Mansions Read online

  MANSIONS

  by

  Whitney Bianca

  MANSIONS

  copyright 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are fictitious, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual locales or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely and purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this original work may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever without written permission of the author.

  Contact information:

  email: [email protected]

  Cover art by Slaughtered Heart Graphics

  Self-Published First E-book Edition

  February 2017

  First Edition 1

  ***AUTHOR'S NOTE***

  This is a work of fiction. The story contained within these pages may be considered objectionable and distasteful to some. As a writer, it is my job to tell stories and live inside my character's heads as I write. I do not judge my characters. However, I do not in any way condone their actions or the violent ways in which they express themselves.

  This dark erotic tale is completely fictional and is no way intended for harm.

  This is Adrienne and Dorian's story.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Long black hair, the curls limp and fraying at the ends. A navy blue dress, bunched in her hands and hiked up to her knees. Tanned legs with curvy calves and scabby knees. She was a mess. I remember curling my lip in disgust as I watched her scramble up the crumbling stone wall, the bottoms of her feet stained black with dirt.

  She was nothing like the women and girls I knew. My mother. My aunts. My grandmother, with her ever-present pearls. My sister and her friends. All debutantes with perfect hair and perfect poise. All rich girls with impeccable breeding. Their faces never had smudges of dust on the cheeks. Their fingernails were never ragged and bitten to the quicks.

  They didn't have dark-skinned fathers from Northern Africa and eccentric, dead French mothers.

  They were nothing like Adrienne Hamina.

  Humming, Adrienne walked along the mossy stone wall, putting one foot in front of the other like she was walking a tight-rope. Even though it should've disgusted me, I couldn't look away from her dirty bare feet, so sure on the wall.

  Her mother had just been put in the ground and the Hamina girl wasn't doing well. Well, that's what everybody whispered anyway as they stood around nibbling hors d'oeurves and sipping red wine in the parlor. I listened to their whispers with very little interest. I was sixteen and the only reason I was at Hamina Manor on that fateful day at all was because our fathers had a mysterious business connection. Now I know their business well, as I took up my father's interests after his death. But at the time, I didn't know and I didn't care.

  I was bored out of my mind. Back then, I was bored a lot. Too smart and too deviant for my own good. I was yearning for trouble that day, a little bit of excitement. Trouble found me, sure enough.

  I slipped into the kitchen and out the back door, like a common servant. Once outside in the spring sunshine, I walked along the curving path that lead to an overgrown garden. I lit a cigarette when I was far enough from the house and took a deep drag. Under my suit jacket was a half-empty bottle of scotch that I had stolen from the Hamina library. I was planning my own party.

  That's when I saw her.

  I can still remember it like it was yesterday.

  “Do you have another?” she called out, surprising me out of my stare. Her voice held the tint of a French accent and her lips were cracked and pale but full. My eyes took in her mouth as I took the cigarette from my own. I held it out, raising an eyebrow, not going out of my way to be polite. I was a cocksure little prick back in those days. I had been blessed with lots of money, a handsome face, and a big dick. I knew enough at sixteen to understand that those three attributes would take me far in life.

  She hopped down off the wall, letting her skirt drop down to her calves. Her silk dress was wrinkled and dirty, I noticed, my lip curling again. However, she didn't seem to care. She shoved a hand through her messy hair as she took the cigarette. She glanced up at me as she took a long, slow inhale and my heart slowed in my chest. As I remember it, she smelled like earth and sweat and some flowery scent I couldn't identify. But that wasn't the most memorable thing about her.

  Her eyes were brown. Not a dull, forgettable brown. A shiny, fiery, amber brown. Even though she looked like she hadn't slept in days and her eyelids were heavy, I could see how special they were. Intelligence and rebelliousness danced in their mysterious depths. Secrets, too.

  Magic.

  “Who are you?” she asked, breaking the silence and looking away. I shrugged, unearthing another cigarette from the pack hidden in my inside pocket.

  “Who are you?” I fired back as I sparked my lighter.

  “Adrienne,” she said, a tendril of smoke escaping her nostril. I could tell right then and there she went to boarding school, like I did. Only rich boarding school kids knew how to smoke like pack-a-day lifers when they were still teenagers. “Adrienne Hamina.”

  “Well shit,” I said, feigning sympathy. “So it's your mother that's dead?”

  “That's what they tell me.”

  “I saw the body. She is most definitely dead,” I said, remembering the fragile-looking, red-haired corpse at the funeral. The girl narrowed her eyes, fire roaring behind her gaze.

  “I chose not to see her like that,” she said. “I want to pretend she's gone on a long, relaxing holiday.”

  “That's idiotic,” I replied.

  “Maybe for you,” she shrugged, taking another drag. “But I will think as I please.”

  “Are you slow in the head?” I asked, my youthful cruelty on full display. “Or just fucking stupid?” Not my finest moment, I can admit.

  “Go away,” she said, simply, turning her back on me and stomping back to the wall. Then she yanked her skirt back up and I caught a glimpse of her white panties as she lifted her leg. She hoisted herself back up, the cigarette balanced precariously between her lips. She began her balancing act again, one foot in front of the other. Although I had serious doubts about her sanity at that point, I didn't turn to go back to the house. She drew me to her like a magnet and I was powerless to fight it. Instead I walked down to the wall, following on the ground alongside her as she did her best to ignore me.

