Humbling His Bride

by Loki Renard

  “Must I be naked aside from this?” She plucked at the little white apron he had given her to wear that fell just to the top of her thighs, obscuring her breasts and mound, but only just.

  “You could certainly be entirely naked,” Tristan smiled wolfishly. “But the apron provides a little protection, and a modicum of modesty while still leaving your bottom bare for the inevitable corrections you’ll receive.” He patted her bottom and watched her squirm.

  Lydia felt very small and rather naughty and wasn’t at all sure that she could possibly learn anything while half-naked in front of Tristan. She hid a smile behind her hand and shifted from foot to foot.

  “To your knees, my dear,” he ordered gently, but firmly.

  She sank to the floor and looked up at him with mute expectation. The position was a little exciting, reminding her how it had been the first time they’d met, how he’d made her kneel before him and then done unspeakable things to her that had culminated in the first true tsunami of pleasure she had ever experienced. Of course, the first time they’d met, he had not brought a plethora of cleaning products with him.

  “I am sure it has not escaped your attention that cleaning usually involves hot soapy water in some form or another,” he said, handing her a brush. “Floors need to be scrubbed when they are very dirty, and swept and mopped when they are less so. These floors happen to be very dirty, thanks to your little domestic misadventure.”

  He placed a bucket of hot soapy water nearby and bade her start work. With a little sigh, Lydia complied. Her butt was still stinging from the hand spanking he’d given her, but that was nothing compared to how it would feel if he used the long cane he had in his hand—another of the new items introduced thanks to her oversized mouth.

  Scrubbing floors was about the least glamorous, most physically exerting work Lydia had ever done. As she moved the brush back and forth her whole body swayed with the motion, her nipples rubbing against the fabric of the apron in a way that was faintly erotic, or would have been were she not completing the most tedious domestic labor ever invented.

  For his part, Tristan did very little besides tap the end of his cane against her bottom, lightly urging her on when she faltered in her task. It provided motivation but little else… until she felt the cane slide between her cheeks and lay lightly along the seam of her sex with a gentle pressure that was maintained through her movements. It was an almost casual touch, but it made her melt with desire and move all the more, grinding her hips seductively as she created a foam of suds across the polished wood floor.

  “Good girl,” he murmured above her.

  Lydia felt the cane slide a little lower as Tristan walked around behind her to change the angle at which it touched her. She let out a soft moan as she felt the hard ridge bump against her clit, the tight little bud tingling with a hot impulsive need that made her spread her legs wider and arch her back and grind against the cane with a wanton action that made her apron-clad breasts dip into the soapy foam beneath her.

  “Oh, Lydia,” he growled. “You little minx. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.”

  She looked over her shoulder and flashed him what was almost certainly an unrepentant grin. The white apron had become quite translucent thanks to the soapy water.

  “I’m not the one who wanted to play with the cane,” she said archly, earning herself a light swat from the stinging length. Even a little slap of the infernal implement made an impression, but the earlier teasing had made her wet and her wetness and arousal mitigated what might under other, less soapy circumstances have been pain.

  “You have been nothing but naughty,” he said, his smile belying his words. The truth was that this was only the second day of their marriage and the call of lust was far stronger than Tristan’s desire for clean floors. Lydia knew that instinctively, and could see as much by the tall tent in his trousers.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him. “I don’t want to be naughty. What will happen if the president finds out his little aristocrat has been a bad girl?”

  She was teasing him quite boldly now, rather enjoying the spark of surprise in his eyes that was quickly matched with laughter. He enjoyed the rebellious side to her personality, a fact Lydia found very freeing. Funnily enough, the more discipline he gave her, the more scope there was for disobedience—and they both seemed to prefer it that way.

  Tristan pulled her up from the floor, pushed her over the kitchen table, and thrust himself inside her, his cock sliding smoothly inside her soaked slit. Unlike the first time they had made love, there was little discomfort in the entry. She was still a little achy from her defloration, but the ache soon turned to pleasure as her arousal and juices flowed ever more freely.

  “You have been a very bad girl,” he growled, emphasizing every word with a hard thrust. “And an exceptionally naughty little aristocrat. Do you know what happens to naughty little aristocrats?”

  “No, sir,” Lydia moaned.

  “They are fucked long and hard,” Tristan growled. “And their hot red bottoms are spanked all the while.”

  A hard slap followed his words, the sudden rash of sting bursting across her bottom. Lydia let out a yowl, which devolved into a moan as he took a firm hold of her hips and began thrusting hard and fast with almost punitive strokes, her clit grinding into the hard tabletop as he alternately spanked and fucked her to the very limit of her capacity for such punishment. She could feel her bottom swelling with each and every slap and knew that she would be quite sore for some time, but as much as she cried out in complaint, her soaking cunt told the true story. His rough treatment served to drive her to even greater heights of pleasure. The harder he spanked her, the wetter she got, the more her pussy clutched at his cock, and the redder her bottom became. It was a chain reaction propelled by a pounding that ended only when Tristan pulled out suddenly, slapped her bottom hard enough to make her squeal, and simultaneously came, not inside her this time, but on her hot, red cheeks. She felt his cum splashing over her sensitive skin and dripping down to coat her pussy and then she felt his hand slide between her thighs and his fingers rub his cum into her clit and lips.

