The Lord's Bride

by Loki Renard

  “You are soaked with lust,” he said, urging his digits back and forth inside her. “Or is it the misbehavior that makes you so very ready?”

  She did not have an answer, and he did not wait for one. In very short order, the thick head of his prick was pressing inside her body, and he was penetrating her with long, even strokes.

  Mary loved his attentions. Indeed, she often yearned for his manhood. Married life had been most kind in that regard, and nary a night went by that Martin did not share his flesh with her. This additional mid-morning delight pleased her greatly, so much so that she briefly considered confessing to more misdemeanors.

  Unfortunately for her, Martin’s plans for her tender body did not amount solely to simple lovemaking. Soon he arched back and reached for a small pitcher placed inconspicuously on the nightstand. She did not know what it was. Even when she felt the trickling of oil between her cheeks she was still innocent as to his intent—until his finger, wet with oil, began probing at her bottom. It was one thing to have him inside the sheath that was made for a man, but the tight hole above it, that was not for anybody to plunder.

  Mary began to squirm quite vigorously, which only served to stimulate Martin all the more. He was locked inside her, one hand firmly on her hips.

  “Settle yourself, Mary,” he said. “I am but caressing you.”

  “Caressing me! That is not a place to caress!”

  “There is not an inch of you I will not claim. There is not a part of your body I do not desire, you mischievous wench,” he drawled, drawing her close. He turned her head and pressed hot kisses to her lips until she melted against the bed and mewled for more of his touch.

  “I have something for you, my sweet, something that will tame your heat.”

  From his pocket he produced a most curious object, which she soon realized was the root of a ginger plant, whittled into a shape which made it more suitable for penetration.

  “I hope that you will be taking that to the kitchen,” she said, pinned as she was. “Or perhaps you are hungry.”

  “I am hungry for nothing besides your body,” he replied. “And this root is meant for nobody other than you, my darling wife.”

  The ginger root nudged at her bottom, made her toes curl. “Please, Martin.”

  “Oh no, my dear. Do not beg me for this. Relax your bottom.”

  Mary did not relax her bottom. She instead embarked upon a very futile struggle which resulted in the sound slapping of her cheeks into a state of deep redness.

  “Come along, Mary.” Martin said, his voice quite balanced in stark contrast to her wailing. “This is going into your bottom one way or another. Best you relax and accept your fate.”

  She felt the hard root rubbing against her rosebud, the sensitive puckered place. Then she felt it slip in just a little, not more than a fingernail’s length. Almost immediately, a curious warmth began spreading inside her bottom, a prickling heat that grew as the root was gently pressed farther in.

  “Martin!”

  He held her fast, the tip of the root lodged in her bottom. Then he kissed her, his lips landing on her teary cheeks over and over until she stilled and sighed.

  “You see? It is not so bad, my sweet.”

  “If it is not so bad, then why do you not take this root in your posterior?”

  Martin chuckled and allowed his fingers to drift down to her downy lips, caressing her back toward pleasure. “There are many things that are good for you that I will not do or have done to myself.”

  Mary arched against him, panting as the root slid in still further. Martin’s nimble fingers made her bud tingle, confused her senses so that the heat growing in her bottom seemed to combine with the slow, swirling flame rising from her pussy in a sensual conflagration.

  Before long, the root was firmly seated in her bottom and Martin was rising over her, his thick rod spearing inside her maidenly flesh over and over again. The fullness betwixt her thighs and cheeks left her writhing against the hard lines of his body. Gasping in that ecstasy which seemed eternal, she succumbed to the climax he had so artfully stoked.

  “Was that supposed to be a punishment?” She asked the question as she laid flushed and glowing in the arms of her husband.

  “A punishment? Nay. A means to subduing your wicked impulses to disobedience, perhaps.”

  Perhaps it had been successful, for Mary did not feel much inclined toward wicked impulses in that moment. Instead, she laid her cheek against Martin’s chest, listened to his heartbeat, and felt a complete peace.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A ginger root in the bottom should have given Mary warning that her husband was not so unaware of her little adventures. But, never one to bow to the authority of another, Mary rode out the next morning, before the men sent to confine her to her chambers could take their posts. She wore a shawl over her head and shoulders to obscure her personage. In the early fog, she was just a dark shadow.

  Three hours later, returning from the Winter estate, Mary was most pleased with herself. She had three turkeys in her possession, three turkeys stuffed with silverware and jewelry. The meat would go to the poor. The silverware and jewelry would go to her private funds, which were accumulating once more, this time in a hidden chest in her cavernous closet.

  Triumph was written in every line of her being, so much so she let her hood fall back and lifted her face to the sun, drinking in its rays for a few sweet seconds before entering the forest. For a while she rode unmolested, but at the very darkest point in the forest, the place where she herself had once waylaid the rich, Mary found herself the object of an ambush.

  Without warning, men came fore and aft, streaming out of the bushes. Some were mounted, some were on foot. All had triumphant gazes when they looked upon Mary.

  She turned her horse about and prepared to escape through the forest, but found her path blocked to the left and the right by screens of branches and leaves. It was a trap, neatly laid and well executed.

