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You always knew that you were destined for a life like this; unable to make your own decisions, living in a world that wasn’t yours, always seen as someone else’s property, never fully a person. You had come to terms with it early on. As the sole princess to a dying kingdom, your duty was beaten into you ever since you had hit puberty—that you would be wed to someone you didn’t know, didn’t love, and that you had to be happy about it.
Some nights, you would find yourself dreaming of what your future husband would be like, how he would look. Would your parents be forced to sell you off to someone older? To someone who would never love you? Would they be handsome? Would they be kind?
Almost every suitor you meet is everything but what you hope for. If they’re not some old, decrepit fuck, then they’re young and handsome with a gleam of something evil shining behind their eyes whenever they look at you for too long. You don’t think you’re safe anywhere, and at an early age, you come to terms with living the rest of your life unhappy, unloved, and alone.
That is, until your parents introduce you to Oliver. He’s the new king of a neighboring country, one of the youngest kings in history. There’s some backstory to his land, one you don’t really care to know all about. Your parents just tell you that his own folks went off in search of some treasure years ago, and they still have not returned, and are thought to be dead, forcing Oliver to take over his kingdom in just his early twenties. The words went in one ear and out of the other, your main focus being; who is he? What does he look like? Is there kindness in his eyes, does it hide malevolence?
Your breath is taken away when you are first brought to him in the expansive ballroom in your peoples castle. It hasn’t been used in years, and there are cobwebs lingering in high corners from the emptiness that has pervaded your country. Money started running out long ago. Your parents are only trying to marry you off in hopes that the dowry will be enough to restore your people to their greatness from before. Too bad you’ll be far away, and won’t ever get to rejoice in their revelries.
But…King Oliver is handsome. He stands a head taller than you, and yet he does not look down his nose at you when he speaks. He looks you in the eye with this kind, easygoing kind of smile, a lilt to the corners of his lips when he catches you staring at the fullness of his lips, the feathering of hair under his chin. His eyes are hetero, one a deep, navy blue, akin to the sea at night when the waves are crashing against the shore, the other a verdant green of the hills in his kingdom that he promises to show you once you settle down.
“So this is it, then?” You turn to your parents, your hands clasped in front of you. You don’t shake as much as you thought you would be, in the presence of a potential husband. “He speaks to me about going to his home; so this is done?” You talk about King Oliver as if he doesn’t stand to the side of you. You test him, with your slight, with your turned away head, wait to see his reaction. If he’ll smack you in front of your parents since he already owns you now, if he’ll smile with gritted teeth as his eyes promise ruin and a future filled with pain.
But he only chuckles under his breath, good natured and genuine. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, trying to gauge whether or not his laugh holds hints of malice, of irritation. But Oliver only smiles brighter when he catches your eye, winks at you with something too soft for a strange man who has come to whisk you away from anything and everything you have ever known.
“You are to be wed in a fortnight, yes.” Your father tells you, trying to hold his chin up high so that King Oliver doesn’t catch the glassiness in his eyes. You are his only child; your mother held an illness inside of her that caused her womb to rupture after you were birthed. Your servant, the only friend you have ever known, told you how much this devastated your family; the ache of never being able to have a son to take over the throne. It always put a sour taste in your mouth, the idea that you were the sole reason why your country began to fail and fall apart the minute you took your first breath and robbed your mother of ever being able to give you a sibling. You might’ve loved a sister, if you were to ever have one.
“I am eager for you to see my home, princess.” King Oliver tells you, bowing his head as he takes your hand in his. He presses the gentlest kiss to your open palm, another to each pad of your finger. Your face heats up in embarrassment, a bit of humiliation as your mother coos over how sweet and kind he is, how your father only hums in approval instead of swatting the man over his head for pressing his lips to your skin before you are truly wed.
Oliver stands to his full height after, smiling down at you before he takes his leave. His back is broad in its fitted vest, a deep red color, rich wine, his legs strong as he takes long, languid steps, all the while speaking lowly to a pink haired man whose name you didn’t care to catch. You will have to learn it, soon though, if you are to be wed in less than a month.