  “I have scotch,” I said, holding up the bottle.

  “Keep it,” she said. “That's what old men drink.”

  “You want to have some fun?” I asked. She laughed then and the sound will forever be embedded on my soul. It was a rough, throaty sound, not at all light and dainty. She didn't cover her mouth with her hand, either, like a real lady would. She just threw her head back and laughed, her teeth flashing.

  “Fun?” she mimicked, laughing again. At that point, I was fully convinced she was nuts. But she was so fucking beautiful, I didn't care. I could look past it, because I was sixteen and horny.

  “I have some coke hidden in the backseat of my dad's car,” I said, trying to sound like it didn't matter to me either way. “Cocaine. I'll give you a bump. You'll feel like you're flying, I swear. You can leave all this shit behind.”

  “Go away,” she repeated, her eyes to the sky.

  “All you have to do in return is blow me,” I said. She glanced at me so sharply that she lost her balance. She teetered and let out a shrill shriek of surprise. I dropped the bottle in the grass and held out my arms, ready to catch her if she fell.

  But she didn't.

  She righted herself and continued on as if nothing had happened, her dirty feet gracefully finding their way along the stones. I stared at her feet again, thinking about how I would like to see her on her knees in front of me. I said it to get
a reaction out of her, but the thought of her wrapping her lips around my cock and staring up at me with those eyes... well, that was a hard image to shake. I was used to getting what I wanted in all aspects of my life. Girls at school had no problem getting on their knees if I asked them to. At that age, sex was all I thought about.

  Sex with Adrienne Hamina sounded pretty fucking good right about then.

  “How old are you?” I asked, not bothering to try and hide my interest. She wasn't paying much attention to me anyway.

  “Go away,” she said again.

  “Tell me how old you are and I will,” I said, lying through my teeth. I had no intention of going back to her big dark house until I had to. It smelled like death. I also had no intention of giving up my little game until I won.

  “Fifteen,” she said, hopping down in front of me suddenly and flicking our cigarette into the grass. “Almost.”

  “I turn seventeen in a month,” I said, dragging my eyes down the front of her. She was slim, but her round breasts barely fit in the dress. I guessed the funeral had been so sudden that she hadn't had time to get her dress tailored. Or maybe she'd had a growth spurt. Either way, her cleavage caught my attention. Her tits were like the rest of her—unwieldy and all-natural and distracting.

  “October,” she said, and I blinked, flicking my eyes back to her face.

  “What?”

  “I turn fifteen in October,” she said, softly. I grabbed her before I knew what I was doing, locking my arms around her waist. She didn't struggle at first, just pressed her palms against my chest. The warmth of her hands bled through my shirt as I stared down at her. As soon as her body touched mine, my cock was hard as steel. Her eyes widened as she figured out what was going on. She knew I wanted her.

  I buried my face in the fragrant warm skin between her neck and her shoulder. Her hair tickled my nose as she struggled against me. I liked that she smelled like wind and sun and dirt. She smelled like life. I ran my hand down over her ass and she moaned, the sound vibrating through her chest.

  “Get off,” she hissed as I ran my lips up the curve of her neck to her ear. I sucked her diamond stud earring in between my lips, flicking my tongue over it. She jerked against me, her fingers digging into my chest.

  “Adrienne,” I whispered in her ear, pushing her backwards until her ass hit the stone wall. “Are you a virgin?”

  “Leave me alone,” she said, between gritted teeth. I trailed my mouth over her chin and pulled back to look at her. She clenched her hands into fists and grabbed the collar of my shirt.

  “Let me make you feel better,” I said, raising my hand to cup her tit. I ran my thumb over her hard nipple through the fabric of her dress and a shiver of lust ran through me. Her thin bra was woefully ill-suited to keep me away from her. At that moment, nothing could keep me away from her.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her dark gaze boring into mine.

  “It doesn't matter,” I said and then I kissed her. She yanked at my tie, almost choking me, but I didn't stop. My kiss wasn't suave and sophisticated. It wasn't tried and tested and practiced. It wasn't calculated. I was a horny teenager with my first taste of an intoxicating girl; a girl who, as it turned out, would haunt me for the next fifteen years. The kiss was messy and wet and I couldn't get enough. She squirmed against me, rolling her hips like she wanted to throw me off, but I was too strong for her. I dropped my hand to her knee and hiked it up on my hip. I wasn't soft with her; I was rough. I didn't care if I hurt her or not. I didn't care if she wanted me to touch her or not.

  I just took what I wanted.

  Her hem slid down toward her waist, revealing the smooth skin of her thigh. I broke the kiss as my hand found her warm bare skin. For a moment, I could only stare down at my fingers on her thigh. There were downy hairs dotting her skin and they caught the sunlight in a magical way. I dragged my thumb across her soft flesh, wondering if all of her looked that way. Fresh. Untouched. Soft. I was possessed with the urge to strip her naked and run my hands over all of her. Every inch. Then after my hands were finished exploring, I would put my mouth and my tongue to work, discovering all of her secret sensitive places.

