He will have this from her. He will hear in her gasping, breathless voice that she loves him, and it will not even be false, for love him she must. She will bow and accept her place as his wife - the gods themselves look down now upon this sanctifying of their vows - and she will assure him that her love is true. She will swear her loyalty and her honor and her respect, all of which he is due, and she will have no choice but to speak true. He will have it from her now, and he will have it from her the rest of their nights lived together. He will hear it whispered and recall this hour, when she was reminded of her worth, and she will deny him nothing.
She shakes her head, even in the narrow vice of his fingers, but she relinquishes, if nothing else, her tears. They make unsteady stars in her eyes, and they burn in what little light is frittered away in this room, and he knows already that she will deny these were ever tears. She will say her body had no choice but to bleed this way beneath his attack, as if she had not beckoned him forward to see it done. Hadn't she, with the back of her hand against his hard-edged cheek, and her ongoing insubordination? All she has received, she has asked for.
He mauls the fresh canvas of her breasts, twisting and pinching so that pleasure must pale before pain, should there be any wayward delights lingering beneath her skin. His hand slides up to fit beneath her jaw, to press against the give of virgin-soft skin, to confront slim bone, and the poison of his fury blazes instead into the poison of ridicule, of laughter. The greedy rutting of his cock has begun to reward him with a swelling anticipation, a hard fist of pleasure that grips tighter and tighter, and for a moment his eyes flutter against the extravagant promise of it. When her own nails do slash into his own skin, it is only spice in the wine, embers hissing.
"Honor me, wife. Tell me you love me, as you so fondly wrote. Say the words, if you are anything at all."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-02-02 11:14 pm (UTC)She shakes her head, even in the narrow vice of his fingers, but she relinquishes, if nothing else, her tears. They make unsteady stars in her eyes, and they burn in what little light is frittered away in this room, and he knows already that she will deny these were ever tears. She will say her body had no choice but to bleed this way beneath his attack, as if she had not beckoned him forward to see it done. Hadn't she, with the back of her hand against his hard-edged cheek, and her ongoing insubordination? All she has received, she has asked for.
He mauls the fresh canvas of her breasts, twisting and pinching so that pleasure must pale before pain, should there be any wayward delights lingering beneath her skin. His hand slides up to fit beneath her jaw, to press against the give of virgin-soft skin, to confront slim bone, and the poison of his fury blazes instead into the poison of ridicule, of laughter. The greedy rutting of his cock has begun to reward him with a swelling anticipation, a hard fist of pleasure that grips tighter and tighter, and for a moment his eyes flutter against the extravagant promise of it. When her own nails do slash into his own skin, it is only spice in the wine, embers hissing.
"Honor me, wife. Tell me you love me, as you so fondly wrote. Say the words, if you are anything at all."