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Viola had never been on a ship before, had never had a reason to, and as she stared down the dock at the luminous vessel she felt her stomach drop out from under her—this ship was a far cry from the gondolas she had shared with Will, this voyage was something she could not have imagined in even her wildest imagination. In her life, there was little opportunity for her to hear stories of such voyages. Men her father knew had written letters to him from the colonies, but their writings were not often of the actual voyage to the new land but of business dealings and less personal anecdotes.
“What are you thinking?” Her husband asked, eyes not upon her but flicking between the parchments in his gloved hands and their luggage which was being transported up the gangplank and disappearing from sight once it reached the deck. Viola had not realized that she owned so many things, that her nurse had prepared them all to be taken away so soon, she could not help but acknowledge the tug of betrayal in her heart.
“I’ve never been aboard a ship.” Brown eyes caught her own or a moment, a peripheral glance gifted to her before his attention was drawn once more to the sight of their trunks being hulled up the plank.
“Hm. Are you afraid?” His voice was neither condescending nor judgmental; actually, he seemed rather uninterested, absorbed in the journey of his belongings—of course, Viola could not help but remind herself, she and all of her belongings were now listed under Lord Wessex’s list of possessions, as well.
Admitting fear to him would feel like a defeat, she knew. Although Viola assumed that he most likely considered her presence on his arm a sign of his victory, though she knew that her absence on his arm would be a sign of treason, thus she was there.
“I’m unafraid. I have faced an audience of unruly patrons as a woman, I have stood strong before the greatest monarch our nation has ever seen. There is nothing in this life I have yet to experience with open arms. I am unafraid.” Though her words served as more of a reminder to herself of what she had accomplished, and of the love she had experienced with dear William, Lord Wessex’s cheeks bloomed pink at her stubbornness. The reminder of her impertinence caught his attention and his mustache twitched as his thin lips curled into the closest attempt at a smile she had seen of him yet, though she could not be sure if it qualified as more of a smirk or sneer.
“You are very pale. You look afraid to me. Now, come.” There luggage had fully disappeared from the dock, leaving a uniform-clad sailor to make his way down the gangplank toward her and her husband.
With an exchange of friendly dialogue between the two men, they boarded the ship moments later and all preparation for the ship’s departure slowed as the newly couple made their way up the gangplank. A kindly sailor offered his hand as Viola struggled in the intricate entrapping of her wedding gown to gracefully board the ship. Lord Wessex remained silent as two dozen sailors turned to face them, all in varying degrees of uniform and filth, before the sailor who had met them on the dock began ushering the couple down toward their cabin.
“As you’ve requested, Lord Wessex, your cabin is of an impressive stature and girth, with complete privacy from the crew and their quarters.” Neither man paid any mind to Viola’s struggle as she followed them below deck, often missing steps hidden by her full skirts in the darkness. Yet her husband’s voice was clear and as unappreciative as always in his response of,
“Good, and what sort of occupancy are we expecting on this journey?” Viola tripped over a step before finding her footing, missing her trousers and boots desperately as she kept an eye on the feather flopping on Lord Wessex’s cap. She prayed the train of her cape would not catch on the splintering wood below deck. The walls were barely wide enough to allow room for her hoopskirt and layers of crinoline, she guided herself with a shaking palm pressed to the sweating wood as she struggled to maintain pace with two men ahead of her.
“Oh low occupancy, my lord. I believe it is just you, Lady Wessex, and one other couple. Are you familiar with the family of the great house of…” The sailor’s words grew fainter and fainter to Viola’s ears as her blood began rushing in her ears, cascading against her ear drums and deafening all but the panicky short breaths that she struggled to control through the tightness of her corset. A cool sweat began to prick at the back of neck as she worked to keep pace with the oblivious men ahead of her, and to keep her tears at bay. This was it, she had not even thought to look at the shore of England one last time—to look for Will’s eyes on the crowded dock, or for a glimpse of the familiar view that she doubted she would ever see again.
She forced herself to focus back on the conversation occurring only a yard ahead of her, her husband’s voice was nasally and irritating but preferable to the sound of her own rapid pulse,
“We will require a bath post-supper, naturally.”
