13. Denial
Chapter 13
Denial
C elestine’s courtship continued, and her world became the stern discipline of devotion. Tristien was a strict and alluring master. She found herself constantly wanting to please him.
The world before coming to him faded further and further, including her family, her first love, and even her goal of courtship. The future was his praise. That was all that existed.
Each morning, Celestine woke to the soft kiss of silken ribbons straining against her flesh. Some evenings, Tristien hung her from the ceiling in varying poses.
Tristien’s bindings, his floggings, his spankings, the way he hoisted her, stretched her, stressed her…it all led somewhere. Her eyes would glaze over with the agony of pressure until, finally, he took her to a place where she felt like she was lying in his arms in a warm meadow. She was art; she was his tapestry, and he continued to push her body and lust to boiling limits.
When that limit was reached, she whimpered into his arms once the ropes slackened. She knew peace.
The coldness of this dance made her heart numb. It only pulsed with fire when he broke her and she sought his comfort.
Every nerve ending in her body slowly betrayed her, seeking his control instead of her own. Celestine watched, unable to bring herself to stop her body and mind from nestling into his tight control. She never sought to stop it from happening.
Sometimes, in the night, Tristien would extend her agony. It was difficult to surrender when he teased her, when she felt his fingers upon her, coaxing and prodding, spreading, until she was gushing in his strong palm.
When she woke in the mornings, she stood at attention for him. She always wore the collar. He would guide her then, bathe her in the tub, massage her body, and then dress her. At breakfast, he selected what she ate.
“I know exactly what your body needs, little bride.”
“Yes, Tristien,” she would say with a smile.
Some portions of the day, she was the lady of the estate. But the majority of it was spent among the servants.
The day’s labor would begin. Sometimes attendants and bonded servants would cross the wrong path, taking in a view of her bent over scrubbing or polishing. She saw the fear in their eyes, and Tristien would send them chastised from the room with a quick shout or a growl.
This realm belonged to him. It was his to punish as he saw fit.
Each day, there were fewer choices she needed to make. What to wear. What to eat. Even what to think. Before coming to Calendar, this would have troubled Celestine greatly. To take someone’s choice was the most heinous theft.
With Tristien, Celestine learned worship. Adoration. Her quim trembled when he was near, wanting his attention. Her mouth would water at the sight of his flesh.
Yet he never entered her. He explained each evening that it would be soon, that she needed to trust him.
Tristien knew the facet of her soul that sought to be enslaved, to be instructed. He didn’t move against this newfound nature. He found the submerged part of it, picked it up, and polished it with his whip, his bindings.
Until it shone, wet and pleading, above him.
His paddle was a kiss. His flog was a tongue. His whip was the rending of her soul apart. After each tender session she found beautiful care in his arms. He was putting her back together.
Celestine worked the fields more and more, and when she did, lost in her labor among the bonded and attendants, among some lords and ladies playing at servitude, the world became hypnotic. The feel of the sun on her skin. The sound of the scythe upon the wheat.
There was a spell in his realm. A trance, and the more she noticed it, the more powerless she was to escape it. She was drowning and he hands never even reached towards the surface for air.
She turned to the sky, feeling the sun all over her, knowing this was her place in the world.
That evening, she finished her chores and duties with morbidly placid resignation. There was nothing in the future, and the past didn’t matter.
Tristien watched her intently, sipping wine, eyes dancing over her exposed flesh in the short gown. The manor became her universe. His eyes, his small smirk and praise were the sun and stars she lived by. Nothing else existed.
Celestine turned to him. Everything felt slow now.
“What are you doing to me?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. The Lord of Summer stared at his project. After a few moments, her body betrayed her and yearned for his touch again. In the corner of the room, she saw Captain Aidric appear. His mirrored face stared at her blankly. If he said anything to her, she did not hear.
That night, Tristien lashed her against the wall, stripped her gown from her body, and whipped her. The lash danced once, arcing up her back in searing agony. She arrived instantly, straining against her shackles.
