Summary:

This story, set at the beginning of the 19th century, is about a jealous noblewoman who is determined to ruin the reputation of her sister in order to break her engagement. The script is the text of a letter she sends to an unspecified friend laying out her plan to hire a man to isolate and rape her sister at an upcoming ball. The letter-writer really gets into it; it becomes rather graphic, I'm afraid.

The script is by an adult for other adults. All characters are 18 .

Note:

This script is offered as F4M because the speaker is a woman and it depicts a fantasy of sex between a man and woman: however, neither the speaker nor listener engage in sex themselves. The speaker narrates how she envisions the rape of her sister will happen in a letter and the listener is an unspecified friend the letter is addressed to.

Notes to performer:

I imagine the speaker is a confident and determined woman. At the beginning of the letter she is nervous, but as it goes on she grows more bold. When she talks about her sister she is passionate: furious and maybe a little lusty. When she speaks of Thomas, her sister's betrothed, she is soft and warm. When she describes the rape of her sister she is extremely turned on.

As always, your performance is yours alone, and I defer to your interpretation of the text.

{Optional sound effects}

<Tone or direction>

*Emphasis*

---

{A match lighting, a wooden drawer opening and closing, the rustle of paper, the scratch of a quill on parchment}

My dear friend,

It is done.

My hands are trembling as I write this letter, lit by the the dimmest candle in my room. I dare not let anyone in the house know I am awake at this hour, much less that I have just returned from my evil errand in the city. My room is cold, the blinds are drawn, and all is deep, dark, and still, save my racing heart. I feel like the villain in a cheap novel. If my plan succeeds, I have ensured the ruin of my sister, and the freedom of her betrothed: dear, sweet Thomas.

<With growing confidence> I know I will go to hell for what I have set in motion, but I will leave my penance for the next life, and seek my satisfaction in this one. And who can say--could not the Creator see that my wrath falls on the sinful, and my heart goes to the innocent, and decide my actions just?

<Warmly> I wish to tell you everything, if only to calm my nerves. I am so glad I have you, my friend, who I can write to without fear of judgement or exposure. There is no one else I can share this with.

Earlier tonight I met the gentleman I told you about -- the one I call Mr. Graves -- in a small alley off Bleak Street. There was no one there when I arrived, just the light of the moon on the cobblestones, and the creak of a tobacconist's sign swinging in the breeze.

Mr. Graves, though of a noble family, is a brigand of the darkest order, and he sells evil deeds to anyone who will pay. Theft, murder, and worse -- all these sins he has committed for coin, or, I hear, the brute pleasure of it.

I was uneasy, waiting alone for such a man, and almost set back home. But I thought of Thomas, and how my vile sister already makes a cuckold of him, and strengthened my resolve.

<Angry> Have I told you the slut has even coerced our own servants into her pursuit of pleasure? I saw her with the new house cook's head between her thighs, writhing and moaning like a whore in a brothel. Her immodesty was one thing before she secured her engagement, but now it is unendurable.

When I looked up, I realized I was no longer alone. A gentleman stood in shadow on the other side of the street, dressed in fine dark clothes, leaning on a cane. I hesitated to join him, but I reminded myself that Mr. Graves was a man of business, even if it is evil business, and there is little profit in attacking a customer.

His voice was surprisingly soft as we exchanged our pre-arranged code words, to establish our identities and shared purpose. Satisfied, I explained my plan to him. I had wondered if even one such as he would recoil, but he only offered a bright grin and counted my coins. He agreed to everything.

Lest you judge me too harshly, remember, she brought this on herself.

Here is the scheme in full:

My family is eager to attend Duke Bellamere's ball this Friday, as are half the families of the city. This is not just any ball, but a masquerade, which will allow Mr. Graves to hide his identity while he pursues my sister. I've been assured he can be a very charming man when he wants to be, not that my sister needs encouragement.

When he gets her attention, he will lead her out to the edge of the gardens, far from the main house, among the hedges and statues, and then he will... take her.

<Passionate> Oh, I don't need to be coy with *you*, my friend: He will rape her. He will *ruin* her. He will plunder her filthy body and leave her wet and dripping in the grass. Although can you truly call it rape, when it happens to one so absent of virtue, to one who has already soiled *herself* so thoroughly?

She will probably be the one to lead *him* on at first! Catching his eye for a dance, pressing her body against his... I can see it so clearly, because I have seen it so many times. Her inviting smile draws men to her, and her need for attention causes her to abandon all decency and modesty. She dances too close, laughs too loud, takes hold of hands and hips and shoulders too tightly... Once she believes she has Mr. Graves wrapped around her finger, she'll lead him outside to consummate the flirtation with a kiss and tender compliments.

Having stoked his ardor, she'll leave him to make her way back to the ballroom, eager to begin again with some other man.

