Vows Pt. 02

"Good night, my future husband," I reply, breathless for some reason, and sounding just a little whiny.

He chuckles.

***

Mr. Keene spanks my ass, asshole, thighs and even my pussy for two days, four times -- morning, midday, evening, and night. I repeat sentences from the Vow, I count spanks, I silently wish he'd spank my pussy more, and I answer his questions.

What makes a good husband? -- His behavior.

What makes a good wife? -- Her behavior.

What is good husbandly behavior? -- Living in propriety, enforcing order, accepting order.

What is good wifely behavior? -- Living in propriety, accepting order, enforcing order.

What are the most important aspects of wifely order? -- Accepting her husband's judgement and guidance in all things.

What makes a good husband? -- His behavior.

Question. Slap. Moan, answer. Slap. Question. Slap. And on and on.

And I drip, drip, drop, on and on.

I think about the crop, and I drip. I think about being spread over Colton Keene's lap in wheelbarrow position, my pussy inches above the prominent bulge of his cock as he reddens my ass, and I drip. I think about using the toilet -- the embarrassing tenderness and heightened sensations of every bowel movement, the sting of the bidet's actually gentle water stream, the even more embarrassing tenderness of Dylan coming in and daubing my crotch and ass dry with toilet paper -- and I drip and swell up.

I fidget, looking at the floor. I'm waiting in front of Colton's desk in his study. He is immersed in important-looking paperwork. After he bade me come in, he told me to stand there and wait for him to finish.

My mother always berated me for my impatience, my constant need to fill every second with activity. It's not even been 72 hours on the Keene estate, and I think they have already cured me of this particular vice.

I faintly wonder if my mother should've just... put me over her knee and-

"Are your whore slit and your shithole sore, Elizabeth?" Mr. Keene asks me without lifting his eyes from his letters. "Is that why you're prancing around like a mare in heat?"

I blush. "A little, Mr. Keene."

"You'll be relieved to know that the next few lections will not concern them, then." He puts his fountain pen down and finally looks at me. At my face, briefly, then my chest. I'm wearing the same dress I arrived in. No bra this time, either.

My nipples pebble.

Colton huffs a disparaging laugh through his nose and mutters "randy masochist whore" under his breath.

"Will Dylan not be present?" I ask, trying to change the topic.

"He is going to be increasingly busy with his own studies from now on," Mr. Keene replies, neatly stacking his papers and generally straightening his desktop.

I bite my lip against the desire to ask for details. What kind of studies? What is Dylan learning? Where? By himself, or...?

I picture Dylan with another woman and my heart starts to race.

Shamefully, my loins clench as well. Dylan, draped with naked females like garlands. Dylan, behind a naked beauty, grabbing her pendulous tits that jiggle with every harsh thrust. Dylan, straddling the chest of a curvy goddess, his cock stabbing and sliding into the soft crevice of her tits. Dylan, guiding two women's mouths to service his cock and balls to his satisfaction.

And I next to the bed on a chair, my legs wide, my weeping pussy exposed to them all, my hands on the armrests.

Colton huffs another laugh as though he can see my thoughts.

"Speaking of my son... It is time you learn how to service him appropriately," he says and slides his chair back slightly from his desk. "He has told me that you are eager enough, but not particularly skillful."

Not particularly skillful. The erotic vision of Dylan turns sour. "I mean, I... I try. I have always tried to just do what, uhm, what seemed natural and pleasurable."

"Sexual pleasure is not intuitive," Mr. Keene lectures me. "In fact, it is often the opposite. Your husband's pleasure, which is also your real pleasure, can be the lack of yours. Or your discomfort. I will teach you. Come here."

I walk around his massive desk to his side.

He waits for a beat and watches me stand there, then lifts his eyebrows in an impatient, contemptuous expression. "Come on, Elizabeth. Is your brain so fried from horniness?" When I still don't move, he sighs. "Get on your knees, woman."

"I- uhm." I can only comply. He is still close to the desk, so I have to crawl halfway under it to situate myself on my knees in front of him.

Suddenly, my future father-in-law's crotch and thighs fill my vision. I take in the thick outline of his cock, half erect and pointing sideways along the crease of his pants. The way his gut rests slightly over his belt. The way his eyes gleam as he looks down at me from his towering height.

"Show me," he commands.

And I obey.

Mr. Keene's cock is as impressive as his son's. Girthier, starkly veined, with a blunt head and a noticeable urethral meatus. I immediately have the insane urge to tongue it, but I hold back. My mouth floods with saliva.