“Oh naturally, naturally, my lord. A supper will be delivered to your quarters and a bath will follow at half after, as requested.” There was no doubt the sailor’s soothing tones were put upon for their benefit, Viola knew, they were slimy and made the sleeves of her dress feel too tight, itchy. She had not considered a bath, had barely given thought to a wedding night—ought she pretend to be virginal? Was there any chance that he expected to be mapping uncharted territory, was his denial strong enough to ignore all signs of Will having already blessed her with the secrets of a marriage bed?
“Indeed. Then I will accept the key and thank you to leave us.” Struggling to breathe due to both the effort of keeping up and the multiplying feelings of panic, Viola’s wish for them to slowdown was granted as they reached a rather striking wooden door. Even while standing still she struggled to remain upright with the lull of the waves beneath the ship.
“One” was carved into it in a grand font that felt familiar to her, but she could not place. Her mind raced with the effort not to cry and the horrible aching need for Will’s comforting words, a simple glance into his eyes might have calmed her down and yet that was not an option. Her husband accepted the keys from the sailor and shook his hand, Viola wondered if he tipped him or if he was even expected to, before he turned his back on her to unlock the door and swing it open.
When she moved to step inside and gain vision of their makeshift home for the next few weeks, a hand concealed in red-brown leather stopped her. She glanced up at him, finding herself seeking some sort of comfort from him, especially knowing that he was aware of her nerves and trepidation—whether she wanted to admit them or not.
“I believe it is my duty to carry you across the threshold.”
“Why?” The flush upon her cheeks, at the outlandish thought of being in his arms, was nearly painful.
“We are married.” Without further warning his arms slid around her waist and knees so that, in the awkwardly small hallway of the ship, he could maneuver their figures into their cabin. His sturdiness surprised her, though she could not account for why that was, he was tall and his chest was broad against her slim figure. When he set her to her feet it was with gentility she had not yet experienced from him, and yet he was not Will. They stood close, matching in their gold wedding adornments and both sporting cheeks with pink spots, he towered over her in their parallel positions.
A gloved hand trailed along the lace of her veil and Viola found she could do nothing but stare back at him questioningly: what did he expect of her? Lord Wessex could not believe, she reasoned with herself again, that she would show him affection after all that he had put her through—though he did seem self-serving enough to believe that she might forget all unpleasantness between them in thanks for his merciful behavior, he was yet to hit her for her blatant disobedience and a performance that (if her identity had been revealed) would have ruined him. Dark eyes studied her face, if she respected him she might have fretted over her appearance, but she could not respect him. Viola could not even hate him—she was numb toward him, toward the future he had ascertained for him. She felt nothing under his reflective gaze, could not read the flickering changes in the pools of his eyes. He was not Will, she could not decipher him.
“Are you pleased?” She stumbled back at his question, wondering how he could be as clueless to her emotions as she was to his, only to realize that he was referring to the cabin.
It was large, the sailor had not lied about its impressive stature or girth. There was an embarrassingly large better donned all in white with silver accents, a desk beneath a small porthole was bolted to the floor (and she realized why their walk had been so long, they were situated at the very front and northernmost part of the ship), a trifold changing screen was adjacent to the desk, and a round table and set of chairs was merely a yard from where she stood in the entrance of the room—she wondered if those too were bolted down. She wondered if there was a cupboard behind the changing screen for the pisspot, or if she would have to relieve herself with only a screen for privacy. Three of their trunks were set between the round dinner table and the desk beneath the porthole, her mind briefly wandered to how they knew which trunk (trunks?) she would be needing for the journey—but she supposed her nurse had taken care of that. Her heart ached once more, though an unattached calmness had washed over her, the panic had subsided once they had left that claustrophobically tiny hallway.
“It is not at all what I expected.”
“What did you expect, Lady Wessex?” Her title from his lips made her shutter in pain, heartbroken disappointment flooded through her as he stepped further into their quarters to remove his plumed hat and set it on the desk.
“Something much smaller.” A bemused smile was tossed in her direction, though the swinging of his pearl earring distracted her slightly from the sight of his quirked lips.
“That will teach you never to underestimate me. I am quite capable of getting what I want.” The innuendo was not subtle, or lost upon her. Frozen in the entranceway, knowing that the moment that she moved to situate herself in the cabin the reality of the reality of her situation would suffocate her, Viola watched as her husband dexterously slipped his gloves from his fingers, settled his weaponry next to his hat, before running his fingers through his buoyant curls.
