And was Philomena beautiful…
She was 18 now, of prime marriageable age and the thought of having her in his bed made his loins quiver. He would be lying if he said he didn’t desire her. She was tall, athletically built but not as muscled as her mother as Philomena preferred running and archery over swords. He would be lying if he said he didn’t dream of her. The last dream he had was of her laying naked under a thin sheet of fabric, the roundness of her breasts showing, her long black hair fanned out on the pillowed. She’d call to him, yet when he would reach her she’s disappear and he’s wake up; feeling sexually frustrated and needing a release. It was then that he’d call a servant girl but he would imagine her to be Philomena.
This was quickly becoming an obsession, a slightly unhealthy obsession but Dorian didn’t care. Philomena was the prize any man would want, and he was going to make sure that she would be his. He didn’t care what he had to do.
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