A/N: This is me having way too much fun with John Wilmot's personality. I always thought that if The Libertine had more narration from him, the movie itself would have been so much more entertaining.

A special thanks goes out to Nytd for her wonderful beta services :)

Enjoy!

Conquests of a Well-Bred Prostitute

Chapter 1: Abduction

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Tower of London: 18 May 1665

The raw afternoons in London were the rawest, and the dense fog was the densest. The muddy streets were muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction. The Tower of London was quite possibly the largest prick in the land from here to William Wycherley's estate in Shewsberry. It was an appropriate ornament that stood fully erect for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation as our glorious King Charles would most certainly boast.

My existence is basically composed of very few truths. The first truth being that, I have committed a heinous crime, and it is a crime that clings to me, causing a perpetual state of mind where I live it over and over again. I see abduction in my dreams, and long for it.

There exists, at the bottom of all abasement and misfortune, a second truth, or perhaps, a last extreme where writing and dramatics are huddled in a desperate struggle. It was a place where passionate theatrics are waged partly by cunning and partly by violence. Though sick and ferocious, the attacks serve a purpose in degrading the prevailing social order with the pin-pricks of vice and the hammer-blows of judges and juries. She was the playhouse, my dearest of all loves who possessed the wicked vices of a blushing new whore; she was a perverse muse that set my soul ablaze.

At times, I bite the edges of my quill, beating myself out of spite as my muse calls me a fool, prompting me to look into my heart and write, for I have not written a suitable play in years.

Unlike me, many of you who have been thrown into the pinhole of London's most grandiose of pricks have accepted the situation of imprisonment and will probably die there and rot like cabbages in the sun. I, however, find myself within the fog on the Essex marshes and flowing through Kentish heights, because my mind permits me so. I will not grant them the pleasure of seeing my early demise.

Oh, how pleased they all would be to receive word from Sir John Robinson about my lifeless cabbaged corpse lying beneath a faint sliver of sunlight.

Dead!

Dead, your Majesty.

Dead, my lords and gentlemen, and more die around us, every day!

The court adores my wit, yet their longing to see me fall causes their knees to quiver with delight beneath finely embroidered petticoats and cannions, finding death far more enticing than life.

Heed my words; I will haunt them in their sleep, and their cunts will grow wet for my specter, so much so, that ladies of propriety would leave their Lords for the devil's apparition – that is a guarantee.

My ghost will travel without warning.

Some days, I will find myself creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs, lying out on the yards and hovering over the rigging of great ship. I will be the great fog that droops upon the gunwales of barges and small boats.

On my better mornings, I will be the fog in the eyes and throats of ancient London pensioners, brushing my fingers by the bosoms of their naïve wards.

Perhaps, today I shall be the fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful King, who cannot even satisfy his wife or his mistresses, let alone his country.

I am the fog that is everywhere - the fog that travels up the river, where I can flow again among green grasses of long forgotten meadows. With an exhale, I will be the fog that travels down the river, where I can roll deified among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a beautiful, but dirty city.

However, I find that another truth takes its course when I am summoned to the King's court, where charming common wisdom had it that the idea of death is more enduring than its incarnation, the concept more perfect than any conceptualization, that spirit is superior to substance. Thus, it would follow that the soul is invincible, while its physical form - the rotten cabbage - is restricted, secular and destined to become the dust beneath your boots, if we haven't become dust already.

Buffoonery.

As much as I loath the art of proper socializing, I loath the idea of solitude and domesticity that comes with living in the country substantially more than one might anticipate. I cannot breathe in the country, and all the spirits in the land cannot inebriate me long enough to forget that I bore of my company far too quickly.

The secret of reaping the greatest fruitfulness from the country comes from becoming the light upon the dark benighted way. The same light that brought my dear Elizabeth Malet to supper at Whitehall manor with Mrs. Stewart, and now each time I see her; she's got a secret smile, and she uses it just for me.

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Elizabeth Malet refused me.

Allow me to rephrase. Elizabeth Malet refused me until I took the liberty of taking the matter into my own hands, which ended up being the very same hands that made her melt with pleasure.

In spite of this, I will not boast, for now.

Instead, I will explain that you cannot expect to play the game of seduction without the proper beliefs. Not if you want to play seduction well and reap the benefits. So, this is point number one:

You need the right beliefs to play the game.

What ill figure does a woman make with all the charms of her beauty and sprightliness of her wit along with all her good humor and insinuating address?

None, actually.

Elizabeth could have been the best economist in the world, along with the most entertaining in conversation. If she remitted her guard, abate in the severity of her caution and strictness of her virtue, and neglected those methods which were necessary to keep her not only from a crime, but from the very suspicion of one, she wouldn't be half as intriguing.

In court, she spoke of her suitors, and how marriage, notwithstanding all the loose talk of the town along with the satyrs of the ancient or modern pretenders of wit, will never lose its due praise from judicious persons.

Elizabeth had much to say against the wickedness of others and imprudence of too many, and often provoked her own wonder and scorn along indignation and pity, yet she continued to think that marriage, in general, was too sacred to be treated with disrespect. Furthermore, she believed in the institution of the heavens, and marriage was the only honorable way of continuing mankind, and far be it from us to think there could have been a better route than His infinite wisdom.

Heavenly Father, forgive my dear Elizabeth Malet for the carnal trespasses she is about to commit, and help her virtue survive through the night, for the devil beckons to her.

I can recall her delicate alabaster skin, shining beneath the pale shafts of moonlight from my coach window. Cheeks warm against mine as my fingers were greased, working between her legs. Her breasts were rapidly swelling to a flaccid over-ripeness in humid eroticism as she loosened her fragrant bodice, letting her rich attire rustle to her knees.

There is no more exquisite voluptuously thrilling sight than that of a beautifully formed woman sitting naked with my hand between her clasped thighs. Her cunt was hidden by her smooth legs, and only indicated by the shade from the curls of her motte.

Then as her thighs gently opened for me and the gap in the bottom of her belly opened slightly with them, the swell of her lips showed, her delicate clitoris disclosed, and all was fringed with crisp curly hair, whilst around it all is the smooth ivory flesh of belly and thighs.

Orgasmique.

By her power, my sturdy stallion was unbuttoned, and with her hands she produced naked, stiff, and erect flesh. What a wonderful device, one she had never seen before, and which, for the interest my own seat of pleasure, she began to take furiously to it, and I stared at her with all the eyes I had. Her eagerness was a most unexpected sight.

I highly underestimated her desire, and how she longed to experience a man's cock growing inside her as it ploughed her, stretching her.

Three times I had almost lost myself in supreme rapture, and by the third time Elizabeth was madly fond of me, declaring I was a prodigy of the flesh, and that my movements were extraordinary for a man of my status and nature. I said twice that I might be quite extraordinary, but that night was naught but the beginning, although in my own mind I was proud of my performance.

For the third time she shuddered, shouting out obscenities and cursing saints as she experienced the heat of my seed coursing from her cunt, to her heart, to her brain.

I would imagine that from that day forward, Elizabeth would be on her hands and knees, but not in prayer. Instead, she would whisper her sins amidst a halfhearted confession, finding herself at the mercy of a far greater symbol of divinity, and she will beg for abduction.

God can do nothing for her now.

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