“Well,” He finally turned to face her fully with a knee popped out and a hand resting upon his waist, “won’t you make yourself at home, my dear wife?”
“I’ve never been a wife before,” She clarified, “I’m not sure what you expect of me.”
“I’m not at all sure what that has to do with making yourself comfortable. I’m going out, I need to speak to the captain. It would behoove you not to wander.”
With long strides he brushed past her, a confidence in his step that amazed her when she was so completely out of her depths, with the click of the lock he gave her privacy and the inability to wander, proving his lack of trust in her—something she failed to fault him for. Thoughts of escape flooded her at once: if only he had not locked the door, she might have been able to run off the ship and back toward the theatre, toward Will, toward happiness—but even if the door had been left unlocked she would have never found her way back through the dark winding halls and toward the deck. With no hope she still jiggled the cool metal of the frozen handle, it was useless. There would be no escaping this marriage, there would be no escaping Lord Wessex, there would be no more William Shakespeare for Lady Viola Wessex. Reality had settled upon her shoulders as heavy as the sandbags of the theatre, crushing her in its heaviness and inevitability.
A yellow sunset cast gold spindles of light through the porthole, as she walked closer (arms out beside her in a clumsy attempt at balancing on the sea) to find that there was nothing within her view but long stretches of water and a few spots on the horizon that she assumed were ships heading out on their own voyages. How long until they left dock she did not know, but she wished it would be soon. If she were to live a life without her true love then she could do little but hope that it would move quickly and end humanely.
The first trunk that she opened was her own, neatly folded dresses were stacked on the left side while the right side overflowed with various shades of white shifts, corsets, stockings, ruffs, and three different sized bum-rolls. The farthingale that she wore was her favorite, the hoop was big enough to remain fashionable but small enough that she still felt mostly in control of her steps, but Viola still blanched to not see any other hoop skirts set aside for her. She would need to purchase more once they hit new land, her husband made it clear that no expenses would be spared, Viola would vengefully remain fashionable then. The second trunks were filled with his clothes and boots, she was not interested enough to sift through them, and the third trunk contained documents and other trinkets that did not belong to her.
Unsure of required attire for eating supper in a private cabin on a ship for one’s wedding night, Viola decided to follow her husband’s lead by removing only her veil and tiara, she gingerly stored them in her trunk before she slipped off her shoes as well. It felt too forward to sit at his desk and far too bold to perch herself on the bed (especially when she was doing all within her power to avoid thinking about the inevitable consummation of their marriage), so she settled for sitting at the round table in the corner where she could watch the sunset from across the room.
By the time her husband reappeared the sun had set and he was closely followed in by sailors carrying their supper.
“Hungry, my wife?”
She tilted her head in assent, though she felt little need for food. For the first time since the beginning of rehearsals did Viola find that she was not pleased by an audience. The sailors chuckled at her quiet behavior, setting out bread and chicken and potatoes with goblets for wine under her husband’s watchful eye as Viola stood near the trunks—feeling comforted by the few possessions she could call her own in a situation that she where she had no control.
“You’ll collect these when you bring the tub?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good men.”
They ducked out of the room with half-bows and waves in her direction that she could only respond to with a broken smile.
Supper was a silent affair, the man across from her appeared utterly consumed in his food and wine—though he did have excellent table manners, a compliment to his breeding that he did not slurp or scratch cutlery even with waves rocking beneath them—and the flickering of the candle between them was the only noise besides the waves. Viola forced herself to keep her mind blank as the ship lurched and her knuckles whitened on the edge of the table, it was only then that Lord Wessex glanced up from his meal to take in her pale complexion and panicked eyes with a trace of understanding and consideration.
“You will grow used to the rocking, have you heard of ‘sea legs’ before?” His voice felt loud against her ears, but she knew this was only because of the extended silence that had fallen between them, and the slow trickling of her morbid thoughts that had taken over her focus.
“No, I haven’t.”
“It simply means that you’ll grow accustomed to the waves, you needn’t look so afraid.” Forcing herself to release her fingers from the stinging edge of the wood, Viola reached for the goblet of wine and ignored his smirk by clenching her eyes tight, willing her heart to lower itself back out of her throat and into its proper place behind her ribs.
