The Duke Wants Her Curves: Taboo Historical BBW Forbidden Erotic Rubenesque Romance
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Authors: Kimberley Clarke
THE DUKE WANTS HER CURVES
Kimberley Clarke
This book may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the copyright holder. This story contains explicit content that is intended for adult audiences only. All characters involved in sexual situations are 18 years of age or older. Copyright © 2015 Kimberley Clarke. All rights reserved. Logo Image © Photochatree, bigstockphoto.com. Cover Image © romancephotos, depositphotos.com -
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TEASER
It took me some considerable time to work out exactly how to put on the outfit the Duke had bought for me. It consisted of leather belts, strapped tight around my body. My breasts bulged around the leather and the hard material cut into the ample flesh around my hips. There was a hole in the centre of the pubic strap. I knew exactly what that hole was for.
My room was sparsely decorated. There was a lavish double bed, with two hooks jutting out from the posts at the top. I’d been informed that I was to loop the leather from my arms into the hooks on the bed. The Duke told me to prepare myself for him at eight o’clock, and that I was to be ready for him to come and take me. He’d told me that I was to touch myself beforehand, so that I was wet and ready for him, but, to be truthful, the thought of the Duke coming and fucking me was enough to make me seep from my kitty.
I mounted the bed and attached myself to the hooks, and I waited. Soon, I heard the sound of the Duke’s boot on the stairs on the way up. Eventually, I heard the rich, resonant sound of the Duke’s voice somewhere behind me.
‘Well, well well, I must apologise for keeping you waiting for so long, my plump little treat, but there was urgent business to which I had to attend. Now though, we are simply left with the matter of pleasure.’
CHAPTER ONE
Before I met the Duke, life was beautifully simple.
Perhaps it sounds rather prim to say this, but my childhood was utter bliss. I have always believed that good behavior breeds good fortune, and as a child, I was as well-behaved as they come. Though my father often remarked that my ‘sunshine blond hair would get me into trouble one day’, I was far from troubled as a young girl. I would run through the fields of barley neighbouring our humble country cottage, laughing and squealing with delight, and of course, most often of all, I would spend time with my lovely little pony, Dobbin. It was a rather silly name for an animal, I know, but I loved that dear creature.
I was devastated when Dobbin departed this world. Honestly, it was the only bad thing that had ever happened to me, and it hit me hard. I swear, I was so head over heels for that beast that I would’ve married him if I could. On my sixteenth birthday, my mother and father gave me a present: a wonderful, gleaming blonde foal.
‘His fur matches your hair,’ said my father, giving me a stern look. ‘The two of you will get into some scrapes together, mark my words.’ Soon, my father’s frown crinkled up into a wide smile, and he rubbed my hair. ‘You two get to know each other for a while. Your mother and I are going to market.’
Those words, gentle reader, were the last I heard from my father’s mouth.
I’d never seen a police constable before, and when the thick-mustachioed man appeared on the doorstep with a stern look on his face, I knew something was wrong. My parents had been a victim of their own charity. They used to walk through the dangerous parts of York whenever they went in for a market day, giving alms to the poor. The police officer explained to me that a particularly unruly gang of miscreants had taken offence at the act, and things had very quickly become violent. Needless to say, as a sixteen year old, I was spared the more gory details.
I didn’t have much time to grieve, and was sent immediately to stay with my uncle Norman on his sprawling farm in the middle of The Dales, the most rugged and beautiful area of Yorkshire. My uncle was a no-nonsense sort of man, and I was immediately put to work. Life was sad and lonely with my parents gone, but my uncle didn’t exactly take pity on me. I always thought that he was angry to have to look after me, and that maybe he would have been less stern had my parents still been alive.
‘You’re my flesh and blood, Briony, but by God if you don’t shift your weight, I’ll have you sling your hook,’ he would say to me. My blonde foal, who I’d called Honey, was to be trained as a work horse on the farm, to help pull one of the huge ploughs across arable fields as and when my uncle required. I watched Uncle Norman whipping Honey’s back with a harsh looking leather strap, wincing each time it made contact with his skin.
‘They don’t feel it, Briony, beasts of burden. That’s why God put them on this earth, to help man.’ My uncle had very old-fashioned opinions on almost anything you care to talk about, and I longed for company of my own age. My only companion was Robert, the stable boy. He lived in a village not too far away and would come up to the farm every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday to muck out the stables in which the horses lived. He was a ruddy-looking boy, and well-built for a lad of only sixteen. We used to play together after we’d finished our chores. He used to call me Sunny, on account of the golden colour of my hair, and we used to chase each other all around the golden fields in the dipping evening sun.
