Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wasn’t your favorite thing, dressing up in the finest pieces you had, letting the maids fuss and flutter about you for hours before the ball would begin, but you endured. You were freshly seventeen, and nearly of age. As such your parents were throwing you a débutante ball.

They were no longer as common as they were in the days of your grandparents, but your family was important enough, and rich enough, that it was almost expected. More than that, they wanted to be able to help you establish connections and ties in the world before you stepped into it entirely on your own. Part of it was because of their, and your, position but a larger part was because you were smart. Painfully smart, and highly educated.

Educated women weren’t so unique as to be awkward in high society anymore, but they were still rare. Often a young lady would get enough education to be able to help run the house of whatever family she married into, and that would be it. But you devoured books and knowledge with a hunger rarely seen even in the sons that were your age. The fates had been kind to you, born into a family that supported you, with looks and brains both, and sense enough even at your young age to be haughty about neither.

Perfect.

Or so Marco Edward thought, watching you walk down the curved marble stairs with your father at your side. You were graceful, intelligent, and beautiful. The kind that would age well, with proper guidance and care. Someone who could stand beside him and support him, and also-.

Marco shakes his head, now isn’t the time to think such things. He’ll have to mind himself around you carefully, the light behind your eyes was a double-edged sword for him, until he can trap you fully. But there was enough truth in the trap he was laying out that he needn’t worry over much. Your parents wanted suitors who would be willing and able to allow your talents to flourish, and he had no intention of allowing any of your skills to flounder.

The ball itself was pleasant. You spent ample time with your friends, and maybe a little more time meeting friends of your mother’s and father’s than you really wanted to, but you weren’t going to complain. Most of the people who you met you had seen before now, as they had come to your family’s home for various different reasons over the years.

Compliments of what a fine young lady you were, and how far along your education was. A few people who had tutored you in the past took a moment to test your progress gently, and it was a welcome distraction. A nod to your efforts during a time when you were dolled up in ways many people knew wasn’t your focus. You gave most of the credit for your appearance to your younger sister.

She wasn’t as inclined toward academics as you, but she had a passion for fashion and trends, and a keen eye for skills in others. Your father often referred to her as his little appraiser, and you were certain she’d find a good place in this world.

Once the introductions and chatter were out of the way, the focus of the event began, with you and your father starting off the evening with a Father-Daughter dance. It was more formal than the dance you would eventually have with him during your wedding, with the focus on your portion of the dance more than his. It was your social debut after all, and the point of the event was to showcase your capacity - not just your academic skills, but also that you were fit for all parts of high society.

The social part wasn’t your favorite, but you didn’t loathe it. Regardless of your feelings on the matter, you put your best foot forward, in all senses of the word, and curtsied to your father flawlessly when the song was done. The floor was now open to all, but your evening was already decided.

There was a long line of dance partners who had requested a few minutes of your time tonight. Your mother and sister had accepted the names of the men who would dance with you prior to the event, and they determined who would be allowed. In this way you were removed from the selection process, which soothed any sore egos, and kept you from being confronted about it.

Your first dance was a friend of the family’s. A nice enough fellow, you both spoke easily as you danced. Not all of your dance partners tonight were going to become possible suitors, some of them were simply solidifying the relationship between you. Almost explicitly for your benefit, to signal that you were dear to them to others at the ball.

Jinbei Evertide was certainly in that category. A long-time friend of your father’s, he’d practically watched you grow up. He had connections all through the Line, as a mediator of sorts he oversaw many connections and deals. Every family in attendance tonight had a connection to him, and the easy conversation you were having was a clear message to everyone else.

Your next dance was with a somber blonde gentleman. Sanji’s family was a little notorious, but they were successful, and Sanji was - admittedly - the nicest of the four young men that Ser Judge Vinsomke had within his family. It was a polite dance, but there was something in his expression, and the way he moved, that felt like he was trying to push you away.

You danced with two sons from the Charlotte family, though the second older one seemed more like your dance with Jinbei than anything else. His magenta hair and laconic nature were comfortable, and while you didn’t speak on much, he did wish you well before he left.

The dance with the Donquixote family's adopted son Law was almost painfully awkward. He didn’t want to be there, as far as you could tell, and while his effort was commendable, his aggravation was getting in the way. You found a subject he enjoyed talking about, and his movements became more fluid, but in the back of your mind you were kicking him. Complicated family issues weren’t uncommon, but they weren’t your problem, certainly not tonight. He, like Sanji, seemed closer in age to you though, and it was likely why they hadn’t learned how to mask as smoothly as others.

It was, after all, what high society mostly was, as far as you were concerned. The skill was knowing what face to wear with which person, and when the rare instances were that you could remove it and be yourself. Appearances were almost more important than anything else, but trying to hide away issues and failures almost always backfired. Especially if they were monetary in nature.

One could only pretend for so long before everyone else would know.

After Law was your dance with Marco Edward, and the difference between the two was stark. Marco was smooth, relaxed, and flawlessly in control. It was easier to focus on the conversation between the two of you because you didn’t even have to think about dancing. He’s older, but you were certain he was on your dance list for the same reasons as Law and Sanji.

A prospective husband, and not just a possible business partner.

He was handsome, and well-built. His suit fit him well, and he smelled pleasantly of citrus and warmed honey. Everything from the tone of his voice, to the care he took in interacting with you were relaxing. The look in his eyes was clear and focused, despite the lazy, half-lidded expression he wore. Something about the combination prickled at the back of your neck, but you couldn’t grasp any reason behind it.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Marco hums as the song plays. “Officially, as it were.”

“Thank you. It’s an honor to officially meet the famous son of the Edward family.” You reply evenly. “Your facility has had a stellar record since you took it over six years ago. It speaks to a dedication for helping your fellow man that is admirable.”

“I’m flattered to be thought of so highly,” His smile is genuine, his movements staying as smooth as ever. “Mine is not a field driven by logic, I must admit I’m surprised you’re so keenly aware of it. I was led to believe your passion was within mathematics and chemistry.”

“I’ve not read much in the way of sanity,” you admit, catching a flicker cross his face when you use the word. “But I can appreciate the damages stress can induce. Repairing such things seems more difficult than setting a bone, or stitching a wound, since the wounds themselves can be so nebulous.”

“You sound old and jaded, Miss,” he chuckles as he speaks, and you smile in return.

“Father worries knowledge has aged me, but I do apologize for weighing down our time together with such a heavy conversation.”

“Not at all. You and your words are light as feathers. I’m simply happily surprised at their complexity.”

“At the risk of sounding rude,” you begin carefully, and when he doesn’t discourage you, you continue. “I’m surprised you have an interest in me. You strike me as someone who… would have enough challenges in his career, and wouldn’t seek the risk of frustration at home.”

The twitch at his lips makes your stomach tighten for a second before it turns into a sheepish smile. A soft, almost shy chuckle slips from his lips, and he shakes his head gently.

“Some,” he clears his throat, giving you a mischievous smile, “lesser men may wish for a wife who is little more than the keeper of his home.”

“The implication being you are not a lesser man.”

“Do you think me such?”

You’re quiet for a moment, looking over him, blatantly taking him in as he continues to almost dance for the both of you. The skill at which he moves, the ease of how he speaks, the way that there’s not even a hint of anger in his voice or flushed against his skin.

“No,” you answer finally. “If anything I think you would enjoy the honesty.”

His brows raise a little, the eyes hinting at their ability to widen if they so desired. He hums thoughtfully, seemingly pleased by your response, and stepping back as the music stops, offering up a small bow.

“If you’re tired of dancing, I could cause a scene and relieve you of the burden.”

You can’t help but laugh at the idea. “Mr. Edward, what a thing to offer. If I become too tired to dance, I will speak up. You needn’t play at villainy for my sake.”

He leans in, lowering his voice, and his proximity makes your heart flutter. There’s something far more intimate about it than when you were dancing. “For your sake, little doveling, I would play the villain.”

Marco gives you a wink before walking away and you’re left unsure with what to do with his words. You had a little time to think on them, sitting for a few minutes after your dance, but no one left you alone with your thoughts. You wondered if you’d imagined the emphasis, or if maybe you hadn’t imagined the entire exchange.

Through the small collection of people around you, Sanji, Law, your sister, and a couple other friends, you saw him. He spook briefly with your parents, and then excused himself, turning toward you with a subtle smile and a bow of his head.

From across the room.

How had he been so sure you would be looking? Or even know where to look?

Why had you been looking in the first place?

You knew of the Edward family, everyone did. While they didn’t have a long and prestigious history like most families of the area, that had risen into prominence before your parents were even born. Newgate was the patriarch of the family, and made his mark in the world young in life. He’d built his family up from that point, and reached out with a seemingly infinite arm, establishing trade routes and protecting them.

There were whispers, more decades ago than now, likening his rise to that of a pirate who terrorizes the seas into obeying him, but such beliefs didn’t last. Nobility and the concerns of blood were an ideal of the past. While some still clung to outlandish ideals, most had moved on. The coffers of some families might stretch back centuries, but you couldn’t dismiss the Edward family as nouveau rich.

The foundation of his family were as rock solid as your own. A merger between the two would be uncomfortably powerful. There would be almost nothing outside of the combined grasp, and if you were both in agreement on a thing you could move the combined strength of your families.

It was daunting to think about. The stability of the Line wouldn’t rest upon the shoulders of the Elders or the Councilmen. It would rest upon his. And yours.

Such concerns fell from your shoulders as you stood to meet with your next dance partner. Perhaps a little younger than Marco, and a little shorter, the rakish smile on the man’s tanned face gave away much about him. Despite this, his warm tone and easy cadence were welcome, and he moved without through the song with as much ease and grace as you could hope for.

You worried less about Marco, as you danced with Shanks, and several more dances after that, though no one else made quite the same impression as the affable red head. Easy going, he showed enough decorum to pass muster, and not an inch more. He stopped short of dipping you at the end of the song, though he had teased you a bit about doing so.

By evening’s end you had danced with at least ten people, six of whom were possible suitors, two who were simply showing their support of you, and two more who wanted to be anywhere else but where they were. Still, all were polite, and the end of festivities left you feeling exhausted in a satisfying way.

Chapter Text

Knowing one of the reasons for your débutante ball was to find a suitable suitor, you weren’t surprised when you were called into your father’s office and found your mother in there with him. There were several folders on your father’s desk, and he slid them toward you when you sat down.

“You’re of course welcome to review all the candidates,” he clarifies as you regard the small stack. “But this is what your mother and I narrowed things down to.”

“You don’t have to pick anyone either,” your mother adds, placing a warm hand on your arm. “We appreciate your willingness with all of this, but your father and I want you to be happy first and foremost.”

You smile somberly. “It does feel a bit… transactional.” Opening the first folder you see a portrait of Shanks. His smile isn’t nearly as bright as it was during the ball, but even the best cameras still required a couple moments of exposure to work. “But I want to give it my best.”

A bright smile was hard to hold for that long without looking a bit manic.

Still, you smile at the face looking back at you and almost laugh when you see paperwork to go with it. When you told your parents you were willing to marry for the sake of the family, and not just your own love, you knew it was going to require taking the other person’s family and business into account. Objectively, seeing that information laid out like a dossier made the most sense, but seeing it with your own two eyes was still a little surreal.

Shanks was from an old family, and most of their money came from crops and distribution.

“They went from war machines to farm machines,” your father says as you reach the same part of the file. “Shanks’ father made the transition thirty years ago and he’s taken over since. Cheerful fellow.”

“Drinks a bit much,” your mother adds, and your father gives a small nod of agreement. “Though he does seem to handle it.”

You hum, setting the file down and picking up the next one. Drinking wasn’t an issue for you, as long as the one doing the drinking didn’t become violent or unreasonable from it. The next one was Sanji’s picture, and you barely glanced at it before closing the folder and setting it aside.

“Oh.” Your mother gave you a soft smile when you looked up at her. “That was quite the definitive response.”

“He was very polite,” you assert, reaching for the next folder. “But either his heart or his hopes are elsewhere, and I don’t think I could help him.”

“Your sister said something similar during the ball,” your mother muses, waving away your querying look. “Just that he seemed distracted.”

Opening the next folder you flinch despite yourself. Even as you look at the face looking back at you, almost disinterestedly it seems, you aren’t sure if you flinched because of a negative response or a positive one.

“Dr. Marco Edward, head of Sphinx Sanatorium,” your father says as you pull your eyes away from a gaze that seems to demand your attention. “While they specialize in treating hysteria and other traumas, they do tend to a wide range of ailments with great success.” He clears his throat as you begin to flip through the pages.

Your father clears his throat before continuing, pulling your attention away from the impressive data before you and toward him.

“Mr. Edward’s family and I have been speaking in-depth since the ball about a merger between our two families. As your mother and I have said, we shan’t force you or your sister into anything, but if you have no interest in Mr. Edward, we will put the proposition before your sister.” He doesn’t say it as a warning, or with an apologetic tone, but with the even and careful timbre of a business statement.

“You seem to have made quite the impression on him,” your mother adds when you go back to looking at the file. “It was mentioned that there are many eligible sons within the family, and he was rather insistent concerning you.”

“Rightly so, I had not expected a man like him to blush,” your father chuckles as your mother scolds him for telling on the young man like that.

Young man. Marco was twelve years your senior according to the information in front of you. Not an unheard of difference in age between two adults. If not you, then your sister, two years younger. The additional two years difference unsettled you for some reason, though it was less the age itself and more the amount of time he would have to ingratiate himself.

Your brows furrow, and you scold yourself. You hardly know Marco Edward, and while your intuition was often correct, it wasn’t flawless. You needed to know more.

“Must I decide today?” You question closing the folder and keeping it in your lap as you look up at your parents.

“Not at all.” Your father answers. “How long would you like?”

“A week… no, a month, if that’s not asking too much.”

“Hardly,” your mother assures you, your father nodding along with her. “It’s a big decision, and you should give it due consideration. We’ll send return word to the gentlemen.”

“Just… Just Mr. Gol and Mr. Edward.” You correct. “My considerations are just between them, unless there’s a folder with someone who wasn’t at the ball?”

Your parents shake their heads. “A few prior to the first screening we conducted.” Your father clarifies. “If you’d like to see them?”

Thinking on it for a moment you decline, picking up Shanks’ folder, adding it to Marco’s and excusing yourself. You weren’t against reviewing what was available in front of them, but this was just more efficient. Admittedly it was also a little embarrassing.

Laying out the pros and cons of a business proposal, when it was strictly business, was something you often did in solitude because you had a tendency to focus so deeply you inadvertently ignored those around you. But now you had new parameters to consider, and you weren’t sure you wanted to mutter them absently with your parents around.

You weren’t against the notion of love, but unlike your younger sister, you didn’t rank it very high. You wanted someone who would respect you primarily, especially in matters that you were educated in. Mutual respect and a capacity to communicate didn’t require romantic love to function, but you weren’t immune to the pleasures and dreams of romance. Having someone desire you was also important.

Especially since, despite the primary reasoning for your suitors; family and children were certainly expected. Two such prominent families, no matter who you chose, would be expected to flourish financially and genetically.

Reading carefully through the files it was almost like looking at two identical candidates. At least in terms of political and economic power. Shanks’ business wasn’t as diversified as Marco’s family’s businesses. Several brothers headed up different businesses and ventures, and all were solidly successful. The overarching business of transit and trade even stretched over to Shanks’ family.

But the Gol family operation was dug deeper, with generations of roots behind it. Staying power that the Edward family hadn’t been around long enough to command. Not that you could lend much weight to that factor - empires rose and fell faster than a generation if the leadership was poor or rotten. Just because the Gol family and its business was older didn’t mean it would outlast the Edward family.

Of the two, Shanks was certainly the more jovial. But both his demeanor and Marco’s seemed more mask than genuine, and while you faulted neither for it - society being what it was - you found that Shanks’ mask bothered you more. It felt like a play, as though he sought to distract and entertain, versus simply guarding a part of himself. The affable fool was good at covering a myriad of things, infidelity not the least of which.

You were grateful for having requested a full month to consider your choice. A week later you were sitting outside one of your favorite cafes, still mulling your options, your mind wandering away from the logical - objectively they were equal - and moving toward the emotional.

The hardest part was that you could only speculate. In both cases it was impossible to say who would be a better fit emotionally. All three of you comported yourselves in a specific manner due to family and station, and no one was going to let slip anything beyond that.

“Would the lady welcome a bit of company?” The question comes along so easily you don’t even flinch. Without looking up, you nod, gesturing to the empty seat as you take a small drink of your tea.

“Mr. Edward, what a pleasant surprise.” You address him, giving him a soft smile as he sits and makes himself comfortable.

“Pleasant,” he hums, an easy smile on his face. “An acceptable quantifier.”

“You feared something else?” You prompt and the smile on his face for a second is sharp before he relaxes again.

“I heard you’d requested time to deliberate, and I was only concerned my presence would be unwelcome.” He clarifies.

“Come to warn me away from Mr. Gol?”

“What makes you think I would waste my time speaking ill of a business partner?” He muses as you take another sip of tea.

“Because I cannot imagine you wasting time to extol your own virtues.” You answer honestly. “Such arrogance would be unbecoming, and you prefer your actions to speak on your behalf, I think.”

“While every thought you speak does make me admire you more, young lady, I had no intention of speaking about your choice at all.” He replies smoothly, nodding to the waiter who brings him a cup of tea. He hadn’t ordered, and all you could assume was that he was enough of a regular to receive such service.

“You came to speak on the weather then?”

“If you’d like.” He agrees. “Or perhaps on this cafe, or a book of some interest to you. Anything you’d find pleasure in speaking about.”

“Anything I’d find pleasure in speaking about.” You muse, rolling the offer around on your tongue for a moment. “Then might we talk about your family’s businesses?”

Marco’s brow arches a little, but not enough to pull his hooded gaze wide. “Certainly. I’ll answer what I can, and do my best to sate your curiosity.”

Over the next half hour you fired question after question off at him. He answered you evenly and concisely, not offering up elaboration on his own, but answering your follow up questions when he could. He declined a few questions - and frankly you expected as much - some of your questions could easily be turned against him and his family if they were answered carelessly.

But you didn’t purposefully attempt to trap him, admitting before each probing question that you may be asking beyond what was allowed. You learned more than what was compiled, and he spoke highly of his brothers and his family.

It wasn’t uncommon for there to be stress and frustration within a family that had many children. Whether they were all grown or not. Being close to your sister, you were happy to hear Marco had a close relationship with his brothers.

“Have I satisfied your curiosity?” He questions after you sit back, seemingly done with your barrage of questions.

“As much as you could, yes.” You answer politely. “And I understand the parts you couldn’t sate, so I won’t hold it against you.”

“How magnanimous.” He muses, pausing for a moment as he regards you. “In exchange I will be brutally honest with you, regarding this matter.” You don’t ask him what matter he means, you already know, but something about him shifts.

His body language isn’t relaxed. His gaze pins you in place, and for a brief moment before he continues speaking you wonder if he doesn’t mean to kidnap you off the street.