Wedding preparations go by quickly. The few possessions you have are packed away in a treasure case, one for your clothing, another for the few knickknacks and things you couldn’t dare be parted with. You wondered if Oliver would let you decorate his room with them, or if you would be banished to your own sector of his castle, forgotten and kept away until it was time to show you off, or—or breed you. Was that expected of you? Of course it was. Its expected of every princess, of every queen.
Your parents hadn’t gone over the stipulations to this arrangement with you; you just knew that you were to wed this stranger, and that was it. You knew that your country would gain an immense amount of wealth from your new husband, but you didn’t know what else was in the deal for them. Did Oliver really want nothing more than a wife, a queen to stand behind him? What was in it for him? Surely, it was so much more than just wanting a companion, but what did your people have to offer him that would be equal in exchange? What would you have to give up in order to please this brokered deal you never wanted to be apart of?
King Oliver sends a nice calvary for you and your people to attend the wedding. It will take five days to get to his country by horseback, and so you all set off barely a week after he first visited you. You’re ashamed to say that you have dreamed of him since then. His kind eyes and his gentle smile, the way he so softly held your wrist in his own grip, the way he spoke to you like a person whenever he referred to you, never counting you out as so many men in power have done before.
The wedding is a long, drawn out process, filled with customs and traditions you had never heard of until that very moment. Your knees hurt from how long you had to kneel, your hands clammy in his own as he gripped you, gentle but firm. You can’t say that you didn’t want to kiss him, in all honesty. He was easy on the eyes, and his mustache tickled a bit when he leaned in to whisper in your ear after the priest announced the time for you to lock lips.
“Can I kiss you, princess?” King Oliver whispered, his breath warm against the inflamed skin of your ears. You felt your entire body shiver, your throat constrict tightly as you shuffled on your feet. You hadn’t expected that. What you had expected, however, was of him to hold you so tight to him that it ripped the breath from your lungs, to dip you back and kiss you until his teeth gnashed against your own, until your breath caught, until his greed allowed him to drain you dry until you became nothing more than a husk of a person that you never truly were.
You don’t expect him to ask you for your permission. He is the king, and while you are now the queen, you know you hold no weight here. He could do whatever he so pleased, right in front of your parents, of your people, of his own, and there would be nothing that anybody could do to stop him or to save you.
“It’s queen, now,” you murmur, your own gaze far away as his words sink in. The room begins to chatter quietly at the lull, at how it has been far too many seconds after the priest announced the time for a kiss. But Oliver pulls you in to your own little world, shared with him, a secret on his lips as he pulls back and chuckles at your words.
“My apologies, my queen.” He teases, winks at you before his eyes fall to your red painted lips. You’ve always hated red lips on you, but you don’t mind the smear of it on his lips when you go in to kiss him, first. Oliver’s surprise hesitates him for only a second before you feel him grin against you, feel how he pulls you in tight against him until the corset of your dress isn’t the only thing that takes your breath away.
His mouth is soft and hot against yours, his lips smooth, his beard scratchy against the skin of your chin. He smears your makeup as he deepens the kiss for only a second, stealing your breath as you wrap your arms around his neck to bring him in deeper, forgetting that you’re strangers, that this man is taking you away from the only life you have ever known.
The priest clears his throat when you let out the tiniest huff of a moan against Oliver’s mouth, pulling away quickly as you look at him with widened eyes. His face mirrors yours before it softens into a grin, as he takes your hand in his own and faces the onslaught of people surrounding you as the priest finishes his spiel. There is cotton in your ears as you catch sight of red brushed against the kings mouth, his grin of pride as he squeezes your palm in his. He winks at you when he catches you staring, and guides you down the many steps as you are introduced as the new queen of his kingdom.
The rest of the ceremony passes by in a blur. Your people are being taken back home tonight, and your parents kiss and hug you tighter than you think they ever have in your entire life. You promise to write to them, and Oliver promises them that the two of you will visit once six full moons have passed from tonight. You don’t know if its an empty promise, if he will change his mind once he realizes that you will not consummate your wedding willingly tonight.