By the time the dishes had been swept away and sailors were waiting outside the door to drag in a large metal tub, Viola wondered if her husband had any interest in consummating their marriage—it was quiet clear that he did not care for her, did not like her. Where want had once swam in his eyes now sank only disinterest, she had dissatisfied him with her disobedience and performance at the theatre, for this she was glad. Adrenaline was dripping slowly out of her body with each passing second that they stood in silence, dutifully watching the workers bring in bucket upon bucket of steaming water to fill the bath. One by one they disappeared behind the screen, where they had mercifully set the tub, and Viola’s mind attempted to comprehend how only hours ago she had given the performance of her life and now she obediently stood waiting for her husband—not the love of her life—to take her at his whim. The door closing behind the last sailor and Lord Wessex setting the locks in place did not sound like the noise of protection but of threat.
“Do you require assistance?” Only the pale moonlight and the flickering candles lit the cabin, suddenly she felt that the space was too large, the corners were threatening in their expansiveness—it was a teasing design, to have so much room to run within but nowhere to escape when her unwanted husband was so near.
“Please.” Her voice was unfamiliar to her own ears, she was the reluctant bride but still pliant in his grasp. With her back to him Viola remained stiff as she felt his hands make quick work of the hooks and buttons of her dress. Soon the gold overcoats were pooling around her ankles, her silk petticoat slipped down in a whispered rush, Lord Wessex struggled with the tiny hidden clips of the bum-roll, but the hoop skirt was untied with ease and when that fell away she was left in only her shift, corset, and stockings. Each tug at the corset’s ties seemed harsher than necessary, but only two other people had ever undone her corset for her— William’s fingers had been warm as they caressed the slivers of skin he had hungrily found at her neck.
“Lovely.” It was a soft whisper, nearly reverent, the kindest she had heard his voice yet as his warm hands rested on her shoulders and turned her slowly back to him. Her shift underneath her wedding gown was modestly high-collared, much to her relief when she turned to face him in nothing but her stockings and the cotton shift. Gooseflesh rippled across her body at the darkness of his eyes, the blown out look of his inky pupils. Viola blushed at his arousal, at her own vulnerability, that she was so attuned to what his reactions meant—she wondered if it might have been better to be a virgin, to have remained ignorant of what his hunger for skin would mean to her when she failed to match his passions.
“Shall I continue?” Her own fingers shook at the cuff of her shift’s collar, fumbling over the hook and eye twice before finally revealing the smooth expanse of her throat to his penetrating gaze. He loomed close enough to touch, tall and foreboding with the pout that found its way across his pointed features.
“Behind the screen. I’ll seek my fill of you once the filth of that theater has been scrubbed away.” Where he had been warm only seconds before, he was then cold—backing away toward his desk where he retreated with a clatter of disapproval.
Viola, grateful for the release, was quick to gather her discarded wedding clothes and slip behind the screen to fold them. Delicately, and in the light of the three candles that the sailors had lit for her, she organized the slips of material as quickly as she could—desperately wanting to disappear into the cover of the tub before the heat had completely dissipated. Even after she had submerged herself in the generously scolding water to scrub away the trauma of the day to the underscore of her husband’s scratching quill, Viola could not relax. She did not look in his direction, bathing with her back to the screen and her eyes glued to the small cupboard doors that she knew must hide the pisspot. The man’s distraction brought her no comfort, while bathing usually brought her great relief she could do little but hurriedly wash herself with the provided oils and bar of scratchy soap on the dish as she worried about rushing through the acting—not wanting the water to cool by the time Lord Wessex bathed. She did not think he would take kindly to his whore actress of a wife dirtying the water and letting it cool before he could take advantage of the facilities. The scratching of his quill stilled briefly, accompanied by a strangled cough that a dark part of her prayed was both lethal and contagious, before his writing continued.
A flannel towel and thick robe awaited Viola’s dripping form once she’d carefully stepped out of the high edges of the metal tub that shone bronze in the orange flame of the candles. Once the white robe was tied securely and she’d wrapped her hair up in the flannel towel, Viola emerged behind the screen with a shiver. Her husband took in her form with a slow, sweeping look that burned her to endure. So lustful were his whims that she shuttered just from his proximity as he met her beside the changing screen; Lord Wessex paused beside her, long legs giving him the advantage of a near foot of height superiority as he stared down at her, seemingly anticipating a question.
“Shall I change for bed while you bathe?”
“Yes, my lady, indeed you should.”
