She is not prepared for how, amid all the pain of his cock inside her, it will hurt too when it is withdrawn; how her abused cunt stings anew when, in his absence, the cool air hits her skin; how the aching, swollen sense of sudden emptiness steals her breath as he hauls her onto her back. Nor is she prepared for how this rough movement alerts her body to the strain and bruising it has taken under his ministrations. She cries out in surprised pain, and cannot hold it back entirely.
Her gown is one of the finest she has ever worn, woven silk and golden thread, worked to fit her slender form perfectly, embroidered by patient hands that must have bled to work so finely. He offers, of course, no regard for any of that; he claws like a wild animal at the laces, and she hears the ripping of a seam, the tearing of the mist-light shift beneath, and she thinks distantly That might have paid for provisioning tenscore men, and then she almost laughs in her despair. It should have paid for that. The gown, the feast, the ring, the dowry; all that thought and all that wealth, gone to waste, and he would be gentler with a whore who cost him pennies.
But the gown is torn and pulled and dragged away, ripped from her; and it is strange to find that some part of her still feels the urge to shield herself with her hands, to hide the pert swell of her breasts from a man who has buried himself root-deep in her bloodied cunt. It is strange to find that he can drag more shame onto her, still.
She does not try to cover herself. Her hands have clenched into fists, short fingernails digging deep into the palms. Her face, beneath the tangled veil of hair, is a mask of fury and pain; livid bruises are already visible on her high cheekbone, where his hand struck her, and across her temple and her brow where her head was thrown against the tabletop. She cries out again as he ruts into a body that has just begun to believe his absence; the pain is searing and raw, and it seems to run all through her, digging sharp teeth into her.
But she will not be a coward. She will not have him call her a coward. She will not, even now, gladly give over her pride. There are tears on her cheeks and shining in her eyes - but not so many as there might be; she is not weeping openly, and although the eyes that meet his glisten, they burn, too, with a ferocity that has not yet given way. There is blood in the spittle that she aims at his face, spitting squarely for his eye. That, she supposes, answers the question of what salt she tasted.
"Þú nysse!" Her hands, she at last realises, are not now so thoroughly limited, and she cannot think beyond the moment, cannot think of the consequences beyond this room. She claws for his throat in turn, her teeth bared. "You are not my king."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-02-02 09:38 pm (UTC)Her gown is one of the finest she has ever worn, woven silk and golden thread, worked to fit her slender form perfectly, embroidered by patient hands that must have bled to work so finely. He offers, of course, no regard for any of that; he claws like a wild animal at the laces, and she hears the ripping of a seam, the tearing of the mist-light shift beneath, and she thinks distantly That might have paid for provisioning tenscore men, and then she almost laughs in her despair. It should have paid for that. The gown, the feast, the ring, the dowry; all that thought and all that wealth, gone to waste, and he would be gentler with a whore who cost him pennies.
But the gown is torn and pulled and dragged away, ripped from her; and it is strange to find that some part of her still feels the urge to shield herself with her hands, to hide the pert swell of her breasts from a man who has buried himself root-deep in her bloodied cunt. It is strange to find that he can drag more shame onto her, still.
She does not try to cover herself. Her hands have clenched into fists, short fingernails digging deep into the palms. Her face, beneath the tangled veil of hair, is a mask of fury and pain; livid bruises are already visible on her high cheekbone, where his hand struck her, and across her temple and her brow where her head was thrown against the tabletop. She cries out again as he ruts into a body that has just begun to believe his absence; the pain is searing and raw, and it seems to run all through her, digging sharp teeth into her.
But she will not be a coward. She will not have him call her a coward. She will not, even now, gladly give over her pride. There are tears on her cheeks and shining in her eyes - but not so many as there might be; she is not weeping openly, and although the eyes that meet his glisten, they burn, too, with a ferocity that has not yet given way. There is blood in the spittle that she aims at his face, spitting squarely for his eye. That, she supposes, answers the question of what salt she tasted.
"Þú nysse!" Her hands, she at last realises, are not now so thoroughly limited, and she cannot think beyond the moment, cannot think of the consequences beyond this room. She claws for his throat in turn, her teeth bared. "You are not my king."