The celebration of your new queenly status is taken well into the night, with people from his kingdom gifting you much more than you have ever been given in your life. They kiss your feet and bow to the both of you, some peoples stares lingering much longer than appropriate when they look at your new husband. Its obvious you’re not the only one who sees him for how handsome he is, and your attitude bristles when one of his commanders for his army gift him three busty concubines to warm his bed on the nights when you’re too tired. They all laugh, and your face heats in anger, in embarrassment, as you turn to your husband and watch him, kindly, thank his general.
You definitely were not going to willingly consummate the marriage tonight.
You expect him to still take you, though. To open your virginal legs and thrust himself inside of you as a gaggle of onlookers watched from over his shoulder. Thats how things are done in your kingdom, and your heart races minutely as your new servant begins undressing you in a huge and lavish room.
But you’re surprised to find out that this is your room and your room alone, that no barbaric voyeurism will be taking place here in this kingdom, that your new husband is still celebrating and drinking with his people. You know you shouldn’t bristle at that, at the thought that he is taking one, if not all, of his new gifts to bed with him, instead of you. But you do, and you shoo away your servant as kindly as you can as you fall into a huge, plush bed that has no right to only hold your body in it.
The weeks pass uneventfully, for the most part. You barely see your husband as he focuses on training, readying his men for a war that he says looms over the horizon by the neighboring country’s king who wanted you first. Oliver seems cocky as he tells this to you, that same pale pink haired general (whose name you still hadn’t learned) boasting about how you were won first, as if you were merely a prize, never a person. Those same feelings of inferiority grip you tightly, and your resentment for your husband, for this kingdom, grows with every passing day that you are left to haunt the halls of his castle with nothing to do, no one to ever really talk to.
That is, until, you run into Oliver one day while planting something in the garden. You do it to busy yourself, mainly, something the groundskeeper tried to keep you from doing until you told of your own garden at home, at how comforting it is to be in the soil. Only then did he relent, but he always made sure to do all of the heavy lifting.
You hear Oliver before you see him, speaking lowly about one of the concubines that he was gifted. Your fingers grow still as you strain your ears to listen, heart falling to the pit of your belly as you hear him discuss how that concubine has fallen heavy with child. Your heart sinks, your throat suddenly constricting as you suck in a shaking, heaving breath.
Your new husband, whom you thought might’ve been better than any of the other suitors who tried to have you, cheated on you? It wasn’t uncommon for kings to have their gaggle of whores, not even uncommon for queens to do the same. But this was a new low. A bastard child, that will be brought into your home, brought into your lives, in the womb of someone who would never raise themselves to the level you had been thrust into.
Oliver had never touched you, hasn’t even kissed you since the day of your marriage. You thought it was a blessing at first, chided yourself whenever you craved the feel of his lips against yours on the more cold and lonely nights that you spent alone in your room. But as the weeks went on, and you saw less and less of your husband, to hear this news was…earth shattering.
Oliver emerges from around the corner, his general (Sendou, you had finally learned his name), hot on his heels. He pauses at the sight of you, genuine surprise overtaking his face before he smiles softly. He bends his knee to fall into the grass beside you, unaware of how you glare daggers at him, at how your eyes grow glassy at the audacity for him to rip out weeds beside you as if everything was fine.
“I used to tend this garden when I was a boy,” Oliver says softly, dirt piling under his nails as he replants the peonies you had taken out from across the grounds so that it now sits underneath the window. “My father told me I shouldn’t do it anymore, that it was manly, nor kingly, to play with the flowers.”
“Maybe he was right,” you spit at him before you can think better of it, petty and harsh. You don’t look at him as he pauses for a second before turning his body toward you. You watch from the corner of your eye as he shares a look with Sendou, who frowns at you, your tone, but you didn’t care much at the moment, hurt still clouding your vision.
“I’m sorry I’ve been away for so long, wife,” Oliver murmurs to you, reaching a dirtied hand out to grab your own. But you snatch away, quickly rolling to your feet as you dust your palms off on the prettied dress he had gifted you that morning. You didn’t care much for the thing anymore anyway, despite how it softened your heart ever so slightly that morning when you realized the dress matched your eyes. “But war is looming—”
“So if you die in war, am I to be the one that raises your bastard?” You ask him haughtily, chin tilted to the air as Sendou growls at you.
