Marriage of Convenience

The room of the Riverhill estate, located not far from Saint Agnes Abbey, was drowned in the soft golden light of late afternoon. Tall windows with stained glass inserts let the rays spill across the dark oak wall panels and the heavy velvet curtains the color of ripe cherries. The air carried the thick scent of lavender water mixed with the faint smell of old wood and dust.

Charlotte Riverhill, née Charlotte Winters before her marriage to Lord Henry Riverhill, stood motionless, almost defiantly, as if deliberately resisting every movement of the maid. Her shoulders leaned slightly forward, her back tense, while her heavy, unyielding gaze fixed itself on the large portrait of the man hanging opposite her in a gilded frame.

It was him, her future fiancé, Sir Edmund Blackthorn, a fifty-seven-year-old widower with thick gray sideburns and a heavy, commanding face. In the portrait he looked even harsher than in the descriptions sent by his solicitors: his deep-set eyes stared coldly, his lips were tightly pressed together, and his chin jutted forward as though the master already demanded obedience in advance. Charlotte felt her insides twist at the mere sight of that face.

“A little gentler...” Charlotte hissed through clenched teeth, though her voice, despite the anger she struggled to suppress, came out soft, almost elegant, and that only made her shudder harder. “You’re tightening it like you’re trying to strangle me.”

“My apologies, milady,” the maid answered quickly without lifting her eyes, yet her narrow, surprisingly firm hands did not loosen the laces by even a fraction. “But you read it yourself, Sir Edmund specifically wrote in his last letter: ‘Let her waist be that of a true lady.’ He wants you to look perfect. And he sent this dress precisely so everyone could see how beautiful you are.”

Charlotte let out a short, venomous snort. “Specifically wrote.” Yet just half a year ago, if anyone had dared say something like that to Charlotte, then still known as Adam Reed, he would not have hesitated for a second before smashing that person so hard they would forget not only about “instructions,” but their own name too. And he certainly would not be standing here now, gritting his teeth while allowing this cursed corset to be tightened around him, digging into his ribs, crushing his breathing and, far worse, emphasizing every line of this hated body.

But thanks to the “Second Breath” program, which promised early release to every prisoner willing to participate, she was now trapped somewhere in the past. Or more precisely, in another dimension where she had been born as Charlotte Winters, daughter of an impoverished noble family, raised to become a profitable match rather than a person with a will of her own.

If only Adam had known about any of this... But no. He had not even suspected something like this was possible. He had simply sat down in that chair and closed his eyes, already thinking about how he would walk free, order that greasy taco with hot sauce from the cheap diner outside the prison gates, and finally taste real life again instead of prison slop.

Instead there had only been a brief flash, followed by that unforgettable sensation of falling, as if he had been ripped out of his body and hurled into emptiness. When his vision returned, Adam was no longer sitting in the chair. He... she... was on top. Right on top of a skinny, hairy man whom Adam had never treated gently in prison, always sending him around on petty errands and using him as a “lackey.”

But then he had been the one on top of that “lackey.” And not just “on top,” but actually riding him, feeling heavy tits bouncing with every downward movement, slapping against her own ribs with a dull, wet sound. That was when he screamed, a high-pitched feminine scream, utterly unfamiliar to him, bursting from his throat on its own while the body kept moving from sheer momentum, hips wrapped tightly around the man’s sides, while something hot and thick pulsed deep inside her, filling her all the way up to her stomach.

That evening Charlotte became a widow. Lord Henry Riverhill’s heart could not survive that scream. And perhaps that had even been good for Charlotte. Because inside, she still remained Adam, a rough thirty-three-year-old convict nicknamed “Scar,” serving his third sentence for aggravated assault and a couple of robberies, a man who had spent his entire life despising “weaklings,” and women even more, seeing them as nothing more than pleasant entertainment for an hour.

The lacing jerked tighter once again.

“That’s enough,” Charlotte snapped sharply, no longer trying to hide her irritation.

The maid froze for a second.

“Milady?”

“What’s the point of all this anyway? Isn’t it enough that I already agreed to this bullshit?”

The last word, one Adam once would not even have noticed, sounded in these walls and in that delicate voice almost sacrilegious.

The maid flinched.

Her fingers loosened for a brief moment, but almost immediately pulled the lacing tight again, as though trying to make up for what she had just heard.

“Milady… you’re doing it again...” she said quietly, clearly unsure how to react, yet with the weary tone of someone who had heard this far too often over the last six months. “You… shouldn’t speak that way.”