  It was perhaps the most erotic, decadent act she could have fathomed, and still there was more. He put one hand on her back to keep her in place, nudged her legs open with his foot and began slapping her lower lips with his cum-covered fingers, punishing her most sensitive place with little stinging swats that were not nearly hard enough to seriously hurt, but that certainly stung and made her gasp and leap.

  “In the future, you will attend to the house to the best of your abilities, won’t you, Lydia?” His fingers slid over her clit and pinched the little bud with just enough pressure to detonate the explosive sensations that had been building in the sensitive nerve endings.

  It was quite difficult to ascertain whether her answering orgasmic wail was in the affirmative, or whether the writhing of her hips, or the trembling of her thighs, or the hot blush that raced across her skin meant she intended on becoming a good little domestic wife. Tristan caught her before she slid off the table and drew her up into his arms, smiling down at her flushed face and erotic glazed eyes.

  “I suppose all that remains to be seen, my love. For the moment, bath and bed, I think.”

  Bath and bed sounded absolutely perfect to Lydia, filthy as she was from top to toe first with the day’s labors and then with the aftermath of Tristan’s desire. She settled into his arms without complaint and allowed herself to be carried into a world of warmth and steam and later still, sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  As the days went by and blended into weeks, Lydia did become more proficient in the arts of home care; however, whenever Tristan was in the city solving the problems of the colony one decision at a time, Lydia found herself bored out of her mind at home. The life of a housewife was tedious to say the least. Perhaps there was a certain pride to be had in keeping the house looking nice, but there was little mental stimulation to be had.
When living with her parents, Lydia had often socialized with other ladies of similar station. They had spent many pleasant afternoons and evenings in one another’s company, smoking their cigarettes and talking absolute nonsense.

  “I am bored,” she declared in the early hours of a morning upon which Tristan had not yet left the house.

  “Bored?”

  “I am alone all day. I am going mad. Utterly mad.” She sat down and pouted at him. “What will you do with a mad wife?”

  Tristan put the papers he had been reading down and his left brow rose in her direction. “There is plenty to do,” he said. “There is tending the house, and then you may read, bake…”

  “All those things are solitary,” she pointed out. “Am I to be a hermit for all time with nothing for company but the sound of my own voice?”

  “Perhaps we will organize some outings with the other wives,” he conceded. “Though at this stage, you would likely be nothing but a bad influence.”

  “Me?” Lydia feigned outrage. “How could I possibly be considered a bad influence?”

  “I see the rebellion in your eye, my sweet, and I am sure that if you were to be returned to the company of your peers you would soon sow seeds of discontent among them as well.”

  “The others are content?”

  “Most women settle into their natural roles as wives,” Tristan said, speaking with a calm certainty that made Lydia bristle. “If they are not agitated otherwise.”

  “And I am not most women?”

  “You are not most anything,” he said with no small measure of affection. “You are an inordinate brat. If it wasn’t for how doped to the gills you were kept by your parents, I think my revolution would have had much stiffer resistance.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Do you really think that?”

  “With your talent for disruption? Absolutely.”

  “I have been nothing but obedient,” she said, unable to keep an entirely straight face.

  “Exactly,” he said as she dissolved into giggles. “You have played at obedience and feigned propriety, but I know you better than you might think.”

  * * *

  Tristan gave his bride a warning look as she giggled her way out of his presence. Oh, but she was trouble. In his care, Lydia had blossomed into a sharp-witted and occasionally sharp-tongued little minx. The spirit that he had seen little sparks of even when she was meekly waiting to discover her fate on the day of choosing was now ablaze with fresh confidence.

  It was quite fascinating how a home with discipline made her behave far more freely than her original environment had. Though he kept a stern exterior when necessary, Tristan rather enjoyed her spunk. He had little interest in dominating his wife into perfect submission, though she did seem to enjoy dancing back and forth over the line between acceptable and unacceptable behavior. There was a gleam of ever-present effervescent mischief in her eyes that made him love her passionately.

  He knew very well that as she grew more accustomed to her new life and the new rules of what to her was an entirely new world, some form of rebellion was almost inevitable. She was discovering an entirely new set of limits that he would have to enforce. With any luck, he would catch her before she got herself into too much trouble.

  “Lydia,” he called. “I have to go. Come and kiss me.”

  She appeared with a coquettish smile. “Just kiss you?”

  A low growl of arousal rose in his throat. She was also learning that he was easily seduced, and that bringing him to orgasm was a rather good way of improving his mood and getting more of what she wanted about the place. There were limits, however, and he did have to go into the city. New Paris was depending on him to stabilize the revolution.

  She came toward him with a swing in her step, a rolling of her hips, and a batting of her dark lashes which framed blue eyes flashing with playful desire. She tipped her mouth up toward his and he gave her a kiss that quickly deepened to a passionate locking of lips that made his manhood stir.

