by Loki Renard
He pulled out as her cunt was quivering with the last traces of orgasm, flipped her over onto her stomach, and drove inside her once again, this time his cock entering her from behind, the length of his shaft finding some previously hidden internal button of pleasure along the front inner wall. Pinned beneath him, her spanked bottom now taking a fresh slapping from his hips as his cock plunged in and out of her slick pussy, Lydia let out gasps and moans and pleas and prayers that meant everything and nothing.
“I am going to come inside you, Lydia,” he growled in her ear. “You’re going to have my seed deep in your bare, no longer virginal little cunt. You are going to be mine as you have never been any man’s before, and never will be any other man’s again.”
His raw possession thrilled her as he pounded her against the bed, his cock sluicing in and out of her so hard and fast she could not count the thrusts. The hammering rose to a crescendo of frenzy, her pussy fucked so thoroughly it was all she could do to press her greedy little clit into the bedding and ride a second orgasm, which was accompanied by the bursting of Tristan’s internal dams. He let out a guttural cry of male triumph, dominion, and release and slammed deep inside her. She felt his cock pulsing in her well fucked, rather tender pussy as he unleashed streams of virile semen, holding himself deep inside her until every last drop had been deposited.
She lay there beneath him, exhausted from his use and unable to do anything other than submit as he let out a happy sigh and slid from her pussy to lie beside her, drawing her dark curls back from her eyes with tender fingers.
“Are you alright, Lydia? I didn’t hurt you, I hope…”
She was tender and her pussy was certainly aching, but she did not feel hurt in the slightest. She felt wonderfully full of the semen that even now she could feel sliding out between her swollen lower lips. Finally she understood what her body was actually for, the mystery of the little folds and nubs and crevices between her thighs unlocked by his mastery.
“I’m not hurt,” she said, seeing his smile of relief as he pulled her close and kissed her lips and her forehead and her cheeks and every other little bit of skin he could find to kiss.
“You’re exquisite,” he said. “You feel… you feel like an angel.”
She smiled at his words and his passion. It felt quite wonderful to have pleased him so completely. For long minutes she lay in his arms, enjoying his caresses as the afterglow slowly faded, leaving them both rather tired.
Next to her, Tristan’s eyes were already closing. It was late and certainly time for sleep, but Lydia had not gone to sleep without a little help in a very long time. She squirmed and wriggled against him, causing him to open an eye and raise a brow.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
She sat up and hesitated a moment before asking the question she needed to ask. “Do you, er… have any snuff, or cigarettes?”
Tristan snorted and shook his head at her. “Neither snuff nor cigarettes are permitted in this house, or anywhere in New Paris for that matter. They’re illegal now, remember?”
Lydia frowned. Nobody had paid any attention when cigarettes were outlawed. The supply had not diminished in the slightest. Their family had been well supplied for the duration of the revolution and so was everyone else she knew. She’d actually forgotten that they were illegal.
“But how am I to sleep without one?” She risked a pout, hoping that he would take pity on her. “I always have at least one before bed.”
“You’ll have to learn to sleep naturally,” Tristan said. “Being doped to the eyeballs is no way to live.”
Lydia had always rather enjoyed being doped, as he put it. It made life much easier when she could float away into the warm embrace of a flood of neurotransmitters. When her father was away for long periods of time and her mother had taken to her bed, Lydia had found comfort, refuge, and even an odd kind of company in the little plastic cylinders.
“Lie down,” Tristan urged. “If you relax, sleep will come quite naturally. You don’t need a cigarette.”
When she didn’t move immediately, he drew her down next to him and put one strong, heavy arm around her waist. Lydia had little choice but to curl up in his arms and let her eyes close. She could feel his strong body pressed to her back, sheltering her, holding her in a loving embrace that made her feel very safe. She had never known how it was to lay with a man, feel his seed trickling between her thighs, and have her pussy throb with the aftereffects of his lovemaking. Her body did feel rather light and floaty and somehow heavy all at the same time, a relaxation that was very satisfying and would certainly have made her drift off to sleep if it were not for the craving growing in her for a cigarette. Just one.
Minutes ticked by, sleep still evaded her and instead sadness crept over her little by little until she felt heavy and tears began to come to her eyes. She pushed a pillow into her face and tried her very best to hide the sudden wave of grief, but the shaking of her shoulders betrayed her as tears turned to sobs.
“Lydia?” Tristan’s deep voice rumbled from behind her. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she cried. Her tears seemed to be coming from some unfathomable place deep inside. She could not understand the cause of them. She wasn’t sad to be with Tristan. Though he had taken her for his bride without consulting her in the usual manner, and though he had at times been rather stern, he had not been cruel. “I am sorry,” she sniffed. “I am sorry to be so ungrateful.”
“Ungrateful?” He let out a surprised chuckle. “Lydia, you need not be grateful.”
“No?” She was most confused as he turned her to face him and she saw that he was not angry at her for being sad. Her whole life, she’d had it drummed into her head that she should be grateful for the kindness of anyone who did anything for her at all.
