The Spoiled Victorian Bride Pt. 02

After that horrible night, Clara did her best not to resist him during his nightly visits to her bed. She loathed him with every particle of her being, but as he mounted her and rode her, his thrusts often causing the four poster bed to shake and rattle against the wall, she tried to remain silent and endure. But the night of her first caning seemed to free Sir Horace from any semblance of decorum he had exercised thus far. He now demanded that she receive him without her nightgown. He also squeezed both her breasts, often pinching her nipples and tugging them until it was all she could do not to cry out.

Sometimes, he probed her with his fingers in advance of mounting her. He seemed to want her to object. Indeed, she began to suspect that he was looking for any excuse to cane her again and to breed her in that rough, degrading way.

Clara did not know how she endured. The fine gowns and fancy carriages which his money provided had once been all she desired, but now it seemed poor compensation for the way he used her body like a broodmare. She was perpetually sore and aching and during the day, whenever she came across Sir Horace in the house, she could not even bear to look him in the eye—a fact which appeared to amuse him to no end.

"Shy, are you madam?" he asked one afternoon when he encountered her in the library. "Never fear, I shall soon have you in a better frame of mind. Get yourself over the desk."

Her eyes widened, a jolt of panic raising the fine hairs at the back of her neck. "My lord?" She took a step backward. "Surely you can't be serious."

"Over the desk, ma'am," he said, his eyes hardening. "Or I will summon Thomas to put you there."

Her vision clouded with tears. Too humiliated to say another word, she stumbled to Sir Horace's carved wooden desk and bent over the top.

Sir Horace came up behind her. He kicked her legs wide and unceremoniously hoisted her skirts, crinoline, and petticoats over her back. He then tore her drawers down the middle. "You're not to wear these anymore," he said. "I want you accessible to me at all times."

So this was to become a regular occurrence, she thought bitterly. She must now endure his degradations in the daylight as well as in her bed. She squeezed her eyes shut tight at the feel of his shaft pressing into her. After two weeks of daily attentions, it was still difficult to take him.

He thrust home and immediately began a steady, pumping rhythm. His shaft slid in and out of her tight sheath, each time pulling out to stretch her tiny opening around the thick, rounded head and then driving back in full length. He grunted as he worked within her and she whimpered beneath him in discomfort and shame. He held her hips, riding her as if she were a particularly troublesome mare. She could feel his ballocks slapping against her sex with each thrust.

"Please," she whimpered.

Her soft objection earned her a firm slap on the buttock. "Quiet!" he growled. He thrust in and out, his breath growing heavy. "If you can't keep still and quiet, next time I'll have Thomas come and hold you down while I take my pleasure."

She moaned, knowing by now that it was no idle threat. "Ahhh," she groaned as he thrust deep. A gush of heat flooded her womb.

"That's it," he grunted. His penis jerked within her, shooting jet after jet of hot spunk. "Take your breeding, madam. Every last drop."

Afterward, she had grudgingly thanked him as he now made her do each time he covered her. And then, he had left her there, her skirts still over her head and his hot seed trickling down her leg. She had had to right herself and tidy her clothing. Meanwhile, Sir Horace disappeared with his steward to check on the drainage in the north corner of the estate.

She resolved to avoid the library from then on. She would restrict her encounters with her husband to the drawing room or dining room, where she would be safe in the presence of the servants. As long as he could not get her alone, he could never again bend her over the furniture and use her in that bestial, degrading fashion.

This strategy worked for several weeks. Their encounters were limited to the bedroom where he claimed his rights each night—except for those nights during which she had her monthly courses. But then, six weeks into their marriage, he summoned her to his library in the middle of the day. He was sitting behind his desk, a sheaf of tradesman's bills laid out in front of him.

"Well, madam?" he asked. "Do you intend to bankrupt me?"

Clara's mouth fell open. She had been shopping a great deal, it was true, but it had seemed little enough compensation for how he used her. She had not even considered that he might find it excessive. "My pin money—"

"Insufficient," he interrupted. "You have exceeded your pin money by almost one thousand pounds."

