His Bride

Chapter 2 #2

He slaps my ass with his open palm, imparting a horrible sting that makes me yelp. It is an incredible pain that is swiftly followed by a good dozen more slaps delivered mercilessly.

It is painful, that much is obvious. But what I did not expect, or understand, is that it also fills me with shame. It is deeply embarrassing to be whipped, even by hand. My hips are pressed over his thigh as he sits down with me over his knee.

“You are my wife. My bride. My mate. You belong to me. Your presence in my life is ordained and commanded by the Artifice. All of those things mean that you will have to learn how to behave in this world, which is my world.”

He smacks me again, once, twice, thrice, on and on. This is a painful indignity.

And then he subjects me to the worst indignity so far. He throws up my skirt and strikes me over my undergarments.

“Think before you speak, Mila,” he growls. “Remember that your words have power, and much damage can come from simply saying whatever comes to mind. There are times I will want to know what you think, but I expect you to express yourself respectfully and mindfully.”

His big palm makes solid, stinging contact with my ass over and over, making it throb and ache. This is a humiliating punishment that serves to somehow make me feel smaller than I did before. I don’t like it. I don’t like it and I am not going to give into it.

He pauses for a moment, holding me in place, and speaking to me as if I am his to chastise.

“I hope you have learned your lesson.”

“I can assure you I have not. I have no idea what it is, besides the fact that you are willing to be an absolute brute for no particular reason.”

“The lesson was in minding your tongue.”

He doesn’t want me to talk? Very well. I shall say nothing. I feel as though I should cry, but I absolutely refuse to. He has spanked me in such a manner that cannot possibly befit his wife. I have never even seen a servant subjected to such humiliating discipline.

“Do you understand, Mila?”

I don’t answer him. I lie over his lap and I continue the stony silence. How dare he. How very fucking dare he.

“I see, and now you petulantly refuse to speak at all. I think you need some time to think about how you are going to behave,” he says, setting me on my feet and steering me toward a corner of the room. Yet again, I have absolutely no idea what he intends to do with me. I find myself in the corner, standing in the place two walls meet for some entirely inexplicable reasons.

“What is this?”

He sighs. “You are so ill-disciplined that you do not understand when you are being punished. Face the corner. Do not move until I tell you.”

My rear tingles as I respond, knowing I am saying the wrong thing, but also feeling very much as though the wrong thing needs to be said. “Oh, I see, more humiliation. How original.”

I hear him guffaw, a sound that indicates he is somewhat shocked. “And here I was, thinking you were too innocent and timid. You are a sassy little wench.”

Is there some affection in that last declaration? He does not sound as angry anymore. If anything, he sounds relieved. That confuses me enough to do as I have been told. I stand and I stare at the wall and I think about how strange this day has been, how it began with me thinking I was going to have the house to myself without Maraline, and how it has ended, with me as a married woman in trouble for displeasing her much older husband.

It doesn’t feel fair, but I have been reliably informed that fairness is something one is asked to be, rather than expected to receive.

“Stay there,” he says. “And hold your skirt up. I intend to observe your punished cheeks from a more comfortable location.”

“Another country would suit me,” I mutter under my breath.

He sighs, sounding almost sorrowful. “I wanted to end things here,” he says. “I really did. But you are pushing me at every turn.”

He leaves the room. I stay where I am, waiting for whatever terrible thing is about to happen. I can feel that I am in trouble. It is a strange feeling, and I am not used to it. I never really got into trouble at home. They never really cared what I said there, they mostly ignored me. This man, on the other hand, finds my every word extremely significant.

He returns swiftly, having presumably gotten something from elsewhere in this absolutely leviathan house. I feel his large hand scruff my dress at the nape of my neck and haul me over to the bed. He bends me over the edge of it, sweeping my undergarments down my legs and away, leaving me bare and vulnerable to his stare—but it’s not what he can see that should worry me. It’s what he’s going to do to me.

A loud crack not far from my head makes me flinch in place. He has slapped a narrow whip-like lash against the bed next to me. The sound of it is remarkably loud, like a gunshot.

“This is a cane,” he says. “It is usually reserved for punishing errant soldiers, but it will do an equally good job on a young lady who does not respond to gentler discipline.”

I look at the thin line of wood-like material pressed into the black silk coverlet next to me. It does not look that intimidating, though I am supposed to be afraid of it. He wants me to be afraid of him. He wants me to watch my every word and be careful when I am around him. I imagine this is how it is for the Archon-General. He is accustomed to ruling people with an iron fist—or a thin wood stick.

