig, she stepped across the threshold of her new home and into a new life.

Padraig paused as if trying to recall something and took a silver fob watch from his grey-pinstriped waistcoat. "Breakfast is served at ten o’clock each morning, save Sundays. You may take this in your room if you wish.

Dinner this evening will, as usual, be served at seven o’clock in the dining room. He beckoned to a young girl who hovered nearby. This is Róisín. She will lay out suitable clothes and escort you to the dining room at the appropriate time. It will likely take a few days to settle and get your bearings.

Róisín wanted to make a good impression on her new Mistress. Therefore, the room was pleasantly aired. A crystal vase of freshly cut scented flowers perched on a table desk by one of the large windows, which looked out into the rear garden. A pot of tea, a porcelain cup, and a few shortbread biscuits were also on the table.

Laid out on a bed that was bigger than any Brighid had slept on before was Róisín’s choice of dinner dress. Brighid instantly noticed several layers of the already sheer fabric were missing, and her heart fluttered. Her nipples were prominent in size and colour without losing the material’s limited protection.

Tiredness took Brighid’s hand and guided her to a copper tub. It was filled with hot water and smelled of scented oils. As she removed her travelling bonnet, she felt the buttons on her dress being loosened. Another new custom to get used to—having someone dress and undress her.

Her outer and inner garments fell to the floor, followed by a faint smell of pee. Outerwear clothes, especially those for long journeys, were heavy, complex, and multi-layered. They afforded little opportunity for a quick piss.

With a faint rising of pink in her cheeks, Brighid recalled the warm, wet feelings she had experienced several times on the journey. It was usually followed by a damp, cold, uncomfortable period until the urine had been sufficiently absorbed or dried out.

Brighid stood in white satin pantaloons. She felt a tug at the pink waist ribbon, and the panties drifted to the floor. She also sensed Róisín’s hands brush against her round arse. The touch was pleasant and slightly overlong, suggesting the caress was not an accident.

In you get, Miss Brighid. The water will get cold quickly. It is late spring, and no fires are lit in the bedrooms unless it gets unseasonably cold. Brighid nodded and stepped into the tub. She closed her eyes and sat down. The water was uncomfortably hot for a few moments, but soon, she enjoyed feeling her tiredness dissipate into the liquid.

The soapy sponge on her breasts had the perfect balance of roughness and sensuality, exfoliating her skin while feeling luxurious. She felt her tits being massaged. The rough luffah on her nipples quickly aroused them to their full hardness. A gasp of breath and an approving Oh my! informed her of Róisín’s opinion.

The sponge travelled down Brighid’s belly. She felt a bit embarrassed and attempted to suck in her stomach. That earned a look of censure from the maid. Yet it did not interrupt Róisín’s hand as it slid between Brighid’s legs, soaping and applying the sponge to her thick bush. She inhaled sharply as two fingers were inserted into her cunt with an expertise Brighid very much enjoyed. Róisín was very thorough.

Time to get out, Miss Brighid. The water is getting cold. I don’t want you to get a chill on your first day. Brighid opened her eyes and, as she stood up, saw Róisín was naked. She raised an eyebrow. My uniform would get soaked if I bathed you fully clothed, Miss. Also, it would take too long to dry, and I would be late for my other duties.

She added, I only have two uniforms: one for weekdays and one for Sundays, church, and special occasions. Then, a little embarrassed, she asked, If you don’t mind, after towelling you, may I use the last remaining warmth of the water for bathing? She giggled. There’s not much privacy for bathing in the servants’ quarters.

I have no problem with that, murmured Brighid. Her attention was absorbed with an examination of Róisín’s body. The maid, she guessed, was no older than she and likely a year younger. Long, black hair cascaded over narrow shoulders to rest on breasts that, while not as big as hers, were by no means small.

Róisín’s neat waist accentuated the size of her breasts. A dark bush crept like ivy between her thighs to cover her lower belly. Brighid was fascinated by her maid’s nipples. The dusky-pink areolae were puffed up, and Brighid thought