My flesh is a runaway steed, and my mind cannot pull it back.
“Now, you are mine.” Tristien coiled his lash.
Celestine glanced back over her shoulder, lost in the lust of this subjugation. When she tried to think of home, her father, Lord Encarmine… they were dreams. Dreams that were dreamt by someone else.
Tristien stepped forward and undid her bindings. Her back was bleeding, but he reached out, touching her, and her flesh knitted, the cooling touch burning away her wound with the essence of summer.
He turned her from the wall. She was unsteady, drunk on his sacred abuse.
“I’m so proud of you.”
Celestine nodded. “I felt you in the field. On my skin.”
“Yes.”
“And then I heard you among the scythes as they fell.”
“Yes.” He smiled.
Celestine stared at him. He was so beautiful. So agonizingly fair. She wasn’t worthy to be here. To sleep at the foot of his bed.
“Come,” Tristien looped a yellow ribbon through her collar and pulled her towards the bed. “You may sleep in the bed this evening.”
Celestine shut her eyes, tears coming to her face. Everywhere she looked, she saw him. Especially when he wasn’t there. Each task she completed was for him. Each hour in the fields, she walked upon his very body. He rewarded her so greatly now. It felt unworthy.
She crawled on top of the covers to him. The vast featherbed of canary yellow, the windows showing the failing sun outside, falling, like her loss of self.
Tristien pulled her leash closer and closer.
He stopped when her head came to his lap.
“Take it out, Final Bride.”
It was a trick. It had to be. Celestine glanced for the door, not to escape but because she should leave. She shouldn’t touch him. Dirty him.
“Come back to me.” Tristien held her chin and locked eyes with her.
They stared at one another. Celestine felt only fog. Her mind was mist. But his blue eyes, bright like the Summer sky, seared the vapor away.
“Tristien,” Celestine whispered.
“Yes,” he said with a soft smile. “You’ve done so well. Now serve me. Suck the seed from my body.”
“May I…” Celestine began to ask, then stopped herself.
“May you what?”
“May I taste some when it comes? I need it in me. Please.”
Tristien stared at her, then, finally, he nodded.
Celestine’s hands became eager. It was strange to see her wrists without rope or shackles. She was a freed animal, finally allowed at the trough.
His trousers parted like wheat in the field. A long pale, thick cock was her bounty. She lifted and sucked on him eagerly as if she were dying of thirst. Though her quim cried out for her attention, she couldn’t help but feast on his size with both hands.
As in all things, Tristien told her exactly what to do.
“That’s it, Celestine. More. Take more.” He watched her patiently as she struggled. “You’re such a good bride for me. Now breathe.”
Celestine gagged on the cock of a demigod. Semi-hard in her mouth, she sucked and slurped, breathing in and out. This was paradise. It was a harvest of summer. She withdrew from his length, coughing.
“Do not cease your ministrations,” Tristien ordered. “Stroke with your hands, both of them.”
“Yes, Tristien.”
“Worship me.”
What else is there to worship, but you?
Celestine moaned and fell back upon him, bobbing her head, slamming the cock into her throat over and over, battering the pain and swelling away with raw needful lust.
“Good girl.”
His cock was a mess, growing. Covered in her saliva, it glistened in the candlelight.
“You want to see it?”
“Yes,” Celestine gurgled, taking the cock from her filthy mouth. “Please, come for me, Tristien. Let me taste it.”
“Kneel on the floor,” he commanded and stood from the bed.
His control was absolute, even here, as she saw his lust freeing itself.
Usually, Tristien watched her every move, like an alchemist staring at a measurement of ingredients. It had been Celestine’s secret hope that his desire would have finally eroded the tight grip he held over himself and her, and he would take her.
I feel nothing except his strike and his praise. If that cock entered me, maybe it would be a third sensation.
Though her memory now abandoned her, she did remember bits and pieces of time with another Lord. She remembered the color red. It seemed so out of place. There was haze, or mist, and the sound of metal on metal and horses screaming.
