• Home
  • /
  • Stories Hub
  • /
  • NonConsent/Reluctance
  • /
  • The Spoiled Victorian Bride Pt. 01

The Spoiled Victorian Bride Pt. 01

Lord Horace had warned her what would happen if ever she attempted to refuse him his marital rights, but on the third night after their marriage, Clara decided that nothing could be worse than the indignities he had subjected her to thus far. On their wedding night, he had entered her room in a dressing gown wearing nothing underneath. He quickly shed his garment and climbed atop her, hoisting her own thin nightgown to her waist. One thick knee wedged between her thighs, spreading her wide beneath his weight.

"Easy, girl," he had muttered.

She had tried to lie still, tried to remain obedient during the course of the marital act, but when he began to press that enormous, swollen rod of his into the narrow passage between her legs, she had not been able to stop herself from pushing at his shoulders and struggling beneath him.

Sir Horace had subdued her with the weight of his body, grasping both her wrists in one meaty hand and stretching them above her head as he drove into her full length. After that, he had pumped into her deep and long, the only sounds in the room his heavy panting breath and her sobs and groans, until at last, he pressed all the way inside her and, with a violent shout of satisfaction, shot his seed into her womb.

Afterward, he had pulled his weapon free of her tight clasp and risen from the bed. "You will soon learn to accommodate me," he had said.

"I never shall!" she vowed.

He had looked at her then, brows lowered. "See that you do," he replied. "I will have my rights each night, as I choose. If you deny me, you will not like the consequences."

And then he had left her alone in her bed, shocked and sore and sticky with his leavings.

The next two nights had progressed much the same, except that he now made free with her bosom, squeezing one plump breast in his hand as he thrust himself into her body.

"Please," she had whimpered, during one particularly deep thrust. "You are too big."

"Hush," he had admonished her.

She had closed her eyes tight, listening to the sounds of his flesh slapping against her. She felt terribly stretched and sore, each surge of his enormous rod prying her open. When he finally quickened, she began to cry in earnest.

"Quiet, damn you," he growled. And then he grunted his climax, spurting his seed into her in a series of hot pulses.

Clara lay spread-eagled beneath him, one breast rudely bared through the opening of her expensive linen nightgown and her legs spread painfully wide. She felt exposed and degraded.

She had married Sir Horace for his money. Everyone in the county knew it. He was the only titled gentleman she had every encountered and, though he was more than twenty years her senior, she had decided that she would have him. She wanted to live in a fine house and ride in a fine carriage. She wanted to have gowns more beautiful than any other lady.

If the cost was that she must bear Sir Horace a child or two, then so be it. The marital act was but brief, her aunt had told her, and though sometimes uncomfortable, it was a small price to pay for the satisfaction of being the first lady of the district.

Clara had believed her. She had also believed her married friends who had described their own husband's conjugal visits as short and respectful. But Sir Horace's attentions were not brief. Once he mounted her, he worked inside of her for what felt like an age. And he was not respectful. The way he rode her, she may as well have been a prize mare in his stable.

He had been wed twice before and each wife had died in the act of trying to give him an heir. He wanted children, which was no doubt why he visited her room with such frequency. And yet...Clara had a sinking feeling that what he did to her each night in her bed had more to do with his own unhealthy appetites than it did with procreation.

This gave her even more confidence to deny him her bed when, on the fourth night of their married life, he entered her room through the connecting door.

Sir Horace found her seated in a chair affecting to read a book. He frowned. "You are not in bed, wife."

"No, my lord," she said. "I will not be retiring for some time. I am reading, as you see."

"And you think I will wait upon your pleasure, is that it?"

"I think nothing of the sort, my lord. I mean only to finish my book and then to retire to bed where I will go to sleep."

Sir Horace advanced upon her. He was a big man, tall and broad with a large belly. A thick carpet of hair was visible through the neck of his dressing gown. Really, Clara thought with disgust, he was quite vile. "Are you refusing me my rights, madam?" he asked in a quiet voice.

She curled her lip. "You have not behaved as a gentleman, sir. Had you treated me with respect, had you gone about your business as other husbands do, I may yet have the stamina to receive you a fourth night in a row. As it is, I must have some time to recover from your...attentions."

"I care not what other husbands do with their wives," he retorted. "Nor should you, madam. Your concern lies with your own husband. Under the laws of God and of man your body belongs to me and I shall use it however I see fit."

"Not this evening, sir."

"Get on the bed, madam."

"I said no, Horace," she snapped, using his given name for the first time. "And I meant it."

Sir Horace's brow lowered. He turned and strode across the room. For one hopeful moment she believed he was leaving and that she had won. But then he stopped near the fireplace and gave one decisive tug on the bell pull. The summons was answered immediately by a burly footman—a fellow that Clara had seen about the house once or twice before.

"Thomas," Sir Horace said briskly. "My lady wife will need your assistance arranging herself over the trestle table."

Clara shot to her feet. "I beg your pardon—" she began, but Thomas moved too quickly. He was upon her in seconds, seizing her in a strong grip and bodily lifting her from the ground. "How dare you!" she shouted. "How dare you touch me!"

Sir Horace had moved a long, narrow table out from the wall and it was to this that the footman carried her. She struggled and kicked, but he did not regard it, not even when she struck him a blow which she knew must have hurt him. Without any visible effort, he laid her across the table on her stomach. Before she could get her bearings, Sir Horace had caught one of her wrists and tied it to the table leg. In short order he had secured her other wrist and each of her ankles.

And then she felt someone lifting her nightgown.