“You’re going to behave respectfully,” he says, his voice stern and calm in contrast to the brutality of his action. “And you’re going to learn that there’s no limit to what I will do in order to get you in line. You are my wife, and you will be a credit to me.”

With that he stands back, taps the tip of the implement against my cheeks, then pulls it back and brings it down hard and fast.

I scream as the horrible lash lands across my ass, the sudden flare of pain a thin line that is so intense I feel tears leaping to my eyes. I understand now why I was supposed to react to seeing the thing. It is a horrible tool, and it causes more pain in one stroke than all the spanking did before.

“You’re killing me!”

“I am not,” he says. “Killing you would be much more merciful than what I intend to do to you after all this disrespect.”

The lash lands again.

He is beating me mercilessly. Cruelly. The spanking earlier is nothing compared to this. Again and again, he lays the lash down across my tender skin. One stroke lands below the next, and the next below that, so on and so forth until my ass is a mess of burning lines.

Arthur

I have no choice but to do this. She did not take the spanking seriously. And why should she? A spanking is a punishment for a baby, and she is no baby. She is a woman. My wife. My shapely, elegantly bred, beautiful wife. The more I punish her, the more she seems to flower before me, showing me her true strength, rebellion, and beauty. There is something so very alluring about a woman withstanding pain she has gone out of her way to deserve.

I respect strength. I like knowing the limits of it, too. Every person has theirs, a point at which they cannot maintain rebellion or resistance, so they give in. Most women I know submit to a look or perhaps a curt word. This one is made differently.

A cane is an implement capable of bringing even the strongest among us to his knees. I know how much it hurts, and I know she is suffering greatly now. I gave her ten strokes. Some might call it an excessive number, but I have no intention of teaching the same lesson twice.

She brought it on herself.

She needed to learn what I was capable of. She didn’t respect me until this moment. No matter what warning she was given, she just kept talking. She is not talking now. She has started to cry yet again, more profoundly this time.

I let her cry. It is a natural reaction to being punished, and there is some chance that it demonstrates some kind of contrition.

“Please tell me you’ve learned your lesson,” I say softly, running my fingers through her hair. It is a gentle act after so much roughness. All it achieves is making her sobs louder.

“You need to understand that your new husband is a rough man, forged in war, and in war there are no second chances. I will not give many warnings, Mila. I will tell you what to do, and you will do it. If you behave properly, you will never encounter this kind of treatment again. I do not want to beat you regularly.”

“You’re mean,” she whimpers against the bed.

“Yes,” I say. “I am.”

I have never punished a woman before. I have beaten subordinates who needed it, but the very notion that I would ever have to discipline my own wife never occurred to me before this evening.

She deserved every lash she got, mind, but that does not mean I do not have some lingering concern. If she does not learn her lesson, if she decides to push further, harder, show me more disrespect, I may have to find other ways to handle her. There is only so much punishment a female body can take.

I will have to get creative.

And I will have to do something about the erection that is throbbing in my pants. I liked this. At first, her tenderness and her youth made her seem an unsuitable match for me. I thought her weak. But she has proved herself mentally strong, with a temperament to match. She is fiery, and her generous curves are beautiful when marked with the lines of my cane.

I run my fingers lightly over the red lines, enjoying the way she squirms and gasps. When I slide my fingers down further, between her cheeks, I find a reservoir of wetness between her thighs. I am not the only one who is aroused. She is absolutely soaked, this sweet, insolent virgin of mine.

Her hips start to undulate at my touch, her whimpers replacing her sobs. They’re not quite the same indication of pain they once were. Instead, they are sounds of need. She is a very sensitive little thing, and I know the cane has made her even more sensitive. The region is full of blood and feeling. She might think I am cruel, but she is trying to grind the bud of her clit against my fingers.

Mila

He leans over me, his large, masculine body holding mine in place, his fingers lacing in mine as he stretches me up across the bed, while still leaving me bent over it. I am pinned face down, ass burning and aching, and my pussy absolutely desperate for more of his touch.

The inspection at the Artifice was nothing like this. That was clinical and vibratory. That was a test. This is something different. This is… I hesitate to think of it as true affection given he has just beaten me to tears, but there is an intimacy to it that I have never felt before.

Deprived of his touch between my legs, I squirm against the bed. The silken sheets are too slippery to provide any friction or grip. He is holding me in a kind of erotic limbo, making me feel all the feelings he has skillfully stirred up in me. My body feels as though it is aflame with need—need only he can satisfy.