“Watch the way you speak to your king.” He snaps, and you wave him away flippantly as Oliver slowly rises back to his feet, a look of confusion taking over his features (his stupidly pretty, kissable, punchable features).
“Mind the way you speak to your queen.” You snap back, turning on your heels before Sendou could say anything else. But Oliver catches you by the wrist before you could go, holding you firm, but not bruising.
“My wife, I can’t say that I know what you mean,” Oliver murmurs, before he chuckles softly, holding your wrist still as he walks around until his gaze meets yours. “How could you be with child, if we haven’t…?” His words trail off as his eyebrows knit slightly together, glancing down at your belly before his eyes meet your own again. But you scowl, irritated and frustrated at how he plays at being clueless.
“I am not the one who has been unfaithful,” you snap, wrenching your hand away from his before you spin on your heel. “But if that is the marriage that you would like to have, then so be it.”
You’re stomping off before Oliver can fully catch up to your words, leaving him standing there in confusion and hurt as he watches your form disappear into the horizon, servants flocking you when they realize you’re heading to the lake. Tears flow from your eyes as they all squawk around you like headless hens, but your own mind is much too loud to pay anything they say any mind.
You avoid Oliver like the plague in the next few days as you try to hash out your plan on how to get him back. Giving away your virginity to somebody but him, could be a punishable crime, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t fool around in other ways.
You find a knight standing outside of your door one evening, guarding you from any lingering threat. You’ve seen him before a few times, watch the crazed pink flame of his eyes that match the tips of his hair light up whenever he and the other knights parry. He’s strong, you know, and doesn’t mind sharing his bed with whomever interests him for the night, man and woman alike. He’s loyal to the king, but any man can be swayed.
“How come you’re on guarding duty?” You ask him as you emerge from your room, leaning against the opposite wall across from your door. You wear only your nightgown, navy blue and sheer, naked underneath. If the moonlight hits you just right, the knight will be able to see your silhouette—and he does, shameless in how he grins as his eyes rove over your form. “Don’t you have more important things to do with your time?”
“Besides watch my beautiful queen? I don’t think so,” the guard, Shidou, you think his name is, purrs quietly. No one else is in this sector of the castle, your husbands own room on the other side. He put you far away from him. No wonder he got some concubine pregnant without you having the slightest clue. But that was okay; you would get your revenge soon enough for him humiliating you.
“Oh, is that what you’re doing?” You ask him, a tilt of your mouth as you spread your legs just so, until the gleam of moonlight highlights the seam of your lips. “Watching me?” Your smile is seductive, devious, and conniving, and you know you’ve gotten the knight, when a sudden, familiar booming voice rings out in the desolate hallway.
“You’re relieved of your guarding duties for the night, pup.” Oliver is suddenly rounding the corner, smiling, tight and close mouthed as his hands are stuffed in his trousers. He’s also dressed for bed, in his loose billowing bottoms and a top with so many buttons undone, he might as well have forgone it in the first place. Your eyes narrow at his interruption, grumbling under your breath as Shidou grins at you before winking and nodding his head at you.
“Whatever you say, my king.” The pink haired man calls out nonchalantly before he’s moving away from the door, walking around the corner and out of sight. Oliver stands in the same spot, eyes drinking you in as the moonlight gives him the barest peek of the roundness of your areola, the perkiness of your nipple in the cold castle. He smiles lazily at you, like he’s won something, like he’s figured out all the pieces of this puzzle and is ready to move on to the next one.
“Are you ready to talk to me now, princess?” Oliver’s voice is deep, reverberating through the quiet hallway. It shouldn’t do things to you, but it does, and that infuriates you even more. With a scoff, you push off of the wall and stomp back into your room, intent on slamming the door shut in his face, but he catches it before you can fully close it.
He gently eases his way inside, despite your tiny resistance. He smiles at you fondly, as if you were some feral cat that he actively tries to catch and tame. It only makes your hackles rise more, as you cross your arms over your chest, not letting him walk more than five feet inside of your room.