She jerked her head. "Stop!" she cried. She turned this way and that trying to see who was behind her, but she was tied too tightly to move. She felt cold air on her naked flanks as her nightgown was raised up over her bare buttocks and thrown across her back. The skirts covered her head, impeding her sight even more. "Stop!" she wailed again.

"That will be all, Thomas," Sir Horace said. She heard the door open and then shut. "Well, here we are, madam. And here will we be on every occasion that you refuse me my rights."

She struggled with all her might. "Untie me, sir!" she demanded. "This is an outrage. An insult. Let me go at once!"

Sir Horace placed one large hand on her flank. His young wife went still. She was an ill-tempered girl. A spoilt child with no concern for anyone but herself. He had known all this when he married her. Even so, he did take some small pleasure in breeding her. If she thought to deny him that, he would teach her a lesson she would not soon forget.

"Be silent, madam!' He punctuated his command by raising his hand and bringing it down on her quivering white buttocks with a loud smack. She made a strangled sound. "You will take your punishment and then I will claim my rights."

"My punishment?" she echoed in disbelief.

He slapped her flank again. "I said silent!" He crossed the room to retrieve a cane from the wardrobe. "You will take your punishment in silence. For every word you utter, I will add one stroke of the cane."

"The cane!" she shrieked.

"That's an additional stroke," he said evenly. "The count is now eleven."

Clara clamped her teeth together to keep from speaking. She had never been hit in her life and he had already spanked her twice. Her rear end burned from his slaps and she felt dreadfully exposed. Her legs were spread so widely that the lips of her sex had parted. She had a horrible sinking feeling that he could see it. She wished suddenly that she might simply die. It was all too humiliating to endure.

Sir Horace raised the cane in the air and swung it with the full weight of his arm behind it. It whistled as it flew, landing on her pale buttocks with a loud crack. Clara's body bowed atop the trestle table. She screamed at the pain, every muscle in her body straining to get away.

"Be still," he commanded. He placed his hand on her lower back to steady to her. "Accept your discipline."

"I cannot," she sobbed.

"You now have an additional stroke," he informed her.

Clara struggled in her bonds a moment longer, clenching and unclenching her buttocks in fear of the next crack of the cane against her soft flesh. She heard it whistling threw the air a split second before it laid another stripe of fire across arse.

She squealed and screamed as he delivered nine other deliberate strokes. Before the tenth stroke, she cried out for him to please stop. In punishment, he added another stroke to her count. After that she merely sobbed in great racking heaves as he administered the last cane strokes.

When he had finished, he cast the cane aside and approached her spread sex. Without preamble, he slid one finger inside of her. She froze in her bonds. "Do not say a word," he said quietly. His finger pumped in and out. "Just as you took your caning in silence, you will take your breeding in silence."

He continued to probe her sore, still virginally tight depths as Clara's legs strained against their bonds.

"Enough," he said. "Stop struggling." He withdrew his finger from her sex and shed his robe. "Show me you have accepted your punishment or I will begin to think I was not severe enough."

Clara tried to relax her limbs. She was terrified of the cane. It had cut into her skin like a whip of fire. She was sure she must be bleeding. She exhaled a shuddering breath only to inhale again sharply at the feel of the broad head of Sir Horace's penis pressing at her entrance. She could not contain a distressed whimper.

"You believe I have treated you roughly these three nights," Sir Horace said ominously, "but you will soon learn the difference between a regular mounting and a punishment mounting." At that, he drove into her full length with such force as he had never used before.

"Arrrghh!" Clara wailed. Her head bent in supplication, the last vestiges of her dignity slipping away with every thrust of his punishing length. Still too terrified of the cane to beg him to stop, she could do nothing but whimper and sob with shame as he drove into her over and over again. Each thrust of his hot, swollen member spread the lips of her sex impossibly wide. His ballocks slapped against her, the sound of flesh against flesh echoing through the room.

Sir Horace held onto her hips as he covered her, but when his ballocks drew up tight, he leaned forward and grasped her shoulders, holding her fast as he shot his seed into her. "There you are," he groaned. "Take it. Take it all, madam."

Clara hung limp in her bonds. She was overcome with shame, even as she felt the hot gush of his seed fill her body. He had beat her like an animal. Bred her like an animal. And he was right. This was far different than how he had mounted her the last three nights. Her buttocks and thighs were on fire where he had struck her with the cane and her sex ached and burned from his rough use.

He held himself inside her awhile longer, his long, hard shaft a shameful reminder of how he dominated her body. And then, just like that, he slid out of her, leaving her sex gaping and sore. He gave her a pat on the flank.

"Thank me for treating you gently," he commanded.

Oh, the indignity! She would not say it. She would simply remain silent. And she would have done, too, if he had not pinched one of the raised cane marks on her buttocks, causing her to wail out in despair.

"Say it," he ordered her.

"I t-thank you..." she choked out.

With that, Sir Horace swiftly untied her. He asked if she was able to walk to the bed, enquiring as to whether he should summon the footman to assist her. She responded by standing and racing, rather unsteadily, to the safety of her bed.

"Let this be a lesson to you," he said before he left her bedroom. "You are mine to mount, madam. Mine to ride and breed. Your submission is all that I require of you as my wife. If you do not give it willingly, I shall have to take it by force."

  • Index
  • /
  • Home
  • /
  • Stories Hub
  • /
  • NonConsent/Reluctance
  • /
  • The Spoiled Victorian Bride Pt. 01

All contents © Copyright 1996-2023. Literotica is a registered trademark.

Desktop versionT.O.S.PrivacyReport a ProblemSupport

Version ⁨1.0.2+795cd7d.adb84bd⁩

We are testing a new version of this page. It was made in 776 milliseconds