I turn my face to the side to try to look up at him, and I see a flinty gaze of dark triumph looking down at me. He is satisfied with himself. He is not sorry for what he did to me. I deserved it, the whipping and then the teasing. I wonder what he will do next. I wonder how he will make my body feel…

He lowers his head and brushes his mouth against my temple before exploring downward.

“You resist me so beautifully and effortlessly,” he purrs, his lips at my throat. “But I wonder if you can resist pleasure as easily as you seem to disregard pain.”

His tongue runs artfully along the lobe of my ear and his lips find my neck. I am assailed by sensations I have never experienced before. It feels like excitement, but more base. It feels as though parts of my body only made for plain, mundane experience prior to this point have suddenly been reassigned as organs of erotic pleasure.

I gasp and I writhe, and I find that the very same movements that made my poor, sore ass flare into agony before now cause heat and a different, darker kind of enjoyment to start to burn. He allows me to half-turn to the side, making my body more accessible to him.

Arthur may be a beast, a brute, and a terrible, awful man, but he is an artful lover. His hands slide away from mine and engage in caressing me and gripping me, holding the back of my neck tightly as his lips press against mine, my mouth opening for his triumphant, dominant kiss.

This is what was referenced so coyly, and no wonder, for there are no combination of words that would properly capture the way this feels. It is sacred and it is profane. It is perverse, and it is entirely natural.

He undresses me in the process of caressing me, and this time the removal of my clothing does not feel like an act designed to shame me. Almost every motion makes the lines on my ass flare into fresh life, but the pain is starting to feel less like pain and more like a dark, hot kind of energy flowing through my body.

I have never felt this way before, physically, mentally, or emotionally. The interlude in the doctor’s office pales compared to this experience. That was nothing but a physical reaction. This is something deeper, darker, more bonded, and far more meaningful.

“You are a very pretty little thing,” he compliments me. “Untouched… at least until I got my hands on you. Now, unfortunately for you, you belong to me. I am not as untouched as you are. I bear the marks of a lifetime of battle.”

As he speaks, he starts to disrobe. He was wearing a black shirt. As he undoes each button, I feel my curiosity growing. I have never seen a grown man naked before. We are modest in my homeland.

When the final button is released, and his shirt falls open, I see that his torso is massive, rough, muscular, and absolutely covered in scars.

I squirm naked on the bed and cover my mouth with my hands as I look at him. I knew from the state of his face that he would have some kind of markings on his body, but I never suspected there would be so many, or that they would cover so much of his flesh.

This is a man who has been hurt, badly, and often.

“I know that my body is not a pleasing sight,” he says gruffly. “I have been taken apart and put back together more times than I can count.”

He is not exaggerating. There is a scar running the length of his torso with smaller shoots coming off it, as if he has been struck by lightning at some point. When he turns, I see that his back is also covered in the remnants of at last half a dozen wounds.

I thought he was being unspeakably cruel in caning me, but when I see what he has endured, I realize that he has actually been inordinately gentle with me compared to what he has suffered.

He has only taken off his shirt. His pants are still on, but he is now working on those. He is displaying himself to me unapologetically, but not without understanding of my potential reaction. He might expect me to be afraid, or maybe even disgusted.

I know that a male has different parts than a woman. I am innocent, but not entirely stupid. Still, when his pants come down, I let out a little exclamation.

He has thick thighs, over which I have already been spanked. His ass is muscular and powerful. I see that when he turns to put his folded pants over a chair. His lower body has not escaped the cruelties of war. There are just as many scars on his legs as on his chest. But it is his cock that commands my attention. It stands thick and frighteningly long—and I see that his cock is not unmarked either. He is scarred almost everywhere, and I cannot keep my reactions entirely to myself.

“What happened to you?”

“It is better you do not ask, because the telling might cause me more pain.” He speaks gravely. “And to be very honest, so many things have happened, I no longer remember what scar is from what war, what wound represents which loss.”

I stare at him, not knowing how to relate to someone who has clearly experienced terror after terror. Wound after wound. Battle after battle. Some of the scars look old, as if they were inflicted when he was very young. Maybe not even yet a man.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“There is a lot you do not know,” he says kindly. “You are an innocent, and I would like to keep you that way as much as possible. Whatever I might experience out in the world, the notion of coming home to your sweetness is already a salve for me. To see your unblemished face, and to look into your innocent eyes… that will give me so much hope.”

I am stunned to hear those words, and judging by his expression, I think he might be surprised to have said them. The confusion and borderline derision he expressed when we first met is gone and has been replaced with appreciation.