“The Union of our families,” as he speaks the terrifying sensation at your throat vanishes and your mind scrambles to keep focused on his words in the wake of the powerful shift. “Is a priority for my family and I. If not you and I, then it will be your sister and I.”

“My parents won’t force either of us.” You say quietly. You feel so small, and it’s a struggle to keep your voice steady.

“I needn’t rely on your parents.” He answers honestly. Simply. Firmly.

Your mind races with a hundred different things he could employ. You weren’t wise with age, so some of your thoughts were fantastical and likely foolish, but some cold truths sunk into your skin.

Blackmail of some kind. Threats. He was well-respected and every bit as smart as you, with more experience and education and notoriety. What world would listen to you over him if you were both presenting your cases? You couldn’t be more calm and more logical, not against him, not in a way that would work in this society.

Marco could almost see the course of your thoughts. Not that he imagined they were all that far off from the various options available to him, from the nefarious to the cordial. He didn’t want to directly threaten your family in any manner, since your parents would be his biggest supporters by the time you were married.

But he was going to marry you. Your own decision in the matter was of no consequence to him. As much as he loved your intelligence and bravery, he would indulge neither in his pursuit of your company. He would not abide someone else’s lips upon yours save his own, no matter the means he might be forced to pursue.

“Your face says you think very little of me.” His tone is neutral, smooth, and almost amused.

“I… no, my… my apologies, Mr. Edward, my thoughts got away from me.” You manage to assert, embarrassment dripping from your words. You had no reason to think so harshly of him, and you weren’t sure where the thoughts were coming from.

“Quite alright. It’s not a simple matter of love, in this case.” His words sound understanding and soothing, but you can feel an edge in them, cold against your throat. “It may be rude of me to say so, but I do feel affection for you. It seems it has made my presence more zealous than I meant for it to be.”

“Affection for-.”

“You,” he interjects so easily you barely even realize it. “Not your sister.” He pauses a moment, letting the words sink in. “I would still marry her if that was the choice left to me, but I cannot conjure affection up from nothing.”

You’re quiet, looking into an empty teacup. You would want your sister to marry for love, given her temperament and disposition toward the idea of it. Your parents wouldn’t force her, but he could - even if it wasn’t through threats and blackmail, he was certainly patient and graceful enough.

He would play at love, you were almost certain, and could you intervene? Could you warn your sister against him without accidentally driving her into his arms? She was your sister, certainly, but love made even the most sane of people mad.

“Don’t feel you need to answer me right this moment.” He says, his words pulling your gaze out of your cup. “Regardless, I won’t wed anyone until they’re eighteen. A broken engagement would reflect poorly on everyone, however, so I don’t mean to rush you into that decision either.”

Setting down money for his, and your drinks, he offers you a genuinely bright smile. “Do have a good day, sweet doveling. Thank you for indulging me.”

The hustle and bustle of the world around you was muted. Pointless and far away in relation to the steady click of his cane against the pavement. It wasn’t exactly fear that gripped you, but a sense of inevitability. You hadn’t come up against someone who left you feeling so powerless and cornered. An equal at the foundation of things, but your superior beyond that.

And there was nothing you could do. You couldn’t go back in time and be born earlier, scrambling for extra experience and wisdom in a wild attempt to stay ahead of him. You hadn’t the resources.

You could tell your parents, but it was hard to say how such a conversation would go. They loved you yes, but young ladies were prone to exaggeration. Perhaps not you, and perhaps they would believe you, but eventually the conversation would need to be had with Marco, and his family, and how much weight would your words hold in the face of his?

You could choose Shanks, get him into your proverbial corner, and use the two years between to protect your sister. But there were too many variables. Shanks was a business partner of Marco’s. How much would he indulge you? How easily could he dissuade you from worrying? His was an easy temperament to get caught up in, and that was mostly the point.

The affable fool didn’t want confrontation, he wanted people to go with his flow. It worked best for him, and he could leave people feeling like it worked best for them too. But there was certainly a monster there, beneath the surface, otherwise the business would show signs of floundering since he took it over, and there were no such signs.

And what if the two were friends?

There was no way to know, frankly. You could set up a meeting with Shanks, you were sure. It was only fair to give both an equal opportunity, but even as you headed home you realized how useless that was.

There was only one option. You just had to hope Marco’s affections were enough to indulge you.

Chapter Text

A couple of weeks after your meeting with Marco at the café, you tell your parents you’ve made your choice. You present Marco Edward as your final decision, listing off as many positive things about him as you can, including his demeanor and his good looks. Most of it was true, while the man’s intensity unsettled you, he was a good choice.

A good man… perhaps.

In the end you decided that if he was truly a braggart he wouldn’t have been honest with you. Especially since such honesty put you on the defensive. Someone who meant to ensnare and abuse you wouldn’t forewarn you. Instead, he seemed to want you to be aware of him, flaws and all - at least in so much as he was willing to risk at this stage.

But now, here you were, six weeks after having met him in town, and nearly two months since your débutante ball, walking casually through your family’s gardens, with Marco Edward.

He’d been invited over by your parents to discuss the happy news.

“I’m flattered to be chosen from amongst such commendable options.” Something in his voice felt disingenuous for the first time since you’d come to know him, but if your parents noticed they hadn’t reacted. Was it arrogance or confidence that fueled that particular dismissive tone?

Or had he already worked out all the ways he could’ve dealt with any of the competition?

Somehow you felt like it was the latter, not that he lacked confidence, but more than that he wasn’t dismissive of people around him. Even you, or maybe especially you. It was hard to say. As much as you were certain he wasn’t complimenting your capacity with empty words, you also felt he didn’t truly need you.

Once a date was set for the engagement party, Marco agreed to allow his father, Newgate, and your parents, to sort out the specifics on your behalf. It would allow you both to simply enjoy the occasion, and focus your efforts on the larger, eventual, matter of the wedding. Marco was willing to wait if you needed it of him, but it was his preference to have it shortly after your 18th birthday.

With the timing of everything else it meant there would be only ten months to deal with everything, which was a bit hasty for a wedding, but not indecently so.

“My affection seems to grow every time I get to speak with her,” he admitted smoothly, and you think your mother flushed at the sentiment more than you did. There was more sincerity behind those words than when he spoke of his “peers”.

It was likely that very line that had caused your father to suggest the two of you go for a walk in the gardens. It was improper for you to be alone with him within a private room, but it was nice outside, and with his work, free time for the two of you would be sparse. Best to spend time with one another when the opportunity arose.

He’d walked beside you, giving you more space when you hadn’t reached out for his arm. There was no irritation or tension coming from him, but you knew you weren’t being the most attentive of hosts. Normally you’d begin explaining the history of the estate, and the gardens, a conversation you hadn’t had with him before and one that was well-practiced for you.

A perfect way to break the ice between you and get a proper conversation rolling. If nothing else came to mind you could continue to simply provide him a “tour” of the gardens, whiling away the walk on such small talk.

But there was far more on your mind.

“You have quite a bit on your mind.” Marco says easily, taking a step back from you and regarding you patiently.

“I do.”

“Words I look forward to hearing another time.” He muses, the weight of his gaze nearly pinning you in place before he gestures to a bench. “Let us sit then, and you can tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I would like to propose a personal contract between us,” you say, staying standing as Marco sits. It’s hard to read him, especially now when he’s taking care to mind himself, but you don’t think he’s angry. With him seated and you standing the two of you are nearly eye-level,

“Contract marriages aren’t unheard of,” he admits, his tone and expression neutral. “But you don’t want your parents to know about it. I wonder why.” His tone isn’t questioning, you aren’t sure he even cares if you answer him.

“It works better for you if they don’t know about it, does it not?”

“It does. It would work better for you if they knew.” He points out. “Hence my curiosity.”

“Because I intend to leverage that within the contract.” You say plainly.

Marco can’t help the devilish grin that slips across his lips for a second before he’s able to compose himself again. You were intelligent and ruthless in a naive way, and he did so love that about you more and more.

How long would that naivety last? Long enough to be savored, and briefly enough to not become droll he hoped.

“Then let’s hear the terms of your contract, young Miss.” He prompts, not entirely surprised to watch you pull an actual contract from the pocket of your skirts.

“My sister chooses who she marries,” you begin, giving him an overview like you would anyone else with any other contract. “If it’s one of your family, then so be it, but it will be her will. No pressures from any Edward.”

Marco nods, his eyes on the contract, but his attention on you, you were certain. He skims over the three pages, and you aren’t sure if he’s reading that fast or just looking for keywords for now.

“No committing me to your sanatorium.” You continue and he looks up at you. There’s no anger in his expression, more like amusement. “Even if I should legitimately require it, if I lose my mind I’m your problem directly.” He seems to agree and looks back down to the contract. “The rest concerns-.”

“Partnership.” He interjects. “You do not wish your education to go to waste, nor your talents to wither simply to play the part of wife. They’re not unacceptable terms. I was already planning on working with you. The marriage is for the benefit of both families, and you are nearly as keen as your father in terms of business.

“If I had doubts before now, the quality of this contract has assuaged them.” He admits, tapping the contract. “I’ll take it home and read it properly, and return word of any amendments or adjustments in the finer points, if needed. I don’t foresee any issue with any portion of it so far, however-.”

Tucking the contract into the inside pocket of his jacket he stands up, looming over you in a way that could be incidental due to his height, or intentional due to his mood.

“I will not be denied.” You can feel the heat rush through you at the implication. “I desire to work with you, much as you seem to as well, given the contract, but I am the head of house. You will submit as a wife should, and you will be punished as any other would if you do not.”

The weight of his tone makes your stomach knot. Punishments were something that varied wildly between households, though society only looked down on those that were obvious or detrimental. A man who beat his wife to lameness would be shunned, but a man who whipped scars upon her skin may never be found out.

You’d witnessed your father disciplining a maid only once. He took a switch to her calves, stopping only at the first sign of blood. Some of the employees said she got off easy, that your father was kind.

Marco did not strike you as kind.

He reaches out, running a gloved hand lightly against your hair. You can’t even feel the shift of your hair from the light caress, but it still feels far too intimate. “I do not break the bodies of those in my care, do not envision anything so severe.” He assures you quietly, a soft and gentle look in his eyes.

Taking a step back he taps his jacket, referring to the contract tucked within. “I will add such to the contract before I return it to you for review.”

“I… appreciate that.” You say, grateful for the space. “Um, I can give you a proper tour of the gardens, if you’d like.”

“An overview, perhaps, while we complete our walk. We don’t want to be gone too long, after all.” He suggests, offering his elbow for you.

“Certainly,” you agree, placing your hand loosely against the inside of his elbow. Intimate, but not overly so, a little closer than you’d like to be, but you were going to have to find comfort in proximity.

There was no harm in easing yourself into the inevitable.

The rest of his visit was uneventful. You gave him a brief overview of the gardens; their history, what some of the more interesting items represented, and a couple anecdotal stories. You weren’t sure if you were trying to humanize yourself to him, or humanize him in your eyes, but the moment of familiarity had you feeling more relaxed by the time you returned to the house.

Over the next couple of weeks the two of you corresponded back and forth, adjusting the terms and conditions of the contract between you. In the end the simple version of the contract was thus:

1. Your sister will not be pursued. If she shows interest in someone from Marco’s family, then it is what it is.
1a. In more pointed terms, one sister will not be used to control the other in any capacity.

2. Marco cannot admit you into his sanatorium.
2a. If you are in need of such medical attention it will be handled by an unaffiliated facility.
2b. This is only if he is unable to attend you from home.

3. You will not deny Marco his rights as husband.
3a. He will not interrupt rest, recovery, or meals.

4. No punishment will be so severe it requires care beyond that available within the home.

Marco found it endearing, the things you worried about, the specificity with which you were willing to phrase the contract, spending nearly a page on each point. There were no wasted words admittedly, everything was clear and objective. There were reparations and caveats, most in place to protect you if he decided to ignore certain clauses, up to and including an uncontested divorce, with enough support for you to ensure you could live quietly somewhere.

It was fairly balanced, even if it put him at a disadvantage comparatively, but there were simply so many possibilities you hadn’t considered. Maybe if you had been older, maybe if you hadn’t been raised by such kind and caring parents, you might have had more of an inkling about the more depraved appetites of people like him.

But you hadn’t, and so you didn’t, and he wasn’t going to warn you against the things he had planned for you. He wasn’t going to tell you that aside from the detail about his sanatorium, nothing within the contract changed any of his plans. He had no desire to beat you and break you. Your will and mind were large parts of why he desired you.

But you would tremble beneath him.

Tremble because of him.

Him, and no one else.

Chapter Text

Once the terms of the contract were set, you made a copy, signed both, and sent one back to Marco. You put your copy in hide and wrapped it in wool before tucking it in a small space in your room. It was possible your parents knew of the nook, but you only knew for certain that your sister knew about it.

Before you moved out you’d tell her about it in case you needed her to get it on your behalf.

You hoped that wouldn’t be the case. That the process of creating the contract would be enough to protect you, but with as brief as your time had already been, you knew he was no fool. He wouldn’t agree to something he didn’t want to.

The contract was supposed to help put you at ease over this whole affair, but instead it made your unease worse. You were worried that the contract itself was going to give you a false sense of security, but no matter how often you read over it, you couldn’t sort out what it was that bothered you. You almost wanted to ask your father to read it, but you worried that he’d overreact to your apparent concerns and call the whole thing off.

Which wouldn’t be the end of the world, but could cause issues that neither you nor your family needed or deserved.

There was little else you could do at this point. The path had been set, and you had no reason to believe Marco Edward was an unreasonable man. One with secrets, certainly, but he didn’t seem to be hiding his self from you. He didn’t woo you with sweet words and false smiles, but with sincerity.

You didn’t get much time to dwell on it regardless. A month after you finalized the contract with Marco, your parents, and his father, had pulled together everything for the engagement party. The most input you gave in the entire affair was what dress you ended up wearing, and that was after an entire weekend trying on dresses with your mother and sister. If it took two days to decide on a dress for the engagement party, you were a little concerned how much effort would go into the wedding dress itself.

It was a lavender empress cut dress, leaning more toward pink than purple, with lace detailing and a long satin ribbon at the waist. It was light and flowing, indicative of new beginnings like spring. Your hair was put up in a partial updo, a careful coil of hair accented in pearls that cascaded down in a loose collection of curls around your neck, laying softly on your shoulders.

It wasn’t until you were at the engagement party, surrounded by friends and family, that you finally saw what Marco was wearing. The suit was almost white at first glance, but the powder blue color became more apparent as he neared where you were. The whole venue quieted as he approached you, the steady click of his shoes against the marble floor, somehow more commanding of attention than any other sound.

The navy shoes made the powder blue suit a little more blue, and the pastel tie he wore matched your dress. The colors were starkly different from what you’d seen him wear otherwise, but they still suited him well.

He pauses in front of you, greeting your parents briefly before regarding you.

“You look quite lovely.” He says, his voice clear, but low enough that it’s really just for you.

“You look rather handsome.” You return, unable to help the smile on your lips when he smirks.

Marco gets down on one knee, and opens a small box. You’re certain the entire floor is looking at you both, but there’s something about his gaze that keeps you from looking around nervously. He opens the box to reveal a ring far more beautiful than you had expected. Your hand is over your mouth before you could stop it.

Three thin diamond-encrusted bands swirl together to create the ring’s shape. A single diamond, clear with shimmers of blue in it that were striking, and unnaturally beautiful, adorning the bands. It was stunningly well-crafted. Elegant and precise, there was nothing gaudy or pretentious about the design. Nothing clumsy or overdone, but rather it was flawlessly balanced.

If the circumstances were different, you’d almost think it was a symbol of his love.

But there was scarcely affection between the two of you as it was. Marco had declared he felt some affection for you, but-.

“Miss Nerona, please accept this as a token of my devotion.” He says, pulling you from your thoughts. You offer your hand, gloved as it is, and Marco gets the ring on it easily enough. It’s a little snug, which is to be expected, but your gloves are thin, you don’t doubt the ring will still fit well without the gloves.

He places a soft kiss on the back of your hand before standing up, and standing with you. The round of applause of the gathered guests comes into focus only after you look away from him. It feels like a bubble has popped and suddenly you were back in the hall with everyone else. You wonder if it was some effect of his, or if the ring had mesmerized you that completely.

It was beautiful, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from falling on it from time to time. You had plenty of excuses to look, almost the entire guest list came up to speak with you and Marco, ushered in, and often ushered away, by your parents or his father. Everyone offered their congratulations, almost everyone wanted to see the ring - for which there were ample compliments regarding the beauty and craftsmanship of it.

“My fiance deserves nothing but the best.” Marco would say, or, “I felt the quality needed to reflect my commitment to this union.”

No matter what his words were precisely, the sentiment was similar. Commitment, devotion, quality, an item that would endure as steadfastly as the two of you. It was almost like you were listening to him hammer in the finer points of wedding vows with every conversation.

After nearly two hours you’d held brief conversations with nearly every guest in attendance. You were certain at the minimum that you had spoken to all the folks who were either high enough in rank to deserve a moment, or powerful enough in their station that you wouldn’t risk accidentally snubbing them. One more conversation, one more person offering congratulations, and you were fairly certain you might scream.

It had nothing to do with being engaged, it was just the sheer number of people. There were only so many ways people could offer their congratulations, and there were only so many ways you could accept those congratulations. There was neither enough drink, or enough air, to keep things from becoming exhausting.

Maybe if it had been a union of love, you’d be able to deal with streams and streams of people, but this wasn’t like that. It might not be devoid of affection, as Marco had framed it, but you weren’t twitterpated. Neither of you were, frankly.

“If you’re comfortable with the idea,” Marco says after the last person is guided away from the two of you by your parents. “We can step out into the courtyard. The air will be cooler, and we can sit for a moment without being approached.”

“Please, let’s.” You agree, turning to your father to see both him and Mr. Edward waving you away. It seemed everyone was on the same page.

“I never considered myself to be a social butterfly,” you admit, sighing as your shoulders release tension the moment you walk outside. “But I never would have thought it would be so exhausting to talk to so many people.”

“I imagine even your sister would have struggled a bit back there,” he assures you, patting the top of your hand. “Everyone else only needed to endure a few moments of pleasantries, but we played the same basic conversation over and over again. Even I was floundering a bit at the end, and my job requires attentive conversation daily.”

“I suppose it’s a relief to know that about you.” You muse, and Marco quirks a brow, looking down at you. You can feel the gaze, even if you haven’t bothered to look up and meet it. “You comport yourself perfectly.” You begin explaining. “An air of calm, and control, and I’m sure, despite your best efforts, that you are not, in fact, flawless, Mr. Edward. I do not mean it rudely, I only mean to say that I’m glad to be assured you’re as human as anyone else.”

“I will take it as a compliment then,” Marco says after a moment, offering you a warm smile. “I do need to apologize to you, since you’re of a mind to see my flaws as endearing at the moment.”

“Apologize for what?”

