Grace welcomes home her husband Thomas after he spends two months away from home. They're both eager to remove the chastity belt she's worn in his absence so that they can get reacquainted. 4k words, dark content rating.
Content warnings/tags: misogyny, including use of misogynist slurs during sex; eroticization of traditional gender roles; under-negotiated kink to the point of dubious consent; spanking; mild sanitary concerns (sex in a barn being actively used to house animals)
Grace is in the stable when her husband returns from his two months of travels.
She's meant to be doing chores--feeding and watering the animals, checking the health of the pregnant ewes they've pulled in from the pasture, and so on--but, in truth, the isolation of the stable provides her with the leeway to...think.
And, under the pressure of two months of her husband's absence, she has a great deal to think about.
Her husband's hands, for example: heavy and broad, each one strong enough to take up and restrain both her wrists together when he chooses. His shoulders: hard and well-shaped from years of the hard work of tending their land and hauling wool and mutton to market.
His cock: thick and hot, able to so perfectly fill the aching emptiness in her core.
His cock, which brings life to her womb and brings meaning to their marriage, to her existence as his wife.
His cock, which he expects her to regard with something akin to worship.
At one time, Grace made some effort to conceal how closely her true feelings matched those expectations. She felt shamed and belittled by his ownership over her, and hoped to preserve some dignity by pretending at maintaining sovereignty over her mind, if not her body.
But he has always been able to see through her--or, perhaps, is just so sure of himself that the effect was the same--and she no longer bothers with the farce.
Grace does love her husband's cock. She loves it single-mindedly, with greater devotion than she is willing or able to show to nearly any other aspect of their marriage. She loves it greatly, and--after two months in absence--she sorely misses it.
That is, perhaps, the most accurate description of what she is doing when her husband finds her: she is vividly, avidly missing his cock.
She's leaned into the rails of the lambing pens, her eyes wandering unseeing over the placid ewes with their swollen bellies.
The rough scuff of the wooden fence-post against her thigh reminds her of strong, bruising fingers prying her legs apart. The throb in her core drives her fevered mind towards more and more frantic memories of past couplings. One of her hands knots in the front of her skirts, lingering near her sex, and her spine shudders with the strength of her desire. She can feel even the most minute twitch of her muscles, internal and external, as her body begs to be taken, to be used and filled in the way that a wife is meant to be.
Grace is so absorbed in her thoughts, in fact, that she doesn't hear her husband approach, the drag of his boots and the creak of the floor lost somewhere in the susurrus of the animals chewing through their feed.
"Grace," he says, low and gravelly and practically in her ear, and she jumps and whirls to face him.
"Thomas," she gasps, the hand that had been tugging at her skirt going up to press at her neckline instead, so that she can feel the rabbit-quick beat of her heart under her palm. "You're back early."
"You left the children alone in the house," he comments, stepping closer until he stands over her, backing her against the fence she'd been leaning into a moment earlier.
He's a tall man, in proportion to his broadness, and she thinks at times that he looks like God had simply taken a regular man and made him a quarter again larger than he should have been. Or, to think on the old pagan tales, as if a giant had come down from the mountains and sired a son with a human. (His lucky mother, she must think, if the giant was as well-endowed as Thomas is.)
She had been impressed with his size the first time she saw him, even when she had been impressed by little else he had to offer; now, after years of marriage, his looming presence takes her breath away.
"Cilla is old enough to watch the others," she says. Priscilla, their eldest at fourteen. "And someone needed to see to the animals."
"That's what I paid Eustace and John to do." One of his broad hands comes up to cup her cheek, and then pushes back, his thick fingers carding through her hair. "Is that why you were waiting out here? Were you hoping that they would see to you, too?"
"Thomas," she snaps, irritated by the question, even though it lacks the sting of accusation.
She knows it's her husband's way--not to suspect her of infidelity, in the way of a truly jealous man, but to simply assume that she tends towards it and that he must herd her away from it, in the way of a parent keeping a child's fingers away from hot cookware. It is simultaneously reassuring, as she knows that even if she ever were to stray, he wouldn't be angry with her; he would only blame himself for not keeping a better eye on her. But there's a shame in it, too, the idea that he thinks she's too loose to account for herself as an adult, even if that's simply how he sees all women.
And there's also some extra sting in the comment, given the lengths he's taken to ensure her faithfulness in his absence.
"You know they couldn't, even if I wanted," she hisses, and Thomas simply raises an eyebrow. "And they couldn't see to the sheep, either. John's father had a bad fall this past week, and--oh--"
She's startled into a yelp as her husband's hand tightens in her hair and his other hand tightens at her waist, and he turns her around, bending her forward over the fence.