And that is where it will take a turn, because Mr. Graves won't let her go.

<Lustily> I confess, imagining these events excites me...

As my sister makes to leave, Mr. Graves pulls her back to his side. Maybe she thinks he wants another kiss--but that's when he takes her by the throat and shows her the knife.

<Delighted> What I wouldn't give to be there for that moment. To see her eyes grow wide with terror, watch her struggle against his strong arms. To realize exactly where her wanton behavior has brought her.

The threat of the knife stops her from screaming as he forces her to her knees, one fist gripping her golden hair. Already she begins to weep, tears carrying her makeup in dark trails down her cheeks. As the grass stains her pristine clothes, he pulls his ready cock from his breeches, hard and hot for her.

With a firm hand, he forces her lips against his purple cockhead. She tries to get away, poor thing, but she is no match for his strength, and with a pull he forces her jaw open and pushes himself into her wet mouth. He rubs his cock over her tongue, presses against the silk on the inside of her cheeks, eager to take his pleasure from every part of her. He groans like a beast as he holds her head on his spike.

Then, he begins to rock his hips, every thrust forcing his cock deeper and deeper into her mouth. His taste and smell overwhelm her.

How I wish I could be there. I would stand behind her, tangling my fingers in her hair, pressing her forward to meet his every thrust. Or he could simply stand while I forced her head forward and back, sliding along his cock, using her head like a toy to pleasure him. That's what she is, really. A toy. Something simple and pretty, made to be used, broken, and discarded.

She chokes when his cock reaches the entrance to her throat. But he won't stop there. Of course he won't. He'll thrust and push and press until her pretty nose is bent against against his belly, her lips foam with spit, and his cock is completely inside her.

How I love to imagine my sister's throat stretched around that brute's prick. On her knees in the grass, eyes wide and glittering with tears, her clothes a mess of drool as she sputters and chokes around it. Imagine I'm there to hold her head in place as she struggles to free herself. To reach around and caress her neck, stroking the manhood in her throat.

At his height of pleasure, Graves pulls his cock free from her bruised lips with a deep groan and covers her face with semen, great spurts of it landing in her hair, on her cheeks, on her clothes. She'll reek of it. She'll always feel the stain of it.

Imagine that moment: my sister kneeling, gasping for air, face covered in seed and tears, thinking that's the end, he's come, he's finished.

But he isn't finished.

<Eagerly> I wonder: will she be broken then, limp as he cuts away at her dress to access her cunt? Or will she resist, twisting and kicking? I can't say which would be more gratifying. It doesn't matter. Either way he shoves her down on the grass, her fine dress in tatters around her, and forces her legs wide apart.

Will she be wet? She is a whore. Will her body betray her? Will her cunt soak itself as it anticipates his cock?

No matter. He cares for nothing but his pleasure. With a single thrust his cock is deep inside her, filling her, stretching her. She pushes her palms against his chest but he laughs and takes her hands in one fist, holding them down above her head. Her body shakes with each hard thrust, eyes squeezed closed, semen drying on her skin. When he pulls his cock out her cunt is red and swollen, gaping, eager to be filled, which he does, again and again, sawing in and out of her.

If I was there I would hold her legs apart, my hands pressing hard on her thighs. I would whisper in her ear how she deserves this, how she has betrayed the family name with her lust, and now we can be rid of her.

I would cradle his balls in my hand, feel the heat of them, the churning seed ready to flood my whore of a sister.

<Commanding> Fill her, goddamn it. Fill her. Ruin her.

You've taken your pleasure, now release.

Come in her. Deep inside her.

Now! Do it, you brute! Come!

At last he spends deep inside her, overflowing her with his seed. Hopefully one will catch, and a little bastard will grow within her.

That will be the end of it. Mr. Graves will wipe his cock clean on her dress, pull up his breeches, and depart into the night.

Once he is gone, I will happen to discover her there, and my shrieks will bring half the ball out to see my sister's humiliation.

Poor, sweet Thomas will be freed on the spot. Their betrothal broken. His chains shattered. He shall never have to see her again.

She will forever be a ruined woman. No doubt mother will pack her off to a convent within a month.

With her out of the way, poor Thomas will need consolation. And won't I need comfort, with such an evil befallen my sister? It is too perfect.

<Calm, at peace> I should burn this letter. But you would never judge me, would you, my friend? Indeed, I rather think you enjoy hearing my schemes. It must be a great game to you, to hear the moves and countermoves, as me and my sister spar for dominance. It is a game I am determined to win.

The candle is almost out. My nerves are calm. The plan will go forward. Sweet Thomas will be mine.

Goodnight, my friend. I shall write again when future developments reveal themselves.

In gratitude and confidence,

<Performer name or "A">

{Quill on parchment for the final words, rustle of paper folded and put away, the solid wooden slide and thunk of a drawer closing}

-=End=-