"Your husband gives you verbal commands. Your husband's cock will give you nonverbal ones. You will learn to understand the latter, and you will obey either of them."

I nod and guide the meaty pole into my mouth, slide the slick tip against the flat of my tongue, and close my lips around it.

"Not even a hesitation," he chuckles. "You truly are a whore."

When I try to pull back, Mr. Keene's palm cups the back of my head.

"Dylan will have fun renting out your mouth."

I whimper, both at his words and the feeling they elicit between my legs, as well as the fullness pressing into my tongue and palate.

Mr. Keene grunts when I undulate my tongue trying, in vain, to push him out. "Feel it grow in your mouth."

I kneel there, with a couple of inches of his penis in my mouth, breathing in the odor of his crotch, and do as told. His meat swells against my palate. The taste of his precum registers on my tongue.

"Now suck."

I do.

"Harder."

I do, hollowing my cheeks.

"Move your tongue more."

I do.

His cock jumps in my mouth, pulses in my hand.

"Good. Deeper." His hand pushes my head.

The tip hits the back part of my palate and I cough and choke.

"Ah, yes. I see why my son enjoys that sound."

An involuntary moan emanates from me. Mr. Keene chuckles.

"And you enjoy his enjoyment, masochistic whore, don't try to deny it." He reaffirms his grip around the back of my skull. "You'll enjoy having your throat pummeled and used. Not that it mattered much if you didn't. Suck harder."

I suck and suck, until my lips and cheeks go numb, bobbing only incrementally up and down on his shaft, gagging intermittently.

My face is wet with tears, nasal fluid and saliva, and the roof of my mouth and the back of my throat feel tenderized by the time Mr. Keene adds his other hand and push-pulls me down even more, knocking the head of his penis into my uvula.

I give a hacking cough. Wetness bubbles out of my mouth around Colton's throbbing erection.

"I will find a way to properly feed my cock down your throat, Elizabeth," he tells me. His voice is still so calm, it makes me shiver. A tiny squall of saliva flows over my lower lip, half down his shaft, half down my chin.

"My son likes your gagging and choking, but he will also want you to swallow his sword properly from time to time. And I will find the angle from which this can happen. Because your husband's needs must be met. It is proper."

The rhythm increases. I screw my watering eyes shut and try to focus on keeping my jaw loose and wide open, and on breathing. My stomach is heaving, echoing my gagging. I whimper and make strangled noises.

"Suck me harder, Elizabeth. Make me spill."

My throat cramps. My jaw aches. I seal my lips around his rod as best I can and force a swallowing motion, sucking down the pre-cum that's diluted in what feels like whole buckets of saliva.

Colton awards me with a low groan.

"I'm going to ejaculate in your mouth and in your face, Elizabeth," is all he says before he starts to spurt. The first gust oozes onto my tongue. He quickly pulls out of my mouth and sets the tip against my cheek, then squirts out the second gush until I am painted pearlescent white.

"You will service me like this for the next week at least," Colton informs me calmly, "until your knees get used to the discomfort, and you have learned how to use your tongue and to suck me deeper, and to swallow without making that face."

I try to control my expression, but his cum tastes acrid and unpleasant, and the excess of it is dripping down the side of my face and onto my chest, turning my already light dress transparent in spots and making it cling wetly to the skin of my boobs. I pull the fabric away from my skin even though it is pointless.

"No need to get changed. There will be more to come shortly." He stuffs his softening cock back into his pants. "Starting tomorrow, you may fellate me topless, but rest assured that I will take the opportunity to start training your nipples as well."

I nod.

My pussy throbs.

***

Just like he said he would, Mr. Keene trains my mouth and throat for several days. Just like he said I would, I start getting used to the pain and discomfort of it.

Just like he said he would, he finds the right angle. We are in the downstairs salon, Dylan sitting next to me in the corner of my vision as I lay on my back on the low table. My head is dangling off the edge. Mr. Keene is on his knees in front of my face, pries my jaw open and slides his fat cock in.

I feel the 'pop' when he breaches my throat for the first time, and I suddenly can't breathe anymore, can't pull away at all, and my gagging becomes violent. Everything convulses.

Mr. Keene groans like a wild boar and, holding on to my wrists, crossing my arms over my bare chest, leans his weight onto me to pin me down. He feeds his swollen shaft into my mouth until his big, hairy balls push into the bridge of my nose, eyes, and forehead. Another groan, then he starts fucking my defenseless throat.