“We’re breaking ground on a new wing for the sanatorium.” He explains. “In two weeks. Between overseeing the construction, the impact the construction could have on my patients, and the subsequent expansion into the new wing, I won’t have time to court you properly.”

“… I will not take offense,” you say after a moment. You hadn’t expected to be courted in the first place. This wasn’t exactly a marriage of convenience, but it was one of mutual benefit to your families more than to one another. “In truth, I hadn’t expected to be courted.”

“Why not?”

You look around before answering, being certain there’s no one else close enough to over hear. “Well, there’s a contract between us for starters, though more pointedly this wasn’t something that began with a courtship.”

“You doubt my affections?” He asks the question calmly enough, but there’s something about his presence that seems to engulf you. As though the half-step closer he took was enough to eliminate all the space between you.

The courtyard is far too empty now. Too dark. You try to take a step back, but his hand is at your back. You try not to look up, but there’s no avoiding it, as though there’s no where else you could look. His gaze was intense, that light in his eyes, but you couldn’t look away.

“Affection and love are different, are they not?” You ask softly, your words barely forming against the weight of the air around you.

“Perhaps.” He answers, leaning you back.

You put your hands on his arms and tense. “Wait, I meant no disrespect!” You whisper the words in a rush, trying not to shout and cause a scene. He didn’t have you tilted back much, but enough that you’re only stable because of his hand at your back.

“I know,” he says easily, leaning down closer. “I merely mean to show you my affection, and you can decide for yourself if there’s any difference between it and love.”

Heat flushes through you and you try to step back, but there’s no escaping the position your in. “You-you can’t, you-.”

“Going back on your word already?” He hums, his words and gaze enough to keep you facing him. You manage to pull your eyes away from his hooded gaze, only to watch the easy grin slip across his lips.

“M-my word?” You feel trapped physically and within the confines of the conversation.

“I won’t be denied.” The words are heavy, pressing into you as if they mean to collapse you to the ground.

“W-we’re not m-married yet.” It’s not fear, it’s nerves. The concern of being caught, the uncertainty of whether or not he was going to kiss you in public like this.

Marco leans in close enough you’re certain he’s going to kiss you, only for him to lean back and straighten up. He regards you quietly for a moment, and the air shifts, the weight of it all evaporating as he straightens you up and takes a small step back.

“How interesting.” He hums, giving you a moment to sort yourself. “I wouldn’t have expected you’d want your first kiss to be in front of a full cathedral. My little doveling enjoys being watched.”

“W-what - what - no, I - I just, I…” Pressing your lips together you look away from him. You feel like you’re going to burst into flames, you’ve never been so flustered before. “I’ve s-simply never been kissed before, forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” he assures you. Something in his tone or stance feels like a question and you feel yourself wilting under the unspoken request.

Well, a request for now, certainly. An inevitability, most definitely. You were going to kiss him. Either now, or during the wedding.

“You… you may.” You manage to say quietly, doing your best to not step away when he steps closer again. “I, I mean I would rather my first time be private.”

A strange feeling shudders against your skin, and you aren’t sure what to make of it. Like a lock bolting into place despite there being nothing else there. Marco’s hands cradle your face carefully, pulling your thoughts from the odd feeling, and bringing your focus to him.

“Then I will show you a brief glimpse of my affections.” His words make your heart skip. You’re not prepared, you wonder idly if you would ever be, but you can’t ask for another moment. There is no more delaying the inevitable, and you weren’t wholly against it.

As gentle as his touch is, his control of your head is absolute. You could do nothing, no matter what kind of resistance you might have desired, you were caught completely. He tilts your head to the side carefully, as though you are thin glass and delicate whispers, something so easily shattered if he didn’t take care.

The press of his lips against yours is softer than you expected, warm and gentle. The soft thrill is pleasure or nerves or maybe even fear, you aren’t sure. Your hands are on his forearms as he leans in, pressing his lips against yours with more weight, a low hum from his chest making you gasp.

For a second you feel like you’re drowning in the kiss, his tongue is in your mouth and his absolute command of your senses stutters your brain. There’s a surge of emotion, but before you can even begin to guess at it, before you can even struggle, he breaks the kiss, holding your face in place as you pant from the disorienting rush. Your face is flush and your lips are tingling. You don’t know if it was the act or the drive behind it, but affection seems like a woefully inadequate word.

There’s no doubt in your mind that his kiss would’ve lasted hours if he could’ve gotten away with it. That his hands would’ve wandered and his kiss would’ve bruised your lips by the end of it.

A powerful, demanding passion.

“I promise the kiss at our wedding will be chaste.” He assures you, his hands releasing your head and lingering nearby in case you needed to steady yourself.

“… Thank you.” Your words are quiet, and you accept his offered elbow without much thought.

“Mm,” he hums, a gentle finger on your chin. He tilts your face one way and then the other, and then nods. “Your makeup is unmarred and your lips aren’t swollen. If you prefer to return to the hall, no one will know.”

“A… a moment, just a moment longer, and then yes.” You say, a little more substance to your words. “Just a moment for my heart to settle.”

“… Certainly, sweet doveling.” He hums the words quietly, you don’t even really hear them. Marco knows you mean your heart in terms of the organ itself, and not your feelings, but for now he’ll take what he can get.

Chapter Text

The sound of your pen across the paper was all that there really was. The afternoon sun was low in the sky, evening fast approaching, and once you finished your letter you would join your parents for dinner. The wedding was a month away, and in two weeks you would be celebrating your 18th birthday.

The celebration was going to be subtle and intimate. Just you and your family, a few close personal friends, and that was about it. It was hard to say if Marco would be in attendance or not. He was exceptionally busy the last few months with his sanatorium, and everything in his plans was to ensure he wouldn’t be late for his own wedding. A small birthday celebration was difficult to make space for in light of that.

The two of you had seen each other maybe twice since the engagement party, and most of your correspondence had been through letters. Always you assured him he needn’t reply if he was busy, but every letter you sent received something in return, however brief. The topics were more business than romance, but his replies were always complete, never too short or dismissive.

You admitted that you didn’t know if you could match his affections, but you did find him handsome. The words were easier to state objectively in written correspondence, but even has you’d put them to paper you’d felt the heat in your face. It was frustrating to find yourself so flustered over something so silly.

You didn’t believe that romance or love was the last refuge of the weak, like some people you’d met in high society, but you thought yourself capable of keeping a hold of your senses. Your parents had affection for one another and made it work well, but as far as you knew the story, your mother had picked your father out of crowd during a ball and that had been that.

She’d said she just knew, but she was also fortunate that your father was up to the standards of her parents, and was, admittedly, just as interested in her in return. She’d spoken of friends who had gone different routes, and—maybe specifically to try and comfort you—admitted the quite a few of them grew very fond of their partners. Even when the initial unions hadn’t been founded on love.

You weren’t concerned with falling in love with Marco. Quite the contrary it seemed in your best interest to maintain a little distance from him. Not that you meant to be cold toward him, or even distant, but falling in love with him seemed dangerous.

You just weren’t sure how to put it into words to try and work through it.

But even with the feeling at the back of your mind, you weren’t afraid of him. There was nothing concerning in Marco’s business, nor his familys’ endeavors. He had almost three dozen brothers, and a couple sisters, most all of them adopted by their father Newgate. The unconventional first name aside, the man was a capable businessman.

While Marco worked at his facility, you made use of what spare time you had to be in society. You were going to need the skills after you married, keeping the social standing of your family in good condition would make things easier for Marco, and your children. Acceptance and support from the circles around you would make everything easier.

Attending small gatherings and parties also gave you settings to ask about Marco’s family. What the perception was among your own peers, and those that supported them. Not just to set your mind at ease, but also to be able to know what things you may need to help change, or mind, when you finally met his family.

Between gatherings and preparation for the wedding, you also continued to assist your father, and do what studying you could. Keeping busy kept time moving, and with your mother and sister’s assistance you were able to do everything without getting stressed over any of it.

The months passed swiftly, and before you knew it your birthday celebration was only a day away.

The venue was your own home, and the number of people invited was slightly less than you would have expected during the Autumn Feast. Enough that the house would feel full and cozy tomorrow, and few enough that it wouldn’t be impossible to find a moment’s respite if you needed it.

You were quite certain all your conversations were going to revolve around the impending wedding. While you didn’t mind the topic of the wedding, you were worried it was going to be a repeat of the engagement party. You’d end up having the same or similar conversations over and over.

Right now, however that was the least of your concerns.

“Lift your skirts, and bend over.”

Marco had returned the day before your birthday unexpectedly, and now the two of you were in the drawing room alone.

“Ab-absolutely not!” You hiss the words, taking a step back from him. “I did nothing wrong.”

His demeanor disagrees, and you can feel yourself starting to tremble.

“I arrive to find you flirting with the delivery boy-.”

“I was not flirting.”

“-and instead of apologizing, you opt to argue the point.” He continues flatly. “The sooner you do as instructed the sooner it’ll be over.”

“I’ll not be punished for something I did not do.” You state as bravely as you can.

“You’re not being punished for the flirting,” he nearly sighs. “You’re being punished for the disrespect after it. Would you rather we go to your father’s study? Perhaps you’d rather be punished with an audience.”

It wasn’t much time that you’d spent around Marco, but it was enough to know he was not easily deterred from a course of action. He was also skilled at talking people into his course of action, and while you knew such a skill was currently being used on you, you also knew that it would be used on your father. So close to the wedding your father would want to keep the peace, and a small bit of discipline wasn’t going to be a big deal to him.

But you also couldn’t argue against his words either, since you had barked back at him when he’d first arrived. Neither your words, nor your tone, had been playful. You were indignant to the idea that he thought you were flirting.

“I was not flirting, I was being cordial.” You rankle at the implication and don’t keep your displeasure off your face or out of your tone. “You should consider it more often.”

“You should apologize to me,” you grumble. “To think so little of me in the first place.”

“I think quite highly of you, little doveling, but that doesn’t mean you don’t require a firm hand.” He asserts. “Are you going to snub the terms of your own contract over this?”

“We-we’re not married yet, I…” Something in his expression makes you falter.

“Are you looking to cancel the wedding then?” He questions in a tone that makes your stomach knot. “Or do you think this will have an easier resolution in two weeks? That I’ll forget?”

Frustration was causing tears to well in your eyes. There was something deeply unfair about this, but you couldn’t sort out what or why right now.

“… My apologies.” You say in a small voice.

“An apology after knowing you’re going to be punished, doesn’t negate the punishment.” He says simply, and you bite your lower lip to push the tears down.

Without another word you turn away from him. It takes a moment to bring yourself to lift your skirts, you weren’t bare beneath your dress, but it certainly felt like you might as well be. Holding your skirts in one arm, you place the other on the table, bending over as you had been instructed to earlier.

“An apology is still a good thing.” He says, his hand on your rear end makes you flinch, but he doesn’t linger. His hand cracks across your butt, you grunt, trying to stay quiet despite the snap of his strike. He smacks the other side, the force and snap making you lurch forward a bit.

It stings, but it doesn’t hurt as you expected it to. After the two strikes he has you put your skirts down.

“That wasn’t so terrible,” he muses, helping to make sure nothing is out of place. You start to argue with him, but he puts a finger up to his lips.

When your father enters the drawing room a moment later, you and Marco are already sitting across from one another, settled in enough that it would seem you had been that way for some time.

“Ah, Mr. Edward, so glad you could make it. Welcome, welcome.” He greets him, sitting next to you and across from Marco.

“We were, despite some setbacks, able to get ahead of schedule, so I thought I would visit today and make sure my presence was welcome for tomorrow’s party.” He explains smoothly.

“Oh certainly!” Your father answers cheerfully. “My dear daughter was lamenting your absence just the other day, this is most fortunate.”

“Indeed, father.” You answer as cheerfully as you could. Your lament of Marco the other day wasn’t necessarily about him directly, just that you would be facing the hordes of guests without him, and despite anything else, having him there had made it easier.

He had carried the brunt of things, especially when you started to run out of steam. It had been a kindness you hadn’t expected. While you didn’t expect cruelty from him, you had expected he would mind himself only, and leave you to succeed or fail on your own merits.

Given the slight sting on your rear, it seems he was invested in your perceived character to be on par with his. However he felt he needed to maintain that.

“And pardon, but earlier I thought I heard quite the noise,” your father begins to say and you can feel yourself tense. “Do either of you have any idea what it was?”

“My fault, I’m afraid.” Marco answers and your face flushes. You can’t think of anything to offer in place of the truth, and so you don’t dare to interrupt him, but you didn’t want your father to know you’d been disciplined like that.

“I was regaling your daughter about a small incident at the sanatorium involving a beam that had snapped.” He explains, relief flooding through you. “I clapped my hands together a bit too robustly, and startled her, and apparently you as well.” He finishes with a smile. “My apologies.”

“Oh no, that’s quite alright,” your father chuckles at the story as one of the maids comes in with a cart of tea. “I do hope no one was hurt?”

“A few bruised egos, but nothing severe.” Marco assures him.

Your relief turns to a cold pit in your stomach. You’re grateful for Marco’s lie, but the ease with which he did it, the way he didn’t even tense or flinch.

Maybe he had concocted the story prior, or the event was, itself, true, and he was simply making use of it. But if you couldn't tell where the lie began and ended when you were aware he was actively lying, it unsettled you.

We’re his statements of affection a falsehood as well? The kiss lingered on your lips for weeks after the fact, and you had taken some solace in knowing his passion toward you was so sincere. But someone who weaves a tale so easily is practiced at it, and that knowledge unnerved you.

“Are you alright, poppet?” Your father questions and you look up at him, over at Marco briefly and back to your father.

“Yes… yes sorry, I started thinking about, um, about how the incident could’ve been far worse and I’m afraid my mind ran away with me a little.” You admit nervously. “I fear I’ve lost the topic.”

“No, we didn’t get much further. Mr. Edward was saying something similar about how he’s relieved nothing was more severe.” Your father says it reassuringly, patting your arm. “What a good sign that you’re both of a similar mind.”

“Indeed,” Marco agrees, and you find you can’t meet the gaze that you know is on you.

Marco and your father carried most of the conversation after that, talking more about the sanatorium’s expansion. Marco admitted that the construction had put a stress on his patients as much as his staff, and that had caused some of the delays. He couldn’t go into details, but the way he spoke of his patients put you at ease.

If nothing else, his desire to help his patients was commendable. He spoke with kindness and compassion, and a hope to see them all returned to society. Like any other doctor, he knows that some issues are chronic, but he hopes for a full recovery regardless.

“We have very few permanent residents, and that hasn’t necessarily been a positive. The lack of space had been an issue, but with the new wing we have more space, and a way to keep our residential populace separate from our temporary patients.” He explains. “This will allow for more tailored care, since staff will be specific to each area.”

“Separated records as well, or a centralized archive?” You question, the discomfort of earlier forgotten as the joy of logistics had come into the conversation.

Marco smiles. “Which would you recommend?”

“I would need to review your current process to say for certain, but both options have their pros and cons. If the residential wing is far from the current repository, then a secondary location for the records would likely be prudent for ease of retrieval. But if the current archive is fairly centralized, than a second location wouldn’t add much efficiency.

“Unless the paperwork was significantly different between chronic cases and temporary patients.” You amend, continuing with your new train of thought. “I would imagine so, even if the paperwork was, itself, similar, the small population of long-term patients would have months, or even years of paperwork associated with their treatment, where the short-term treatment wing would have a higher number of patients with less robust histories on site.”

“That’s quite an accurate analysis for a few moments’ conversation.” Marco admits.

You wave the praise away with your hand, your mind still turning the issue over in your head and unconcerned. “It’s not dissimilar from records for a school. The staff lingers, a smaller number with longer records, and the student body changes rapidly by comparison.” You explain. “I assisted an associate of my father’s on a similar issue the year before last.”

“A perfect first project for you both to work on, perhaps?” Your father prompts, and you look over at Marco hopefully.

You can see his expression soften for a moment before he nods. “Certainly. As I have said before this, your aptitude and capacity are qualities I find more than simply endearing. The sanatorium, and, I imagine, my family’s businesses will benefit from this union.”

Your father is overjoyed at Marco’s words, but something in his tone, his gaze, the small smile on his lips. You don’t doubt the sincerity of his words, you’re certain that you will get plenty from him in the ways you want, but something settled against you. You and Marco had spoken of the work that his siblings did, and of the business his father ran.

They had their hands in many different things. Several older brothers had their own businesses and responsibilities outside of the main family business, just like Marco. There was an appeal in the idea that you’d be consistently busy helping several different types of endeavors, but you wondered how accepting his brothers would be.

An educated woman was less of a rarity now, but women in business was still a touchy subject for most.

If your project with Marco went well, then you could at least count on his support. The prospect of this first project, one that would be done on your own merits, without support from your father, was exciting. It nearly pushed out all thoughts of your upcoming wedding from your mind.

Chapter Text

Looking in the mirror you aren’t sure you recognize the person looking back at you. Normally you fell somewhere between your mother and your sister. Not concerned with the newest trends, but you let your sister guide you through them when needed. Your mother had only the barest of concerns about fashion anymore, keeping enough of a eye toward them only to avoid making a fool of herself at a public engagement.

Your sister had more of your mother’s frame than you did, and so it wasn’t your mother’s dress you wore today, but one all your own. It was a soft white, not a bright snow white, but more like unblemished paper. The sleeves were delicate patterns of lace, laying against the back of your hand, a small twist of lace around your middle fingers to keep them in place.

Layers beneath the lace, your underclothes, the corset, and the base fabric of the dress separated you from the rest of the lace work. The intricate network of powder blue and pastel teal flowers were masterworks in their own right. When you walked it was like there was a soft whirl of flowers around you constantly.

Gold accented your neck, and dangled from your ears, slender and thin, almost as delicate as the lace, but heavy enough that it rested coolly against your skin.

These were the last quiet moments of your day today. In a few more moments there would be a knock at your door, and your father would escort you to the nave. There, music would play and he would walk down the aisle with you, as those gathered in the pews would celebrate your union with applause or silence or softly murmured congratulations and praise.

It didn’t really matter to you, though applause would be a bit odd.

Most of the people gathered were so far removed from you and Marco both, you were certain they were only in attendance because the wedding was a union of two of the most powerful families on the Line. Bragging rights aside, it would also be a way in for people interested in doing business later on. A statement on their capacity as well, while the cathedral was large enough to hold a great many people—and it was packed—it was still limited space.

Beyond your family, immediate and extended, your friends, and his family, there weren’t many other seats left in the old building, despite its size.

The knock sounds, and you step away from where you’d been sitting, little more to do than to take in the person looking back at you in the mirror since your mother and sister both left before you. Your father opens the door as you approach it and his expression widens. There’s a quiet, shuddered breath, and you can see him struggling to maintain his composure.

“Oh, your mother warned me, but you are more beautiful than I expected.” He admits quietly. “Are you ready, my precious little scholar?”

You smile at the endearment and nod. “Yes, I think so.”

“How you’ve grown,” he sighs, offering his arm after he takes care to not let the trail of your dress and veil get caught by the door. “Eighteen years. It’s practically a blur.”

