Silent Manor, Secret Passions

The manor creaked under the weight of its own silence, the kind that settles after a storm has passed and left everything rearranged. Nathan paced the grand foyer, the polished oak floors echoing his boots like accusations. It was 1887, and this sprawling estate on the outskirts of Philadelphia had served its purpose—a facade of respectability for his ventures, which the papers loved to speculate about but never quite pinned down. The staff had been dismissed earlier that afternoon, each with a purse heavy enough to buy silence or a fresh start. People believed he was already en route to what the world believed was a grand European tour. In truth, he was bound for another of his lairs, where the law's reach grew thin.

Nathan glanced at the tall windows, their heavy drapes half-drawn against the fading autumn light. The house was to be shuttered, sold off to some unwitting industrialist who fancied old money vibes. But loose ends lingered, and one of them sat in the corner now, her mouth agape in astonishement. Niomi Sanders, the housekeeper who'd run this place like a well-oiled machine for the past five years, hunched over her ledger at the small walnut desk. Her dark hair was pinned up in that severe bun, her black dress starched to perfection, but her posture screamed unease. They saw her too late!

He stood there with Harlan Crowe, the notorious criminal whose face had graced the front page of the Inquirer just last week for dodging the Pinkertons. He'd slipped in the back like a stable boy, trying to snatch a sugar roll from the kitchen. or Crowe was all bluster and cheap cigars, his coat reeking of smoke and alley grime. Nathan had arranged the meeting to offload a shipment of pilfered silks—nothing traceable, but valuable enough to fund the next phase of his operations. She heard it and saw it all. She froze, her pen hovering over the page, eyes flicking up to the intruder before darting back down.

Crowe's laugh was a bark. "You got a witness, Nate? Sloppy." He jerked his thumb at her. "Handle her. This is on your end."

Nathan's jaw tightened.

It was a slip, not checking to see if she was gone. "I will handle her." Nathan asserted.

Crowe left out the back with a huff.

The foyer fell quiet again, save for the scratch of Niomi's pen. Nathan turned to her, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over the desk. She looked up, mouth agape, her brown eyes wide with terror that she tried to mask behind a swallow. At thirty-five, widowed young with no children to tether her, Niomi had poured herself into this role—head of the maids, enforcer of order in a house full of secrets. She was diligent, proper to a fault, always addressing him as "Mr. Nathan" in front of the others to maintain decorum. But now, alone, her voice trembled as she spoke.

"I... I haven't left yet, Mr. Nathan. The accounts were off by twenty-three cents. A discrepancy I couldn't just—"

He cut her off with a raised hand, studying her. She was a good woman, wasted correcting maids, weighing delivered produce, arguing with the butcher, and tallying receipts. Beautiful in that understated way—high cheekbones, full lips pressed into a line of resolve, her figure curved generously under the confines of her dress. Her diligence had always impressed him, a quiet strength amid the chaos he wrought. But now it was a liability. Crowe’s words echoed: handle her.

Nathan felt a pang, not quite guilt, but something close. She didn't deserve the dark side of his world. "You best leave, Mrs. Sanders. Now. Take what you need from the kitchens and go. Forget what you saw."

She blinked, her hands folding in her lap. For a long moment, she said nothing, just stared at the ledger as if it held the answers to the universe. He might suffer over her error in not leaving when expected. She couldn't live with that. Then, slowly, she shook her head. "I... I can't. Not like this. The books must be right. It's the last thing I can do properly here. I think this will be the last thing I ever do."

He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite the tension. Stubborn as ever. The air between them thickened, charged with the unspoken. Nathan had admired her from afar—her serene efficiency, the way she moved through the manor like a ghost of propriety. But admiration could twist into something darker under pressure. She was a loose end, and loose ends got tied off-or cut off. Still, he decided to test her, to see if she'd bolt or bend. He could give her a chance. Frighten her, make her run off by going after propriety.

"Alright then." His voice dropped, steady and low. "If you're staying, woman, then strip."

Niomi frowned, her brow furrowing as if she'd misheard. She looked up at him, searching his face for the joke, the kindness he'd always shown—the generous bonuses, the quiet protections from his rougher associates for herself and the maids. But his green eyes were serious, shadowed with something new, something darker that made her stomach twist. This wasn't the Mr. Nathan who tipped well and asked after her late husband's memory, the man who sent the Jenny off from work early so she might buy medicine with his coin and take it to her ailing mother. This was a man unveiling layers she'd only glimpsed.