As she listened to his heavily brocaded wedding clothes hitting the wood floors with scratches and heavy plops, Viola hurried to turn her back on him and bury her wedding clothes at the bottom of her trunk, before pulling out the silk slip that the nurse had packed. Delicate ivory frills tickled at her wrists, neck, and ankles but Viola was quick to slip beneath the bedsheets with little thought to her own comfort—wanting only to be as covered as possible before her husband’s view was regained. It was only once she was settled beneath the white blankets, minding herself more of a sacrificial lamb than an uneasy bride, that Viola allowed herself to observe the screen.
The young woman was quite shocked to find that the screen, backlit by the candles lit by the sailors, provided a clear silhouette of the scene behind the screen. The tub looked as if it was some obtuse bowl, holding her husband heads up on its own as strong arms lifted out of the water to scrub at broad shoulders. Watching without realizing that her focus was so intent on the man she did not care for, Viola observed as her husband stepped out of the water—he paused at her slight gasp and she could only imagine his haughty smirk at realizing he had a captivated audience—and her eyes drank in the dark silhouette of long body. She wondered then what he had seen of her and blushed further, her scrambling movements to hide beneath the covers felt childish and pointless then.
He stepped forth with a shamelessness that made her burn, only the flannel around his waist as he preceded to blow out the candles behind the screen, then the candle upon the dinner able, finally the candle upon the desk was left to do nothing but smoke in the aftermath of its life. Finally, Lord Wessex turned to his pale bride with a smile that looked forced and strict. The Queen’s words bobbed through Viola’s mind, her story with Will ended with love and forced her to begin a journey with Lord Wessex—but she had yet to shed tears, would do her best to hold that weakness from his grasp.
“You are quite beautiful, Viola.” His arousal may have had the strength to hold the towel up of its own accord, but Viola was too unhappy to taunt him with his obvious attraction to the wife that she assumed he wanted to hate. The use of her name, so familiar, was a relief in comparison to her proper title that sewed her to him.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“But the queen says you have been plucked by that fool called Shakespeare. She made it clear that I was the fool for marrying…you.” He towered over the edge of the bed, one hand fisted in the towel about his waist, the other hand reaching out to cup her chin between his fingers to drag her face in his direction. Viola wondered if he could feel her teeth chatter in displeasure at his touch, but he did not show any signs of noticing her disapproval. Choosing not to incite his anger, Viola could think of nothing to say but,
“Do you believe the Queen, my lord?”
“It would be treasonous not to believe her, Viola.” His thumb was large but gentle against her bottom lip, where it stroked for a long breathless moment, before pulling the lip down and pushing his fat thumb into her mouth. Viola’s eyes widened at the intrusion as her husband sat on the bed, carelessly forgetting his towel as his other hand reached to clasp the back of her neck, rendering her incapable of pulling away if he applied the slightest pressure to her. But Viola did not move away, the feeling of his digit heavy against her tongue had incited a heat within her core that she was ashamed to admit.
“Did you writer take you often, Viola? Have been totally corrupted by his artful tongue?” Flashes of her most intimate moments with Will flooded her vision, even as she maintained eye contact with her husband: Will’s mouth upon her breasts, his manhood hot in her palm, his facial hair tickling the insides of her thighs—Viola thought it best to lie, she was known to be a very good actress. Pulling away from his thumb, relieved to find the hand clasping her neck did not grow forceful, she pressed a worshipping kiss to the digit that fell from her lips. There would be no surviving this relationship with honesty, if she wished to escape punishment then he would have to accept her lies.
“I was only…intimate,” She put her shyness upon him with a fluttering of eyelashes and an ashamed downward gaze where she took in the paleness of his thighs and the surprising hairiness of his chest, “once, my lord. Many weeks ago,” If she loved Will less she might have said that she had been unwilling, but that lie was unavailable to her loyal heart, “and only—my lord, please do not make me detail what-”
“Speak, Viola, speak on.” His ragged voice hinted at his passion, at his depravity. In William she might have found such torrential proof of his lust a trait to be adored and beloved, in Lord Wessex she only flushed with pleasure that he was so willing to believe her façade of innocence.
“I can’t, my lord, please-” With a dramatic sigh that she was sure would alert him of her act, Viola pulled her chin from his grip and turned away, only to feel his hands encompass her shoulders and drag her back to facing him. A desperation was growing in his eyes, she felt his pulse bursting at his fingerprints as he trailed anxious hands up and down the silk forearms of her slip.
