The Evolution of Sex Pt. 01

This story is Part 1 of its series. It follows the lives of a young married couple in 1813. I chose this era because I wanted to explore the evolution of marital sex in a time where many women were forced to marry a stranger. I wanted to recreate how two people could come together and slowly begin to know each other, inside and out.

This series is not meant to be completely historically accurate; some lingual anachronisms may occur.

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"Do you, John Edward George Alexander Randall, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife..."

The reverend's voice faded from my ears as I stared resolutely through my long lace veil, trying hard to focus on anything but my new husband.

I had not wanted to marry John, but he was the son of the Duke of Suffolk, and both of my parents agreed it was a perfect match for their eldest daughter. How could I argue with two doting parents convinced that they were giving me the best?

In a sense, they were. I would never want for anything—not that I would have otherwise—and I would be immensely wealthy. The price of my felicity was, however, being handed over to a complete stranger.

I felt tears prick the back of my eyes, and I blinked ferociously, trying to dispel the treacherous drops before they could escape. I didn't think I'd be able to pass them off as tears of joy.

The minister's voice floated back into my ears. "Do you, Eleanor Isabel Brandon, take this man..."

When he had finished, I took a deep breath and said the words that would bind me to this stranger for the rest of my life.

"I do."

My hands clenched convulsively around his, and I sucked in a huge breath of air. For the rest of my life. For as long as we both shall live. Forever. With a stranger.

He must have felt the same—I saw his knuckles turning white from holding my hands so hard. He was crushing the delicate bones of my fingers, but I didn't care. It seemed as though we both needed an anchor, something solid to hold onto, some sort of slight connection that might guide us toward a semblance of happiness.

He lifted my veil, and kissed my brow so gently I almost didn't feel it. Quietly, so only I could hear, he whispered, "Smile. For now, we both must smile."

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Our wedding celebration passed in a sickening blur, far too fast for my liking. I was dreading its end, when I would be handed off into the care of my new husband for our first night together. I knew what I had to do, what was expected of me. I laughed into my goblet at the thought of my mother's kind advice: "Lie back and think of England."

Yes, Eleanor. Think of all the strong sons you'll bear him. Your husband. This stranger.

I was suddenly very, very nervous.

Before I knew it, I was being escorted to the bridal chamber by a rather bad tempered maid. She, however, seemed mildly sympathetic to my plight, and when we entered the room she closed the door and locked it behind us.

"Now, lass, sit ye down. We shall fix ye up in no time, and dinna fash about what's to come. What's done is done."

I let out my breath in a long sigh, and let her guide me to a plush chair in front of a dainty vanity. Her broad Scots accent reminded me forcefully of my own chambermaid in Ellesmere, and I felt farther from home than ever. I let her brush my hair, undress me, and slip a soft satin nightrail over my head.

I watched her turn back the bedclothes and fluff the pillows, my sense of foreboding deepening with every move she made. After endless small preparations and bustling about, she walked up to me and gave me a huge hug.

"Good luck to ye, lass." She flashed me a sweet smile, surprising on such a dour face, and was gone.

Before I had time to think, the door opened again, and my new husband entered.

I stood in the middle of the room, staring dumbly at him, shivering slightly in my thin nightrail. It was drafty in the big chamber, and I could feel my nipples rise against the satin. I crossed my arms hastily over my breasts and lowered my chin defensively.

"Are you cold?" he asked, only a slight quaver in his voice. I nodded, stood for a moment longer, and then walked quickly to the bed. I sat down hard on the down mattress and met his eyes again, daring him to come closer.

He didn't—instead, he proceeded to undress, folding his clothes neatly and setting them on the window seat. Finally, he straightened up and stared back, clad only in his long linen shirt. He was cold too; I could see, with that acute awareness that comes with fear, the gold hairs on his legs stand up.

John was beautiful, that much I could not deny. He had a finely chiseled, aristocratic face. Strong chin, striking blue eyes, nose straight as a knife's edge. His lips were full and expressive, turned down now with unease. He had golden brown hair that many women would kill for. All this I took in, and it still did not make me less afraid.

Quite suddenly, John crossed the room and sat down on the other side of the bed, mirroring me. Tired of the awkwardness, I huffed and swung my legs into the bed. I pulled the quilts up to my chin and rolled onto my side to face him.

"Well, we both know what has to happen now. The question is, would you like to get to know me a little first? We do have all night. Perhaps you would like to know more than my name before we..." I broke off, unable to finish. My clumsy attempt at bravado had failed. John smiled faintly at me.

"I appreciate your concern for my feelings, but as it is, I do think I would rather not talk just now."

My breath caught in my chest, as though an icy hand of nerves had clenched my lungs shut.

"Oh? And why is that?" I croaked.

"Because it's a deal easier hurting someone you don't know than hurting someone you do."