  She used the distraction of her naked skin against me. She shoved me hard, when I was least expecting it, and I stumbled back. She took off like a shot, running through the grass in her bare feet. Her hair streamed behind her and a shot of pure adrenaline went up my spine. I wanted Adrienne Hamina. I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to take her virginity. I wanted to slam my cock in her over and over again until she screamed my name. So I took off after her, although my Italian leather shoes weren't used to such vigorous exercise.

  She ran across the expanse of green lawn and dipped under the leaves of the huge weeping willow tree at the center of if. I followed her, skidding to a stop under the shelter of the willow branches, just in time to see her climb up the trunk of the tree. I watched in awe as she pulled herself higher and higher in the tree, until she'd put enough distance between us to feel comfortable. She threw her leg over a branch to steady herself and then stared down at me, her hair wild in her face.

  I had never climbed a tree in my life. No one I knew had ever climbed a tree, I was fairly certain. As I stared up at her, I could feel myself smiling even though I should've been angry because she didn't give me what I want. I always got what I wanted after all. But she didn't give a shit what I wanted. She smoothed her skirt over her legs, her dirty foot dangling below her. She was breathing heavily and her eyes were wide and fearful.

  I wanted her so badly I didn't know what to do with myself.

  “You have to come down sometime,” I said, running my hand up the rough bark of the trunk my body itching for her.

  “Maybe I never will,” she said spitefully.

  “You will,” I said, lighting another cigarette. I took a seat on the mossy ground, despite the fact that my tailored pants were ridiculously expensive. I circled my knees with my arms and stared up at her. Her skirt rippled in the light spring breeze, revealing more of her luscious legs. The sun shone through the green leaves behind her head, making an effect like stained glass around her. Or an angel's halo.

  “I hate boys like you,” she hissed. “Spoiled, wretched creatures. You think you can have whatever you want.”

  “You don't know any boys like me,” I replied, rolling onto my back and folding my hands behind my head. She stared down at me and I stared up at her. Anger lit up her features, making them even more lovely.

  “I don't care,” she said, pushing her hair out of her face. “I'll be gone from here soon and I'll never have to see any of you vile people ever again.”

  “Vile?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, vile,” she crinkled her nose like she could smell me from all the way up there.

  “Did you like it when I put my vile hands on you?” I asked, part of me genuinely wanting to know and the other part not questioning it at all. “Come down and I'll show you.”

  “How can you treat me this way?” she asked. “My mother is dead!”

  “I thought she was on a relaxing long holiday?” I replied, nastily. She buried her face in her hands and turned toward the trunk of the tree. After a moment, I realized she was crying and I pushed myself up on my elbows to get a better look. She sniffled and snorted and sobbed with her whole body. The tears weren't fake, designed for sympathy or used as a ploy to get me to have mercy on her. They were real and they consumed her. I could feel her grief, as much as I could feel anything. It was fascinating. After a few minutes, she let out a ragged breath and swiped at her face harshly, like she was angry at herself for crying.

  “Adrienne!” A deep voice called out, echoing across the lawn. She froze. I rolled over onto my side, glancing back toward the house. Mustafa Hamina's dark imposing figure stood near the stone wall, looking around for his daughter. I recognized him immediately, as I knew him from various dinner parties and soirees throughout my youth. He was not one to be fucked with, I could tell that much.
Not even my father would dare fuck with him.

  Her feet dropped lightly in the moss beside me, her hair tumbling down her back. My breath caught in my throat at her closeness. I dragged my eyes up to her face as she pressed a finger to her lips.

  “Shh. Don't let him see you here,” she whispered. I reached out, not able to help myself. The backs of my fingers brushed the smooth bone of her ankle and then she was gone. I watched her run to meet her father at the wall and then bend and pick up her shoes, which were hidden in the tall grass. She slipped them on her feet as she followed her father back to the dark, imposing mansion beyond.

  She didn't look back at me. Not once.

  Eventually, when my arousal cooled enough that my heart had stopped drumming in my ears and my dick had deflated again, I stood and made my way back to the wall, brushing the dirt and leaves from my clothes. I picked up my discarded bottle of scotch from the ground, my eyes scouring the earth for any signs of her as well. A ribbon. A barrette. A lost earring. Anything.

  But I found nothing.

  She left me nothing.

  *****

  After that day, I didn't see her again for seven years.

  It was another funeral that brought us together, ironically enough.

  Mustafa Hamina was dead. A massive heart-attack, as boring as that sounds. Such a pedestrian end for such a larger-than-life man. When I stepped into St. John's Cathedral on that blustery winter day, the organ was playing. All of New York's rich and influential, famous or not, stood around like it was normal for all that power in influence to be in one place at the same time. I moved amongst them, my head up and my shoulders back, following my father to the closed mahogany casket to pay our last respects. My fiancée was on my arm. Selene. She was well-heeled like me, blond, tall and two months out of Harvard Law. Her father was a friend of my father's and owned a successful vineyard. We were both young and swimming in cash. It was a match made in Capitalist heaven.