With trembling fingers, she stood, unbuttoning her dress. The fabric whispered to the floor, pooling around her ankles, followed by her petticoats, corset, and shift. She stood there naked, the cool air raising gooseflesh on her skin. Modestly, she crossed one arm over her breasts, the other hand cupping between her thighs, shielding her most private self. Her body was lush—full breasts with dark nipples hardening in the chill, a soft belly leading to wide hips, and a thatch of dark curls she hid desperately. She couldn't believe this. Sadness welled more than fear; the man she'd respected, perhaps even quietly desired in her loneliest nights, had shifted into this predator.

He'd not expected her to actually do that, nor did he anticipate his own reaction.

Nathan approached, his boots soft on the rug. He was tall, muscular from years of labor that blurred the line between legitimate business and the shadows, his shirt straining against his chest. He reached out, his rough fingers—callused from handling crates and worse—gently turning her chin up to meet his gaze. Up close, she smelled of lavender soap and ink, her skin warm despite the tremor in her limbs. She was beautiful, more so uncovered, her eyes holding a depth that stirred him.

He leaned in and kissed her, his lips firm against hers, tasting the salt of her uncertainty. His hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer, while the other caressed her arm, tracing the curve of her shoulder. But Niomi remained rigid, her body a statue, lips sealed, breath shallow. She wouldn't melt into this, wouldn't betray her principles so easily.

Nathan pulled back slightly, his breath mingling with hers. "Just tell me to stop, Mrs. Sanders. Say the word, and this ends. You walk out, and we never speak of it."

Her eyes searched his, conflicted. The good in him flickered there, buried but real. She could leave, preserve her dignity, her life as it was. But something held her—curiosity, or the ache of years alone, or the pull of the man who'd always treated her with a decency rare in his world. She said nothing, her silence a fragile consent.

"Okay, then." His voice was a rumble. "On your knees."

Niomi's breath hitched, but she sank down, the rug rough against her skin. Her knees hit the floor as Nathan's hands moved to his trousers, unfastening them with deliberate slowness. His cock sprang free, thick and engorged, veins prominent along its length, the head flushed and glistening with anticipation. She gasped, eyes widening at the sight—never had she seen a man like this, exposed and demanding. It was larger than her late husband's, intimidating in its hardness, bobbing slightly as he stepped closer.

No words, no gentle coaxing. Nathan had fantasized about this—defiling the serene propriety of her lovely face, turning her composed mouth into something raw and yielding. She stared up at him in shock, lips parted, hoping the kindness would resurface, that he'd stop this madness. But he didn't. He hoped she'd grab her clothing up and run and he'd laugh. She didn't. His hand threaded into her hair, not yanking, but guiding her forward. The tip brushed her lips, salty and warm, and she hesitated, her tongue darting out instinctively before she could think.

"Open," he murmured, and she did, her mouth enveloping the head. It filled her, stretching her lips around its girth. Nathan groaned softly, inching deeper, feeling the wet heat of her mouth, the tentative swirl of her tongue as she tried to accommodate him. She had no experience with this—oral pleasures were whispers in scandalous novels, not her reality—but instinct took over, her lips sealing around him as he began to move.

He thrust gently at first, sliding in and out, the friction building as her saliva coated him. Her hands rested on his thighs, feeling the muscle tense under her palms. Deeper he went, past her teeth, nudging the back of her throat. She gagged softly, eyes watering, but he held steady, not rough, just insistent, fucking her mouth with a rhythm that claimed her. The sensation was overwhelming—his cock pulsing against her tongue, the musky taste flooding her senses. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking without thinking, her body responding in ways that shamed her.

Nathan's hips rocked, his free hand bracing against the desk as he watched her. Her eyes, huge and pleading, locked on his, mascara from some forgotten tear smudging at the corners. He felt the build-up, the tight coil in his balls, and with a low grunt, he pushed deeper, burying himself in her throat. She choked, but held, her throat convulsing around him as he came. Hot spurts filled her mouth, thick and bitter, coating her tongue. Her eyes went impossibly wider, shock mixing with the flood—semen sliding down her throat as she swallowed reflexively, the rest dribbling from the corner of her lips. It was her first time tasting a man like this, confused disgust warring with an unwelcome heat low in her belly.

Nathan eased out, breathing hard, watching her cough and wipe her mouth. "You shouldn't have spit that out," he said softly, almost regretful, as if she'd broken some intimate rule.