“I was breeched by a mere finger and yet the Queen saw my depravity—my lord, I am so ashamed.”
“A finger?” His disbelief threw Viola into action, gripping his bare arms in the moonlight with a horrified sob,
“Twas but a single digit that has damned my soul!” Her wet curls cascaded around her as she tossed her figure limply onto the bed, stretching out alongside his shocked body, burying her dry cheeks into the blankets, wanting nothing but to disappear completely all while desperately listening for his reaction.
A warm hand found its place on the back of her exposed ankle, circling it once with the full length of his grip, before wandering up to stroke at her calf, the back of her knee, she knew her husband’s gaze had travelled to the single layer of thin clothing that covered her bum.
“What would you say, my poor girl, if I offered you an act of penitence for your sins?” And there Viola knew that she had succeeded in selling her performance: her husband’s view of her had been warped from disobedient and rowdy brat to innocent and anxious maiden. How eager he must have been to have the perfect bride, Viola thought, for him to so quickly cast aside all of her decisive actions which he had previously shown his disapproval toward.
“Penitence, sir?” Perhaps he would prefer her dumb, as well.
“An act of penitence could absolve you from your sins. The Queen has the power of the church…my paths were closely entwined with her orders…” Finally the large hand that loomed across her legs found the edge of lace and began pulling upward, until it rested at mid-thigh and revealed more skin than she had been prepared to show. A streak of moonlight revealed itself to Viola as the moon peaked out from behind a cloud, her breath was stolen by the silvery light dancing across the silver handle of a brush that she had not previously noticed on the bedside table.
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes please, my lord, absolve me of my sins.” She would never forget Will, her soul whispered to her mind with a watery promise; she would never forget Will, perhaps he would find a way to save her, perhaps she would find a way to save herself.
Cool air kissed her bottom as the older man slipped the silk up to her waist, revealing her bare bottom with a satisfied, but muffled, sigh of approval. His hand took up the space of an entire cheek, but that did slow him from bringing his palm down upon her in a mighty slap that jolted her up on the bed. Viola’s cry was hushed before a second slap accompanied the still stinging burn of the first. Heat spread throughout her body at the rough treatment, her body bounced in response to his efforts, red burns in the shape of his large hands spread across her cheeks and inspired yelps to bleed out of her as his palm stamped itself upon her in the same place over and over again.
The blonde was writhing, desperate for a moment of cool relief and yet it was not the torture she expected it to be. When her body arched it was not in complete pain but total abandon, she tightly clenched her thighs against the heat blooming there. To hear his groans of pleasure under the sounds of her own pain sprung tears to her eyes that blinded her vision of the silver hairbrush. When he ceased spanking her, breathing heavily behind her and resituating himself in a way that rolled the mattress beneath her clenching stomach, the pain receded but did not clear. Where he had slapped her it felt as if she had been branded with an iron, her bum was pulsing with pain and she wondered if he truly believed her sins were absolved or if he was seeking revenge in an artistic way. A heaviness had begun to drip between her nether lips and, to her horror, elegant fingers were quick to dip between her thighs and find the slick proof of her arousal with a pleased humph of approval.
“My little wife, so obedient—just as your father promised. Turn over.” Viola struggled to turn with her slip at such an awkward angle, the boat still rocking beneath her, and the sheets slipping against her legs. The moon had slipped between clouds once again, “You are absolved, Viola, how do you feel?”
It took a great deal of self-control not to tell him that she felt broken, already homesick and missing the arms of her dear lover. The sheets scratching against her burning cheeks reminded her of his power, of the careful way she would have to dance to ensure his pleasure with her—her freedom would come in his obliviousness, Viola knew, just like her mother and the mother before her.
“I ache.”
“I believe I can relieve that ache, I only ask that you trust me.”
“I do.”
Lord Wessex guided her thighs apart, pulling her so that he kneeled in the negative space between her spread legs, his towel forgotten and his arousal heavy against his own flushed skin as he used two fingers to dip into her warmth. His touch trailed from the bundle of nerves at the top of her crest down to her dripping core—Viola wanted to tear her own skin from her body, wanted to grab her breasts and rip them from her chest, wanted anything but to feel pleasure at her husband’s hands and yet she could not help it. Ecstasy swam through her in slowly uncoiling tendrils of pleasure-pain as he yanked the slip away to pinch at and suck her heavy breasts between his curved lips. Her hands knotted in the sheets as her knees were guided even further apart, cool air tickled her inner thighs.