I must admit that I changed a lot in those two years. I turned to the comfort of food and eating, to try to cope with the burden of grief my parents’ death left me with. I began to fill out, and then, I went a little past filling out. My arms and legs became creamy and full, my breasts and buttocks became swollen with curvaceous flesh. My uncle was loathe to buy me new clothes and so, I found my body would almost spill out of the tight fitting dresses and skirts I was forced to wear. The funny thing is, my new appearance didn’t seem to upset Robert. In fact, I began to notice that Robert had started to look at me a little different, and truth be told, I started to think about him a bit differently, too.
On a hazy afternoon in late August, the two of us were strolling along the southern border of the farm’s biggest sheep paddock. The field was on a gentle slope, and I could see down into the valley across the stream, hear the gentle lapping sound of water, smell the almost-ripe cereal crop in the bordering field.
‘It’s a beautiful evening, ain’t it, Sunny,’ said Robert. He looked fresh and strong this evening, with his dungarees loosely over his shoulders and a sheaf of wheat bobbing as he clamped its end between his teeth.
‘That it is, Rob,’ I replied. Rob seemed a little more anxious than usual this evening. Around twenty minutes from home, he stopped walking and gave me this really funny look.
‘Briony,’ it was strange to hear him call me by my real name. I was so used to him calling me Sunny I didn’t realise for a moment that he was talking to me at all. ‘Briony, I know how fond of you I am, don’t you?’ I felt my cheeks redden with embarrassment.
‘I know, Robert,’ I said, looking down at the ground.
‘Well, there’s something I want to ask you. In fact, I think I’ve wanted to ask you it ever since we met.’
I felt my pulse quicken in my heart, my chest rising and falling with large, anxious gulps. Robert slowly got down on one knee, and then, he looked me in the eye and opened his mouth to speak. But the voice that I heard next was not Robert’s.
CHAPTER TWO
‘And just what do the two of you think that you are doing?’ It was a harsh, cold voice, haughty and superior. I looked up to find its source and saw a dark figure on the back of a huge grey steed. The man was dressed in a travelling cloak and his face was pale. He had a large, bushy moustache, and in his right hand was a cruel-looking leather riding crop. Both Robert and I looked up at the man, dumbstruck, our surprise plain to see in our faces.
‘Well? Don’t you think an answer is in order? You are on my grounds after all. Young people should hardly be out canoodling in plain sight, don’t you think.’
‘Beggin’ your pardon sir,’ Robert said, rising to his feet and doffing his cap to the man, ‘I didn’t realise that the landlord would be out and about so late of an evening.’
‘Quite. I shouldn’t wonder that there are quite a few things that you don’t realise,’ he said, with a snort of derision. ‘You, woman, who are you?’ He pointed straight at me with the riding crop. I felt a strange chill as he turned his attention to me. It was almost as though I could feel the smooth leather of the crop against my quivering cheek.
‘Sorry sir, I mean, my lord,’ I said, bumbling over my words, ‘I’m Briony, farmer Norman’s niece, here just to work on the farm.’
‘Briony, eh?’ said the man. ‘How funny Norman didn’t tell me that he had a niece working on the farm. How funny. Particularly when she is such a pretty thing. Plump and thick like a beautiful heffer. Eh, Robert? Do you think she’s pretty?’
I could feel Robert’s discomfort as the man sneered at the two of us. His eyes were the clearest, brightest blue I’d ever seen, and they were set above high cheekbones. His whole face was twisted into a grimace of cruel pleasure, as he watched Robert squirm.
‘Of course I,’ he started. He looked flustered. ‘I mean Briony’s a very old friend, she’s, she’s like a sister to me.’
‘Like a sister, eh? Didn’t look like you were about to do something particularly brotherly to me.’ I felt my cheeks begin to redden in the evening sun.
‘Well, I mean, she’s pretty and all,’ Robert wrung his cap in his hands as he tried to think of something he could say to get out of this pickle.
‘Anyway, never mind. I have quite a bit to be getting on with.’ He yanked the reins of the horse as it turned for him, then lightly smacked its rump with the leather of the riding crop. ‘You’ll be hearing from me soon, Briony.’
When the man was far enough away, I turned to Robert. My heart was still beating like thunder, and I could feel sweat pooling on my palms.
‘Who was that, Rob?’
‘You mean you don’t know? That was the Duke of Skipton! He owns the land of your uncle Norman’s farm.’
The Duke of Skipton. The name was cold and hard, like a knife. ‘So he’s rich is he?’
‘One of the richest men in the country. People say that he always gets what he wants.’
‘Well, I didn’t like him anyway. What were you going to ask me Robert.’
He looked at me with a sad smile, then turned to face the setting sun.
‘Oh don’t worry Briony. It’ll wait until tomorrow.’ But I was never to find out what it was Robert wanted to ask of me. The very next day, my life changed forever.
CHAPTER THREE
I woke to the sound of my uncle shouting like a madman down in the living room.
‘We’re rich! We’re rich! Thank the lord above! Finally, some luck!’ His gruff voice reverberated around the house like gunfire. I roused myself quickly and dragged on a smock before trotting down the stairs as quickly as I could.