“I’m not leaving the Line, we’ll still see each other.”

“Of course, of course. Fret not about us, you’ll be in a whole new home. Take your time.” He says softly, coming around the hall to the entrance, taking a moment to look at you one more time. “You are ever welcome home, my precious child, but I hope you find joy enough that you never miss it.”

“Father…” Your lips quiver, and you squeeze his hand. The sentiment sinks into your heart, and eases your tensions. You fear for a moment that you might cry, and for a brief flicker of a thought you almost want to tell him everything. The contract, your concerns, but instead you hug him carefully. “Thank you.”

The music begins, and the procession follows it.

You barely notice the people. The cathedral is the oldest building on the Line, and so the decorations are minimal, but the rich wood and soft carpet hardly need anything more. Hydrangeas and peonies brightened the aisle, shimmering in unique colors under the light of the stained glass windows. The sweet scent of flowers is just subtle enough to be ignored, just prevalent enough to give the packed space a sweet scent.

It’s hard to focus on anything else, when you can already see him. The same soft white as your dress, and you can see the soft accents of teals and blues, the delicate lines of gold. His hair has been styled well, but you can’t help but think it doesn’t really suit him. The almost unruly mess of locks just looked better, but he didn’t look awkward or uncomfortable.

The look on his face was a treat, when you drew near enough. The focused gaze was gone and his sharp eyes were wide. He needed to look away for a moment before he met your gaze through the veil again.

He seemed truly flustered. You had to accept it at face value, because this was not a man who put on theatrics of emotions for anyone’s sake. Marco was the epitome of the well-mannered man, completely in control of his emotions, and not to be taken for a fool by anyone. He was not the flippant braggart, he was A Gentleman.

Reaching the end of the aisle, you hug your father. As you move to step up to the alter with Marco, he steps down, reaching out a hand to help you up the steps. It’s an intimate gesture, the kind that sends a soft murmur through the gathered crowd. Even the priest waits before beginning, leaving him a moment to simply take you in.

The ceremony begins, the priest extols the virtues of home and life. Of hearth and partnership. He speaks on things you dislike, and things you can’t change, because this is the way of the world around you, but while you’re barely paying him attention, Marco seems to not even know he’s there.

You’re used to his intensity. To the gazes that linger, to the way he seems to be barely holding himself back.

But this is new.

Perhaps a bit unnerving as well, since you aren’t sure if he isn’t just going to do as he pleases right then and there. The way he looks completely enamored, and simultaneously at the end of his rope.

You can feel the tremble in his fingers when he puts the ring on you. The shiver in his voice, the way he licks his lips before speaking. It’s subtle, it is all so incredibly subtle, but he’s nervous. You weren’t sure before now that he was anything other than stern.

He takes care with your veil, when it comes time to kiss.

Despite his words before, about having your first kiss in front of so many, he positions his hand gently against the side of your face, tilting your chin a little and blocking you from the audience with the position of his thumb and hand. It was obvious you were kissing, but the action wasn’t for anyone else’s eyes, it seemed.

It was sweet, and soft, and a little more brief than you expected. He keeps his tongue in his own mouth, and you’re grateful for that, but you hadn’t expected him to do that during the ceremony anyway.

His composure cracks when the two of you get into the carriage meant to take you to the reception. Once the door closes his hands are on your shoulders, and his lips are against yours. The action is still surprisingly controlled, the first kiss is heavy, but the second one is softer. By the fourth kiss he has his forehead pressed against yours as he takes a moment.

Hot breath escapes you both, swirling in the small space between you. You know you agreed not to deny him, but you’re certain this wasn’t part of that. Still, you had barely even flinched when his hands gripped your shoulders. You found yourself wanting to return some of his fervor, but you worried such an act would cause you both to miss the reception.

“… You… look more beautiful than I’d imagined.” He admits, his voice hoarse before he clears his throat. He steals one last brief kiss before leaning back and giving you a little space. “I meant to be more of a gentleman.”

“I think you’re doing well.” You say softly. Your face is heated and you can’t bring yourself to look over at him for too long. His hair has mussed a little, and you can’t help the soft smile as you look away again. “You look quite handsome.”

“Only now?” He teases and you shake your head.

“Perhaps more so now than before,” you admit, your gaze pointedly looking out the window. “Your hair looks better.”

“Ah, my sweet wife prefers my hair tussled, it seems.” He muses, running a hand through his hair, combing it back and messing it up at the same time.

There was no power in the whole of the Line that was going to make you look at him right now, save, apparently, your own curiosity. Inwardly you were desperately trying to brace yourself, but you couldn’t keep your face neutral when you finally looked over at him.

The smug smile on his face was the most blatant look of emotion you’d seen on it at this point. During the wedding he was trying to keep his composure, but he wasn’t holding anything back right now. You’d never heard him speak of his own appearance in any capacity, good or bad, but he was certainly aware of the effect he was having in the moment.

“Our union might be more business than love, and the affection may be only on my side, but I am glad to be aesthetically pleasing in your eyes.” He says it all so easily. There’s no anger or guilt in his tone, nothing that needles at you.

“I won’t demand it, either.” Marco adds before you can say anything. “So don’t stress over it, dove.”

“… Not doveling?” you question after a moment.

“Do you prefer doveling?”

“An endearment is an endearment.” You state plainly. “Did it change because we’re wed?”

“Perhaps.” He answers, a smile on his lips, and mischievousness in his tone.

Pressing the point seemed a good way to walk yourself into being teased, so you left it be. The two of you used the rest of the trip to the reception hall to decompress. You hadn’t interacted with the crowds at the ceremony, but you’d be the center of things during the reception. It would be a smaller gathering because of that, but still a large number of people.

Your carriage purposefully took a longer route, both to give you time together, and to make sure that others could arrive at the reception hall prior. That way you were greeted by the majority of your guests, instead of waiting for the majority of them to arrive.

Your arrival at the reception was a flurry of activity. You met a dozen of Marco’s brothers before you even got into the hall. Marco had said he’d teach you his family’s faces and names over the next week, and not to worry about it during the wedding. Once you were seated, people came up to offer their congratulations, and that only slowed down when food was finally served.

The sheer number of people meant that there was plenty of time to eat. Most of the conversation between you and Marco was about the impending rush of people again, but a few of his brothers seemed to take over on that matter, allowing people to trickle toward the table and keeping the rest at bay. Once your food settled the two of you went from table to table, greeting your parents, and introducing one another to your immediate family, and your extended members.

For Marco it was his second time meeting most of them, since he’d been around for your birthday celebrations, but you for the near endless line of siblings, all adopted, was certainly beginning to melt together by the time it ended.

For a mercy you sat again for a little bit before you and Marco took up position on the dance floor. You were fully aware of how tall he was, but the difference was certainly stark as you danced slowly. Given his commitments at work you hadn’t been able to practice anything prior, but Marco led you easily, and you managed to follow him gracefully. It might not have been practiced or intricate, but it was smooth and elegant enough for what was needed.

Dancing with Marco had been nothing compared to dancing with his father while he danced with your mother. You were a little concerned Mr. Edward was going to hurt himself, he needed to bend so low to accommodate you. He was nearly eight feet in height, and easily one of the tallest people you were sure you’d ever meet.

His sheer size aside, he had an undeniable presence, and you understood a little bit better how this man had done all he had. As he was in the twilight years of his life, you were almost afraid to imagine him in his prime. At the end he leaned down even further and kissed your cheek, welcoming you to his family.

The only oddity of the night were a few of Marco’s brothers. They made brash remarks about your impending first night with Marco, but every time your expression faltered he would appear by your side, shifting the conversation to something more civil.

When it came time to throw your garter, Marco was ever the gentleman. His brothers far less so, though they were keeping themselves from being completely wolfish, their calls more teasing Marco than daring to say anything about you directly. The soft smile on Marco’s face left you thinking that this was simply how they were, and perhaps they were even trying to be reserved for your sake.

Marco gave you little more than a light kiss against your dress, at the bend of your knee, before pulling the lacy band out from beneath your skirts. His hands were hot, brushing against your skin, but he didn’t linger. He might have been trying to balance out his rakish brothers, you weren’t sure, but you were grateful for it.

In the end he didn’t even throw it, simply pantomiming the action before tucking it into the inside of his jacket pocket. There were some boos and grumbles from his brothers, but other members of his family laughed. Had the event been something other than a wedding, you got the impression that they might have actually fought over it.

For some reason, you were certain the outcome would be the same, but you weren’t sure why you thought that. Marco wasn’t technically the eldest of the siblings, but he was the first one to be adopted. Maybe that was why the others deferred to him as though he were the eldest son.

It seemed more likely that he had earned that position, however, and regardless you had no desire to ask. However it had come to be, it no longer mattered. Marco was Marco, and you were now his wife.

Or nearly so.

As the evening settled in, so did your nerves. A few guests had already left for the night, and it wasn’t long after you were certain you couldn’t stand to dance or chat for another moment when Marco came and collected you.

You lingered long enough to say farewell to your parents, and then you were back in the carriage. The journey to his house was a little long, but there would be plenty to do when you arrived. Marco sat across from you this time. Silence lingered between you both for so long, you were certain the entire ride would be that way before he finally spoke.

“Nervous?” He questions, and you nod. You can feel his eyes on you, but the topic has you flustered already, so your gaze is mostly on his shoes.

“It’s been a long day,” he admits, tapping his foot. Somehow you can feel the smile on his face when you still don’t look up. You know he’s not going to postpone the inevitable first night, and you had no intention to ask that of him either.

But lessons and education on the topic were a far cry from practical knowledge. You had none, and pointedly were raised and expected to have none, but that very fact was what had you nervous. Even if you did, there wasn’t much you could do, you agreed not to deny him. You’d heard it could hurt, that especially the first time was going to be painful, there was no avoiding it.

You just didn’t know how much it was going to hurt.

“I promise it won’t hurt.” Marco says, pulling you out of your thoughts, and you bring your gaze up to meet his finally. The disbelief, or relief, on your face must have been obvious, because he has to press his lips together to stifle a laugh. “If it hurts, even a little, tell me. I promise, even in light of our agreement, I’ll stop if it hurts.”

Chapter Text

After gathering the train of your dress and putting it in your arms, Marco carries you from the carriage to the bedroom. Your aching feet are grateful for the gesture, but he’s been on his feet just as long.

“You needn’t… I mean, I can walk.” You offer shyly as the front doors of his home are opened by a neatly dressed butler.

“Certainly,” he agrees, making no move to set you down. Warmth rushes up to your face and you try to relax in his arms.

“… I am in your care, then.”

His home is comparable to yours in terms of size. A large open foyer, a curved staircase up to the second floor. The style and designs are more modern, something built for him, and not something refurbished over a dozen generations like your home.

Though, now, you supposed, this was your home.

The butler opens one final door, giving a short “Sir, Madam” In acknowledgment before closing the door after Marco carries you through it.

The room seemed to be prepped for your arrival. A large four-post bed, the headboard against one wall, and nightstands on either side of it, were the primary items for the room. A dresser and vanity were also in the room, both with covered trays on them, and wine vases beside them, likely filled with ice, the actual bottle poking over the top of the vase.

A single chair was set near the bed, made with rich wood and thick cushions, and this is where Marco sets you. There’s room enough for him to walk around the chair and between the bed, and as he steps back to remove his jacket and shoes you have a second to take in more of the room.

The hearth in the corner, and a lamp by the bed are providing light, though it’s a little dimmer in this room than out in the hall. The hearth is also providing warmth, which is a little too much right now, but you’re sure you’ll appreciate it once you get out of your dress.

You could also see an attached bathroom, but from your seat and the position of the door, you don’t know what all is in there.

Kneeling before you, Marco begins to take your shoes off. You make an odd sound, but it doesn’t stop him and you aren’t even sure what to say. The warmth of his hands is fleeting against your legs, a soft brush of his thumb or finger as he undoes the straps, ties, and buckles of the heels. Taking one off, and then the other, setting them aside before turning back to you.

“Relax,” he murmurs quietly, looking up at you as his hands go under your skirts. It’s the same way he’d gone after your garter earlier, though this time he presses his hands against your feet, working his way up to your calf, one leg at a time. The warmth, the pressure, and the motion melt the ache in your feet and legs, and despite the situation you can feel yourself relaxing.

“There you go,” he smiles, kissing the fabric of your dress around where your knees were. “I’ll take care of everything, so just relax.”

His hands move further up, slipping the stockings off the garter clips, and pulling them down slowly. One leg, then the other. His eyes watching your face the entire time, as you tense a little, sighing quietly when his bare hands are on your bare calves, urging you to relax again.

“Alright, turn to the side.” He instructs and stands up, making a motion with his hand. “Stay seated.”

You turn so that you’re facing the bed, the back of the chair at your side, and Marco stands behind you. He begins to carefully and methodically take the pins and bands out of your hair. The care he takes, and the warmth of his fingers, is almost enough to lull you into a soft doze, but nerves are enough to keep you from nodding off while he works.

Parting your hair, he begins to unbutton the back of your dress. The garment is held in place with a series of satin-capped buttons, hooked through loops all the way down the back of your gown.

“This had to be a pain to get into.” He muses, halfway down your back.

“My mother and sister had to trade off about halfway.” You agree. “It creates a pleasing look when it’s done, but it was certainly time-consuming.”

Marco kneels again, before finishing the rest of the buttons. There’s no conversation between you, but between each button he presses his lips against your back. The bare section at the back of your neck, the lace-covered parts of your shoulders. Warm and tender, each one makes you twitch and gasp softly. Somehow the actions were both relaxing and not, but it didn’t feel like it was nerves that twisted in your skin.

Or at least not nerves alone.

His hands move up your back, slipping beneath the lace of the dress. The pads of his fingers against your bare shoulders pulls a quiet noise from your lips and your body trembles softly as he pulls the sleeves down. It’s a slow act, careful and deliberate until the top of your dress is down around your waist, his fingers over the top of your hands.

The corset beneath still has your breasts and stomach covered, but your shoulders, arms and back are bare before him. It’s the most any man has seen of you, and he holds your hands before taking a moment to press more tender kisses into your back. The soft pleasure has you tensing and shifting within his hold.

He continues to press soft kisses against your back when he lets go of your hands and arms. He begins untying the corset and you can feel a shiver roll over your skin. You’re going to be completely bare before him and there’s no stopping it. You aren’t afraid of him, but nerves are coiling fear in you, fear of an unknown you can’t avoid.

When the last of the tension gives, he pulls the corset open and off. You put your arms over your breasts once the corset’s out of the way, and Marco takes a moment to set it aside neatly like he had your shoes and stockings.

You feel him shift away before he speaks. “Turn around, so you’re facing me.” He says it gently, but it’s certainly not a suggestion. You turn on the chair, arms still over your chest. You can feel the rush of blood, and the heat beneath your skin.

“Move your arms, sweet dove.” He doesn’t move to help you, staying knelt before you. “Fold them behind your back, if it helps.”

Shivering, you move your arms away. You put one hand on the back of the chair and the other against the end of the seat, clamping the skirts of your dress between it and your hand. Marco laces his fingers through the hand clamped onto the dress, easing your grip and bringing your hand to his lips.

“Relax,” he hums again, kissing the knuckles of your fingers until they release their tension. Standing up, he has you stand as well, and begins the process of removing your skirts. It’s the easiest part of the whole dress, and you only have to put a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself as he helps you step out of the mess of skirts.

He leaves you standing there for a moment, taking time to right the dress and hang it up. You almost step back from him when he steps toward you, as exposed as you are, but you manage to keep yourself in place.

When he gets back down on his knees, you can’t shake the feeling that you are being worshiped. As though there is something about you he reveres. You aren’t sure how to pose the feeling, and the thought scatters from your mind when he kisses your hip.

“Answer me honestly,” he begins, his fingers lingering as he undoes the garter before looking up at you. “Have you ever pleasured yourself?”

You shift, starting to shake your head before nodding once.

“When?” There’s a clinical tone in his voice you shouldn’t be surprised to hear, but you aren’t sure why he’s asking.

“Th-the year before my debut ball.” You admit, flinching softly at the heat of his hands on your hips, his pinkie fingers slipping under the band of your lacy panties. “It… felt good, but it was odd, and I didn’t really care for it.”

“It can be frustrating when not done correctly.” He says. Marco tugs at your underwear, still looking up at you and holding your gaze as he speaks. “Even when it’s your own body, it takes some practice to figure out how to do things properly.”

He watches you as the last of your clothing is pulled carefully down your legs, taking in the flutter of your chest as your breath hitches. The way your body trembles against him. He only looks away when he helps you step out of them, and it’s the only piece of clothing he doesn’t set aside neatly. Instead tucking it into his pants’ pocket as he stands.

Guiding you to the edge of the bed, he has you sit before he loosens his tie, removing it and setting it aside on the vanity.

“Tonight, I’ll show you how it feels when done properly.” Placing a hand on either of your knees he spreads your legs open. You gasp in surprise, a sound devoured by his lips as a sudden kiss addles your mind, splitting your focus between the two actions. The rushed kiss becomes persistent, and he leans you back until you’re laying on the bed, legs held open by your knees, your hands clutching his shirt.

Breaking the kiss, he leans back and looks between your open thighs.

“You don’t touch yourself, but you trim yourself?” He questions.

“Just for the wedding, my… my mother’s suggestion.” You answer, squirming under the intense gaze.

“Mm, well, never again.” He commands. “I want all of you, no matter how unruly.”

“It’s not-not all that d-different,” you stammer, putting an arm over your face and trying to not simply die from embarrassment. Your legs were trembling and you cry out in a surprised squeak when he presses his face into your crotch, breathing in deep.

“Good.” He husks.

Holding your legs open he kisses heavily along the insides of your thighs, licking along the crease where your legs meet your torso. The sensation makes your body move, and an airy “oh god” to slip past your lips. His hands slide down your thighs until his palms are holding your legs open, and his thumbs are spreading your labia apart.

“Nngh, don’t-don’t look,” you barely whisper the words, covering your face.

“You can say no, dove,” he answers, his breath hot against your folds. “As long as you don’t deny me, you can say whatever you want, yoi.”

The verbal tick slips right out your brain as his tongue licks against your exposed pussy. The tip of it flicks against your clit and your legs jerk against the jolt. Your hands move to cover yourself, but his lips are already pressed against your skin and your fingers have nowhere to go but his hair.

“Haaa-no, no wait, it feels - it feels weird! Oh god what, what,” you whine the words, gasping as the strange sensation turns to an odd pleasure. Strained, heavy panting breaths are all that can escape between your lips, and tears prick at your eyes from how sudden it is.

Nerves, anticipation, and fear had taken you to a ragged edge, and Marco had done all he could to smooth that line. But even within the act of trying to relax, you had been getting worked up. You knew that the inevitable act was looming over you, and you didn’t know what to do with the feelings inside you.

Of everything that could have happened, you did not expect his tongue to be pushing into your vagina, his nose nuzzled into your clit. No one had told you that people did such things with their mouths.