  The men approached, laid rough hands upon her legs, and tugged her from her mount. Of the sheriff himself, there was no sign.

  “You have assaulted my person, brutes! You will pay for this affront!”

  She would have liked to have said more, but a hood was put over her head and she was bundled into a carriage before she could further impugn the honor and masculinity of those who had captured her.

  A great deal of largely respectful manhandling followed. She was driven to a location and taken out of the carriage over the shoulder of some burly brute who smelled like cabbage. Then there were stairs. Many stairs leading down, down, down and the squeaking of an iron door. Then she was put upon her feet and the hood removed. Mary blinked her eyes open to find that she was in a dungeon.

  It was no ordinary dungeon cell that Mary found herself in. It was quite a lot larger than she had imagined such a place would be, almost ten paces wide and five paces deep. The floor was flagstone, swept meticulously clean. There was a bed of what looked like straw, covered with thick canvas sacking and thence a linen sheet, and there was a curtained section behind which a bog sat. Those items were not entirely strange, though they did imply a better class of imprisonment than the peasantry could have expected.

  The man who had put her in the cell left immediately without a word. She tried calling after him, but he was as deaf as a cloth-eared doll.

  For quite some time, Mary was alone, left to pace the cell and wonder what fate would wait her. Was Sister Lucia perhaps behind this? Had the vicious old woman decided that marriage to the Sheriff of Staffordshire was too good a fate for her? Or had perhaps one of the nobles or merchants she had once stolen from decided to exact revenge?

  Languishing in the prison, it occurred to Mary that it was not a good thing to have made so many enemies that one did not know which one of them might be behind one’s misfortune.

  Many hours later, the door at the top of the dungeon opened and boots began to descend. Mary felt the knot in her stomach tighten. The boots
were large and dark, clearly belonging to a man of some stature. What terrible beast of a fellow had so imprisoned her?

  She could not make out his face until he turned toward her. And then, as soon as she saw it, she knew it. Martin. She swore a great string of curse words, as much out of relief as out of ire.

  “Ah,” he said, pretending as if not to know her. “I see we have a new prisoner.”

  “Martin! Let me out of here.”

  “Oh, I certainly cannot let you out. You are accused of poaching on the king’s highway, no doubt with the intention of further malice.”

  “Martin!” She stamped her foot. “This is not funny. You sent your men after me.”

  “I sent my men after the lady who has been terrorizing the highways and byways,” Martin said. “And now she stands before me. A brigand to the bone, an unapologetic lass who must be shown the full majesty of the law if she is to be redeemed.”

  “Martin!” Her voice was becoming quite squeaky with the stress of it all. “It is I, your wife!”

  “You cannot possibly be my wife,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “For my wife is upstairs in her rooms, weaving on an empty loom. She informed me thus her very self.”

  “Martin!”

  “You will call me Sheriff de Stafford or sir,” he said, curling his lip. He put key to lock and entered the cell, blocking all passage of escape with his body. “You will atone for your sins, my sweet criminal. Now, off with your clothes. Clothes are to be worn by the innocent.”

  Mary removed her overdress, then shrugged her slim shoulders. “Is that what you wanted, Martin?”

  His eyes narrowed at her and when he spoke again, it was with a growl of authority that made her immediately regret her mistake. “You will call me sir, lady of the locks. As for the clothing, take it all off. Every single solitary stitch.”

  She had undressed before him many times, of course, but in that cell, under his punitive gaze, she found herself rather attached to the idea of remaining clothed.

  “Please, Mar… sir…”

  “Off with the clothing.”

  Given no choice, Mary removed the under dress and the petticoat and then the fine undergarments that shielded her mound and breasts from prying eyes.

  It took many minutes, and through each one of those excruciatingly long minutes, she felt her resistance withering under the eye of her husband and master. When she was finally naked, he was not any kinder.

  “Stand up straight, girl. Remove your hands from your loins.” He snapped the words. She obeyed them instantly.

  Completely nude, she stood before him as he walked about her, looking her over as if for the first time.

  “A pretty body for such a wicked criminal,” he said, turning about her back. A hard slap landed across her bottom, given by his gloved hand, and she cried out as the shock flashed through her flesh. “I will have fun with you, my sweet prisoner.”

  “Mar… sir… please…” She began to beg for his mercy, but he turned about her once again and looked into her face, and she saw that the time for his mercy had passed.

  “You will serve thirty days in this cell,” he told her. “And in those thirty days I shall make ample use of every part of your body. You will do penance, my sweet. You will learn the meaning of obedience, and perhaps when you are released, you will learn to value your freedom and not throw it away on churlish fancies.”

  Thirty days. Thirty days locked up in a cell. The sentence made Mary’s stomach clench. “Please, Martin… sorry… sir… Sheriff…”

  “Let us begin your penance.” He took her by the hand and drew her across to the bed, such as it was. Sitting upon it, Martin pulled her across his thighs with a quick tug.