“Nobody will be carrying my child, but you.” Oliver tells you flat out and honest, his smile dropping as seriousness takes over. You falter ever so slightly before your eyes narrow at him accusatorially.
“What tea did you make her drink to lose the baby?” You spit at him, cruel, your teeth bared. But Oliver only frowns at you, at the hurt that lingers behind your eyes as he takes a step closer to you. You don’t take one back but you do narrow your eyes at him in warning.
“She didn’t drink any tea, and she is still with child,” he says slowly, soft, making your hackles rise again but he’s disarming you before you can speak. “Because that is not my child that she is carrying.” You blink once. Twice. Oliver continues on as he watches the questions roll over your face.
“Sendou is an idiot,” he starts and you immediately agree, which makes him laugh under his breath. “He didn’t think that I would approve of his relations with a known concubine from another kingdom, and used our wedding as a ploy to get her in the castle. He pretended that she was a gift to me, so that he could be with her, because he knew I would never sleep with anyone else that was not the person I married.”
You’re quiet for a few beats as you explore Oliver’s face, wanting to see any hint of a lie lingering behind his eyes, in the crook of his mouth. But you find none, and release a long, deflating sigh as your head hangs and your arms fall to your sides.
“I’m going to fucking murder him.” You state plainly, barreling forward as your new mission is to rip Sendou’s face clean off of his body. But Oliver catches you as you try to pass him, laughing heartily as he holds you in his arms, nuzzling his face into the crown of your head as you grumble under your breath.
“I wish you would’ve just spoken to me clearly about what you thought was going on.” Oliver whispers when you relax ever so slightly into his arms, pouting as you hesitantly wrap your arms around his thick waist. The bare skin of his fuzzy chest presses against your cheek, as you grumble some more, to which he laughs again.
“How could I tell the king of a land where I am not native, that I don’t want him to be unfaithful and fill another woman with his child?” You ask him softly, your voice muffled by his skin. But Oliver hums, deep in his chest as he nods, pulling you away so that he can look clearly at you.
“You will never have to worry about that, wife.” Oliver says truthfully, his face serious as he his gaze roams over your face for anymore signs of insecurity or worry. When he finds none, he kisses your forehead gently before stepping out of your embrace. He’s grinning now, big and fox like as he shoves his hands in his trousers again.
“It was attractive, though, how jealous you got over me,” Oliver admits, reaching forward to brush his thumb against your cheek. “Maybe I should consider unfaithfulness in order to catch that sparkle in your eye once more.” He teases, and for a singular moment, you see just a hint of red in your vision.
Oliver’s cocky grin is quickly wiped away by the palm of your hand connecting to his cheek. You both pause. He blinks. You just slapped the king, one of a foreign land, one who you are bound to, one that holds the fate of you and your people in his hands.
And yet, you have slapped him.
You’re at a loss for words yourself, as Oliver’s face is still tilted to the other direction, his jaw slack ever so slightly. You should apologize; should throw yourself down at his feet, beg for his forgiveness, his mercy, plead for him to spare you and your people. But you only stand there, a gasp caught in your throat, your hand, trembling lightly now, still raised in the air.
You flinch when Oliver is suddenly on you, expecting to receive a slap back yourself, sure that his calm and levelheaded demeanor were only ever a ploy to get you to cozy up to him. But when he grabs you by both of your cheeks, a kiss is not what you expected, not what you at all prepared for.
Oliver is ruthless in how he kisses you, akin to his fight in battle. He eases himself into your mouth with his own tongue before he controls you, reads you for your next move, counteracts your own grapple for dominance, for control. He laughs when you bite at his lip, when your hands find purchase in deep navy locks and pull until you’re left with a few strands in your wake. Oliver doesn’t let up, doesn’t let your fight and your growl scare him.
Instead he forces you backward with his body, his hand grasping your nape, the other on your hip, his lips on yours all the while. His mouth smacks against yours, his teeth grazing your chin when you lean back to hiss at him, but he’s spinning you on your feet before you can spit your venom at him. His hands are rough, but he’s almost gentle as he maneuvers your body, twisting you around until your front is pressed against the wall of your bedroom.