  Lydia’s hand slid between them and the flat of her palm ran along the ridge of his cock in a tempting manner that made him fervently wish he had a few more minutes than he had. He reached around her body and laid a light slap to her bottom.

  “I will service you when I return this evening,” he said with a wink, which only served to make her pout.

  “Yes, sir, of course, sir,” she said demurely. Of course, Tristan very well knew she only used the term ‘sir’ when she was feeling peevish.

  “Be good,” he said, giving her a stern look. “I can tell you are in one of your moods.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said sweetly. “I do hope you have a perfectly wonderful day!”

  Outside, the rumble of a motorcar heralded the arrival of his escort. Tristan pressed another kiss to the top of Lydia’s head and bade her farewell with no small measure of guilt. She really did need more attention than she was getting; unfortunately, there was a great deal more afoot than she really knew or understood and for the moment she was much better off alone at a relatively remote location than with him.

  * * *

  Disappointed that her plan had not worked, Lydia waited until Tristan’s driver had departed, then turned her attention to other matters. Sometimes Tristan drove himself to and from the city. Other times, armed guards came and took him, quite an overstated contingent of security. Today had been a day with many guards, which meant that his car still stood in the garage, a gleaming mechanical monster capable of delivering her wherever she might wish to go. It needed keys to operate the engine, but she knew where they were, safely tucked away in the upper drawer of his desk in his office.

  In some divine coincidence, Lydia found herself standing in the open garage with the keys in her hand, jingling them nervously back and forth as she looked at the car and wondered if it would be utter impossible madness to take it out herself. Tristan would not be pleased if he caught her, of course, but he didn’t have to catch her. She was fairly certain she could go out and return before he knew she had gone. It would be her little secret. She wouldn’t get into trouble—and he hadn’t specifically said she couldn’t take the car. He hadn’t said anything about it at all.

  She did not know many things, but she had already taken it upon herself to learn how the car worked using an old manual she found in one of Tristan’s bookshelves. It was rather simple, really. Wheel for steering, pedals for acceleration and stopping. So simple anyone could do it. Once upon a time, almost everybody had.

  Sitting in the driver’s seat, Lydia inserted the key into the special little slot and turned it a quarter turn. She grinned with utter glee as the car roared to life, vibrating around her with the restrained force of its power. The manual open next to her told her to take the hand brake off, which she did, and apply pressure to one of the two pedals at her feet. The first pedal did nothing and therefore must have been the brake. The second shot her out of the garage at what felt like warp speed and made her stamp on the brake as hard as she could. The car came to a very abrupt halt in the middle of a flower bed.

  Giggling to herself, Lydia turned the wheel and applied a much more gentle pressure to the accelerator. This time the car moved more smoothly and responded to her inputs, wheels rolling in the direction she determined. Driving was easy, she discovered. It was just a matter of moving her hands where she wanted to go and not pushing down on either pedal too hard.

  Her journey through the countryside was absolutely joyous. She thrilled to the fresh air coming through the windows and a feeling of independence and power that came from operating such a large machine.

  She made for New Paris, of course, where the security detail at the gates waved her in without question. Lydia felt a little smug about that; they must have recognized her as the president’s bride. She navigated through the streets, feeling sad all over again at the dilapidation of the outer regions, but having her spirits lifted by the more familiar streets that followed.

  It occurr
ed to her that most of her friends would no longer be at their residences. In fact, she knew of only one who would be at home. Lydia stopped outside a particularly grand home, leaving the car idling half on the sidewalk and half on the road.

  She hopped out and banged cheerfully on the front door until it was opened by Esme’s father, Lord Flawksley. He was a man much like her father: gouty, old, and balding. Upon seeing her, his brows jolted skyward and his face went quite pale.

  “Lydia!”

  “Hello,” she said, ignoring the old man’s display of queer emotion, as was the custom. It would not have been polite to inquire as to the reason his face was performing such strange gymnastics. “Is Esme in?”

  “Yes, of course. Yes, do come in.” Flawksley ushered her into the house and directed her up the stairs to Esme’s chambers.

  Lydia ran up the stairs and knocked at Esme’s door. “Guess who!?” she sang out happily as she pushed the door open. Esme was sitting at her window with a cigar clenched between her teeth. She spoke around it.

  “I thought it was you,” she said in dulled tones that indicated she was probably several cigarettes deep in the day. “You’re here.”

  “I am here,” Lydia agreed. “And you are here too.”

  “I am,” Esme agreed. “Come in!”

  Lydia went in, sat down next to Esme, and hesitated only a very brief moment before accepting the cigarette nudged in her direction. Tristan wouldn’t like it of course, but what Tristan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

  “You look like you need that,” Esme observed over the hum of the little machine that was whirring around the room cleaning every nook and cranny without the need for a human to lift a finger.

  “You have no idea how wonderful it is to be back in civilization,” Lydia sighed, sinking into an armchair with her cigarette held between her index and middle finger. She let out a long stream of vapor and watched it waft toward Esme’s painted ceiling. “I have been kept in a beastly rural cottage.”