“You are a long way from home,” he said, soothing her with his words and his touch, brushing away her tears with the pad of his thumb. “And you have had a difficult day. Much has been asked of you, and you are utterly exhausted. I will not hold it against you if you are overwhelmed to the point of tears.”
A great many strange things had taken place that day, but his words were the strangest of them all. As he kissed away the salty droplets on her cheeks and pulled her into a snug embrace, she found herself crying a little less, not because she was stopping herself, but because she was being comforted.
For as long as she could remember, whenever she had been upset Lydia had been told to keep a stiff upper lip, to stop whining, to be brave and stoic and unfeeling. And now, in the arms of the man who had claimed her and shown her ecstasies beyond her wildest imaginings, she found something she’d never known she desperately needed: understanding and empathy that existed even though he was the sort of man who thought nothing of taking her over his knee and giving her a good paddling.
Tristan was a very confusing man, one she could have puzzled over for hours, but as her tears naturally started to dry up and her body finally ran out of energy to fight his will, she found herself drifting into a deep, natural sleep.
Chapter Six
The next morning Lydia woke before Tristan did, still wrapped in his arms. She slipped out from under his arm and padded softly to the bathroom to wash her face and inspect herself. She felt fuller than she had before, more womanly. Her loins were tender and perhaps still a little swollen where his cock had mastered her. When she reached between her thighs and touched herself, she felt a tingle where the sensitive skin was still very much reacting to his lovemaking. She felt so different she was sure she must be utterly transformed, but looking at herself in the mirror she could not truly see any real difference aside from a few light marks on her bottom where the wooden spoon had landed the previous evening.
“Good morning, beautiful.”
Tristan entered the bathroom behind her, completely naked. She could not take her eyes off his broad shoulders and the hard plane of his torso, the thick length of his cock not yet erect but hardening against her hip
as he wrapped his arms around her and pressed a fond kiss to her forehead.
Lydia smiled as she pressed closer to him, enjoying his warmth and his strength. “What will we be doing today?” She murmured the question against his neck.
“Today you will clean the house,” he said, lifting his head. “I will be returning to governance.”
“So much for a honeymoon,” Lydia pouted.
One of those dark censorious brows rose again. “What kind of honeymoon would be suitable while the people starve?”
She sighed. Of course she could not ask for luxuries while so many were suffering. Her marriage was not merely a love match. It was a political statement. As was the lifestyle to which Tristan was insisting she should become accustomed.
“How long is it going to take to restore all the machinery?”
“We’re not going to restore all the machinery,” Tristan replied. “Some of it, yes. But much of it will be decommissioned. It is unnecessary and turns free men into dependent slaves to machines. People must learn how to survive on a basic level. They must learn how to plant gardens, tend crops, build homes, raise offspring… in short, Lydia, they must learn how to live. It starts with us.” He reached out to the corner of the bathroom, picked up a long stick with a great many soft fibrous protuberances hanging from one end, and handed it to her. “It starts with you, and this mop.”
“Mop,” she repeated after him. “Is this to be my companion during the long lonely days?”
Tristan smirked at her. “The day will not feel so long when you work. Take a bucket of hot soapy water, clean the floors, and see if you can clean the dishes and dust the house as well.”
“You want me to put dust inside the house?”
“Do not be literal,” he laughed.
Lydia did not have the heart to tell him she had no idea what he was talking about. Not literal dust then, perhaps some kind off figurative dust? She puzzled over the question while he dressed himself, continued to puzzle over it as he explained that there was a security system that could be accessed by pressing a button near the front door, kissed her goodbye for the day, and left her standing utterly befuddled alone in the cottage that now seemed very large and quite confusing.
“Well, mop,” she said, looking at the thing in her hand. “I hope you have some notion of what it is you do, because I have no idea.”
Chapter Seven
It had been a long day administering the affairs of New Paris and Tristan was eager to return to his new bride. Though duty did call incessantly and with a voice that could not be ignored, he had felt a strange and unfamiliar anxiety for much of the day thinking of Lydia at home alone. The location of the country cottage was a secret so he wasn’t anticipating any trouble from outside sources, but still he felt a gnawing in his gut for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. He certainly drove a little faster than usual, but the journey was rather long and night had fallen by the time he arrived. Bright stars and a glowing moon shed their silver glow over the comfortable country scene as he walked up the path and pushed the front door open.
“Lydia?”
The house was quiet and dark. The simple electric system that ran the lights was operating, meaning he could illuminate the house one room at a time with the simplest flick of a switch. He realized he had probably not informed Lydia of that function before his departure. He’d told her how to summon security, but not turn the lights on.
“Lydia!” He called her name more loudly, but still there was no response. “Where the blazes are you?” He murmured the question to himself as he started to search the house. He noticed that there were bits and pieces that showed some signs of being cleaned—or at least wiped rather inexpertly with a cloth that was probably not as clean as it should have been. For the most part, however, the house was in a far worse state than it had been when he left it that morning. The kitchen was covered in puddles that he suspected were probably the result of an attempted mopping, and the bathroom had muddy footprints tramped right across the tile and into the bath, where a sole daisy sat looking sullen and rebellious in the tub.
