The gown is no more resistant than a sigh against his hands, and it seems almost eager to betray her. It was made with delicacy in mind, to be sure: fair and beautiful and diaphanous, as all brides longed to be. For smitten hands coming upon her gently, reverently, this gown would have melted away, he thinks - it would have revealed her inch by pale inch, allowing the light to play across bare skin, a most lovely revelation. When no such fragility is asked of it, the fabric all but evaporates in his hands. There is a dash of gold in the dark, the slipping sensation of silk, and then she is bare.
There is little pleasure to be had in this revealing; she is not the first woman he has seen undressed, and there is nothing remarkable about her. More satisfying than the naked swell of her breasts is the burgeoning bruise on her cheek, and on her brow, at her temple, all tales written of how she was thrown down from so lofty and unearned a height. What grace will she summon to explain away these blemishes? He does not have time to humor fantasies of the shame she will invite upon herself with the humble lies she must tell. He does not have time to gloat in wondering who might now hear the arch of her cry through these walls, in those moments when she cannot refuse her pain.
Her spit is a small, hot punch into his unsuspecting eye, and he grimaces at the melting sensation of it. Then he is enraged anew, a dog whose tail has just been swiped at, and her nails bite into his throat, her damned hands left unguarded in his haste to loom above her. Now he does, and he has bullied his way once more between her thighs, jerking in a frenzy which mounts nearly to a sort of hysteria at this hail of insults.
One hand dives across his face to rid himself of her wet blood, the other parries the hands at his throat, and he snarls his own black frustration. The greatest insult comes, once again, in the name she spits at him that he does not know, and then instead of combatting her hand for hand, he grabs at her breast, twisting the tender bud of her nipple when he finds it. The other grasping fingers go again for her own throat, while he strains to keep himself out of her reach, curling where he would shake the words from her if he could. His hips strive to deliver a punishment of their own, making each thrust a gutting blow, if she were a body to be killed.
"I am your king. I am your lord husband, and you love me, and you will say it."
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sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2022-02-02 10:11 pm (UTC)There is little pleasure to be had in this revealing; she is not the first woman he has seen undressed, and there is nothing remarkable about her. More satisfying than the naked swell of her breasts is the burgeoning bruise on her cheek, and on her brow, at her temple, all tales written of how she was thrown down from so lofty and unearned a height. What grace will she summon to explain away these blemishes? He does not have time to humor fantasies of the shame she will invite upon herself with the humble lies she must tell. He does not have time to gloat in wondering who might now hear the arch of her cry through these walls, in those moments when she cannot refuse her pain.
Her spit is a small, hot punch into his unsuspecting eye, and he grimaces at the melting sensation of it. Then he is enraged anew, a dog whose tail has just been swiped at, and her nails bite into his throat, her damned hands left unguarded in his haste to loom above her. Now he does, and he has bullied his way once more between her thighs, jerking in a frenzy which mounts nearly to a sort of hysteria at this hail of insults.
One hand dives across his face to rid himself of her wet blood, the other parries the hands at his throat, and he snarls his own black frustration. The greatest insult comes, once again, in the name she spits at him that he does not know, and then instead of combatting her hand for hand, he grabs at her breast, twisting the tender bud of her nipple when he finds it. The other grasping fingers go again for her own throat, while he strains to keep himself out of her reach, curling where he would shake the words from her if he could. His hips strive to deliver a punishment of their own, making each thrust a gutting blow, if she were a body to be killed.
"I am your king. I am your lord husband, and you love me, and you will say it."