I faintly feel Dylan's grip on my knees, holding me steady. Despite my flailing, I don't fall off the table.

And flail I do. Desperately, while my brain goes foggy from lack of oxygen, from panic, from that searing-hot feeling of being helpless and being used and gushing, gushing.

Colton barely allows me short moments to breathe before he thrusts back in. Lodged in my esophagus, he grabs the bulge of my throat and masturbates himself from the outside.

I strain against it all, and cry, and fight -- all in vain.

With a curse and a "I'm going to come from this", Colton finishes deep in my throat, dribbling some sperm into my mouth when he pulls out. I cough and spit violently, trying to sit up, but he keeps a casual hand on my sternum.

"I will break her in some more," I hear him say through the thudding of my pulse. He's clearly talking to Dylan. He's panting slightly. "Don't worry, she will never get too used to it."

"Excellent," I hear Dylan say. I weakly lift my head, looking down my body, and see him sitting at the 'foot end' of the table. Because my knees are wide, he has a perfect view of my pussy.

I made an embarrassing puddle underneath my butt and thighs, which Dylan points out, and then bids me to lick up.

Shamefaced and still shaken from the experience, I do. Mr. Keene fetches the riding crop while I'm still crouched by the table and swats my pussy as punishment. "You don't ruin my furniture." Every syllable comes with one harsh slap.

I cry out hoarsely and fight against the urge to come and lick my own mess up from the glossy polished wood surface of the table as fast as I can.

Deepthroating becomes a regular part of morning and evening lections. At midday and night, Colton develops my regular oral skills by handcuffing me, tying a chain to my nipples with little clamps and pulling the chain to encourage me. He commands me to lick this way, suck that way, fondle his balls in another way, and make proper eye contact, interspersed with quotations from the Vow about how molding is the way of order and betterment is the way to peace, and hits of the crop against my ass and my tender crack.

I ache and ache and ache.

When we go to bed, I tell Dylan, hoping for some sympathy.

"Can you remember how you used to whine about your whore slit before? After a half-day of no orgasm?" Dylan throws me a devil's grin while he adjusts the spreader bar so that the V of my legs becomes more obscene. "I'm in physical pain, Dylan! Please, touch my pussy, Dylan! Please, make me come, Dylan!" he imitates me by making his voice high and squeaky, then laughs. "I'm glad you gained some perspective, hm."

I don't have time for his ridicule. I pull on the ropes that bind my wrists. Dylan makes the knots loose but sturdy. "I need to come," I whine. "Please. It's too much. I'm so horny. You, your dad, the training... I feel like I'm going crazy. Please. I can barely sleep, I can't sit anywhere anymore because I'm constantly dripping, my-my nipples are so hard all the time and they rub against any shirt or dress, and all I can think about is fucking. Fucking you, or your dad, or a damn bedpost... Please, Dylan." I lift my heavy head and give him my best teary-eyed expression.

Dylan looks at my face for a long time, taking in the red rim of my eyes, the blotches that probably color my cheeks. I'm not a pretty crier.

For a fleeting moment, I actually think he'll relent. He sighs and gives my swollen crotch a long look that speaks of the same sort of yearning I feel. Like he's also a bit desperate to sink into me.

"Concerning your tender little nipples," he eventually says and gets off the bed, "starting tomorrow, you won't be wearing any shirts or dresses anymore."

"Dylan!" I plead. "No, that's- that's not-"

Too late. He already goes to the closet and pulls out my clothing. I didn't bring too much, thinking that we wouldn't be going anywhere anyway and that I would be able to wear a shirt/pants set for a couple of days and then wash it.

"Can't rub your whore nipples against clothes you're not wearing, can you?"

He pulls out my tops and dresses and throws them onto a big heap on the floor.

"Being bare will probably prove too much of a temptation for you, so we'll find a solution for that," he says as though talking to himself. "A chastity belt, probably. Or a waist harness and handcuffs? I'm sure dad has some equipment we could use."

"Dylan, no, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it, okay?"

"And a diaper against the dripping, definitely," I hear him say, and I can't help the half-terrified, half-aroused moan that the mental image elicits. "You'll wear it over the chastity belt."

"No, please, you can't... That's too..." But I'm already humping the air again.

"My fiancée is such an insatiable whore," Dylan murmurs while looking at me fondly. He walks up to me, adding, "An insatiable, perfectly submissive, perverted, endlessly drippy whore." Leaning down, he kisses my forehead. "And I am a very lucky man."

***TBC***