The Borrowed Bride

He staggered back, his hand covering the frustrated curse that escaped his mouth.

> It was wrong, so wrong to treat her so. It did not matter that she was willing and had not run; she was unprepared and likely to hate him by the time he finished fucking her unused arsehole.

“No,” he said coarsely.

She lifted her head and looked over her shoulder. “Matthew?” she said timidly. “Am I not pleasing? I can take it. I will take it.”

He shook his head. “It’s not you. You’re a pretty sight. So becoming. But this,” he grasped his erection, “is not a weapon of punishment. I’ve never used it so before now. It is my greed and imagination that has made me think so. When I first saw you in the mud of the yard, weak and pathetic, I knew I wanted you. Your innocence was too tempting to ignore. I shall not break you. I’m not a man who crushes a woman. I only want to show you...” He took a deep breath. Not love, the word wasn’t appropriate no matter what he felt in his heart. “My appreciation of your devotion to serving me.”

He took her hand and drew her into his arms. The trembling of her limbs, the booming beats of her heart against his breast told him he had been right. She was excited, eager, that was evident, but she was also afraid. Fear had no place in his home.

“Come, lie on the bed, and I shall show you another way. One that you’ll find easier. Lie on your side and draw your knees up. That’s it. Good girl. Take heed of my whispers in your ear.”

While she lay, brave and good-natured, he undressed, stripping off everything. He lowered himself next to her and spooned his body against her back. When he kissed the nape of her neck, she shivered and sighed.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I’m ready now, Master.”

He tested her quim first, using her ripe cunny to tease and bring about an intense relaxation in her muscles. He moved slowly, pausing to savour the depths of her channel, before easing back. With one hand cupped around her mound, he stroked her clitoris, keeping it unhooded and exposed to his tender tickles. At one point, she giggled. He smiled, enjoying how her body moulded to his and the way her breaths shortened into eager pants.

“You fancy a come?” he asked.

She nodded, her eyes lidded, her lips parted.

“Then it’s time.”

She nodded again and rested the back of her head against his chest. So small she seemed nestled there.

He opened her up with the tip of his bulging cock, as he had done many times and she accepted that slight beginning with practised ease. However, he did not stop there, as he usually did. He nudged, creeping forward, and claimed that tight passage a fraction at a time. She murmured, moaned and occasionally whimpered throughout, but never asked him to cease. She remained bundled, nearly smothered by his large frame. He dipped deeper and growled. The sensation was exquisite. He had thought so slow a pace would infuriate him, but to the contrary, it proved deliciously tantalising.

It was Dara who made the request, not him. Dara, his sweet lass, who had the heart of an angel and courage of a lion.

“Fuck me harder, Master. I know now I can do it.”

* * *

He rolled her onto her knees, and she clutched a pillow in her arms. He re-entered with a tense firmness and a deeper growl. “If you scream and holler stupid things, I won’t stop,” he said.

She was close to coming, knowing he meant to apply his rough hands.

“But,” he said, rising up behind her, her hair grasped into one balled fist. “I will stop if I think you’re breaking. If you’re not up to it, if you cry hot tears, but plead with me to keep going, I shall stop.”

He knew her too well.

When he had his cock fully inside her, he held fast there for a few minutes, waiting for her to catch up and stretch about his girth. Then he began to use her in earnest. Thrust upon thrust. During those pendulum swings of his hips, she came. It was a most stupendous orgasm and she would remember it for the rest of her life, gifting her both delicious pleasure and undeniable pain. In combination, it heightened every aspect of her body, from her tingling scalp to her curling toes. He kept hold of her hair, taming her bucking body with teasing jerks of his wrist, and took some pleasure for himself by playing with her swinging breasts. While the fierce contractions abated, he continued to fuck her.

Fuck her. The word was appropriate, the nature of their coupling exactly that—coarse and base. It continued relentlessly, undaunted by her weak legs or bleating for respite. She had to trust his judgement.

Abruptly, he halted, stroked his hand along the length of her spine and released his tight hold of her ponytail.

“Come again, when I do. I’ll build slower this time, so you can pace yourself with me. I want to feel you crush my cock. Make me hurt for it, lass.”

She had no understanding of what he meant. How could he feel pain when he clearly took pleasure in his penetrations? However, he meant to torture himself with a slower pace, a gradual build, and he muttered something about his aching balls tightening beneath her.

The ripples of her orgasm were subtle at first, hinting to him she was done, and when he felt the spasms grow, he picked up his pace and pummelled her hard for a few thrusts until he erupted. The signal was clear—she clenched and he responded with gusto. They cried out in unison. Matthew, roaring with delight, drowned out her screams. She fell forward, unable to support her weight and his final swooping thrust. Collapsed on the mattress, she lay still, breathing heavily, wondering if he had his fill or planned to continue using her. Her answer came swiftly. He crashed onto the bed next to her, and somewhat to her amusement, began to snore softly.

She cuddled up to him, content and slightly sore. It wasn’t any bother to her that she had the echoes of the belt on her bottom or the essence of his spill leaking out of her. She warmed to both sensations. Eventually, he stirred and draped an arm around her shoulder.

“Just a brief nap,” he muttered. “Then we must milk them bleedin’ cows.”