Here and now, as she knelt on the floor, her mouth-watering to be used, ridden, worn…there was no promise of release. This torment and binding could go on forever for all she knew. She didn’t love it. Celestine knew this as she knelt upon the cold stone floor. Love was nothing compared to craving. Compared to the thirst she felt.
Tristien stood over her, the length of his manhood so formidable. It would stretch her, break her, she knew. She hoped.
But not today.
The beautiful eyes of her Lord of Summer stared down at her with icy precision.
“Feast on me, yield it. Bring it from me.”
Celestine leaned forward with abandon. As she took more and more of his length into her mouth and throat, eyes watering, her cunt sang to her. Pleaded with her. Wanting more. But Tristien leaned low as she took him, forcing her head into his abdomen. She snorted, cock and saliva choking her. She coughed slop onto him, but he held her there, bringing her forward.
Silken ribbon lashed through her collar, which he positioned behind her, so the ring was at the back of her neck and racing down her spine, across her midriff, until her wrists were bound behind her back. She serviced him, her beautiful lord.
“Yes,” Tristien groaned, his voice filling with more timbre. She glanced up, mouth and throat full, into his proud eyes. There, she saw the flicker of the Season within him.
“You are nothing but a filthy creature,” Tristien hissed as he pressed into her. “Vermin, on the floor, begging for scraps. But you please me, so I will reward you.”
Celestine’s eyes rolled to the back of her head at his praise. Her body was filled with heat, her tendons straining against her bindings. Closer and closer, she raced. Seeking his essence, his seed.
“Yes…” Tristien growled. He withdrew from her mouth. She groaned deeply, seeking his cock, but he moved her mouth to the side of his shaft. Her lips and tongue were used like a mitt upon the side of his length.
Strong hands gripped her skull, using her like a toy. Celestine’s head moved back and forth. She was property. Filthy property that he blessed her world to visit upon.
“Now…” Tristien stared down at her. She sucked greedily upon the flesh he offered her. She would eat and taste what she could.
“Behold, Celestine…” Tristien murmured, his voice growing deeper.
She stared as her head was drawn back and forth along his length, feeling his cock spasm. Her hands should be servicing him. This cock should be inside her.
He trembled and broke, and his left hand curled into a fist of her hair as his right hand stroked his cock, a long rope of pearls erupting from him in a beautiful arc.
It’s a pearled whip.
But the lash did not land on her face or chest, not on her thighs. She groaned in dismay, fighting her bindings, mouth out like a hungry beast as he stroked rope after rope of beautiful seed past her face. He denied her. Not even letting her taste his flesh. She stared down at the ground where his seed wetted the cold stone on the ground.
“Tristien,” she begged. She knew he was staring at her, but she was transfixed on the wasted come on the ground.
He held her hair tight. She strained against the bindings, seeking to clean some of his come at his thick head. Tristien gripped his cock and turned it to her, keeping it just out of reach. The collar tightened around her neck, and she pushed against her bindings.
“Please…” she groaned. The world felt so grey. It would always be grey.
Finally, Tristien loosed her leash, the silk running through his fingertips. She dove forward, feeling such abandon. Her lips and tongue latched onto his swollen cockhead, tasting his seed finally.
Summer and sunshine flooded into her. She trembled at its warmth, the vibrancy of it. Every moment of her life, whatever that had been, had brought her to this moment. She bent to the cold stone ground without asking, hands bound behind her.
“Clean it up.”
Celestine dove eagerly, her tongue slathering out, tasting his seed cold on the filthy ground. She would need to scrub this room again. When she tasted his essence, she knew truly she was nothing but a whore, a tramp. Worse than that. A whore was paid. A whore had control. Tristien had molded her into nothing but a reactionary creature, a scampering little drab that cleaned and serviced him.
It didn’t matter. Nothing did. If this was her reward today, she would take it. She ran her tongue around the flagstone, line after line, eating his seed. Cold from his body, it tasted like summer ending, and each morsel she drank and ate made her crave it more. This was the essence of a demigod.
