Page 19 of His Bride

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 suspectedthere 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 notunmarked 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.

Iwantto 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.

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