Page 21 of His Bride

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.

CHAPTER 3

Mila

I wake up in bed to the almost inconspicuous rattle of a tray. For a moment, I have morning amnesia. I know this is not my bed at home. There is no golden light filtering through lead-light windows. I am waking up in a whole other country, as a whole other person. I am a married woman. I am no longer a virgin. I don’t know who I am anymore, or who I will become. All I really know is that who I was is no longer going to work in this world.

“Your breakfasts,” the servant announces.

“Thank you, Cordingly,” my husband says.

I know what is happening now.

I am beneath the covers in a dim, red-lit room, curled up against my husband’s side. He is big and strong and warm, and I feel a kind of safety I never felt when I used to sleep alone. The moment I move, however, I feel the other consequences of having been married. My ass aches, and I feel a low throbbingbetween my legs. I am no longer a virgin. No longer an innocent. I have been thoroughly deflowered, filled, and yes, used by my husband.

His morning scent is masculine, with a hint of the seed he spilled inside me. I still wear some of it on the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. I can feel all of his many marks on me, some obvious, others subtle.

A tray is settled on the bed.

I do not emerge from the covers until the servant is gone. When I do, new scents await me. Coffee. Toast. Cured meats. Eggs.

There is a full and generous spread. And I am starving.

“Good morning,” he murmurs as I slide up.

I meet his flinty gaze with more than a little shyness. There is something about mornings that makes everything seem new again. I only met this man yesterday, and though he has taken my virginity, which in some ways makes him the person who knows me best in this world, he still feels like a stranger in so many ways. We know one another carnally, but other than that, we know very little.

“Hello,” I say.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” I say.

He hands me a piece of toast, dripping with butter and slathered with a generous amount of jam. I cannot believe it. I have never been permitted to eat in bed except when very ill, and if I had been, I am sure that I would have been encouraged strongly to eat over the tray.

This is the first hint of my new husband being anything other than a complete stickler for rules and formality, and I find it intriguing.

“Aren’t you worried about crumbs in the bed?”

“It will be stripped after we get up,” he says. “The sheets are sticky anyway.”

I blush as I realize why that is. We have made a mess of the bed already, and of ourselves.

I bite into the toast, feeling rather decadent as I do. Many other bites of many other delicious things follow, along with coffee that is bitter and yet rich. I find myself wriggling my toes with happiness as my belly is filled.

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