“M-M-Marco! Marco, it fee-feels weird!” You cry out. You don’t know what it’s building up to, but you aren’t sure what’s going to happen. “I … I-I feel like I’m going to… to, haa,” you can’t bring yourself to say it, but you’re worried you’re going to pee on your husband on your first night together.

“Please!” You beg.

“Don’t fight it,” he says before diving back in.

“I don’t, I don’t want to—to, oh gods!” Your fingers tighten in his hair as something jolts through you. “W-what’s this fe-feeling?” The odd question breaks past your lips a few more times as something swells inside you. You still don’t know if you’re going to pee, pass out, or die, but the building sensation isn’t fading. Your heart’s pounding and you can barely control your body as it begins to shiver.

Sweat slicks your skin, and fear has you crying as the building sensation seems to crest. A powerful shivering pleasure tears through your body, making your limbs curl and shudder. You scream at the peak of it, gasping as the rush makes you dizzy and threatens to steal your consciousness.

When Marco’s tongue relents, you sink into the bed, panting from exertion. The tough of his hands against your legs make you twitch, the gentle warmth sending a brief shiver through you.

“What?” You ask, wiping tears from your face as you catch your breath. “Was that?”

He grins, pressing a kiss at the top of your mound. You tremble from the feel of it, but are shivering less when he starts to trail kisses up your stomach.

“An orgasm.” He explains, standing up and leaning over you. “Not nearly so frustrating when you get all the way through it.”

Marco presses more kisses up your stomach and between your breasts. His legs are keeping yours open now, and he gathers your hands into one of his, pressing them into the mattress. You gasp, and he slips his grip down to your forearms.

“Leave your hands there.” He commands, his hand moving along your arm, to your side. He cups your breast in his hand, moving his thumb gently over your nipple. You close your eyes and grip the bedding so you don’t physically knock his hand away. The pleasure is a mix of the same sweet tingle that brought you to orgasm earlier, only this tickles as well.

“When you orgasm, several things happen, but most notably it’s common for women to become very wet.” He explains it in a tone that manages to be somewhere between clinical and intimate, but as he speaks he presses a finger into your vagina. You suck in a breath, back arching as the long finger pushes in deep, filling the air with a wet sound.

“Just like that,” Marco hums. He works the single finger in and out a few times, letting you hide your face in your arm. A gift for being so good and keeping your hands where he told you to put them.

You mewl when he pushes a second finger in, thrusting the two of them for a minute. His thumb presses against your nipple a little more, and he shifts enough to lean down and kiss your other breast. You moan, white-knuckle grip on the bedding, legs shivering against his.

“Are you going to orgasm again, little dove?” He questions and you shake your head.

“I don’t - I don’t know,” you whine the words, peeking out from behind your arm you catch his eyes on you and you can’t look away.

“I think you are,” he says. “Look at me. Don’t hide that sweet face of yours, and look at me.”

You do your best to acquiesce, turning to face him. He licks your nipple heavily before moving enough to kiss you again. You squeal into the kiss when he presses three fingers inside you, rolling his thumb against your clit.

“Does it hurt?” His question is almost a growl, as though he’s forcing it past his lips and doesn’t actually want to ask.

“N-no, no it doesn’t hurt!” You sob softly.

“Hold onto me.” The command is enough, your fingers release the bedding and you grab onto his shoulders. “Good girl,” he grins, his kisses moving down your jaw, his lips teasing your neck.

The praise sinks into your brain and when he pushes his fingers deeper it’s enough. Your hands tremble against his back and you cry out next to his ear as you cum on his fingers. Your legs kick and curl around his, and your body twitches. When he slows and lets you start to come down from it he kisses the tears on your face.

“There you go. You’re doing so good.”

Marco works his fingers out of you slowly, moving them around inside you and making you moan into the soft kisses he was stealing before he finally straightens up.

“As this is our wedding night, I should do this properly.” He says, speaking mostly to himself. You can barely manage to look up at him, your limbs feel like jelly. He’s unbuttoning his cuffs, and his dress shirt. When he takes it off you’re surprised to see a tattoo in the center of his chest.

Your father has said that tattoos are for brutes and criminals, and you never expected to see one on Marco. He notices the look on your face, and looks down at his chest as he tosses the shirt aside.

“All of Pops’ sons have one.” He explains, stripping off the rest of his clothes. “Something to bind us when blood can’t.”

He moves you easily, lifting you up into his arms before laying you out in the middle of the bed, letting your head and shoulders sink into the lush pillows. He climbs onto the bed, opening your legs and settling himself between them. You keep your eyes on his face, or the room, you can’t bring yourself to look down. You know what’s down there, but at the same time you don’t, and you’re worried you’ll lose your nerve if you look.

Marco pushes his fingers back inside you, lifting one of your legs and beginning to maneuver you even as he smears your slick on his cock. Grabbing your other leg he pushes them back, rubbing his length against your soaked folds.

“Relax, don’t start getting nervous now,” he chides gently. “I said it wouldn’t hurt, right?”

You nod.

“I won’t ever lie to you, sweet dove.” He promises you in a quiet voice. “I’ll prove it.”

Marco lines himself up with you, and you can feel pressure at your entrance, but no pain. His eyes are on yours, and he leans over, so he’s just a few inches from your face, watching you intently as he slowly pushes in.

“Breathe in deep,” he instructs, and you do. “And out, slowly.”

You breathe out slowly and he pushes in until your breath comes out a little faster, pulling out slightly and then pushing back in. He works his way in slowly, speaking gently the entire time, making sure you’re not feeling any pain. His hands are on either side of your shoulders, your ankles against his upper arms, the muscles flexing against you.

He looked lithe, but solid, when he was dressed, but now you could see the body beneath the clothes. He was as solid as you expected, but it was steel cords and deep lines when he flexes. It’s steel that is pushing so carefully inside you, and steel that has you caged beneath him. The idea that you could physically deny him, despite his words earlier, was almost laughable, and if the sensation of him filling you up wasn’t almost overwhelming, you might have honestly laughed.

Once his hips rest against your thighs, he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, and a shivering sigh escapes his lips.

“Sweetest of mercies,” he whispers hoarsely, staying still for a moment before moving inside you. You can feel his body tense, his hands gripping the bedding with almost as much ferocity as you had been earlier.

“Just breathe,” he says, and you aren’t sure if he means for you, or himself at this point, his teeth grazing against your skin.

Pulling back he thrusts his hips, filling you back up quickly. The rush and weight of the motion sends a thrill through you, and pushes a gasp from your lips. The soft sound is enough and he repeats the move, again and again, his pace picking up with each thrust. Every now and then he presses in, rubbing against you, teasing your clit with his body, only to return to the heavy pace that pushes air from your lungs with each motion.

It’s all you can do to breathe. It doesn’t hurt, even with how it makes your whole body tremble and shiver. The pleasure that follows each movement escapes your lips in shuddering, crumbling cries.

Your hands paw at his shoulders, fingers flexing against his skin.

He presses kisses into your ankles, before shifting your legs and changing the angle of his thrusts. Leaning back he wraps your legs around his waist, pressing his thumb into your clit in tight circles until you’re reaching for him.

Marco leans forward, letting you grab onto his shoulders again. The different angle has him rolling his hips, bullying your pussy and teasing your clit at the same time. It seems softer than the earlier thrusts, but it has your legs twitching and your body shivering as the orgasm builds. You know what it is this time, but the extra stimulation has the blood rushing through you.

“Too much!” You gasp, pulling on him as though bringing him closer will bring you some relief. Instead Marco braces himself with his arms, curling a little as he leans over you so he can lick and kiss your breasts, adding even more pleasure. Your desperate whine breaks into panting cries of pleasure as the orgasm rushes in.

It feels like you might drown in it, the pleasure shuddering through your body and stealing the air from your lungs. You’re dizzy from the pleasure, dizzy from the heat, dizzy from the lack of oxygen, and probably on the edges of exhaustion, between the ceremony and this.

Marco bites a growled swear between his teeth, grunting as he fills you up. The heavy and erratic thrusts pushing the last few desperate breaths from you. For a moment you worry you really will pass out, but your body starts to come down from its high, and Marco moves his hips slowly, giving you plenty of time to catch your breath before he leans down and kisses you.

“I knew you were perfect.”

Chapter Text

Considering the few conversations you had on the matter, you expected Marco to take you repeatedly through the night. Instead, he seemed to barely sate himself with the single round, and after that took care of you. You were too tired, and too hazy in your mind to say anything against it as he carried you into the bathroom. He allowed you to cling to him as he carefully bathed you.

You kept expecting things to turn heated again, but he was clinical, and aside from going at your slower pace, he was efficient.

Once you were dry he helped you into a simple nightgown, brought you to bed, and tucked you into his chest. You slept far easier, and far more deeply than you expected to. Exhausted as you were, you hadn’t shared a bed with someone else since your sister outgrew sneaking into yours some years ago, but when you woke up, you’d hardly moved, and Marco’s warm, solid, naked body was still snuggled right up against you.

“Good morning,” he greets you warmly, kissing the top of your head.

“Good M-morning,” you manage to reply. You shift, meaning to get up, but Marco’s arms don’t release you, and so you stay, warmth rushing into your face.

“There’s a couple things I want to take care of before breakfast.” You can feel his voice in his chest because of the proximity. “I want to be sure you’re awake and aware before we begin. Does my sweet wife require coffee?”

“No, I slept well, I’m awake.” You reply, looking up at him. The adoring look on his face just makes the earlier warmth pool in your face, but before you can look away he shifts enough to kiss you. Warm, dry, and fleeting—there’s something tender in the brief kiss and you can feel yourself relax.

Marco rolls away from you, talking even as he gets out of bed. “While I will adhere to the parameters of the contract, there are things I desire that some would consider severe.” He explains. You sit up, staying in the bed as he walks over to one of the covered trays you noticed last night. “As I said before, I will not be denied, but I also want you to enjoy it, and that’s going to require some work on your part.”

“I… I don’t understand.” You shake your head, more in confusion than anything, and he sets the tray down beside you. He’s completely naked, and you can’t stop your eyes from wandering. The room is bright with late morning sunlight, and he’s completely naked. He seems more comfortable naked than clothed, and he’s certainly relaxed. You can’t believe he fits inside you when he’s that size while he’s relaxed.

When he takes the cover off, your body tenses.

Laid out neatly on the platter are items that look medical. Leather and metal, neat and clean, most of them make you think of the cold items used by doctors during your checkups. As you look over them, however, you start to realize the differences. Three items look like a phallus, each one a little bigger than the next. Three more items next to those have different sizes among them as well, smooth tapered items with flanges at the end of them.

“You’re going to use these items to help your body adjust to my needs.” Marco explains, warm knuckles caressing your cheek and pulling your gaze away from the tray. “The more diligent you are in your training, the more you’ll end up enjoying our time together.”

As he says this, he urges you out of the bed, having you stand beside him. Your mind is racing, between his words, and his tone, and the look of the items on the tray you aren’t sure what to think, or say. No matter what’s on the tray, or what point he’s trying to get to, you can’t stop thinking about how he’s so casually naked.

“Perhaps a practical demonstration will help.” His tone is gentle, and he steps away to one of the other trays, coming back with rope. You step toward the bed.

“I-I won’t deny you, I don’t need to be restrained.” You say, but he motions for you to step toward him.

“Being restrained isn’t a punishment,” he says, motioning again.

Reluctantly, you step toward him, and let him move you. “Most of the time, restraints are part of the pleasure.” He begins to explain as he weaves the rope over your nightgown. “Sometimes the act of binding, and the acceptance of being bound, can be a very grounding experience. When it becomes intricate and complex it can take hours, the time and proximity has its own intimacy.”

Your arms are bound snugly behind your back. He pulls you against his body, one hand on your hip, one loosely around your neck, his voice in your ear.

“The trust inherent in giving control of your body over to someone else so completely.” He hums the words, his hands wandering over you. He doesn’t touch you anywhere private, but the firm motion against your arms and waist are enough to warm your blood.

“Open,” he commands, holding up a metal ring attached to a leather strap. You look at the device dubiously. “It’s for both our sakes, this time at least.” He says, giving you a warning look.

You open your mouth, and he fits the hard metal against your teeth, forcing your mouth open even wider. An odd sound escapes you, but before you can try to wiggle it free to speak, he’s pulled the leather straps tight against your head.

“Good,” he says. “It was going to go in one way or another, and it’s always going to be better for you to acquiesce, sweet dove.”

One hand on your back, and fingers against your shoulder, is all he needs to move you. He moves you around without a word for a few minutes and you start to learn how his grip is telling you where to go, making the awkward steps you took at first more graceful.

“You’re a fast learner.” He says with a tone of approval in his voice. “Perfect. Now,” he turns you so you’re looking at him. “I need you to understand this is not a punishment. This is simply to educate you on why your training is important. The more effort you dedicate to the training, the easier these inevitable things will be, understand?”

The confused look on your face doesn’t surprise him, and he kisses your forehead when you shake your head.

“Right, I didn’t think you’d know what’s coming. That’s why we’re doing this in the first place.” He turns the chair you’d sat on last night around and braces it against the vanity. “Sit.”

The command feels like something you’d tell a pet more than a wife, and it rankles you a little, but you still sit. Marco steps up to you once you’re in the chair and you flinch. He’s no longer relaxed. You can’t believe he didn’t rip you in half last night. He’s long, and thick with a bulbous tip flushed with blood, and leaking with need.

You turn your head away and Marco grabs your hair with both hands, holding you in place. You look up at him and your blood runs cold at the sight of the smirk on his face. You reflexively squirm in the ropes, trying to get away.

“Most of the time, there’s pleasure in the restraints,” he repeats himself from earlier. “But sometimes the reason for them is so you can keep your word, yoi.”

The tip of his penis touches your tongue and your whole body tenses. You try to move away, but he has you in an iron grip, wedged between him and the chair and the vanity. There’s nowhere for you to go.

“This isn’t going to be pleasant, because you haven’t had any proper training,” he husks, rubbing his tip against your tongue. “But there’s no other way for you to understand why it’s important you dedicate yourself to the training. Focus on breathing, little dove.”

Marco slowly pushes his cock into your mouth. “Breathe,” he says it over and over, and you try to ignore the taste, ignore the way saliva had pooled on your tongue and was trickling past your lower lip.

Your focused on your breathing, panicking for a split second when his shaft blocks your mouth entirely. He repeats his command and it helps you remember you have a nose, and so you focus on breathing through that. He stayed like that for a long moment, shifting inside your mouth until everything was wet and more saliva leaked past your lips and dripping down your tongue.

“Just like that.” He hums. “If you can remember to breathe like this you won’t need much oral training, but it’s harder to focus when I move properly.”

Marco pushes his cock down your throat and you choke on it. Your throat stings and your eyes water and it’s only for a second before he pulls out, letting you cough and breathe, and then he’s pushed back in. He’s treating your mouth like you don’t breathe out of it, and you struggle against the the assault.

Your feet kick out uselessly, and your body twists as you try to get away, but Marco had braced you well and you couldn’t escape. Every thrust in forces an odd “Gluck!” sound from you that’s thick and wet and messy. Saliva and snot coat your face and it’s everything you have to breathe through the tears and the mess.

If you had eaten breakfast you’re certain you would’ve thrown it up at some point. Whether forcing a breath in from your nose or gasping between the brief gaps when he pulls out far enough, you manage to keep yourself conscious, but everything burns. Your eyes, your nose, your throat are all on fire, your chest aches from the small licks of air you’re getting and your palms sting from the fists you made trying to endure.

All you can do is endure.

But no matter how much you try, you can feel yourself starting to get lightheaded. You don’t know if he notices or if it’s coincidental, but he shoves himself all the way down, burying your nose in his pubes, and holds you there.

“Swallow.” He says, and you don’t know how you could do anything, but when the hot liquid spills from his tip you manage to swallow it. Even as your lungs scream for air and your nose is running, you swallow it.

Marco pulls out, kneeling down and putting his hands on your shoulders and you start to curl and cough. He’s not stopping you from gasping and coughing, but instead seems to be making sure you stay stable on the chair.

“You did better than I expected.” His tone is kind as he takes a handkerchief and starts cleaning up your face. “But you understand now. With practice you won’t choke like that, and when you get more practice in breathing around me, you won’t get as dizzy.”

You want to tell him you don’t ever want to do that again, but with the gag in and the adrenaline of the ordeal all you can manage is a sobbing whine. Last night was kind and caring and honestly more than you had expected of your first time, but this was scary and violent and you wanted nothing to do with it. He pulls you into a hug, petting your hair, and you can feel a cold ball in the pit of your stomach. A terrible realization that this was likely more your reality than your first night.

The understanding bring on a new wave of tears. Your sobbing doesn’t seem to bother Marco, it’s an odd comfort since you can’t stop yourself anyway.

“I know, I know. It wasn’t fun at all, was it? But you did so well, and that means a little work and it won’t be nearly so bad.” He assures you, holding you and petting you until you calm down.

Leaning back he looks at you, a warm smile on his face. When he wipes an errant tear away you’re surprised to find you don’t flinch.

“There’s one more thing you’re going to do each day,” he says. “I promise this won’t be near the ordeal of earlier. And what happened earlier won’t happen unless it needs to, so don’t think it’ll be a normal occurrence.” He explains, kissing the top of your head as he has you stand up.

Your legs tremble, but he helps you over to the bed. Your nerves tighten in your body again when he bends you over the bed. He spreads your legs, pinning them to the side of the bed with his, while he holds you against the mattress with one hand against your bound arms.

He moves your hair out of your face before picking up the smallest of the smooth, flanged items from the tray, holding it so you can see it.

“This will help you, and while I’m going to put it in for you today, you’ll have to put it in yourself for the most part.” He explains. “We’ll leave it in for breakfast, and then after you’ve had your first bowel movement of the day, we’ll make sure you can put it in yourself.”

You tense at the explanation, face flushed in embarrassment as you shake your head, twisting against his hold. Whining as your legs flex beneath his, he pushes you into the mattress more.

“It’s going to happen, dove.” He states sternly. “One way or the other. You agreed not to deny me, and you will not.” He lets go of his grip on the ropes around your arms and straightens up. “If you don’t want to put in the effort to help yourself, I’m still going to have you as I please. You’ll adapt eventually, but it will be painful and uncomfortable, and I will not soothe you.”

You’re quiet for a moment, body tensing, but Marco doesn’t move. Eventually, you relax. You don’t like it, you don’t want it, but you can’t stop it. Better to make it easier for yourself.

“Ah-eh.” You say, forcing yourself to relax as much as you can.

“Hm.” Marco sets the item down and undoes the gag, removing it carefully and rubbing your cheeks as you slowly work your jaw. “Say it.

“Say you want to train yourself so you can enjoy what’s going to happen either way.”

“I… I want to train myself so that… it’s not awful.” You agree, biting your lip as he lifts your nightgown.

“That’ll do.” He says dismissively, making some movements you can’t see for a moment before he continues.