His scruff tickles your cheek as he buries his face against your flesh, breathing in your scent as he ruts his hips forward against the swell of your ass. You gasp as your hands claw at the stone wall for purchase, nails scraping, your teeth gritted as you try not to moan at the size of him, at how his trousers leave little to the imagination, let you feel just how big, how thick and perfect he is against you.
“Wife,” Oliver groans, humping against you like some—
“Mutt,” you spit into his mouth when he hooks his chin over your shoulder to lap at your lips, your gums. “Mangy, rotten, dirtied mutt.”
Oliver only laughs under his breath, always fucking good natured, the bastard. Your own breaths gets hitched in your throat when you feel him take the barest step away, and begins shucking up the thin silk of your nightgown, exhaling when you can feel more than hear his moan of pleasure. You wear nothing underneath, the softness of your lips peeking from where you ever so slightly bend at the waist, spread your legs for him just the tiniest bit.
“Is that anyway to speak to your king?” Oliver teases, his actions a juxtaposition to his words as he drops to his knees behind you. His thick, scarred palms grab the fat of your ass, squeezing, pulling each cheek away from the other, his thumbs pressing upward to encourage you to bend just the slightest bit more. You want to fight him, bite at him, stay as you are, but he scrapes his stubble against your cheek and breathes and licks over the drooling arousal slipping down your inner thigh. You cave in, bending more at the waist, your palms splayed about the stone wall in front of you, as thick webs of your arousal split and slap against you warmed flesh. Oliver groans at the sight, lips pursing as he kisses away the mess, licking his lips to taste it.
“I’m speaking to my husband, right now.” You try to bark at him, but your tone has gone breathy from where he licks at your cunt, gentle, tasting, explorative, as if searching for the venom that still pervades your every word. “In this bedroom, there are no kings and queens.”
You expect that to be Oliver’s breaking point, for those words to be the catalyst that finally makes him put you in your place; that you are a mere foreigner in his lands with absolutely no control, no escape, no happiness in sight. But Oliver only hums against you, kissing at your lips in apology, akin to how he kissed the ones on your face earlier. Your nails dig into the wall before you as you feel your knees weaken ever so slightly at the wet smacking sound from between your legs.
“Wife, how could I ever forget?” Oliver’s tone is regretful, almost, sweet, placating. You reach back and tug at his hair, forcing his face further into your cunt to shut his stupid, fat mouth. He only laughs before kissing again at your lips, mouth splitting open to tongue at the arousal that slips from inside of you, lolling his wet muscle inside of you until you quiver.
“Bastard.” You gasp as you press his face closer.
“Lover.” He mutters as his cock throbs at the mere taste of you. His fingers hold the fat of your ass tightly, his stubble scratching against you addictively, before he eases one hand away until he’s snaking a thick digit inside of you. You pull at his hair even harder as you gasp at the foreign intrusion, hissing as he works his way inside of you until he’s two knuckles deep.
“Relax, princess,” Oliver coos against you, mouth wetted with slick and spit as he purses his lips to suck your clit into his mouth. You gasp, feet flexing as you stretch away from him, from the overwhelming pleasure that you’re not sure you’d ever get used to. But Oliver eases you back down onto his finger, lets his tongue join the digit as he slides another finger inside. You keen at the feeling, at how he stretches you out so gently, his mouth soft and hot, his fingers thick and knowing which spots to hit to make you moan.
“Have you ever came on anyone else’s fingers, my love?” Oliver asks you softly, before emitting a smacking sound from how hard he sucks at your clit, tongue lathing over the sensitive nub until your eyes squeeze shut and your nails break from how hard you claw at the stone wall before you.
“No,” you mewl, honest, embarrassed despite the way Oliver downright moans at your answer. His free hand kneads at the fat of your ass, fingers scissoring to open you up as you start to near your climax.
“Good,” he mutters, letting go of your ass so that he can rub at your clit with his free fingers, working you over until you start throbbing uncontrollably, a high whine emitting from the back of your throat as your voice starts to staccato. “Then that means I’ll be the only one who’s cock you cum on, too.”
