|Tybalt and Rosaline
by CRaZy ©
Tybalt stormed from his Uncle's banquet in a foul, black mood. How dare his uncle allow Romeo to attend their party! How dare Romeo, his very name enough to bring bile to the mouth of any Montague, dance and laugh and flirt with his enemies, barely hiding his true identity behind a flimsy mask! Tybalt knew that he could not fight with Romeo tonight. He knew it would be too obvious that it was he who began the conflict and the consequences would be dire. However, he also knew that there was one who Romeo cared for above all else. It was in this way that Tybalt would seek his revenge.
The fair, chaste, eighteen year old Rosaline had left with mixed feelings. Unlike her friends, she was determined to never marry. She had seen her mother subjugated and abused by her father, even in front of the servants and had no desire to be possessed by any man. As the only child, she hoped to inherit her father's house, and live independently for the rest of her days. She was well aware that Romeo was desperately in love with her. In spite of her own misgivings, she often felt her heart quicken a little when he was near. So many times she had caught him gazing dolefully at her, as if in a trance, and her knees had trembled slightly. Her well rehearsed, icy stare and haughty demeanour ensured that he never suspected any womanly weakness behind her conviction.
Tonight, she chose to walk home alone, not with her friends as she normally did. She was perplexed. She had spied Romeo at the Capulet's banquet, but he had failed to even glimpse at her, let alone speak. His sudden unwillingness to acknowledge her stirred an irrational despondency. As she walked towards her home, Rosaline felt a strange foreboding. She stopped. Listened. Looked behind. Yet only shadows of the buildings and distant shouts of other revelers making their way home disturbed the night.
After she had used her key to open the iron gate of her home and reached the porch, she felt a presence directly behind her. With no time to call out, strong, cruel hands engulfed her mouth and she felt herself being swept up, then carried swiftly to the small servants' door at the back of the house. It was unlocked and her captor entered with confidence, eventually stopping at a small disused maid's room at the far end of the house. He threw her roughly on an old, fusty mattress, expertly lighting a candle which flickered across his chiseled features. She saw that he was tall and well built, his countenance set in a permanent leer. She shivered uncontrollably as he placed his firm jaw close to her face.
He stood for a moment staring, her low cut ball gown, carefully designed to emphasise her growing womanhood was now disheveled as she sat on the far corner of the mattress. He took in her whole body in one quick sweep; her unmarked skin, the pink nipples surging from her bodice, the shapely curves now visible as her gown ruffled around her thighs. It was her eyes he noticed most. Deepest brown. Steely. Determined. Unrelenting. He knew her reputation; whisperings that her parents were afraid she was now too old to marry a suitable gentleman, rumours of amorous suitors who had been rendered impotent by her chilly disposition. The girl was obviously afraid, but she sat tall and proud and ultimately defiant before him. He felt powerful surges of something more than just revenge in his loins.
Tybalt had one purpose in this encounter. "Come here you worthless vixen," he scowled, grabbing her long, ebony locks and pulling her upright before him. "Young Romeo wants to play games does he? Well so be it, but I will make sure his one desire, the thing he weeps for day and night; your glorious maidenhead will not be his." Rosaline noted his dark expression, his singular lack of compassion and inwardly shuddered. She continued to stare straight ahead, almost through him, Tybalt noted, but she did not flinch.
In her mind, Rosaline was a tumult of emotions. She did not want to be taken by any man. Not Tybalt. Not Romeo. Not any of the lovesick fools who serenaded and brought her flowers. She prized her chastity above all else and had intended to retain it forever. She considered screaming, but the stone walls were thick in this section of the house. Tybalt had firmly barred the heavy door, so any deed would be committed before it was knocked down. Worse, it would be the servants who would hear. She could not bear to have the streets of Verona whispering her humiliation. To see her married friends shaking their heads in pity. To hear her mother's friends admonishing about the consequences for stubborn girls. Girls who did not marry and remain safely behind the guarded walls of their husband's house.