"So it is going to hurt? I thought so, but no one would really tell me anything about it, of course I do know what's supposed to happen but not the details, and I wish someone had explained and John...do try not to hurt me?" I finished lamely, my nervousness driving me to babbling.

"This is as new for me as it is for you," he assured me soothingly.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, and then he reached out and held my hand. I looked up at him in surprise.

He sighed, just as I had minutes earlier, and got into the bed clumsily, still gripping my hand. When he was settled, he leaned on an elbow and looked me straight in the face.

"May I kiss you?"

Stunned, I nodded.

Very gently, he cradled my face in his hands and touched his lips to mine. When he pulled away, I was blushing furiously. But my voice didn't shake when I told him, "My turn."

I kissed him back, a bit more forcefully than I meant to. But he didn't seem to mind—in fact, he gathered me into his arms and held me closer, nudging my lips apart with his. I resisted at first, but then melted into his mouth. I had kissed stable boys before for a lark, but it was nothing like this. I opened my mouth slightly and let him kiss me.

When his tongue darted into my mouth, I stiffened and pulled back. The sensation of his tongue on mine had sent a jolt of heat from my lips to the tips of my toes, and I was tingling in unfamiliar places.

"I'm sorry," he said, a bit hoarsely. A rosy flush had spread across the high cheekbones. "I shouldn't have done that."

"No, I liked it," I said, smiling at him. The longer we touched, the bolder I felt. John seemed to feel the same; moments later, his lips were on mine again, and this time, he kissed me without restraint. Our tongues seemed to fit together as easily as my hand fit in his. Almost unconsciously, my arms drifted up and curled about his neck. His big, warm hands roamed over my back and ribcage, pressing me closer to him. I felt a hardness pressed against my stomach, and a curious wetness began to pool between my thighs. He pulled back from me for a moment.

"Can I touch you?" he whispered, much less formally than he had before. I nodded wordlessly and helped him get my nightrail off. He shrugged out of his shirt and took me back into his arms. My breasts collapsed onto his chest, and I felt every inch of him pressed against every inch of me. One hand curled around the back of my knee and hitched it up to his hip.

John kissed me again, even longer and deeper than before, and then he spoke in my ear.

"I think...I must do it now. I don't think I can wait."

I nodded a third time and rolled over onto my back. He rolled on top of me and stared down into my eyes.

"Are you afraid?"

"Yes."

Silence for a moment and then—

"John, you're squashing me."

We both giggled a little at the absurdity of it all. Here we were, complete strangers, naked together in a huge bed with no idea what to do with each other. He hitched himself up on his elbows.

"Eleanor? Will you...show me where?"

Surprised, I arched an eyebrow at him.

He rolled his eyes. "I know where, you goose, but I meant...well, I can't exactly see what I'm doing here..."

We laughed again, and I agreed. Tentatively, I reached a hand between us and took hold of him. The skin of his cock was smooth as silk, and hot to the touch. I stroked the length of it experimentally, and he let out a small moan. I took a deep breath and moved my hand lower, spreading my legs a little wider. I set his throbbing tip at the entrance to my most guarded, and least explored place.

"There."

He let out his breath and suddenly, without warning, pushed his full length into me.

The pain knocked the breath out of me. While it wasn't nearly as bad as I imagined it might be, it was certainly worse than I expected. I squeezed my eyes shut as he thrust into me, hard and fast. It was seven strokes—I counted—but it seemed much longer to me. Each time he withdrew, my inner walls collapsed in gratitude, only to be stretched again by the driving force of John's hips. I jerked in surprise when his seed spilled into me, and I gripped his shoulders tightly as he shuddered violently.

Spent, he rolled off of me, panting heavily, hair tousled and eyes closed. We didn't speak for a long time.

I didn't know how to react. I was stunned. I felt as though I'd been invaded, as though my last shred of childhood innocence had been ripped away in one fell swoop. I felt like a stranger.

The tears came very quickly, spilling out from under my eyelids and splattering on the pillow. I tried to keep quiet, thinking that he had fallen asleep, but I must have made some small sound, because the bedclothes suddenly heaved beside me and a hand closed on my shoulder.

"Eleanor! Are you alright?"

I nodded miserably, letting the tears flow freely now.

"Oh, God, Eleanor. I'm so sorry. Did it hurt terribly? I should have been more careful with you, please forgive me..."

He went on for a moment longer, berating himself and apologizing, until I rolled toward him and into his arms. Surprised, he stiffened for a moment, but then wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into my hair, and he let me cry.

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I awoke sometime later, still cradled in his arms. He felt me wake, and touched my nose gently.

"How do you feel?"

I stretched my legs, feeling the soreness between them, and the stickiness on my thighs from both of us.

"Alright," I replied. My voice crackled with sleep, and he chuckled.

"Well, if you want, you could tell me about yourself now. The hard part's over."

I laughed aloud then, snuggled deeper into his arms, and began to talk.

And thus I spent my first night with my husband, perhaps no longer such a stranger as before.