She shook her head. "That's impossible. There must be some mistake."

"Ball gowns, walking dresses, shoes, hats," he recited the charges, tossing each bill to the ground when he had finished. "There will be punishment for this excess."

"Oh no," she protested. "You cannot."

Sir Horace stood. "You will find that I can, ma'am."

Later, Clara would wonder what came over her. Was it temporary madness? A secret urge for her husband to assert his rights? In the moment she gave no thought to the consequences. She merely shouted, "I am not allowed to spend money? When it is the only reason I married you? How cruel you are, sir! And what a fraud you've perpetrated on me! Had I known you meant to limit my gowns and my shopping, I would never have married—Ah!"

He jerked her by the arm, and bodily flung her over his desk. After so many weeks of submitting to him in the bedroom, something snapped inside of Clara. She fought him like a wildcat, shouting at him that he was no gentleman and that she hated and despised him. She did not know when he summoned Thomas, but suddenly the footman was there holding both her wrists and stretching her arms in front of her.

Sir Horace tied her kicking legs to the desk.

"Shall I do her hands, my lord?" Thomas asked.

Clara pulled her arms. "Let me go! How dare you!"

"No," Sir Horace said. "You will hold her, Thomas. It will add to her shame."

Clara's stomach fell. The footman was to hold her? While she was beaten? Or while she was... "Oh no!" she cried. "My lord, please!"

"Silence!" Sir Horace bellowed. "You have brought this on yourself, madam. If you speak again it will be the worse for you."

She moaned as he flung up her skirts, exposing her bare buttocks. Thomas's hands were tight on her wrists. She pulled again to no avail.

"Be still," Sir Horace said. She sensed him moving behind her, but she could not discern whether he had the cane in his hand or not. "You will accept fifteen strokes of the cane and then you will receive my cock up your backside."

"What?" she gasped. But before she could formulate another thought the cane whistled down across her buttocks. She gave a choking cry as he struck her again and again, laying the stripes down one above the other. She strained in her bonds and twisted in Thomas's tight grip. By the last stroke she was panting, her face wet with tears. She did not remember the second part of her punishment until she felt his finger probing her bottom hole.

"No, no," she sobbed. It was not possible, surely? He could not mean to use her there?

"You will not keep me out," Sir Horace said. He removed his finger only to replace it with the blunt head of his penis. He began to force it inside of her resisting hole. She struggled and screamed and wept, but Sir Horace did not relent. His swollen rod continued to force its way inside of her until he had driven into her all the way to his ballocks.

Clara felt like she had been split in two. Her bottom contracted reflexively around him. He held himself deep inside her for a moment.

"This is punishment," he said. "Hold onto her, Thomas."

Thomas's hands tightened on her wrists and then Sir Horace began to thrust. Each driving stroke of his shaft pried her open anew. She could do nothing but sob bitterly as he pumped into her resisting arsehole. For long minutes, the shameful ordeal continued. Her tears had nearly run dry and her hands hung limp in Thomas's firm grasp.

At last, Sir Horace thrust deep and, with a heavy grunt, ejaculated his hot seed deep into her bowels. He held himself there for a long while, his hands gripping the globes of her buttocks and spreading them open, as if he was looking at himself inside of her. And then he quickly withdrew.

The pain of his withdrawal wrenched another low moan from Clara.

"Thank me for your punishment," Sir Horace said.

"Thank you, sir," she sniffled.

"And thank Thomas for holding you while you received my cock up your arse."

Fresh tears welled in Clara's eyes. She had never before in her life been so deeply ashamed. "Thank you, T-Thomas," she choked out.

Sir Horace dismissed the footman and untied her. He made no move to assist her up. Instead, he took a seat at his desk. "I will not tolerate you exceeding your pin money," he said as if he had not just brutally sodomized her. "Nor will I tolerate you shouting at me like a fishwife. In future, I will keep you on a tight rein, madam. You will find the consequences of any misbehaviour swift and severe." He thrust the sheaf of tradesman's bills back into his desk. "You may go," he said.