The back door was open. Tristan walked through to the little fenced yard—and there he found his bride. She was sitting cross-legged in the garden with his best china ranged around her in individual pieces, plates and saucers and tea cups sitting on the grass much like the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. She had a large tub of dirty water in front of her, upon which her arm was resting and her cheek resting upon that. She was fast asleep, smudged cheeks marked with the effort of her labors.
His irritation faded as he looked into a face of sweetness and innocence quite exhausted by what she probably thought had been an honest day’s work. Tristan swore softly under his breath and bent down to her. She stirred as he scooped her up, but did not wake completely.
“You’re a fool, Tristan,” he lectured himself softly under his breath as he carried her into the now lit house. “She almost burns the place down and you leave her alone the very next day? Of course she didn’t clean the house. You never asked her if she knew what the concept of cleaning even was.”
“Hello.”
He looked down to see that his self-censure had woken her up.
“Hello, my dear,” he said, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead.
“Did you like my cleaning?”
There was something of the devil in the question, a gleam in her eye that suddenly made him think that perhaps not every mistake had been an honest one. He put her down on her feet and stood over her, his hands on his hips as he gave her a stern look.
“Did you really think you were cleaning, Lydia?”
“Well, some yes, some no,” she admitted with surprising honesty. “I dusted the bedroom as best I could, with the dust I gathered from around the place. I don’t know why you wanted things covered in dust, but perhaps it offers some kind of… insulation?”
Tristan sat down on a wooden kitchen chair. If she had told him that she had tried, he would have settled her on his knee. Instead he pulled her close and turned her over it.
“You’re a brat, Mrs. Kane,” he chastised, swatting her bottom over her skirt. “You’ve deliberately gone out of your way to do the precise opposite of what I asked.”
“That is your fault!” Her protests were directed toward the muddy floor. “The instructions were unclear!”
“At the very least you could have done nothing.”
“And been punished for not trying? No,” she said spiritedly. “I knew very well how this day would end. I decided if I was to be sore, I would at the very least enjoy the reason to be sore.”
His cheek quirked as he looked down at what had to be the most unrepentant little brat in all of New Paris. He was very tempted to laugh; in fact he was certain his officers would laugh heartily when he told them the story the next day. But he could not allow himself to show his mirth where Lydia was concerned. The last thing she needed was encouragement.
“Well,” he said in stern tones. “I hope you enjoyed your day of disobedience. I can assure you, you will not have another.”
He bared her bottom in very short order, lifting her skirts and tugging down her panties to sit just below her cheeks. This was not to be a sexual dalliance. This was to be pure discipline.
There were still a few faint marks on her buttocks from the wooden spoon the night before, giving him some small pause. What she’d done deserved a thorough thrashing, but she was a sensitive soul and had a very tender hide to match. A hand spanking would do, the flat of his palm applied liberally to her very deserving buttocks.
Lydia squirmed and made gratifying sounds of discomfort as her cheeks first went pink, then red, then a deep blushing rose that covered from the center of her bouncing cheeks to the very base of her bottom where her white panties were still bunched though her thighs kicked back and forth.
“I will not tolerate willful disobedience,” he lectured as he spanked. “You might think it amusing, but I can assure you there will be nothing funny abo
ut the consequences.”
“You set me impossible tasks and punish me when I fail. You tell me I know nothing, and then expect me to know what your archaic tools are for.” She craned her neck around to give him the full benefit of her pretty eyes narrowed at him with high temper. “You are punishing me not for what I do, but for who I am, and I don’t care if you’re the president of the entire universe, I do not like you.”
She gave the speech in a regal, articulated tone that was quite persuasive. The fact she was speaking with her bottom blazing a brilliant red did detract a little from the general grandeur of the moment, however.
“A pretty little speech,” he said. “But you already admitted you subverted my instructions.”
“Your instructions were as foolish and old-fashioned as you are.”
“Be careful, Lydia. You are preciously close to a fresh round of trouble. Your impertinence will end in tears.”
“The aristocracy was not founded on weak-willed layabouts or simple servants,” she declared. “I have the blood of great generals in my veins and you will not conquer me.”
His hand wrapped in her hair and clenched closed, trapping her in place. He used his grip to ease her up higher, her palms supporting the weight of her body against his thigh as he turned her head toward him, his eyes burning down into hers.
“I think otherwise, my little aristocrat,” he said, breathing the words against her parted yet still pouting lips. “You need an education. And a good education begins in the home.”
* * *
Lydia had known immediately in the pit of her stomach that speaking to Tristan in haughty tones while being spanked was probably a mistake. The course of the next few minutes made her absolutely certain of that fact. The spanking stopped, which gave her some short-term relief, but the punishment was far from over.