The Persuasion of Molly O'Flaherty by Sierra Simone Read Free Book Online Page A

She recognized that perhaps this was the best chance she had at salvaging this miserable scenario and at least getting married to someone pleasant, someone who wasn’t after her money.
    “I’m still thinking about it,” I said finally. “I am not willing to make this decision in haste.”
    “Very well,” Mr. Cunningham said, shrugging and then standing to leave. “But just so you know, you may cease with interviewing your other would-be husbands. The board is quite set on the viscount.”
    “So I don’t even have a choice now?”
    Mr. Cunningham approached me, but I stayed sitting, my hands curled around the armrests, my fingernails digging in and denting the wood there.
    “Oh, Miss O’Flaherty. Molly —you never minded when I called you Molly, did you? You always have a choice.”
    He stood right in front of me now, but I refused to stand or even to look up at him. Instead, I stared resolutely ahead at the large bay window overlooking Eaton Place, my jaw set.
    Still, out of the periphery of my vision, I could see him unbuttoning his trousers, could see him withdrawing his penis.
    Tears pricked the back of my eyelids, but I refused to let them spill. Not this time.
    “You know what your choices are, don’t you, Molly?” he asked, his facade of gentleness too weak to hide the triumph in his voice.
    I didn’t answer, didn’t even shake my head, and then his hand was fisting my hair and his erection was at my lips, pressing, but I didn’t open my mouth. He pulled my hair harder and tears did leak out now, but I still refused to accept what he was forcing on me.
    “Be my whore,” he said and I could hear him lick his lips. “Be mine, and I’ll make everything else go away.”
    Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard a fourteen-year-old girl crying and the sound of a pen nib scratching on paper. A decision that had saved my father’s fledgling company and destroyed my innocence in one fell swoop.
    “Come on,” Mr. Cunningham coaxed. “I hear what a little slut you are. Am I supposed to believe that I have the one cock in London you won’t suck?”
    I knew better than to open my mouth to answer; he would only see that as an invitation, and I’d be gagging on his penis before I could get the first word out. While we’d never repeated the trauma of That Night, he had forced himself on me in other ways in the intervening years.
    Part of me longed to bite his member as hard as I could, longed to see if I could bite it clean off. Another part wondered how much it would hurt if I grabbed his balls and squeezed until something ruptured. And yet another part of me—a small, defeated part—was tired of fighting him. Wanted merely to let him use me and leave so that I could move on with my life.
    But whatever my fantasies were, I knew that Mr. Cunningham held all the power here. If I hurt him now, he’d have me arrested as fast as he could find a police officer. If I hurt him now, not only would he make sure that everything Father (and later, I) had built was taken away, but it would mean all my earlier sacrifices were invalidated. And that idea was just as repellent as doing his bidding, the idea that all of this debasement and humiliation had been for nothing.
    He was breathing fast now, stroking himself as I still refused to open my mouth. “It’s been a while since we’ve done this, Molly. How long has it been? A year?”
    Eight months, two weeks and three days.
    I only knew that because it was the day Silas had found me crying in this very parlor. I hadn’t told him what had happened, I hadn’t given him any sort of explanation, and after it became apparent that I couldn’t be soothed in any of the normal ways, he’d carried me up to my room and my bed. He’d erased every tear with his lips, every foul taste with his own sweet tongue, used his hands and his cock to chase away the disgusting, used feeling I always had after Cunningham.
    For whatever reason, thinking of that day, thinking of Silas