Charlotte exhaled sharply, feeling how the corset, even slightly loosened, still crushed her ribs, forcing her already large breasts to rise and fall high with every breath. The heavy mounds swayed in the deep neckline, the lace trim barely keeping them contained, while the pendant on its thin chain rested snugly right between them, the cold metal pleasantly contrasting against her heated skin.

“Shouldn’t?” Charlotte turned halfway around to look at the maid. Her rough cheekbones, heavy stare, and tense lips made her face appear almost masculine against all the feminine clothing. “And what exactly should I do, Elizabeth? Smile at that old goat while he stares at my tits?”

Elizabeth lowered her eyes.

“Forgive me, milady...” Eliza said carefully, taking half a step back. “I only wish for you to appear... respectable.”

Charlotte let out a short, bitter laugh.

“Respectable,” she repeated, slowly running a palm across her cleavage. Her fingers brushed warm skin, felt the weight of the breasts that now belonged to her, and immediately imagined that old shriveled bastard squeezing them with his dry, bony fingers. The thought made her stomach tighten, and her nipples stiffened again, showing through the thin lace as two visible bumps.

“Ugh!” escaped her in disgust, and she sharply turned away, as though the mere thought of his touch felt physically real.

Elizabeth shuddered.

“Milady...” A faint blush crossed her face, but she still found the courage to lift her gaze. “Please... at least today... try to restrain yourself. He... he is already on his way.”

Charlotte inhaled slowly.

“Fuck, Elizabeth, remind me again why we’re doing all this bullshit?”

The maid froze for a second, as though she had heard that question before, not once or twice, but dozens of times over the past months, every single time with that same mixture of anger, exhaustion, and some deep, almost animal rejection she herself could never fully understand.

“Because you are a widow, milady,” Elizabeth answered softly, carefully adjusting the lace trim on Charlotte’s shoulder. “And because society does not allow a woman in your position to remain alone. Besides, they would simply throw you out of the estate and leave you with nothing. The debts of the late Lord Henry hang over you like a heavy burden. And Sir Edmund Blackthorn is the only man willing to take a widow with such a... questionable past.”

Charlotte snorted and turned to look directly at Elizabeth, making her breasts sway while the pendant rocked gently between the deep cut of her dress.

“Or maybe to hell with all of this, Elizabeth,” she said in that soft yet rough voice where Adam “Scar” could still clearly be heard beneath Charlotte. “Maybe we say screw that old bastard with his sideburns and fancy portrait. We climb into a carriage right now, go wherever the road takes us, and live together. You and me. As lesbians. You can lick my tits and this fucking pussy in the mornings, and I’ll make you cum from exhaustion in the evenings. No stinking men, no corsets, no ‘milady, smile for your fiancé.’ Just the two of us. What do you say, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth went pale.

Her eyes widened as if it was not her mistress standing before her now, but something far more dangerous. Her fingers trembled, and she suddenly stumbled back a step, quickly and nervously crossing herself three times in a row.

“Lord Jesus, milady...” she whispered in a shaking voice, retreating another step. “What are you saying? That... that is a sin! A mortal sin! Saint Agnes, have mercy on us...” Elizabeth crossed herself again, this time faster, almost convulsively. “You are not yourself. It is all from the nerves before meeting Sir Edmund. I... I shall fetch you lavender water, or perhaps some valerian drops... Just please, do not say such things again. If anyone heard you... if even a word reached the priest or Sir Edmund’s solicitors...”

Charlotte exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes.

“Yes, yes, Saint Agnes, sins, hell, and all that crap...” she muttered, waving her hand irritably. “Calm down already.”

She turned away and crossed the room, her heels softly clicking against the parquet floor.

“You really are...” she snorted more quietly. “Fucking medieval.”

Elizabeth stood there still tense, clutching the edge of her apron tightly in her fingers.

“Milady...” she began cautiously.

“Fine,” Charlotte cut her off sharply. “Enough.”

She stopped before the mirror and stared at her reflection for a very, very long time: at the carefully arranged hair, at the slender neck with its pendant, at the heavy, hated breasts, and at the face that still looked so familiar and yet so far removed from the rough Adam she used to be.

Her lips twisted into a grimace.

"Alright," she said quietly again, not taking her eyes off the mirror as she sank back into her thoughts. 'It doesn’t get hard on this old fart anyway… it doesn’t… definitely not…'