I did not expect him to say something so sweet, or to express such emotional honesty. He beat me for my so-called insolence, and I think it might have been good for both of us. I think am falling in love with this man, who only an hour ago I would have sworn I loathed with all I have.

He reaches for me, taking me by the hand, and he draws me up from the bed and toward him, inviting me to explore his body.

“Don’t be afraid to touch me,” he says. “It won’t hurt me. All of these are long-healed.”

I reach for him curiously. I want to make him feel how he made me feel. I want to show him that I will be a good wife, and that I can serve him the way I am supposed to.

I touch his chest first, my fingertips running over muscle and then scar. It is impossible to touch him without touching remnants of past pain.

I find myself softening toward him, feeling as though he is perhaps not as much of a monster as I first thought he was. Or if he is, he is not as much of a monster as he could be. He has suffered cruelty after cruelty…

How much cruelty has he inflicted on the world in return?

I have had a taste of it, but is there more to come?

Arthur

I have destroyed a lot of innocence in my time. I do not want to strip hers from her entirely, but tonight some will be lost one way or another. She must learn the ways of womanhood and of wifely duties. It is our destiny, it is required, and there is another force at play—a powerful one.

I want to claim her.

I want to be the one who first conquers her flesh, who makes her cry out in pleasure as much as I have made her cry out in pain. I never imagined I would ever have to whip my wife. I thought the entire affair would be very polite and formal. I thought the sex would be chaste and perfunctory. I thought I would put a baby in her because that is what is required of me, and I have always done what is required of me.

I cup her face in my hands and I lower my head to kiss her. She tastes sweet, hesitant, and hungry. As I break the kiss, I make a promise.

“You are a wild little thing, but I’m going to tame you. You’re going to be fucked long and hard, and learn your place.”

Her eyes widen, but I can feel her pulse against the lower part of my hand, which is against her neck. Her breath quickens, and so does her heart rate. She is excited by me, and she is equal to me in some intangible, indescribable way. When I first saw her, I thought I had been given a fragile little bird I’d crush in an instant. But she is stronger than she looks.

Maybe the Artifice does not make mistakes after all. Maybe it somehow knew that this young woman from another country was made to fit me, not just physically, but in every way.

I pick her up, my hands sliding across her punished skin. I know this grip hurts, and I know the pain is still instructional for her. She is going to lose her virginity to me with her ass covered in cane lines. She is going to suffer as much as she enjoys every sensation I arouse in her, and the light in her eyes tells me that she is anticipating this as much as I am.

Laying her down on the bed before me, I spread her out like the sacrifice she is. She was given to me, this beautiful young woman who has never been touched by any man before. Her skin is smooth and creamy, her breasts are full and beautiful, and her hips are shapely. Childbearing. She was made for this, to be wifed, to be mated, to be bred.

I go to my knees before her, as one does when one capitulates to the great Artifice in prayer. But it is not words that I put my mouth to. Rather it is her sweet sex, the petal-like folds of her pussy already waiting for me. She is dewy with arousal.

The sound she makes when I kiss her pussy is heavenly, a cross between a moan and a curse. I doubt she has spent much time in her life swearing, but she is unable to contain herself now. My tongue teases along the sensitive little folds of her sex, showing her that I am capable of pleasuring her, giving her just enough enjoyment to make her want more. I will have her in a frenzy before I fuck her. She will beg for my cock. She will renounce her virginity eagerly.

The bud of her clit stands erect at the apex of her inner lips. I wonder if she even knows what it looks like. She has probably never seen it as I am seeing it now, a protuberance of flesh capable of driving her mad with desire.

I tease it, not touching it, circling around it, letting the heat of my breath create a warm little vortex.

“Oh my, oh my… oh…” She is wriggling so much I find it necessary to clamp her hips between my large, rough hands.

“Stay still,” I growl at her. I know she can’t actually do it. I don’t actually expect her to. But I do expect her to try, and I know that the effort of trying to overcome her natural impulses to follow my orders will create an exquisite tension in her.

“I can’t,” she whimpers.

“Do you want me to whip your sweet little cunt?”

Her eyes fly open wide. “You wouldn’t!”

“There is not a part of you that does not belong to me, and there is not a part of you that I would not punish if I felt it necessary—or if I simply decided it would amuse me.”

With that dark threat, I take her clit between my lips and suckle gently, giving her direct contact that makes her hips buck, forcing immediate disobedience on her part. This isn’t fair, but nothing is.

