It was their wedding night.
"You're mine. At last," Michael growled in Helen's ear.
She slid backward on the bed, her heels catching on the heavy coverlet. She hadn't had a chance to take them off. As soon as they'd entered the bridal suite, Michael had caught her up in his arms and thrown her onto the bed.
Now he bore down on her, his eyes dark with desire.
"I'm glad you waited for me. My little prize," he said, reaching out to caress her cheek.
She squirmed, a little whimper escaping her throat. She hadn't meant to let it out. But, yes, she'd waited for him. And he'd made every moment long, using the terms of their agreement to his advantage. She'd never been with a man before, but he'd had many women. He'd even had them in front of her. He'd tied her up, blindfolded her, and forced her to listen to him having his way with some willing, eager slut. And she'd enjoyed it. Had begun to relish thinking of the moment she'd be the one worshiping his cock, swallowing his seed, and feeling the sting of his hand against her skin.
She yearned for discipline. But though she knew his dominant streak firsthand, he still hadn't truly claimed her the way he'd said he would when they'd met.
All that was going to change tonight. Now she was his wife. Now she belonged to him, and he could do whatever he wanted to her and the perfect body she'd cultivated for him.
"Look at you." He caught her by the hair and yanked her into a straighter position. His free hand closed around the low neckline of her gown and tore. "My beautiful little slut."
Her cheeks burned. She thought of the girl he'd taken. That girl was a slut. But she — No, she was whatever he wanted her to be.
"Yes," she mewled, arching her spine for him. "I'm your good little slut."
He groaned and released her hair. She fell back to the bed, her muscles weak. Towering over her, he ripped off his suit jacket, his vest, his shirt, revealing his bare chest. She almost cried out. She'd been wanting to touch him for so long.
"Please," she whispered, her cheek pressed into the coverlet. She didn't meet his eyes. He preferred that she kept them lowered, that she maintained submission. "Please, Michael, can I — "
His hand came out of nowhere. It connected with her cheek. She cried out, the blow forcing her deeper into the blankets.
"Master," he said, his breath coming hard above her. His hand closed around her neck and squeezed. She struggled to breathe, tears forced from her eyes. He released and slapped her again, harder this time. "You call me Master."
They'd spoken of it months ago, when she'd signed herself over to him, but in the moment she'd forgotten.
"Master," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Master."
"It's all right, slut." His hand closed around her hair again, and he pulled her up. He was yanking his pants down. Boxers lowered, his cock popped free, eight beautiful inches she hadn't been allowed to touch since she'd sealed their engagement with her mouth. He'd denied her that long. Now it taunted her, mere inches from her face. The corners of his lips tugged upward. She could tell he knew exactly what she was thinking.
"What do you want?" he asked, his hand tightening around her hair, bobby pins bending and straining beneath the force of his fist.
She gasped for breath, her heart hammering. "I want your cock, Master. Please let me worship your cock. I'll be so good for you, I promise!"
"What a compelling plea," he murmured.
Releasing her again, he took his cock in one hand and stroked it, his eyes on her. She melted before him, lowering herself onto her forearms. "Please, Master!"
"Take off that dress," he said.
He kept stroking himself while she loosed the ripped top of the dress from her shoulders. It fell away in a pile of tulle, leaving her in the silk shift he'd chosen. Goosebumps rising on her skin, she folded her arms over her chest in an attempt to preserve the modesty she had left. He shook his head, his hand moving up and down the length of his cock.
"No, princess. My slut doesn't hide anything from me. Lower your arms."
She obeyed. He released his cock and reached for her. In one swift motion he tore the shift down the center. His hands, so much larger than hers, closed around her bared breasts and squeezed. He let out a sound from deep in his throat, a rumble of appreciation.
"They're nicely sized now. Just how I like them." He was squeezing her, poking and prodding, as if she were just a piece of meat, something he'd paid good money for. His thumbs and forefingers closed around her nipples and twisted. She was unable to contain a yelp. "Imagine how plump and delicious they'll become once you're carrying my child. But all in good time. Look at you right now, my virgin whore."
He was right. She was a whore, despite the virtue she'd saved for him. She was panting, her mouth hanging open, her mouth watering for his cock, her face made up beautifully for him, an angel for whom he had devilish intentions. He let go of her breasts and caught her hair again. This time, she could tell it was different. He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed and dragged her across his lap. His free hand slipped beneath the bottom hem of her shift and danced up the back of her thighs before coming to rest on one cheek, firm and rounded from the exercise regimen he'd prescribed for her at the beginning of their time together.
"Do you think this is how Menelaus treated Helen on her first night as his queen?" he asked in a low voice, leaning over her. He'd released her hair and now he had both hands on her backside, the skirt of her shift pushed up above her waist. He spread her cheeks and brushed a thumb across her most hidden treasure, the tighter hole above the dripping pink folds of her virgin pussy. "Yours is truly a face to launch a thousand ships, my dear. But you're my whore, and you'll remember it. I think that your first round of nightly discipline is in order. And after that... you can have what you so desperately desire."
She moaned, writhing on his knees. The hard length of him pressed against her stomach, burning into her skin. He ran his hand ever so lightly across her cheeks, then withdrew. She stiffened and anticipated the blow before it came. The delicious sting of pain washed over her.
He spanked her again, his other hand pressing her wrists into the small of her back. She was his, utterly his, owned, utterly possessed. His grip on her wrists tightened as he struck her a third time.
"I'll give you nineteen, for all the years you've not been mine," he said, his voice low and barely controlled. "Count the rest, slut."
Her cheeks were flaming. He'd reminded her of her age, which reminded her of his — that he was a decade her senior and a decade more experienced in the ways of the world and the ways of love and lust. She knew that from when she'd been forced to hear him with the other woman. Would there be other women now? Would he force her to kneel alongside some other whore? If he bred her, and her belly became swollen with his child, and she could no longer pleasure him in his favorite ways, would he force her to watch while he took his pleasure from some other woman? It was within his right, according to their agreement.
She counted, gritting her teeth against the blows. By the time the nineteenth fell, reluctant tears had escaped her eyes, and her mascara was running down her cheeks in lines. He soothed her against his chest, stroking her hair and smoothing it out of her face. She felt like a cherished possession in his arms.
"Good girl," he said, holding her at arm's length. "Good girl. You took that well. We'll do that every night, more or less depending on how good you've been. But if you're ever particularly terrible, there will be worse punishments."