  Regret was welling in Mary, as well as a certain amount of fear. This consequence, this was not like any that had come before it. She was accustomed to making good on her escapes, or at least suffering minimal consequences. As she looked down at Martin’s shined boots, she realized that she had been completely out-maneuvered and outwitted by her husband. He must have known precisely what she was doing when they conversed in her rooms. She had thought herself so clever, but it was all part of the rope he had been allowing her to have. Enough rope to bind herself with.

  Martin slapped her bottom quite hard, beginning the punishment with a gusto that made her squall from the outset.

  “Hush,” he said. “We are barely yet begun. If you insist on crying so, you will soon find yourself completely out of breath.”

  With that he continued the thrashing, plying the palm of his hand against the seat of her bare bottom with swift slaps that soon bought pink and red hues to her tender skin. Any single one of them would have been bearable, but laid atop one another, they soon produced a stinging ache that made Mary complain and writhe in her husband’s capable hands.

  “Oh, you do not like this?” He paused for a moment to lecture her further. “Imagine how much less you would like the hangman’s noose. Imagine how much more painful a public whipping might be. Imagine all the punishments aptly suited to your crimes, and realize how fortunate you are to be in this cell, under my hand.”

  Fortunate was the last thing Mary felt. Sore was the uppermost feeling, followed by shame at having been so neatly caught and embarrassment at the physical fact of being stripped bare and held over her husband’s knee whilst being spanked and lectured.

  “You still do not realize what danger you put yourself in, do you?” He smacked low on her seat, urging her hips up and forward over this thigh. “You have no concept at all of consequences, my cosseted little noble. To you, the notion of being truly punished for a crime is foreign.”

  “Punishment is for the poor,” Mary squealed as his hand landed once again. “To the victor go the spoils.”

  “You cannot truly believe that, Mary.”

  “Why not? If a king sweeps in and conquers our lands, if he takes them from us, are they not his?”

  “You liken yourself to a king? You, stealing jewels and stuffing turkeys?” Martin’s laugh was not as harsh as Mary imagined he wanted it to be, but his hand was more than hard enough against the soft round of her cheeks as he began a quick whipping motion that left no room for conversation amidst the squalls and squeals.

  “Martin! Mercy!”

  “It would not be merciful to let this matter pass,” he said, stilling for a moment. “It is not mercy to spare you the consequences of your actions. It is folly and it is cruelty of a kind.”

  “Less cruel to lock me up for all of a month than be lenient?”

  “Much less cruel,” he said, pushing her legs apart with his hand so as to slap the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

  She opened her mouth to cry out, but it was not a cry that emerged, for between the slaps to the sensitive spots he also laid his fingers across her mound and rubbed gently.

  Martin was truly a master of the female form. His fingers knew precisely where to lay themselves against Mary’s lips, parting their folds and delving into the dew between. He manipulated the petals of her feminine flower, stroking until she began to grow quite calm and compliant.

  “You know you have done ill, do you not?”

  “Perhaps a small amount,” Mary admitted.

  “And you know that I, as your husband and as your sheriff, must provide discipline.” It was not a question; it was a statement made as his fingers slid inside her body, gliding back and forth at the very sensitive entrance. He used his other hand to slap her cheeks, making her thrust herself back and forth on the hard ridges of his digits.

  Mary quite forgot about her crimes. She quite forgot about the punishment and the dungeon and everything else. All that mattered was Martin’s touch, his hands on her and inside her. No amount of shackles and cells could ever have provided the feeling of being contained and possessed the way his capable hands did.

  Before she could climax, he slid his fingers away and pressed her down to her knees, her mouth level with his proud cock.

  “Now,” he s
aid, sliding his hand through her hair. “Take me into your mouth.”

  With no small amount of tingling shame, Mary parted her lips and allowed him to slide his cock over her tongue. She had heard of such sex acts before, but she did not expect her own pussy to start burning with desire in response to the sensation.

  With her mouth full, she could not speak or argue. She could not do anything besides service the man who was her master. Martin curled his hand in her hair and worked her head back and forth along the length of his erection, controlling the pace. He chided her when she reached down to touch herself, telling her that he would fill her when he was ready.

  It seemed like an eternity of sinful use, during which Martin made her mouth his most intimate repository. Over and over again she took the flared head, the regular ridges passing over her tongue in a simple rhythm which reminded her of how it was when he was inside her in the manner most fitting.

  Pressed up over the bed again, Mary thought he was poised to satisfy the wetness between her thighs, but she felt his cock aiming not for her quim, but for her bottom. Her cries of complaint were ignored as he pressed forward, penetrating her tightest hole.

  “You need not whimper,” he said, his hand still caught in her hair. “You were warned of what would happen should you misbehave, and you have misbehaved greatly.”

  Mary’s whimpered response made little sense, but she could hardly form words with her bottom stretched around her husband’s cock. All she could do was lie there and take deep breaths as he urged himself deeper.

  “Good,” he said, smoothing his hand up the line of her back. “You are relaxing now. You are accepting your place beneath me.”

  Indeed she was, for she could do little else. He was thick and broad inside her, so much so that it felt as though she could take no more. When he began to slide back and forth, she thought it too much for her sensitive nerves. Every part of her body was singing with sensation, her toes curling, her fingers grasping at the coverlet.