“That’s right,” I growl, letting the rumbles vibrate through her wet pussy and straining clit. “You’re mine, and I can do with you as I please.”

Her pussy is gorgeous, untouched and unhandled, waiting to be spread around my cock. She tastes like innocence and she writhes like need.

There is something terrible about this, something that makes my dick harder for knowing it. I am going to defile her. I am going to take her innocence and turn it into writhing orgasm.

She comes very prettily on my tongue at first, her lips dancing across my lips as she lets out shuddering sighs and moans. I am glad she has experienced some pleasure. As I rise up between her thighs, my cock taking the place of my mouth, I know there could be some pain in what is to come.

My cock is big, long, and so rough looking in comparison to her sweet, delicate flower. As her tender lips spread around the head of my dick, I look up into her face. There is trepidation in her eyes, a fear that makes me get even harder.

Maybe I am not upset at all that I had to whip her. Remembering the way the cane bit into the deserving, impertinent skin of her ass makes me push forward, finding the previously forbidden heat of her hole. Taming a sassy young filly, breaking her to my will, is satisfying in a way meeting someone who was more apparently and willingly my match would not have been.

“Are you ready, Mila?” I growl the question down at her flushed face. Her thighs are spread around my legs. She is open and she is vulnerable, and I know that no matter what she says in this moment, there is no way she can be ready for the physical transformation she is about to undergo.

Mila

His cock is huge, so much larger than I thought it would be. I am not sure how it will fit inside me, but I know it must. This is what I was sent here for. I have been given to him to fuck. There is no escaping it, and I no longer have any desire to. I am wet and I am willing. I am curious and I am submissive. He has punished me and he has pleasured me and now he is fulfilling his duty to me. I must ensure I do the same.

He reaches down and laces his fingers in mine, holding my hands as he arches his hips forward and presses his flesh inside mine. His cock is so hot, so hard, and it pushes into the space inside me as if it belongs there.

I gasp with something like pain. It doesn’t hurt like being caned does, but lying on a punished ass as I am deflowered, and the resistance inside as my body is conquered by his, does cause some sensations that are very, very close to it.

This is what a woman must do for a man, I realize. She must give herself to him, she must be opened by him. His cock goes deeper and deeper inside me, until I feel his pubic bone meet mine. I am filled all the way up, my inner walls gripping and quivering against him. I don’t know what to do, but I don’t need to do anything. All I really have to do is lie here beneath him and take my fucking.

I look up at him, see his body so muscular, scarred, and mature. I feel my innocence being speared away with each and every subsequent thrust as he starts to push in and out of me in long strokes, making me take his cock time and time and time again. I am filled up, stretched open, and then left to be empty again.

He kisses my mouth passionately, claiming my lips as he fucks my pussy. These dirty words never seemed to make sense before now. Now I know what it means to have a cock in my cunt. Now I know what it is to be fucked.

“Does it hurt?” He murmurs the question in my ear.

“No,” I lie just a little. It does hurt. It hurts to be pinned on my sore ass, and fucked hard in my no longer virginal pussy. It hurts to have him get harder and rougher with me. But it hurts in a way I want it to. It hurts in a way that makes my clit tingle and when he is deep inside me, I can grind against him. I can press my clit against his body and I can get closer and closer to the release that I am now starving for.

“I am going to come,” he growls, his voice rough. “I am going to fucking come.”

My hands are pinned above my head as he starts to rut inside me, arching like a massive animal over me, fucking me with harsh strokes that ignore my recent virginity and treat me like a well-broken filly.

I am going to come too. The ravaging I am receiving makes my body react in ways I cannot control. I do not feel entirely like myself. Instead I feel like an animal doing what nature intended. I feel an orgasm ripping through me, making me wrap my legs around him and lock myself tight to him greedily just as he makes good on his promise and comes inside me. One of his arms is wrapped around the back of my shoulders, holding me up, while the other is pressed against the bed. I am suspended on his cock for a moment as he starts throbbing against my inner walls.

“I am going to breed you,” he murmurs in my ear as he holds his cock deep inside me, pumping me full of his male essence. “You are going to be pregnant for me. You are going to swell for me. You are going to obey me. You are going to be fucking mine forever.”

I feel faint and hot and so very good all at once as he rolls over and holds me atop him, keeping me pressed down on his cock so that not a drop of his cum leaves me. I lie, no longer a virgin, in my husband’s arms while muted moonlight flows across my ravaged body. I will be sore tomorrow, inside and out. I have been marked in ways both physical and psychological. I have been changed forever.