This work may contain historical inaccuracies, anachronisms, period-like wording, and content/views some might find offensive. None of it is intended as an actual representation of anything and none of the contents are intended to come across as something to strive for or internalize.
Three weeks.
That's how long it's been since she donned her wedding dress. Three weeks. Two months since her family declared utter bankruptcy. One month and a half since Bran Marlow walked into her father's office and asked for her hand in exchange for aid. One month and a half since her family was saved from destitution, and three weeks since Sterling Wells became Sterling Marlow.
He had eyes for her for a while. She had seen him, though she'd never said a thing, felt his gaze at every outing, at every gathering, every social call. It wasn't
unflattering,
of course, don't misunderstand; she'd always been such a small, slight thing,
like an ugly baby deer
had her sister said, all legs and arms and none of the womanly curves men seemed to look for, and there was something in the man's eyes that had made her feel as if he thought her pretty. That made her feel nude, too, and she didn't like that one quite as much. He was older, with rough hands and sparse gray dots in his stubble, and Sterling felt like a girl still. When her father had promised him her hand, Sterling had been silent.
It hasn't been that bad, she supposes. Their wedding was a pretty thing, and he looked at her the whole way through, and when their wedding night had come he had seen her fearful shaking and had allowed her to remain untouched. Sterling was thankful for that. Even more thankful when he still let her the next day, and the day after, when he said in his most gentle voice that it was normal for a girl to be scared. Even in the second week when she was still too scared to be touched he had left her, though there was a new hue in his voice, something annoyed, something impatient. When he'd tried to touch her the night before and she'd pulled away he'd said nothing, just pressed his mouth into a thin line and left.
So Sterling knows her time is running out. When he left that morning it was with a look, a
meaningful
look, an order to wait for him. So she waits, so she walks around the estate and reads, writes letters, tends to what needs tending. And when he's not back by the time the sun begins to crawl away from the horizon she retreats to their bedrooms, like any good lady, relieved to have escaped his touch another night.
When she hears him moving downstairs ten minutes later, her relief becomes concern. Sterling sits on the bed, pretty as she can, her legs tight together, her slender hands ontop her knees. And when she hears his heavy footsteps up the wooden staircase, her concern becomes anxiety. She shifts where she's sitting, and Bran opens the door, nods his head hello at her, and she smiles, because a good wife always smiles at her husband coming home.
"Welcome home," she says, in her sweetest of voices.
And when he locks the door behind him, her anxiety becomes panic.
He has a predator's eyes when he looks at her. Sterling squirms where she's sitting on the bed, feeling both cold and hot at the same time, feeling trapped, and without much preamble Bran begins to unbutton his shirt.
"Take off your clothes."
She hopes she's heard him wrong.
"Excuse me?"
"Take off your clothes." It's more final the second time, more direct. "You've been my wife for nearly three weeks, it's about time we did something about your duties."
Sweat covers her temples. She's known it was coming, known it was inevitable, and yet some stupid, childish part of her somehow hoped she could avoid it forever. But she'd seen the way he looked at her, when they got engaged, can see the way he looks at her now, and as Bran removes his shoes she dares a quiet, trembling "please."
"Sterling," he says, and it's all warning.
Shakily, she stands up, the blood already gone from her face. It takes her one, two, three tries to undo her fastenings, with her scared fingers, and when she lets her dress fall to the floor Bran appraises her. She feels like he's expecting something, something more, but there's not a single thing she can think of; she looks at him uncertainly, her brows furrowed, and manages not to flinch when he begins to walk her way a little too quickly.
Bran grabs the top of her undergarments with those big calloused hands and in one rough yank pulls them down. Sterling both hears and feels the buttons break against her spine, but her focus is too taken by the sudden cold air against her breasts-- without even thinking about it her hands go up to cover them. She doesn't want to be seen in the nude. No one has ever seen her in the nude. But she knows, she knows, when Bran catches her eye and raises his brows, that that is not something that will matter to her husband.
"Let me see you, girl." When she hesitates, he snaps his fingers at her. Her face burns as she lowers her hands, slowly, her shoulders shaking, and Bran reaches up, cups both her breasts in his palms and kneads. She gasps, but he doesn't look at her. His face seems thoughtful.
"Small," he mumbles, displeased, and Sterling has never thought too much about the desirability of her body, but suddenly all she feels is shame. "Almost nothing. Pretty nipples, though." He drops his hands. "Not to worry, they'll fill out after a couple of sons." And that's so much worse,
so
much worse, and Sterling still feels like a little kid, wanting to beg to be kept away from all these things she's not ready for. And then Bran grabs her mons, and she squeals. His fingers dig into the hair there.
"The tits of a boy and the cunt of a woman. God, you're a wonder."
Is that bad?
She's not sure what to do. Somewhere between gentle and assertive Bran takes her hand, and places it on the buttons of his pants. And that, she does know what that means, and with trembling fingers she undoes the first, then the second. She's shivering all over by the time his pants are falling around his ankles, though whether it's from fear or from embarrassment she doesn't know. She'd tell herself it was the cold, had the estate not been quite so well maintained. Bran kicks his pants to the side and she makes sure work of not looking at the swell in his pants, it still feels
inappropriate,
feels like something a
hussy
would do, but then he grabs her chin and makes her meet his eyes.
There is silence, for a moment. Then Bran says, "Get on the bed."
She's so relieved to put distance between them that she barely even considers what is coming next. She scrambles to the bed, a hunted deer, while Bran removes his underwear too. By the time her back touches the pillows the mattress is already dipping with his weight.
She doesn't get the chance to position herself or to look upon his nakedness. Strong calloused hands wrap around her thin legs, and he pries her thighs wide open. Oh, she's sure she's going to die, sure she will explode as his eyes bear into her most private places, studying something she cannot name and something no one else has ever seen, she shudders in his grasp. He says nothing. Why does he say nothing?
Do I look wrong?
And then he lets go. Sterling's legs slam closed with a loud noise.
"You're going to ride me." His tone leaves no room for arguments, and yet Sterling wants to argue.
She knows better. He moves her out of the way with a wave of his hand and takes her place, laying back against the pillows, and only then does Sterling lay eyes on his cock for the first time. She can't breathe, for a moment. She's never seen one before, can't tell whether it's too big or too small, how they're meant to measure, but what she does know is that she's always been a small girl,
birdlike,
her mother had once said, and this looks far too long and far too much and she
can't
. Any cock of any size would be too much for her. She'd dared take a look, the night before her wedding, a mirror down between her legs, and she's sure nothing could ever fit inside an opening quite that small.