“Breathe, girl, or you’ll faint.” Then his mouth was upon her, wet and quick. Where Will had placed languid kisses Wessex roughly nipped, where Will had blown cool air Wessex violently sucked—where she had finished with waves upon waves of relaxing pleasure with Will, she trembled and shook apart with Wessex. How little she hated the act terrified her, horrified her, filled her with black venomous guilt that swallowed her heart and scorched her soul. Yet, even with such bile roaring through her system, she collapsed with a shout of pure rapture as he fingers slid inside her and her resolve shattered into darkness.
Slick lips pressed pleased kisses to her hipbones and the light freckles that were painted across her stomach. His forehead was damp with effort, eyes gazing up at her in smug pride, hands taking healthy gropes of her breasts as Viola could do little but pant in the aftermaths of her euphoria and tilt her pelvis up to rub in hopes of more friction.
“Oh Viola, beautiful, darling Viola—how grateful I am to be your first, to feel that first bloom of pleasure and know that I am the cause. Spread your knees, my darling, my treasure—let me show you what that writer could not.”
William’s face loomed behind Viola’s eyes as she squeezed them shut, struggling to think of her love Will when she was still dripping from the talented mouth of her husband, Wessex. How conflicted she was at her body’s inability to reject the man that she knew she should hate, and yet he had thrown her off the cliff of pleasure in a few short minutes—still, Viola reassured herself, she so overcome with pleasure that she was not in full control of her sense as she obediently spread her legs and watched as he gathered himself to his knees.
He entered her in one brutal thrust so quickly that Viola barely had to force herself to dramatically squeal in shock as Lord Wessex’s strong body folded her in half. Filled, fuller than she had been ever before, the stretch of her body as he rolled his hips into an unforgiving rhythm shocked her. Viola had assumed that she would never feel pleasure again after being pulled so horribly from her William, and yet she could not deny the rips of pleasure that rolled through her entire body. She was entirely shocked by her own enjoyment, doing nothing but mewling out as she stared up at her husband—unsurprised to find his eyes roaming up and down her figure as his thrusts lost their rhythm when she clenched him specifically tight. Knowing that he had enjoyed her pain at his spanking, Viola found herself arching up and away from him, only to moan out when his large hands sought her hips to yank her body down against his own with a severe piston of his hips.
“Fuck!” That word from his lips shocked her to her core. He was finishing inside her with long, hot spurts of heat that only served to slicken the tight grip she felt against his every ridge. When he collapsed on top of her, out of her mind in pleasure Viola began rolling her hips up in desperation.
“Naughty girl, you’ve already finished.” His admonishment only spurred her on, calf muscles burning as she thrust up against his heavy form; she only relaxed when he slipped from her dripping center and replaced his manhood with two fingers before dropping his head down to suckle at the bundle of nerves that spiraled her vision into a spectacle of whites and golds.
“Please, please, please, please…” Her prayers were answered with a violent scrape of his teeth and she was finishing once more with her blood pounding in her ears and her husband’s pleased purrs deep against her ear. Tears followed her completion, tears of betrayal and regret and pain and relief flooded forward; her lack of control of her own body terrified her and yet she was completely overwhelmed and though she struggled to take deep breaths, there was little she could do to calm herself. Rakish, gasping breaths shook her frame even as Lord Wessex held himself up on his elbows to press comforting kisses to her face, his misplaced consoling touches were gifted to her under the impression that she was so emotionally changed by his performance. It pained her that he was not completely incorrect—the pleasure she had found from his ministrations tortured her more than he could ever understand. After a few minutes of her uncontrollable crying, he rolled away with a tired sigh and snapped,
“Enough blubbering, it’s merely the death of a maidenhead. If you react this way after intercourse what in God’s name will you do in labor?”
Children. She grew quiet at the thought of children. Only green eyed, light haired cherubs had ever graced her dreams—with Will’s smile and her cheekbones. Viola had not considered children with Lord Wessex, a man she realized had never told her his first name.
“I’m quite tired.” Her words freed themselves from her chapped lips moments before she slipped into slumber, her husband awake by her side and unable to stop himself staring at the strange girl beside him in bewilderment.