“You will want to lubricate your fingers and the anal plug.” The clinical tone takes some of the sting off the sheer embarrassment of what he’s saying. “Once you can get this in and go about your day with ease, move up to the next size.”

“Cold!” You gasp as cold lube let’s his finger slide into your ass easily. You bite down on your lip again as the strange sensation of his finger overtakes the cold of the lube.

“You don’t have to push in deep.” He explains even as he buries his finger to the hilt. “You just want to work the lube in before you try to get the lubed plug in there. It will make it much easier.”

He moves his finger inside you for a few seconds and something about it goes from an odd, almost stinging sensation to something very different. Even with your mouth shut you can’t stop the moan that bubbles up in your chest from being heard.

“Lucky little dove,” he hums. “Not everyone can orgasm anally, but you might be able to if this feels good.”

“It does-doesn’t!” You gasp, your declaration turning into an obviously pleasurable moan when his finger presses something inside you.

Marco stills, leaning over you as he pushes a second finger into your ass. The stretch aches, but the lube stops it from hurting, and you can feel the weight of him against you.

“Do not lie to me.” He warns in an icy tone. “Cry, complain, beg, or even rage at me if you must. But do not ever lie to me. If you lie about how something feels, I may harm you unintentionally. It is for your sake and our relationship that if you lie to me for any reason, I will punish you most severely.

“Do you understand?”

You turn, despite the cold fear in your veins, so you can look at him, and nod. “Y-yes.”

His harsh expression softens and he smiles. “Good. I’ll forgive you this time, and reward you.”

Leaning back he moves his fingers inside you, and after a moment seems to find every sensitive place within your ass. Your legs tremble against him as you pant into the bedding. The way the pleasure builds is similar but different from last night, but just as seemingly inevitable. It started out feeling so weird you weren’t sure you’d be able to be rewarded this way, but it was becoming clear that Marco knew what your body was capable of better than you did.

“You’re so close, listen to you,” he hums, making your body clench from embarrassment. “I can’t wait to clean you out properly and fill you full. I wonder how you’ll handle being filled with water.” He hums the thought, something about it seeming to be incomplete, but even if you had sense enough to ask, you’re too distracted.

“Gods, oh gods,” you whine as the pleasure builds. “Wah-weird, it fuh-feels so weird!”

Your legs tense and flex against his, as your body shivers from the building pleasure. It feels less like a rush and flood and more like an impact when you crest. The grunting sound escapes your teeth in a growl before you moan loudly into the bedding. Your pussy spasms against nothing and your ass clenches down on Marco’s fingers.

He doesn’t linger, pulling his fingers out of you. Mewling you squirm, but he puts his other hand on your shoulder.

“Stay. I’m going to wash my hands and get you cleaned up. We can skip the plug for now, and I’ll show you how to put it in after we eat.” He explains.

You muster little more than a nod, sweaty and tired from the entire morning’s ordeal. Letting your legs relax you sink into the bedding a little, while you listen to Marco wash his hands in the bathroom. Already you’re becoming aware of the ineffective nature of your contract with Marco. It binds you more than him, at least in terms of the bedroom, but you couldn’t see how the other parts could be turned against you.

For now, that was your only solace.

“This is going to be cold,” Marco warns before putting a wet cloth between your buttocks and cleaning up the mess. You clench your teeth and groan instead of yelping thanks to the warning.

Once he gets you cleaned up he dries you with a warm towel. It feels nice enough to almost make up for the cool rag he started with. He doesn’t warn you when he drags the towel through your folds, mopping up the mess of your orgasm, and you mewl in surprise and sensitivity.

After that he unties your hands, rubbing your arms and making sure nothing went numb or feels sore. The doting after using you is hard to keep up with, but you suppose it’s better than him simply treating you like a disposable object.

Putting on only his pants, he offers a hand to you. “Breakfast, then, my lady?”

“In… in my nightgown?” You question, embarrassment in your tone.

“Would you prefer to dine completely nude?” There’s something teasing in his tone, but also maybe threatening.

“N-no, not at all!” You’re horrified at the very idea of it. “I just…”

“I’ve had breakfast in less, and my staff is discreet. It’s just us.” He says it soothingly, putting your hand on his arm. “No one will bat an eye.”

As he speaks he guides you toward the door and you let yourself be led. You feel like your two options are with or without the nightgown, even if he didn’t say so directly, and it was going to be better to have the nightgown.

“Once we’re done we’ll get you sorted, and dressed properly, and we can stay in for the day. Yesterday was quite a lot, but if you’re up for it I can give you a proper tour of the manor today.” He explains, heading out into the hallway. “I don’t need to return to work for a few days, so we can adapt to one another.”

You were afraid to ask how often he meant to have his fill of you, and decided that you wouldn’t risk making it more by inquiring.

Breakfast was delicious, and more relaxing than you expected it to be. Marco hadn’t been exaggerating, none of the staff bat an eye at either of you. Once you were done eating you went through your usual morning routine, and when you were done Marco had you put the plug in. It was horribly embarrassing, but you did your best.

Anything less and you were worried he was going to take over and make you orgasm again. The act felt good, but even after a meal you were tired to your bones. Once you got it in, it wasn’t so bad. The excess lube was a little uncomfortable, and while Marco wiped it away for you today, he did say you might have to ask your personal maid to clean you up going forward.

That’s when he introduced you to Tate. A nurse from the sanatorium, she had the medical knowledge needed to help you with your training, and she was discreet. You didn’t have to worry about her talking about anything that happened, it was one of the reasons Marco said he offered her the job.

She was tall, blonde, and her manner of dress was similar to yours. She smiled easily, and spoke in a business tone. Anything she noted about Marco was tied to his job, and she seemed to pointedly avoid any opinions she might have had regarding his private life. By the end of the day you were quite comfortable with her, she was a little younger than Marco and closer to you in age, which maybe had a little to do with it.

It was going to be some months before you learned she was one of his siblings.

Chapter Text

“She’s making impressive strides.” Tate says, sitting down on the small couch in Marco’s office. “Two weeks ago she could barely get half of the smallest one in. She’s struggling with the largest one, but I give her another week, two maybe, she’ll be able to put up with quite a bit.”

“It’s good news,” Marco hums, looking up from his paperwork. “I wonder what has her so motivated?”

Tate laughs. “You’re kidding, right?” She takes a drink and Marco folds his hands, resting his chin on them. “You told an educated high society lady that you didn’t expect much from her, you devilish bastard. Spit in her mouth next time, it might be less insulting.”

“It wasn’t an insult.” He corrects with a smile. “It was meant as motivation.”

“It worked.” She snorts. “She’s doing those drills at least three times a day.”

“At least?”

“I’m not with her all the time, if she’s doing more after bed, I couldn’t tell you.” She clarifies. “Her actual work is going well, but I imagine you know more about that than I do. I just know the butler and head maid have been praising her and giving her more work.”

“Not too much, I hope.” Marco leans back, relaxing in his chair.

“I don’t think so. She’s very efficient. I imagine she was helping at her own home, so the only thing she’s really adjusting to is the differences between here and there.” She finishes the rest of her tea and gets up, stepping toward his desk, tapping the wood with a single fingernail.

“Don’t under estimate her.”

“I have not.” He answers, brows furrowing. “If I wanted a doll I would’ve gone to an auction and been done with it.”

“It’s a fine line you’re walking, but,” she hums before Marco can interject. “If anyone can manage it.”

“More so with your help, so thank you for that.” He grumbles.

“I’m not helping you do shit.” Tate asserts. “I’m doing my job, don’t doubt that, and giving you these little reports, sure, but I haven’t said word one about you.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to.” He sighs. “But I can’t keep my eyes on her and do my job at the same time. The construction’s almost done, I’ll be able to be properly attentive in a couple more weeks. You’re welcome to stay on after that, since someone of her stature should have a personal attendant-.”

“If you’re going to keep paying me this well, I’m not going to turn it down.” Tate interrupts.

“Fell for her already, hmmm?”

Tate scoffs. “If she ever decides to run away from you, I’m helping her, just so we’re clear.” Her tone is flippant as she walks out of his office, but Marco knows better than to take her words lightly.

Tate had been spending thirteen or more hours a day with you, while Marco was getting a couple meals at best, and a few moments before bed. You told him about your day, but only about your actual work, unless he pressed otherwise. Once the construction was completed you were going to come to the Sanatorium with him, to help with the overhaul of the records, and until then you were adjusting to life in his estate.

You hadn’t denied him in the late hours of the evening, and he hadn’t taken much in the first place. On the one hand he didn’t like half-assing things, and a little less than an hour was hardly time enough to tend to you properly. On the other hand he didn’t want to press you until you’d had time to benefit from your training. Being firm with you was one thing, but making you miserable on a nightly basis was only going to cause him issues in the future.

He could be patient a little longer.

The two of you were married, and with the weight of expectations on your shoulders, that gave him enough of a foundation. His sweet dove was already in a cage, he just needed to be sure to set the bars carefully enough that you didn’t notice them.

Or if you did it wouldn’t matter.

A couple weeks later you were in Marco’s office. You’d been working a little more in the same space over the last few days, as Marco had been spending more time at home. The construction was coming to an end, the majority of it at least, and in another couple weeks you could begin going to the Sanatorium with him in order to work there. You weren’t entirely sure if you were sharing space with Marco while you worked because he wanted to validate your competency, or because he wanted to simply keep an eye on you.

“It’s because he’s jealous,” Tate had offered up the night before. “You’re spending more time with everyone else in the manor but him.”

“But he’s been at work.”

“Mm, and now he’s at home. Hence that cockamamie command that you work in his office.”

You weren’t going to tell Marco what Tate has said, not because you were worried you would get her into trouble, but more because you didn’t believe it. You were sure he was attracted to you, his hands wandered your body in bed for a few moments before he drifted off to sleep every night, but the idea that he’d be jealous was laughable.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” you prompt, turning toward him and giving him a moment to finish what he was writing. He looks over at you and you continue. “I was worried that there was a financial leak, but after some effort, Colscon informs me there’s a basement, and the missing funds are spent on the upkeep.”

He hums an affirmative sound, nodding slightly.

You look at him for a moment, and when he doesn’t say anymore you continue. The sly smile on his face has your own lip turned up in amusement. “Am I to risk my honor and assume it’s good without validation?”

You can hear the soft chuckle. “Let it be my honor on the line, and don’t fret over it for now. I’ll hand over control of it in due time. Take the values Colscon provides, and if anything feels off, bring it to me.”

“Very well,” you agree, coming over to his desk and setting down the paperwork you had finished for the day.

Glancing up at you, he looks down at the stack of papers, flipping through them idly. “What size plug is inside you right now?”

Heat rushes to your face again and you look around the room. No one else is in here but the two of you, but even so you’re caught off guard.

“The… the largest one.”

“How many days now?”

“… J-just this morning.”

“Did it hurt?”

His tone is so casual, so easy you almost don’t know what to do with it. It’s as though he’s asking about the latest book you’ve read, or for an overview of your work.

“A… a little. I don’t understand why we’re talking about-.”

“Let me see.” He interrupts and you step back.

“See? You want to - we can go to the bedroom, I c-can-.”

“No need. Come here, bend over the desk,” he instructs, patting a clear patch of desk in front of him. “I’ll inspect your condition here. There’s time before dinner, and the work is done for the day.”

“But such things are… are only done in the bedroom.” You insist, shaking your head as you step back again. “Our agreement, you c-can’t-.”

“Our agreement only prohibits me from interrupting your work, your rest, and your meals. You included nothing to limit the location, sweet dove.” He says, his tone stern.

“But… People don’t… I mean-.”

“I will not be denied, young lady.” Now his tone is bordering stern, but you can’t bring yourself to step toward him.

“I-I’m not, I’m not, I w-won’t deny you, I just… just please. Please can’t we just-.”

“Do not make me come and collect you.” He warns, standing up.

His presence is far too large when he stands. His face is so neutral, so completely calm. It’s only in his voice that you know how angry he’s getting, but you can’t will your feet to move. It’s everything you have to not just dash out of the room and toward the bedroom, but you’re certain that will just make everything worse.

You can’t help the tears that rush up into your eyes and down your cheeks when he steps toward you. Struggling to recover your composure, you breathe in shakily, gaze cast down to the floor. You can hear him moving toward you and all you can do is shake your head, tiny, useless words falling quietly from your lips.

“I can’t.”

“You poor thing.” He says in a voice that’s warm and kind. He tilts your face up, pulling your teary gaze up to his. “You’re utterly terrified at the idea of this. Even with everything you’ve been doing.”

You nod as much as you can with your chin in his hand. “Yes,” you struggle not to cry more. “Please, M-Marco… I can’t.”

“Shhh, shhh, it’s alright.” He says soothingly, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “It’s alright, don’t fret. You don’t have to do anything.” He reassures you, leaning down and kissing your lips tenderly.

“Th-thank you,” you mumble against the kiss, feeling yourself starting to relax.

“I’ll handle everything for you.” He says, his hand gripping you by the back of your neck and moving you toward the desk.

“Wait, no-.”

“Facing a fear is the only way to move past it. If you’re afraid of obeying me outside of the bedroom, then we need only get you used to it.” He asserts, clearing space on the desk with one hand while you struggle in his grip.

“It’s not obeying you, it’s the s-stripping, outside of the bedroom, I-.”

“I’m not so crude as to have you strip in front of the staff.”

“N-no, I didn’t-.”

“I may disrobe you in the gardens eventually.”

“N-not outside! Please,” you struggles renew, and Marco bends you over the desk, holding you in place and keeping your legs wide with his feet. “Please, please Marco, not outside. N-not in fruh-front of people, please.”

“No stranger will see you,” he husks into your ear, his body keeping you held in place. “And I promise to be purely professional while you’re working at the Sanatorium, you won’t even need to keep that plug in your ass. Isn’t that quite generous of me? You’ve gotten rather used to it though, haven’t you? Maybe you’d rather have something in there to help you focus while you work.”

“No, no, I can concentrate without it, I can, I - please, please don’t-.”

“Stay.” He commands and you feel your body tense as his relaxes. He straightens up. “Put your hands on the desk, palms flat.” He instructs. You can feel yourself still trembling, but you do as he instructs.

You can’t see him, but you can feel him tying something to your ankle. He pushes them further apart and ties the other ankle. The distance has your feet off the floor, and you think it has to be his cane that he’s tied your ankles to. No matter how you shift your legs, or try to turn your knees, you can’t close your legs.

“Stay still.” He repeats, pinching the inside of your thigh. You yelp from surprise more than pain, and once he’s standing he has a hand on the small of your back.

“You’re going to count after each one,” he begins to explain. “If you remove your hands from the desk we’re going to start the count over from the beginning. I’m going to lift your skirts and remove your undergarments, do you understand?”

“Yes,” you sob. “Please don’t. Please, I’m sorry, I couldn’t, I-.”

“If you had done as I asked, your bare ass wouldn’t be facing the door.” He interrupts, lifting your skirts and flipping them onto your back even as your fingers flex against the desk. “It will always be in your best interest to obey.”

“I couldn’t!” You cry in frustration as he rips your underclothes off you.

His hands rub the backs of your thighs. “What will you do next time, then, to avoid this?” He inquires.

“I don’t… I don’t know. I couldn’t make myself move,” your voice is heavy with frustration and shame.

“And who has moved you regardless of that?”

“… You did.”

“And there is the lesson. When you cannot do it yourself, rely on me.” He says. “Then you won’t end up bent over my desk with your bare ass on display.” He drives the point home by rubbing your cheeks, spreading them, and tapping the plug in your ass.

“How was I to know?” You question softly, almost more to yourself than to him.

“Who’s to say, but now you do, and this will ensure you don’t forget it.”

Something cuts through the air and the harsh bite of a switch licks against the bare skin of your rear. You cry out, tensing against the desk for a second as the harsh snap turns to a lingering tingle.

“Count,” Marco admonishes, snapping the whippy switch against your skin again.

“Hnngh! T-two!”

“Hardly,” he corrects. “Start at one, little dove, and stay focused, yoi. I would hate for a punishment to last so long it delays dinner.”

The switch slices through the air again and you manage to growl out a count against the sting. Marco’s strikes linger on the curve of your ass, more than anywhere else, but he does snap the switch against the backs of your thighs a few times. With each strike he gives you a little longer to say your count, letting you have a moment to endure the pain, despite his warning earlier, he doesn’t seem keen on actually forcing you to start from the beginning.

After you reached thirty, he seemed satisfied. The backs of your legs and your rear end stung and throbbed. You almost didn’t want him to put your skirts back down, the coarse material was going to irritate the welts.

“Not bad,” he admits, running his hands over the welts. You hiss against the sting of the touch, shivering against the desk. “You held out well for your first real punishment… Oh?”

His finger slips between your folds and you gasp at the touch. A mewling sound rolls against your tongue and you’re surprised at how sensitive and wet you are.

“What a reaction from someone who didn’t want to be seen.” He says darkly. “I wonder if it was the pain, or the fear of being seen like this? Maybe both.” He muses, not giving you a chance to reply as he pushes two fingers inside you easily.

“Aahhh-nnngh!” You gasp and tense, your hands moving to try and stop the intrusion.

There’s a heavy crack against your ass as his hand collides with it sharply. The impact makes you yelp, and when you flinch it sends a conflicting jolt through your insides as you inadvertently clench on his fingers.

“Hands on the desk.” He reprimands you, and immediately you put your palms flat against the desk. “Good girl.”

He stills for a moment, before moving your arms until they’re folded against the small of your back. Wrapping a hand around both your wrists, he holds them against your back, and begins fingering you.

“Haaa-wait, please, it’s… it’s not right.” You gasp, your knees knocking against the desk as you try to close your legs.

“Stay still, little dove.” He warns, pushing his fingers in deeper and making your pussy squelch loudly. “If you make too much fuss someone is likely to come in to check on us.”

“D-don’t, please,” you whine, legs trembling. He’s teasing the plug with his thumb, fingering you, and rubbing his pinkie against your clit. The control seems inhuman, but the combination is pushing you toward orgasm even though your backside still aches from the switch. “I-I’ve learned my… my lesson, so please.”

“Hm? Are you saying you don’t want to cum?” He muses, and you nod. “Oh? Why don’t you want to cum? Wouldn’t it be better to end things with some relief?”

“I don’t- I don’t want to.” You answer.

“Ah, but I want you to.”

“I’m - I’m being punished, I sh-shouldn’t b-be rewarded.”

“You were terrified,” he coos the words so condescendingly it sends a cold chill down your back. His foot braces against the cane tied to your ankles and you are effectively completely immobilized. “Giving you some relief after you endured all of that is only proper. You’ve learned your lesson, after all.”

You want to argue, you want to be able to come up with something to bring it to a stop, but so far he could always talk circles around you. Every excuse, every plea you could think was turned around with such ease. You might have better luck when you weren’t so distracted, but Marco didn’t turn your words around when it came to anything else.

“The faster you cum, yoi,” his voice drops low, and he works his fingers against the spot inside you that almost makes it feel like you’re going to pee. “The quicker your skirts will be lowered.”

