He will, he decides, of necessity require whores; this woman is far too bleak and composed to ever have appealed to him. Even if she'd been dutiful - if she had never challenged him and never struck him - she would not be enough. A deferential and subservient lady he would need at his side for all the drudgery of court, yes, but she is not what he would have in his bed. What her notion of passion is, he cannot begin to guess, but that is no matter, because he does not care. Who did she dream of, if she dreamt of her unflowering at all? What is it that would drive her to wet pleading? No, she would never do. She would never have truly appreciated him; she is too dim.
Now, maybe, she will scream - now that their oaths to one another are made true, now that she has paid the irrevocable price with her body, now that she will never be as she was; but she does not. Neither does she wail, and neither does she plainly quiver with unspent tears, as was his sister's habit when darkness began to gather in earnest. He does not doubt that it hurts: he can feel her skin break beneath the aggression of his nails, and he can feel how her body balks at the demand thrust within it. Only briefly, and then that breaks too, and there is promptly the tacky smear of blood. She will never be as she was, and he grins as he hauls forward against her, making it true again and again. He wonders how gracefully she will wear her shame. In the sounds that are ripped from her, he suspects there may be the tears of defeat after all.
She does not declare again her vow against his life, does not maintain a proud and vain struggle against him. Her body repeats its same tried and failed refusals: her hand argues against his arm, and the muscles of her thighs glint like ready blades, but they only glint, and cannot be drawn against him. It feels, in fact, as if her cunt is not entirely opposed to the idea of urging him closer - it closes like a mouth around him, seizing the prying length of his cock like an eager tongue, and his laughter spills again, smooth and easy, as if the whole fact of her were little more than an idle amusement.
"How many noble knights made your cunt weep in your dreams before this day?" It is not weeping now, that is for certain - every stab into the dry give between her thighs makes evident how unwelcome he is, which only drives him to rougher excitement on the next plunge - but he wants to believe she has dreamt of being taken not so differently from this. That he is, without her consent, the answer to that desire, though she will never confess it.
And he is thinking too of how very much the opposite she is of any fantasy he has ever summoned before him, his fingers spanning in her hair to open his hand against her skull, gripping her there with a violent distaste. Golden is her hair, and not displeasing to the eye, but there is nothing to make palatable her cool courtesy. Regal had been her bearing, but in a way that must clothe only cobwebbed reserve, not a slinking seduction. And she spoke too boldly, thought far too highly of herself, and esteemed him not half as much as he was owed.
His voice grits between his teeth, his jaw tense with rough satisfaction or impatient hatred or both. She does have a fair face, it's true, though that need not be so when he has her held flat against the table, when all semblance of beauty can be stripped from her as easily as her maidenhead. She is, like this, only what he says she is.
"Gods, you are vile. I hope never to see you fully naked. You've probably only dreamt of being mounted by horses."
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sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2022-02-01 11:19 pm (UTC)Now, maybe, she will scream - now that their oaths to one another are made true, now that she has paid the irrevocable price with her body, now that she will never be as she was; but she does not. Neither does she wail, and neither does she plainly quiver with unspent tears, as was his sister's habit when darkness began to gather in earnest. He does not doubt that it hurts: he can feel her skin break beneath the aggression of his nails, and he can feel how her body balks at the demand thrust within it. Only briefly, and then that breaks too, and there is promptly the tacky smear of blood. She will never be as she was, and he grins as he hauls forward against her, making it true again and again. He wonders how gracefully she will wear her shame. In the sounds that are ripped from her, he suspects there may be the tears of defeat after all.
She does not declare again her vow against his life, does not maintain a proud and vain struggle against him. Her body repeats its same tried and failed refusals: her hand argues against his arm, and the muscles of her thighs glint like ready blades, but they only glint, and cannot be drawn against him. It feels, in fact, as if her cunt is not entirely opposed to the idea of urging him closer - it closes like a mouth around him, seizing the prying length of his cock like an eager tongue, and his laughter spills again, smooth and easy, as if the whole fact of her were little more than an idle amusement.
"How many noble knights made your cunt weep in your dreams before this day?" It is not weeping now, that is for certain - every stab into the dry give between her thighs makes evident how unwelcome he is, which only drives him to rougher excitement on the next plunge - but he wants to believe she has dreamt of being taken not so differently from this. That he is, without her consent, the answer to that desire, though she will never confess it.
And he is thinking too of how very much the opposite she is of any fantasy he has ever summoned before him, his fingers spanning in her hair to open his hand against her skull, gripping her there with a violent distaste. Golden is her hair, and not displeasing to the eye, but there is nothing to make palatable her cool courtesy. Regal had been her bearing, but in a way that must clothe only cobwebbed reserve, not a slinking seduction. And she spoke too boldly, thought far too highly of herself, and esteemed him not half as much as he was owed.
His voice grits between his teeth, his jaw tense with rough satisfaction or impatient hatred or both. She does have a fair face, it's true, though that need not be so when he has her held flat against the table, when all semblance of beauty can be stripped from her as easily as her maidenhead. She is, like this, only what he says she is.
"Gods, you are vile. I hope never to see you fully naked. You've probably only dreamt of being mounted by horses."