The unaired room smelt powerfully of old wine, cobwebs and an indefinable musk. As he bent closer towards her, Rosaline realised this scent was emanating from Tybalt's skin, eliciting a slight quickening of her heartbeat. Tybalt too, noted the powdery fragrance of Rosaline which fought to overwhelm the mustiness of the room. He roughly brought his mouth down on her soft, rouged lips which she held firmly together, his entire frame pressing into her small body. Angrily, he bit them, her momentary yelp causing her lips to part momentarily, allowing his tongue to rasp in and out, his breath and saliva claiming victory over her futile attempts to resist. His hands tugged her hair so taut, Rosaline thought it would tear from her scalp.
Rosaline had never felt such pain. Her head was burning. Her lips were bruised. She felt his powerful arms push her forcefully back onto the mattress. He held her there, one hand pressing on her torso, the other withdrawing his well honed dagger. She knew his reputation. Knew he was skilled in its use. She had seen the aftermath of his fights on the street. Her physical pain diminished as real fear threatened to overpower her defiant exterior. "Lie flat on your back you bitch. Be very, very still," he ordered as he pressed the dagger against her private mound. Slowly, ever so slowly, he drew it upwards, cutting a slit in the layers of dress as he went, past her navel, past her breasts, until the dress was neatly torn along the front. Dismissively, he flicked the material to each side, so that Rosaline lay exposed, her blossoming breasts firm and quivering, her pubis covered with the finest down of almost invisible hair. Tybalt sliced underneath the sleeves of the dress, removing any last vestiges of material which protected her body. The sudden movement startled Rosaline and she leapt, the cold, ruthless point of the dagger making contact with the delicate flesh under her left arm. "You want to be cut bitch?" questioned Tybalt, his fiery eyes glaring at her wickedly. "Your turn now," he muttered, dragging her to her feet.
Rosaline had shuddered slightly at the touch of the sharp metal, yet she felt a stirring in her stomach and goose bumps forming on her arms as the dagger ventured further along her body. She watched Tybalt's face and was sure that she had noted a small intake of breath as his eyes feasted on her nakedness. Even in her despair, Rosaline was strangely pleased to find that she was indeed attractive to this man.
Tybalt was a torrent of emotion. He had taken plenty of girls by force. Serving wenches at the inns. Poor wretches living on the streets whom he encountered on his way home from drinking and dining. He had not hesitated. It was always over in minutes. He simply pushed them face up against a wall, lifted their skirts and thrust inside whichever hole was most readily available. He would deposit his residue, the women a mere receptacle for his bodily fluids. Sometimes, if nature demanded, he would withdraw himself temporarily and pee on the buttocks and legs of the recipient of his lust before re-entering and spurting his more potent juices. No, Tybalt was not squeamish about using women to meet his carnal needs.
It was therefore with surprise that Tybalt found himself wanting to prolong this pantomime rather than proceeding quickly as would have been prudent under the circumstances. He placed Rosaline before him and held the dagger firmly against her outer pussy lips. Rosaline was faintly aware of the metal touching, but not cutting into, her most precious flesh. "Here's the rules," Tybalt grunted. "You undress me. Carefully! At no point do you touch my skin. If you do...." Tybalt laughed cruelly, leaving the threat unspoken.
Rosaline hesitated. She gingerly reached for his coat, testing the amount of movement she could undertake without the sharp point piercing her flesh. With deliberate slowness, she removed the clothes from his upper body, lifting his shirt to reveal a well toned, hairless chest. In spite of the situation, she found herself making comparisons with Romeo's somewhat leaner build. Her hands trembled as she untied his pants, sliding them over his hips, until they fell to his ankles. She blinked hard, determined not to think about the ever so real flesh just inches from her unexplored body.
Tybalt was shocked and aroused as never before. Rosaline had stared into his eyes with cold fascination the entire time she undressed him. She never looked down. She never looked sideways. She barely blinked. He could not help but admire her perfectly balanced features and her fiery unwillingness to submit. He wordlessly lifted her onto the mattress, mindful of his mission. He held the dagger at her throat and placed her sideways. He lay with his stomach pressing into her back, his throbbing desperate cock begging at the entrance to her chastity. Leaning over, he expected to see her eyes closed in preparation for the onslaught, only to find them still insistently calm and wide as they met his gaze with no flinch of emotion.