“Please, please no,” you mewl the words, legs trembling. It’s not a matter of letting it happen, you couldn’t stop the pleasure from building if you tried. You could feel the mess slipping down your thighs.

“That’s it,” his voice has a rough edge to it. “If we had time I’d force so many sweet orgasms out of you that you’d squirt down my arm.”

“N-no, please, please I’m gonna… gonna-!” You tense, shivering beneath him and just as you seem ready to crest he stops.

“Say it.” He commands, teasing you enough to keep you on edge. “Say you’re cumming, yoi.”

“I-I… I’m kuh-I’m going to -.”

“Say you’re cumming when you’re cumming, sweet dove,” he says teasingly as he starts to finger you vigorously again. “Say it clearly or I may have to reprimand you.”

“I - yes - please, I don’t want to like this,” you beg, feeling the pleasure build again.

“You’re going to like so much more than you knew you could, when I’m done, yoi.” He promises as your legs begin to shiver.

“No, no, no I’m going to… cum!” You nearly shout the vulgar word, desperate to get it past your lips in time. Your body throbs when a soft swear slips between his lips. “Cumming,” you cry as your body goes taut. “I’m—!”

The harsh orgasm steals air from your throat and cuts off your words as blood and pleasure rush through you. Your toes curl inside your shoes and your writhe as much as your limbs can manage under Marco’s firm brace of your legs and arms.

“Gods,” you husk when your body relaxes enough you can breathe in again. Marco teases you with his fingers, pulling squeaky whines from you when your body jerks at the random jolts of stimulation.

He leaves your skirts flipped up while he unties your ankles. His fingers press into them, probing, checking to make sure you aren’t hurt from the hasty restraints. When he spreads your labia you gasp, your legs curling in surprise for a second before you will them to stay down and open.

“You are a fast learner.” He muses. “You’re going to leave this mess here.” Marco instructs patting your stinging rump before he stands up and lowers your skirts. The material against your skin doesn’t sting as bad as you expected it to, but it does feel weird when it lays against the wet mess on your legs.

He helps you to your feet, adjusting your hair before pulling a handkerchief from his jacket pocket.

“I think you look beautiful no matter what, but I imagine you would prefer to clean up before dinner. Use this before you go freshen up.” He instructs, handing you the square of cloth.

You accept it, wiping the tears and snot from your face carefully. The shift between how he was earlier to now was smooth, but the differences are still jarring. He seems to only care about his desires, but then he looks after you in ways that are only important to you.

You don’t know if it’s genuine, or if he’s manipulating you.

As he sits down at his desk, there’s a knock at the door. You turn to face Marco, knowing that it’s likely one of the staff with the evening news. They won’t pay you, or your messy face, any mind, especially if you’re not facing them.

“Enter.” He calls out, and one of the butlers comes in, sets the paper down on his desk, excuses himself and leaves. Marco picks it up, skimming the front page, barely glancing up at you before turning back to the paper.

“Go get cleaned up, dove. You can bathe properly after dinner, and before bed tonight I want you to show me how your training is coming along.”

“Yes, thank you.” You’re nervous about how you’re meant to show him, but you don’t think it’ll help to ask for clarification right now.

Instead you focus on getting your face cleaned up, and fix your hair more with the help of the mirror in your shared bedroom. You unstick your skirts from your legs before you head to the dining hall and are relieved that everything was dry enough it wasn’t sticking again.

Feeling your skirts against your hips was distracting. Somehow you feel like everyone must know that your underpants were gone. That your skirts sat a different way, or that you gave it away some other way. It was a silly concern, the clothing item wasn’t thick enough to be noticeable, and as long as you didn’t focus on it, it wouldn’t change your stride.

You were the first to arrive, but Marco wasn’t far behind. Despite what had happened just a few moments earlier, dinner was relaxing. He always managed to keep the conversation moving, and still light enough to be had during the meal. For someone whose family was new to high society, he was certainly adept at navigating it.

By the time the meal was done you’d almost forgotten how bare you were underneath your skirts until you got up and began moving. Marco got you setup with a nice hot bath, and then left you be. You went through the process of winding down for the night, removing the plug and cleaning it before using the shower to wash yourself.

Once you were clean you relaxed in the bath, and that meant the piping hot water that had been supplied was a much more comforting kind of steamy. The water felt nice against your skin, even if the welts on your rear end stung a little as you settled in.

You didn’t know what to think of Marco. Roughly a month into your marriage and you weren’t sure if he was cruel and unreasonable, or simply firm and lecherous. Trying to keep pace with him wasn’t easy. He shifted gears between work and pleasure so easily, and while he was a practiced gentleman, there were things he did that no gentle man would ever do.

At least not so far as you knew.

But your education on bedroom affairs was limited to practical academic knowledge. You learned enough to know what to expect for your first night, and you were given instruction on how to keep yourself clean and healthy so that you would be available for your husband.

A healthy appetite was maybe twice monthly, or once weekly, and most couples slept in their own rooms. At least so far as you had always been led to believe, but you had no other room, or if you did Marco hadn’t allowed it as an option as yet. While he was restraining himself most nights, you felt like he would take his fill of you multiple times a day, if he could.

And he could.

You had no right to reject him, especially not with your terribly naive contract to consider. So if he was holding himself back, then it was for your benefit. If he was doing that, and the training was supposedly for your benefit as well, then that certainly lent some credibility to his statements of affection.

You just weren’t certain if he was showing these moments of kindness because they were genuine, or if he was using them to manipulate you in some way. You weren’t even certain it was worth trying to worry about. You’d only been in the manor for a month, but it was obvious the staff respected Marco. They were paid well, and treated as though they themselves were equals.

Even with you. There was a distinction between his physical desires, and his respect toward your professional and academic capacities. He didn’t belittle your work, or your intelligence, but he didn’t coddle your lack of experience in the bedroom. Maybe because it didn’t matter. Maybe because he wanted you beneath him in that regard.

Getting out of the tub you dry off and pull on the cotton nightgown you always start your night wearing, even if it never lasts by the time you’re falling asleep.

“Every night,” Marco’s laying in bed naked, palm moving languidly against his stiff shaft. “You wear that nightgown, and every night I ask that you take it off.” You meet his eyes, heat rising in your cheeks before movement shifts your gaze back to his twitching girth.

“I’m beginning to think you enjoy stripping for me.”

“Eighteen years of habit is hard to break in a month.” You answer as evenly as you can.

He smirks, motioning with his free hand for you to come closer. “Leave it on then,” he offers. “But come here, show me what your personal maid has been helping you learn.”

“Tate says I have a ways to go still,” you explain, even as you get up onto the bed. “I still… struggle.”

“I’m not going to do like before,” he explains, taking your hands and helping you settle between his legs while he lays back onto the pile of pillows behind him. “I’m going to leave you to do as you please.”

Confusion creases your brow, your gaze shifting down to his member. You know the replicas you practice on, the largest one at least, is supposed to be the same size, but somehow he still looks decidedly bigger.

“Put your hands on my thighs, and bring me to orgasm with your mouth,” Marco clarifies, guiding your hands. “Do your best, and I’ll reward you.”

“Can… can you turn down the lamp?” You question, even as you’re putting your hands on his thighs.

“No, I want to be able to see what you’re doing.” He answers easily. “Remember, if you can’t do it, you can rely on me.”

Swallowing thickly you lean down and lick his shaft. Tate taught you to get things wet with saliva before trying to put it in your mouth, and it made it much easier. A second lick, a third, and Marco reaches out and gathers your hair, holding it loosely out of the way.

You roll your tongue around his tip and hear him hum softly. Something about the sound makes you feel good. You do it again before putting the tip in your mouth. If you use your tongue too much you’ll gag, and Tate says you need to build up endurance to do much more than just take it, so you decide to do what you know you’re good at.

What you’ve been practicing steadily for a month.

The first time you lower yourself you get about halfway down. There’s another approving sound from Marco and you suck against his shaft when you pull back, taking a second to close your jaw and relax your face before you go back down on him. This time you take a little more, repeating the process and take even more. You can feel Marco’s thighs flex against your hands, and when you take all of him he inhales in a hiss, his fingers tightening in your hair.

“By the seas,” he husks when you pull back and then go all the way back down. “Stay there, yoi. Stay like that with your nose right against me for as long as you can.”

You still, focusing on staying relaxed so you don’t start to gag. You hadn’t taken a deep breath, so you didn’t have much air, and while breathing through your nose was possible, he was just long enough that it didn’t matter, once he was down that far there was no breathing around him. Learning about that fact was something you had to admit you appreciated the dildos for.

When you went to pull back, Marco held you in place for a couple seconds longer. You did your best not to fight it, but you needed to breathe. After the couple seconds he tugged your hair gently and you pulled the rest of the way back, taking in a deep breath after his tip popped free of your lips.

“Good girl,” he praises, his eyes on you as you dip back down.

He leaves you to do as you please, letting you take him all the way, holding yourself against his pubic hair. You twitch and half-gag sometimes and it feels amazing. It’s everything he has to let you set the pace and do your best.

He’s so happy that you just did it. You didn’t argue with him, you barely even flustered, and just started sucking him off like it wasn’t the most depraved thing you’ve done so far. Treating the training like a challenge, and having Tate help you, was one of his more inspired ideas. Despite what Tate thought, it really was working out even better than he anticipated.

“Faster, yoi,” he commands, his voice shakier than he expected it to be. “I’m going to hold you in place when I cum, so don’t worry about that, just focus on breathing.”

You hum in understanding and feel Marco’s entire body tense. It’s very much a lightbulb moment and you don’t bother to over thinking it. You start to hum. You aren’t sure what to hum, but he seems to enjoy the sounds you make when he’s making you feel good, so that’s what you go with.

“You… cheeky…” He huffs roughly, a coarse chuckle falling from his lips. “You really do learn quick.”

“Mm-hmm.” You hum in response.

His hips start to move up to meet you as you come down on him. You can hear his breath falling from his lips in heated pants. You swirl your tongue around his tip, suckling on it, and he pulls you off him completely. The action surprises you, making you gasp, and then he pushes you back down onto his length, holding you against his body as he orgasms down your throat.

“You… did an amazing job,” he husks, still holding you against him as you struggle to swallow everything. He doesn’t let you up until after you start gagging, until after your lungs start to burn from lack of air. You smack his thighs with your hands, heaving against his length as your eyes burn with forced tears.

When he pulls you back up your face is a mess, tears and drool dripping down your jaw. You sputter and gasp to catch your breath and Marco brings your face up to his easily with his grip on your hair. His eyes are taking in every wretched detail and once you manage to calm your breathing he kisses you.

Heated and heavy, he seems unbothered by the sloppy mess against your lips, his tongue pressing into your mouth. It’s warm, tender, and demanding. He breaks the kiss a few times, giving you a chance to breathe since your nose was stuffed due to your earlier ordeal.

“Beautiful.” He says it so reverently you almost forget how awful you must look. “Let me reward you, my dove.”

You nod, pretty certain you wouldn’t be able to deny him anyway, and try to move with him as he pulls your nightgown off. His hands cup your rear, making you hiss against the sting, and he moves you easily, bringing you up until you’re holding onto the headboard.

You can feel the weight of his breath against your pussy just before his tongue flicks against your clit. Gasping you lean against the headboard, and he adjusts to the new angle, his tongue licking you again and again.

You tremble in pleasure, braced against the headboard, Marco beneath you, between your legs. You may be above him, but you weren’t in control. You had no more power above him than beneath him, but you felt far more exposed like this.

His fingers flexed against the meat of your cheeks, spreading them as his tongue teases the entrance of your vagina.

“I hope you enjoy the taste of my cock as much as I enjoy the taste of your cunt,” he hums into your skin and you feel embarrassment heat your entire body. The vulgar words, the vulgar action, and he was speaking of it with such reverence.

The rush of embarrassment had pleasure following close behind it, and you cry out as he pulls the first orgasm from you easier than he has so far.

“My sweet dove enjoys dirty talk, hm?” He teases, licking up your stomach as he pulls you down. He kisses between your breasts before trailing kisses back down your stomach. You try to deny his words, but his actions have you almost mesmerized, the look he gave you from between your bosom was light, happy and content.

He was at ease.

He almost looked boyish. Mischievous instead of stern.

His lips dove back into your folds and you couldn’t think of much else as he began devouring you again. His fingers tease your ass, kneading the meat of your cheeks and tapping against your entrance. His tongue flicks against your throbbing clit and his lips suckle the sensitive bud. You can’t get away from any of it, his grip is immovable.

All you can do is hold onto the headboard like a life preserver and focus on breathing.

Sweat dapples your skin when you orgasm the second time, but Marco doesn’t kiss up your stomach or murmur dirty words between your thighs. He stays buried between your labia, lavishing your tender clit with more attention. His grip on your ass shifts as his pinkie and ring fingers push into your vagina, his middle fingers tapping the tight ring of your asshole, and he starts to over stimulate you like he had been earlier that day.

Your legs start to tremble and your arms shiver and it doesn’t take long for him to pull a third orgasm out of you.

“Please,” you whine hoarsely, your voice lost to the cries of pleasure and the heated panting breaths he was demanding of you. “N-No more, I can’t…”

“You’re dripping onto my chest.” He informs you, and heat rushes through you so strongly you feel light-headed for a second. “One more, sweet dove,” he purrs, licking a heavy stripe against your clit.

You can barely form a shivering, “No,” from between your lips, but it wouldn’t have mattered if you had shouted it. You could hear the lewd squish of his fingers inside you, the thick, wet sound of your pleasure leaking down his fingers and dripping onto his chest.

You knew he was looking at you, watching your pleasure drip in the space between you and his tattoo. That knowledge made you throb. You didn’t want him to stare, but you couldn’t deny the way it felt when he did.

You can feel sweat trickling down your back as you cling to the headboard. He returns to eating you out, and you return to broken pleas for mercy, to shivering whines of pleasure as the inevitable builds. If there was anyway to stop yourself from orgasming, you hadn’t figured it out yet.

You’re so tired, and trembling so much from the overstimulation, that it isn’t until you start to smack Marco in the side with your foot that he realizes when you’ve cum again. Just like always, he cares for you afterward. No matter if he’s rough or gentle when he takes you, he always cleans you up. Always makes sure you have something to drink. He praises you, sometimes educates you, sometimes he explains why he did something, and what he’ll do next, or differently.

The care was grounding, even when it stern.

Chapter Text

You’d been married to Marco for two months now. A week after he had you show him how well your training had been going, he’d started adding more to it.

Padded leather straps were brought into your room by Tate one morning after Marco had left. She explained that she was going to help ease you into the position Marco would put you in. While you were fairly limber already, the goals she was going to start helping you with were fairly extreme. Especially concerning your arms.

The padded leather looked like hospital restraints, and Tate had explained that’s what they were. They kept from marking your skin, which would make the process more comfortable for you. Not that it made the process comfortable by any stretch.

The goal was to get your elbows to touch behind your back. Then your elbows and wrists. After that she was going to start stretching your arms so your hands would be a prayer position between your shoulder blades. That was a ways off, especially since the first day your elbows had quite the gap between them and you couldn’t handle trying to get them any closer.

She had pulled beyond what you thought you could take and left you there for a few minutes, talking the whole time. The more you endured, the quicker it would go, and the quicker it went the sooner it wouldn’t be horribly uncomfortable.

You were grateful for Tate. She was like a rock in the midst of everything else. Not only was she honest with you, she was very blunt.

“You can argue with me, but then I’m going to have to report to your husband.”

“Just work with me and we’ll make this as painless as possible.”

“You’re doing good, hang in there.”

“Yes, he is kind of an asshole, but you can do this.”

There was just something reassuring in how she dealt with things. It wasn’t like she was trying to dress it up as something it wasn’t. She didn’t make you doubt yourself, or dismiss your concerns, but she still did her job.

It was commendable.

When it had been time for you to begin working at the sanatorium, you were relieved to know that Tate would be joining you. Not as your personal assistant, but as additional help to ease the burden of your work on the rest of the staff. You needed to learn the processes in order to help improve them, and while Marco was going to teach you directly on most things, he would still have his own responsibilities.

As such you got to know the faculty, and the facility, very well within the first couple weeks.

By the time your elbows were starting to touch behind your back, you were finishing up your comprehensive training of the facilities’ processes, and had become acquainted with the staff that supported Marco’s work. Your access to the patients was very limited, as you were not a medical professional, and you weren’t there to assess or improve the patients themselves.

You did get an idea of the connection between them and the staff, which helped in your own understanding of the facility’s functions and needs overall.

You saw less of Tate, and less of Marco as you got deeper and deeper into the details of the archival systems, record processes, and other areas of organization. Your questions became fewer as you started to grasp the organizational aspects of the sanatorium, and began to work in earnest on the improvements. Once you completed your work, you’d compile everything into a presentation for Marco and the staff to review, allowing them to implement the changes they decided upon in the end.

You neared three months with Marco, and three full weeks on the job, you were left mostly to your own devices during your shift.

Your eyes were starting to go cross. The records’ room wasn’t as well-lit as you’d like, and you’d been lost in your work for long enough your back and legs were stiff. Taking a stroll would wake your muscles up, and give your eyes a break. It wouldn’t do any good to push to the point that you made a mistake, or ended up with a headache.

You couldn’t argue that Marco’s remedy for headache’s wasn’t effective, it certainly was, but you didn’t need to allow him a reason to do such things at work. Not that you thought he would forcefully break his promise concerning the separation of work and home, but you didn’t doubt he would bend what he could, when he could.

His… appetite for you was intense, and still more scary than anything else, but it also was a boost to your self-confidence. No matter whether you were comforted by that or not, it was difficult to not appreciate how much he seemed to desire you.

How well you took it, too.

Since you began working at the sanatorium, Marco had taken to taking you on a nightly basis. He’d always at least pulled you close and touched you until you fell asleep, but lately he’d fallen into a steady ritual.

He’d strip you after dinner, with just enough restraint to avoid tearing your clothes. Then he’d bury his face between your thighs and bring you to orgasm two or three times at the least, and often until you were crying for mercy. You’d barely make it to the bed before he was hilted inside you, holding your legs back and thrusting with such fervor that it would push the air from your lungs.

You weren’t sure how often he climaxed, between earlier orgasms, the pace, and how he never stopped even when you were shuddering from pleasure, you simply didn’t have your wits about you enough to know. But once he was sated he’d get you cleaned up, taking such care you almost wanted to ask him if it was how he apologized for sure rough actions, but you never asked. Something in his actions stayed your question, as though it would be rude of you to phrase it that way.

You expected to be sore and raw after such attention, but each morning you would wake, well-rested and only the slightest bit sore. An ache that sat in your muscles for a moment and was gone before the first bite of breakfast.

Still, you didn’t know how to accept his passions. You weren’t sure if you should. The idea that if you invited him in, instead of simply allowing his entry, it would somehow be worse for you.

Maybe not worse, but certainly more intense.