Tristien held her silken leash, staring down at her prone body. A flog appeared in his hand. She knew it from the sound it made even in the air. Then she felt the strong thump against her ass. Several tails of it curled down and stung her quim with perfect precision, one to the left, one to the right, and one that crested across her clit, stinging her in such fabulous torment.
“Ahhh…” Celestine mumbled. She could end this with a single word. It was their way. She could leave her with a single word.
She didn’t want to.
The flogging continued. Each thud of the tails across her sex was the sweetest sting. Tristien continued, berating her, degrading her, bindings tightening as his lust grew.
“Please Tristien…”Celestine murmured. “Take me. I cannot take it any longer.”
Her Lord of Summer laughed, but he pulled her leash to the vastness of their bed. Celestine tried to climb on top of him.
Tristien sat up against the back of the bed, legs spread, beckoning her to come forth. He made her sit between his legs, encircling her from behind. He still held her leash tight, the collar around her neck choking her slightly.
“Open your mouth,” Tristien held the end of the flog in front of her face. She wanted to protest, not because she didn’t want it, but she wanted more. She wanted him.
It continued until the handle of the flog was coated with her saliva. He then slid the handle lower and lower into her quim. He latched the end of the leash onto a rung on the bed, pulling her back towards him.
It felt so good with him wrapped around her. She strained against the collar, and he slid the handle inside slowly, drawing in and out. Her quim responded, she had been drenched for hours. She seemed to be wet always now. It didn’t even take seeing him, just cleaning his manor, administering her duties. This was her reward. It was more than she deserved.
Tristien slid the flog handle into her cunt, forcing her to spread her legs. She stared down at his beautiful hands twirling around her clit, slowly building and striding into her over and over.
He knew her. What she needed. His hand danced from her clit to her nipples, to holding her side, sliding down her abdomen. Several times, he withdrew the flog when her lust rose, denying her release, stuffing the rod into her mouth to taste her own shame.
Again.
And again.
Until she was begging to come. Begging and moaning.
“Please, Tristien, please…” she was squealing now. Her body was tender. Her muscles were sore from a life of labor. How long had she been here? It did not matter. Time didn’t move here when she was with him. When she worked in the manor or his fields.
“Well done,” Tristien whispered in her ear, tongue darting out. He sucked on her neck, holding her left breast tenderly as he picked up the pace, fucking her with the handle of the whip.
Celestine’s climax approached, something so long denied, like chasing a beautiful mare in the fields somewhere. The heat of his thighs, the muscles on his body, and the strain of the leash was all perfect.
“That’s it…” Tristien fucked her deeper and deeper, twisting and turning the ridges of the whip’s handle inside her. Celestine’s mouth opened. She was close… so close… she had been denied for so long.
“I’ll be good,” she pouted. “I’ll be so fucking good, for you.”
Her heart thundered. Her nipples grew harder and harder. His left hand raced down to her sopping clit, grinding it faster and faster as he penetrated her with the whip. He knew her cadence. She was his. Nothing and no one else’s, for this reason. He read her like a book. Not one he found, but one he ripped the pages from and rewrote to his own liking.
“Yes,” Celestine huffed.
In and out, in and out. Her back arched, the collar choking off her airway. He worked her quim faster and faster, outside and in, until she—
“Tristiennnn…” Celestine came harder and wetter than she ever had. Something broke in her, a final release as her orgasm came down like the hammer of a farmer upon a sow for slaughter. A velvet blanket of sensation wrapped around her, and she knew in her delirium it was him, his body, his will. She spurted liquid across the rapid movement of the flog handle.
She collapsed into his warm embrace from behind. He withdrew the flog and his hand, wrapping both around her. The leash slackened until he slid it free. Celestine laid back into his nude form, so tall and large, his perfect body wrapping around her from behind, until they turned to the side, and he held her like a blanket of silk. He was wealth and sunshine.
He grew her, praised her. Tristien was the sun that she grew under. His rays burned, but she expanded and rose under his attention.
All for him to cut down with his scythe.