His tense body softened and to Rosaline's amazement he almost whispered, "Please, show me some fear, some emotion and it will be better for you. I will be gentle. Just show me." At first, there was no change in her tight expression. Tybalt sighed and pressed hard against her, his cock forcing her pussy lips apart. Then he noticed it, a single tear, sliding from her left eye and delicately painting her cheek. He stopped, licked it with his tongue, its salty freshness sending even more signals to his engorged manhood. He stroked her cheek for a moment, then reached his hands round to her breasts, circling the nipples gently with his fingers, till he felt them become erect. He placed his hand over Rosaline's heart and wondered at the quickness of its beat, the gradual increase in tempo of her breathing. He placed the dagger behind him, letting his hand slide further, till he touched her secret place and she squirmed slightly from the unfamiliar touch. He stopped, rested his hand for a moment, then slid one finger onto her clit, allowing the gradual increase in pressure to work its magic on her body as a familiar wetness spread onto her thighs.
Rosaline lay still, a little ashamed that she had revealed her innermost feelings to this beast, yet her body felt light, as though a summer's day had just entered the cold, dank, little room. She did not find the feeling exactly pleasant, because she liked to be in control, yet, she was also afraid that the sensations might stop. She was further concerned by the unfamiliar fluids her body was emitting, yet afraid to ask. Tybalt had not acted as though anything was amiss. She would take her cues from him.
Eventually, Tybalt slid her onto her back, pushing her knees against her chest. He knelt before her, between her legs, and for the first time she dared to look at the object of her downfall. It was large and purple and quite thick she noted. Now her tears began to flow more freely. A fear of pain. A sense of loss. A relinquishing of power. Tybalt remained in that position a long time, pressing against her outer lips, letting her regain her composure. He used his fingers to open the folds and placed the pulsating head of his cock against her clit. He wondered at his control as he rocked back and forth in steady rhythm, reading the gradual climax as it built on her face, eventually shattering in waves of liquid which spurted against him and a frenzy of moans which he feared could wake the servants.
Tybalt had never seen a girl look more beautiful than Rosaline did right now. Her perfect face was flushed and trusting. The frailty of her tiny body made him feel bulky and awkward. He felt discomforted, almost ashamed, at his desperation to destroy the purity which lay before him.
As her moans weakened, he slid in further, the lubrication easing his journey, till he felt the object of her pride guarding his further travel. He reached for his dagger, lifted her right hand, and abruptly pierced the tip of her index finger. A look of shock, pain and confusion at the stinging sensation registered on her face as she saw the trickle of blood begin to seep from the wound. She opened her mouth to protest, but stopped, her consciousness becoming aware of a greater sensation - that of having a man's flesh buried deep within her for the first time. She smiled slightly at the cleverness of this ruse, eliciting the most overwhelming feelings of tenderness Tybalt had ever known. He did not move, taking her finger and sucking it till the red liquid ceased to ooze.
Tybalt fought the desire coursing through his veins with every fibre in his being. Her skin velvet soft against his muscular body. Her special opening tight and gossamer smooth around his pulsating hardness. When he did begin to thrust, Tybalt knew that he had no resistance left. A series of short, deep plunges, before coming all the way out of Rosaline's beautiful, silky entrance and thrusting with all his might, resulted in a torrent of boiling, dangerous fluid flowing deep into Rosaline's ovaries. Rosaline gasped uncontrollably at the dual sensations of feeling a man cum in her for the first time and seeing Tybalt so incredibly vulnerable. As he lay there spent, his breathing laboured, the object of her violation still within her, she heard him mutter, almost inaudibly, "Thank you for this gift."
A tiny shaft of light warned the slumbering couple of impending daylight. Tybalt slid from the mattress and dressed as Rosaline watched him, partly with admiration, partly with stirrings of love for this complex man. "I have business," he said simply. " Leave this door open tonight and I shall return." A brush on her lips, a quick glance at her injured finger, a playful touch of his dagger against her neck, and he was gone.
That afternoon as they carried his lifeless body through the streets of Verona, no-one noticed the look of despair on the face of the imperious Rosaline. No-one ever mourned her loss of love. No-one ever built her a gold statue. She remained, in the eyes of the Verona citizens, a stubborn, chaste old maid. Now and then her chambermaid would wonder about the rusting, ageing dagger lying on Rosaline's bed, its shine gradually fading with her memory and the passage of time.
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