His words take you over the edge, and you orgasm so hard your legs give out from under you, a fully body shiver wracking your body as you struggle to catch your breath. Oliver slows his ministrations until its overwhelming, and you whine with a push to his hands and face as he kisses at your swollen clit once, twice, laughing when you grumble at him and tug his hair once more.
He spins you around as he stands, caging you in against the wall as he takes your mouth in a kiss, filled with your arousal, messy and wet, his fingers holding your face as he claims your tongue with his own. You moan at the taste of yourself, at how he fucks his tongue inside, just how he did with your pussy, and wrap your legs around his waist as he so effortlessly holds you up.
“Take me to your room,” you gasp against his mouth as he begins walking you to the four poster bed. “I want to consummate our marriage in our bed, on our sheets.” You moan, writhing against him with a frown when he slowly lowers you down onto the silken sheets despite your protests.
Oliver unbuttons the rest of his shirt, slow and deliberate as he sits on his knees before you, his silhouette outlined by the pale moonlight surrounding his thick form. You slowly as you rake in his body with a hungered gaze; at the smattering of chest hair, deep and rich in color, the happy trail that leads down to the swell of his cock, where it is barely confined by the expanse of his trousers, a leaking, reddened tip kissing the base of his belly. You swallow again, unknowing if its from fear at the size, or excitement to finally be split open by your husband when you were ready to be.
“This is our bed,” Oliver chuckles, leaning forward to help pull your nightgown over your head. You let him, confusion tightening your face as you watch him toss the garment over his shoulders as he drinks the sight of you in. Your pubes are wet and heavy from how much he licked over you, your nipples pert from the coldness of the room, from the weight of his gaze on your body.
“What do you mean?” You ask breathlessly as you watch him unlace his trousers, pulling them down thick thighs until he’s kicking them off and looming over you on the bed once more. He’s so big this way, and yet looks so kind as he kisses you gently on the mouth, before trailing feather soft touches down the expanse of your throat.
“This was my room, at first,” Oliver mutters against the column of your throat, easing your thighs over his hips as he slots his body between your legs. “I took the room across the castle in order for you to feel more comfortable. I’ve been sleeping in one of our guest bedrooms.” He confesses, although he doesn’t seem to mind much at being displaced.
You pull him away from your throat by the hair at his nape, eyes softening as you catch his lidded gaze, his wetted bottom lip from where he licks it repeatedly. His eyes take you in, slow and sensual, and you can feel his cock throb where it rests on your mound. You cup his cheek, sucking in a sharp, shuddering breath as he slaps the tip of his cock against your swollen clit, before pressing it to your arousal-soaked lips.
“So this is our bedroom now?” You whisper, gasping when Oliver, ever so slowly, starts to split you apart on his fat, leaking cock until your eyes are rolling into the back of your head. He moans as he presses his mouth to yours, eyes fluttering shut as he nods his head, wrapping you up in his embrace as he pulls you flush against his body.
“Ours, wife. Always ours.” He whispers, pulling out halfway before he gently thrusts himself back inside of you. The feeling is pure bliss, the way he fits so perfectly inside of you, like he was made for you. You can’t help the cry that pulls from your throat, your nails clawing at his shoulders as you pull him in closer and closer until your bodies move as one.
Oliver consumes you in a passionate kiss as he wraps his arms under you until he’s hugging you, his body arched over yours as he thrusts inside of you evenly until you’re mewing for more. A smile tips up his lips as his hips smack against yours, your clit rubbing against his pelvis as he takes you, as he takes his wife.
Maybe, he thinks to himself, it was all secretly worth it; the fighting, the silent treatment, the resources used to have you, the slapping. He wouldn’t mind the slapping a bit more often, as foreplay. He tells you this under his breath as you’re nearing your climax again, and he thinks its the first genuine laugh he’s heard from you since you became his
“Husband,” you whimper as Oliver presses his thumb to your clit when you near another orgasm.
“Wife,” he calls back, content, happy as you cum all over him and he spills himself inside of you. His wife, his queen—just his. You don’t think you mind too much, being kept, not if it ends with you being looked at like you hung the moon itself in your husbands arm. No, you don’t think you mind at all.