Before she could respond, he lifted her effortlessly—his powerful arms scooping under her, muscles bunching like steel cables. She was no lightweight, but he handled her like she weighed nothing, depositing her on the low oak table nearby, the secondary prep table. He bent her over it initially, her breasts pressing into the wood, ass exposed, but then rethought it. With a swift motion, he flipped her onto her back, her legs lifting instinctively, knees bending as he positioned himself between them.

"You're beautiful, Mrs. Sanders," he said, his voice husky. "I want to watch you while we do this."

Niomi's heart pounded, her body splayed out, vulnerable under his gaze. Her arms still tried to cover herself, but he gently pried them away, exposing her fully. His cock, still semi-hard from her mouth, pressed against her entrance, slick from her saliva and his own arousal. She was wet—traitorously so—her folds parting as he nudged in. The stretch burned at first, his thickness invading her after years of emptiness. Her late husband had been tender, routine; this was invasion, raw and unyielding.

Nathan groaned as he sank deeper, her tight heat enveloping him inch by inch. "God, you're tight," he muttered, hands gripping her hips. He started rough, thrusts sharp and deep, the table creaking under them. Each plunge jolted her, his balls slapping against her ass, the friction building a fire she couldn't ignore. Pain mingled with pleasure, her walls clenching around him, pulling him in despite herself.

But as he moved, something shifted. The rhythm synced—the rough edges smoothing into a mutual cadence. Niomi's confusion melted into excitement, her body awakening. It had been so long since she'd felt a man, and Nathan was all man: handsome, broad-chested, his face etched with intensity. She admired him, had stolen glances at his form during his rare moments of repose. Now, he was inside her, claiming her, and she didn't feel betrayed. Instead, a hunger rose and the danger, and his dominance made it all the more erotic.

Her hips bucked up to meet his, tentative at first, then urgent. "Oh," she gasped, hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging in. He angled deeper, hitting a spot that made stars burst behind her eyes. The roughness gave way to a grinding rhythm, his cock dragging against her inner walls, the head nudging her core. Sweat slicked their skin, her breasts bouncing with each thrust, nipples grazing his chest as he leaned down.

Nathan's hands roamed— one pinching her nipple, rolling it until she arched, the other sliding between them to circle her clit. The added pressure was electric, her arousal soaking him, easing the way. She was affected now, very much so, her breaths coming in pants. "Mr. Nathan... oh God," she whispered, the formality slipping.

He drove harder, watching her face— the flush on her cheeks, the way her lips parted. Her first orgasm built fast, a wave crashing over her. She cried out, a sharp "Ah!" echoing in the empty foyer, her pussy clenching around him like a vice, pulsing as pleasure ripped through her. Juices coated his shaft, her thighs trembling against his sides.

He didn't stop, slowing only to draw it out, then picking up again. "That's it," he growled, kissing her neck, nipping the skin. The second one built slower, deeper, his thrusts varying—long and slow, then short and fast. Niomi fucked him back fully now, legs wrapping around his waist, urging him on. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him into a messy kiss, tongues tangling as she rode the edge.

When it hit, she shattered, calling out louder—"Nathan! Yes!"—her voice breaking as her body convulsed, walls milking him in rhythmic squeezes. He followed moments later, burying deep and nutting inside her, hot jets filling her to the brim, a creamy warmth that leaked out as he stayed seated within.

They lingered like that, breaths mingling, his hands still caressing—fingers tracing her breasts, her cheek, the curve of her neck. A smile played on his lips, satisfied and almost tender. Niomi lay there, spent, her body humming with aftershocks, semen trickling down her thighs onto the table.

Nathan stepped back finally, tucking himself away, fastening his trousers with casual efficiency. Fear flickered in her eyes then—what now? Would he silence her, as Crowe implied? The vulnerability hit hard, her nudity a stark reminder of her surrender.

"I'm taking you from here," he said, helping her sit up, his tone matter-of-fact but warm. She slid to her side on the table, legs dangling, watching him warily. His smile was warm, genuine. "You're so much more suited to be a wife than just staff. Perhaps I can persuade you to become mine. You can't testify against me then."

She blinked, processing. Handled, indeed. Her life upended over twenty-three cents—she'd chosen that issue just to extend for even a few minutes, her time with Mr. Nathan, dreading that parting, but she never anticipated overhearing that meeting and never thought it'd only cost twenty-three cents to extend their time together to a lifetime!