Coming out of your thoughts you realize you’ve wandered down a hall you didn’t mean to.

“Get your hands off me!”

The voice startles you, coming from the door nearest you. It’s not closed, barely even pulled most of the way. Curiosity and concern move you, and while you’re mostly hidden by the door, you can see into the room.

A mostly naked woman is strapped down to a metal table with the same kind of straps Tate’s been using to help you stretch your arms. The woman’s head is cradled inside a padded metal rest, making it so that she can only look up at the ceiling. Her legs are in metal bucket restraints, like examination stirrups, but with enough extra reinforcement and straps that she can’t move.

The only thing she’s wearing is a straitjacket and the extra clips and buckles on the jacket are attached to the table. You can tell she wants to kick and thrash, but the restraints and the weight of the table stop her.

Marco is between her legs, standing tall enough she can see him even with her restricted field of vision. He’s got a clipboard and pen in his hands.

“We’ve been over this, Mrs. Kujaku, in order to provide the care you need, you must endure being touc-.”

“I don’t need care, you bastard!” She bellows, pulling at the restraints. “I’m not insane just because I refused my husband!”

“You beat him with a shoehorn until he required stitches.” Marco says flatly, setting the clipboard aside and pulling on a latex glove. “Hardly the actions of a sane wife.”

“Don’t! Don’t you dare!”

“This is for your own good.”

“It is not! Release me!”

“We’ll begin manually, but I want to see if the device will benefit you more.”

“Device? What device?” Her questioning tone turns into an angry growl as her legs tense. You can’t see it, but you’re certain his fingers are inside her now.

“A new item a colleague of mine has recommended. I don’t think it’s necessary for most patients, but in your case, it may prove valuable.” Marco explains idly as he works. “The intensity of it concerns me, but it is quite adjustable.”

“Nnngh, n-no, st-stop.” The woman whines, even as her face flushes and her eyes lose focus. “Haaa-how? How?”

“Hm?” He hums, meaning to prompt her for clarity, but she starts shuddering again.

“I don’t - I don’t want to cum!” You see her start to cry and look away from it, taking a step back from the door. You shouldn’t have lingered this long, and now you’re caught between guilt and horrible feeling between your own thighs. “Stop-stop!”

Your stomach twists as the woman is forced to orgasm, but when you turn to leave, you see Tate looking back at you. Her brows are raised, but she isn’t saying or doing anything, she’s carrying a box, but you don’t know what could be in it. You shake your head, there’s too much turmoil in you right now and you don’t want to confront anyone.

Least of all Marco.

She steps back and motions for you to leave with a flick of her head. As you move down the hall you hear Marco call out in response to the soft footfalls.

“Tate?”

“Yes, doctor.” She replies, clicking her steps a little more purposefully you think as she enters into the room. You’re out of sight, but afraid to move while everything is so quiet. “I have the items you requested for the patient.”

“Thank you. How’s my wife faring?”

“In need of more lamps. The records’ room isn’t well-lit.” Tate answers evenly.

“What kind of beast did they find to wed a monster like you?” The woman’s words are hurled with all the vitriol she can muster, though it sounds like she’s fairly exhausted. You must not have come in at the start of her treatment.

“Mrs. Kujaku,” Marco’s tone sends a terrible chill up your spine and you turn back toward the door. You aren’t sure what you could do, but even if it creates an issue between you and Marco, you’re suddenly worried he’s going to harm her. “You may have whatever opinion of me you wish, but you would do well to not disparage my wife ever again.”

You can’t move. The silence and tension following his words has you held in place for a long moment before Mrs. Kujaku speaks again.

“… My apologies, doctor, I’m sorry.” Her voice is quiet and shivering, fully admonished and so soft it’s almost hard to hear her, even in the silence of the immediate area. “Please forgive me.”

“Progress, finally.” Marco says, his tone flat and neutral again. “Weeks of therapy and you’ve finally shown me a modicum of civility. Nurse Tate, assist me in adjusting the patient’s restraints. Once we get her set on the device, I want you to induce hysterical paroxysm ten times. I’m going to check on my wife.”

The door to the room is pulled shut by Tate as she answers Marco in the affirmative, and the click of the latch is enough to shake you free of your stupor. You walk quietly back down the hall and wend your way back to the records’ room. Forcing yourself to take long, deep breaths, you settle back down into the space you’d occupied before you’d decided to go on a walk.

You had to get the interaction out of your head before he comes to find you.

You knew that a lot of people at the sanatorium were not there by choice. Marco had educated you on his work even before you had married, so you were ignorant of how intense it could be. You understood how effective therapies were often unsettling. He had explain how electro-shock therapy worked, how conditioning could look dehumanizing since many of the same techniques were used to train dogs.

But that was why such things were done with the patient’s privacy in mind. You didn’t provide someone therapy in the town square.

The way she was restrained, however, stayed lodged in your mind. You couldn’t get the sight of it to fade. There was something about it that settled hotly between your thighs and you felt terribly guilty for it. She was obviously in distress, having not yet given into the help being provided, but something about the futility of her struggle, and the fire behind it keeps prodding at you.

The door opens and you look over at Marco, your mind reeling with the sudden visual of being the one strapped to the table, instead of his patient.

“That’s quite the expression,” he muses. His expression is neutral as ever, but his eyes are focused. You’ve learned well not to dismiss the subtle differences.

You do your best to soften your expression, shaking your head to try and throw the visual away for now, looking back down at the papers in front of you.

“My apologies, my mind wandered away from my work.” You answer honestly, looking back up at him with an apologetic smile.

He hums softly, stepping into the room, until he’s right beside you. You’d really have to crane your neck to look up at him, but his hand between your shoulder blades is enough for you to know he doesn’t expect you to.

“Tate said it was a bit dim in here, and I don’t think she was wrong,” he says easily. The location of that conversation makes your heart flutter again, but you settle yourself quickly.

“I wasn’t sure if it was safe to bring in more,” you explain, indicating the oil lamp on the desk. “It may be unfounded, but I was worried about accidentally starting a fire.”

“This would be an unfortunate room for a fire to break out in.” He agrees. “The newest wing has light fixtures, meant for the light bulbs Vega Labs released last year. It might be prudent to place what you need on a cart, and use one of the rooms over there. There’s plenty of vacant ones currently.”

“It would certainly be worth a try.” You agree.

“Later, however. For now I would be honored if you’d join me for a late lunch.”

You agree, and Marco escorts you to the cafeteria. The small facility is provisioned by one of his brothers, and while it doesn’t offer a wide variety of food, it does have a commendable selection available. You both stick with light fare, enough to hold hunger at bay until you get home to a proper dinner later that evening.

As always with Marco the conversation is easy. You feel like he can read your mind, and that he must know that you were in the hallway earlier. You try not to dwell on it, forcing your focus onto your meal and the conversation at hand.

If he was sparing you simply because you were at work, he would certainly bring up his concerns once you headed for home. Hopefully by then you’d have them a little more sorted, but you weren’t really sure what to make of it all. The idea that you’d been aroused by it was very uncomfortable to consider.

Maybe not wanting to face that is what was really making it easier to focus on the conversation.

Despite what you think of him, Marco cannot actually read your mind.

Even if he wishes he could at this particular moment. You’re obviously distracted by something, and if it was related to your work, you would’ve begun to lay it out for him when he first entered the records’ room. A mix of concern and curiosity almost compels him to probe, but he had promised to maintain a separation of work and home.

Even if this was work-related, if you were hesitant to bring it up, he didn’t want to try and force it out of you. Few things were of great importance to him, but one of those things was how you and he were perceived socially.

Marco was the adopted son of a newly rich commoner, and you were the eldest daughter of a very old family line. He wasn’t a fool. Unless he and his family were perceived flawlessly it could cause trouble, and while your marriage brought some legitimacy to his family’s name, if anyone perceived any turmoil it could cause problems.

That’s why you needed to be functional like this. Why he didn’t just tie you up and breed you until you were hoarse from cumming, sobbing while you tried to sing for him just one more time.

Opening the door to the patient’s room, Marco finds Tate watching over the patient. Mrs. What’s-her-name? He’d have to look at her chart again, he hadn’t cared enough to remember it through lunch. A patient’s name was irrelevant to their needs and progress.

She was secured to the device, in much the same position as she’d been in when he’d left. Except now she was dripping sweat, her hair slicked against her face, drool dripping from the gag in her mouth, legs shivering. Tate had turned the device off when Marco entered the room, and the patient was breathing heavily.

The device was something you straddled. It had several interchangeable dildos that could be set into it, in order to provide comfortable stimulation for a variety of patients. One of Marco’s brothers was working on molding extreme variants for experimental purposes, but the default pieces seemed to work well enough for now. Vaginal, anal, or dual insertion was possible, and there were also a couple wand devices that you could use, limited only by the cord that attached them to the rest of the apparatus.

They required more manual intervention than simply securing the patient to the device, but he appreciated the versatility.

“How many?” He questions.

“Eight,” Tate answers.

“You… lying… bitch,” the patient husks, words distorted from behind the ball gag. The restraints force her to look at the ground, one strap pulling her down by the collar of her straitjacket, two more coming off her upper arms stopping her from leaning too far forward. The combination held her in place and pushed her clit into the device’s vibrating plate, raising the effectiveness of the therapy.

“She’s right,” Tate sighs, shrugging apologetically. “It was only six.”

Before the patient can argue, Tate turns the machine back on and turns it up a little bit more. Broken swears shatter against the gag as the patient begins to sob and babble against the vibrations and over stimulation.

“You’re upset.” Marco says, picking up the clipboard and noting that Tate had eight occurrences marked down on the paperwork. There had been an entry for the 9th line, but it had been erased.

“She regressed.” Tate snaps. “It was frustrating.”

“Oh?”

Harried gasping whimpers punctuate the background of the conversation as the patient orgasms. Her body shudders violently in the restraints, an odd almost inhuman noise coming from her as she convulses. She begins to dry heave and gag, and Tate turns off the machine before continuing.

“I was giving her advice, to help her accept her situation and begin progressing.” She explains, and Marco nods, setting the paperwork down. “I really thought we were getting somewhere, but then she asks me how I can work for a monster like you.”

“Tate, I’ve explained-.”

“I don’t care that you don’t care.” Tate interrupts, turning the device back on. The patient sobs, heaving heavy gasps around the gag as best as she can. “I care. You’ve helped hundreds of people, and you specialize in such a variable field like this! For anyone to be so ungrateful!”

Marco takes the control and turns the device off, giving the patient enough attention to be sure she was still conscious before turning back to Tate.

“I’ve said before, these treatments are intense, and not everyone accepts them. Those patients are going to say all sorts of things, and you have to let them.” He explains evenly. “I appreciate your defending me, but I need to know what number she was actually on.”

“Tch. That was the tenth one.” Tate answers curtly. “She’s done.”

Chapter Text

Marco did not bring up anything on the way home from the sanatorium. He wasn’t completely silent, the two of you ended up talking about work, and how much nicer the room you were in after lunch was. You went over a few finer points of the ways your organization was coming along, and how you expected that soon you would have a full plan to provide them.

Dinner was a lighter conversation, as neither you nor Marco were interested in talking about work the entire evening. After dinner he relaxed in the den, and you stepped out into the gardens. Normally, you’d spend time in the library, but since you were spending all day reading records and doing research, you had begun to spend a good bit of your free time enjoying the open air after work.

The gardens of the estate were beautiful. Functional as well, with fruit trees and berry bushes woven amidst the flowers and hedges. You’d been married a season at this point, but you were sure that, aside from winter, the gardens would always have some manner of food on display.

Several stone tables and benches were set through the landscaping, in strategic places to make use of either the fruitful bounty, sweet-scented shade, or overall view. Such functionality wasn’t unheard of, but it was certainly a theme throughout Marco’s home. There was hardly anything that lacked function. Purely decorative items were rare.

You wondered if it was because neither Marco, nor his family, were used to having money. Sure, they’d been flush with funds for some decades at this point, but they weren’t born into it. There wasn’t generations of baubles and antiques and frills integrated into their histories and branches. It wasn’t that they didn’t indulge in the finer things in life; the tea, cigars, food, bedding, furniture and clothes were the highest quality that even an old family like yours could truly appreciate.

At the end of the day, it didn’t matter, but it did make you wonder how much wealth was lost to frivolous things over the generations. If it would have made a difference or not, or if those things had a value that simply wasn’t as obvious. Being able to quantify a family’s worth could often make or break business and political ideals surrounding them.

As the sun began to set you went back inside, meeting up with Marco and beginning what had become your nightly ritual.

Only tonight, the ritual was different.

Marco stands by the bed and begins undoing his cuffs. “Undress yourself, dove.” His tone is easy and relaxed, but the change in the usual process was unsettling.

You don’t question it, however. You were going to end up nude whether by his hand or yours, so there was no sense in voicing your confusion. Marco gets his jacket and vest off, pulling his tie aside before he comes over and helps you with a few buttons that aren’t easy for you to reach. Once you’re able to reach on your own again he takes his shirt off, tossing it aside before he sits down on the edge of the bed.

The blood rushes through you at the realization, but you continue to disrobe as instructed. You barely even hesitate when you get to your underclothes, and the small appreciative hum from Marco has your heart racing.

Once you’re done you turn toward him, eyes averted despite your efforts, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Your hands are crossed in front of you, just below your navel, like how you would set them if you were simply standing around in your dress.

He points to the floor. “Sit on your knees. Feet tucked under your rear.” He instructs. “Back straight, hands in your lap, properly.”

It was a style of sitting that was done on other islands. You didn’t know if it was the island Marco was from, or if someone else in his family was from there, but it was a little uncomfortable at first. The more you sat like this, however, the easier it was.

The first time he had to show you what he meant, and you’d barely been able to keep the position for half a minute before it was very uncomfortable. Your feet and ankles just weren’t used to it.

Getting up, he comes over and walks around you once. The scrutiny was always embarrassing, but when he was satisfied you felt an odd sense of pride. The only thing he seemed to enjoy more than putting you in strange positions, was when you adapted to those positions.

He crouches down behind you, putting his hands on your upper arms, and pulling them back. You let him move you, after three months you knew he would keep your balance for you if needed, and it was easier on both of you if you just let him move you.

Setting your hands flat on the floor behind you, tilting you back so you reach, he moves to your front and pulls your knees open. You can’t help the surprised gasp at the sudden exposure, your body squirming before you settle into the intended position.

You might only be on display for him, but you were certainly on display.

“Stay like this.” He instructs, rubbing his hands against your thighs. “Only move if something cramps, I’m going to draw a bath.”

Eyes shut tight, you nod. Blood is rushing through you, heating up your body, and his fingers dance over your skin, caressing your face before he steps out of the room. Sometimes he would tell you to look at him, or have you say something when he was doing things like this, but he left you to it, and you could hear him begin to draw the bath.

You didn’t cramp, and it wasn’t terribly uncomfortable overall, but Marco did have to help you to your feet when he came back to fetch you. He was as nude as you were when he helped you to your feet, and you expected he would claim his due before anything else.

Instead, he took you into the shower, taking care of, and washing both you and his self. The only words spoken were instructions on where to go and how to move, so he could clean you easier. Between the earlier position and this you could feel the heat between your thighs. A steady need gnawing at you, one you expected to be addressed, since he certainly noticed it.

While his hands idled over your body as you sat and soaked in the bath with him, he never claimed you. Though warm lips left hungry kisses against your skin, he did nothing but press them carefully against your sensitive places. His hands moved over you when he tucked you against his chest in bed, and for a few moments you thought he would finger you and fill you up.

He did finger you, teasing your clit almost automatically, but-

-he fell asleep.

The absurdity of it shatters your thoughts and stutters you for a solid minute. By then the driving need between your thighs has begun to cool, and it would take too long to deal with, so you did your best and after a few long, frustrating minutes, you fell asleep.

When you wake the next morning Marco is already gone. You didn’t know how long he ever actually slept, because he was never in bed with you when you woke the next day. This morning, Tate was already in your room, sitting at your vanity. She has an easy smile on her face when you regard her a little blearily.

“I was told to leave you to sleep, but I wasn’t going to let you go much longer,” she states reassuringly. “Marco says you’re both taking off from the sanatorium today, and I’m to help you dress appropriately for the day.”

You almost groan, but manage to turn the sound into a grunt of exertion as you pull yourself out of the bed. If Tate was helping you “dress appropriately” then that meant you were going to go through the entire prep process. At this point you were sure Tate had seen more of you than you had seen of yourself, which made it easier to accept. She was, also, a nurse by trade, and that had certainly made it easier in the beginning.

Tate makes sure you’re cleaned out, and then uses a lot of lube and puts a small plug in your ass, and a small dildo in your vagina. You don’t question her on the sizes, because it always comes back to the fact that Marco decided it. Except when she was first helping you adjust to the larger and larger toys, since that process had been her discretion.

“What’s that?” You question even as Tate moves you and begins to put it on.

“A chastity belt, technically.” She explains, buckling it into place and taking time to make sure it’s set in a way that won’t cause issue. “But it’s functionally just to keep the toys in.”

Tate gets most of your clothes on after that. Before she helps you into the sleeves of the dress she pulls your arms behind your back, folding one over the other, and begins to tie them up.

“I’m going to stuff your sleeves, and use the bow on the back of this dress to obscure the fact that you’re tied up underneath.” She explains evenly. You’re shaking your head, but she just pats your shoulder. “Relax, Lady Edward, it’ll be okay.”

“Marco will be with you, and he’ll attend you.” She continues to explain, using the rope to complete an upper-body harness, weaving it beneath your breasts and creating some support.

Once Tate was done it did look like all you were doing was holding your skirts up a little, your “hands” lost in the skirt itself. The last thing she put on was a stiff, high-set collar, that forced you to look straight ahead. The posture collar wasn’t uncommon, though most young ladies stopped wearing it before they would have a débutante ball.

You would be at Marco’s mercy the entire day. With your arms bound, and your range of motion limited, there wasn’t going to be much you could do for yourself. Fortunately, Tate helped you eat a small breakfast before she escorted you to the drawing room. Marco was already there, waiting for you both, and the short walk from your room to the drawing room had left you with a terrible realization.

The small toys inside you were big enough you could feel them, and small enough that they wriggled with every step. There was no adjustment you could make to your stride, limited by the chastity belt, that would keep them from shifting. The sensation wasn’t strong, but it was constant.

You could feel them shift, and settle, when you sat down. Not that you expected Marco would purposefully make you uncomfortable, but it was always a relief when sitting down with toys inside you wasn’t awkward.

“Good morning, sweet dove.” Marco says in greeting, giving you a warm, knowing smile before he turns to Tate. “And to you. Thank you, Tate, you can take the rest of the day off. I will tend to my wife directly.”

“Certainly, sir.” She replies with a small bow, giving you a smile before excusing herself.

Marco’s eyes shift from the door as it clicks shut, to you. “Comfortable?”

Squirming a little, you nod as much as you can in your current situation. “I am not uncomfortable.”

“Tate is quite skilled, so that’s a relief to hear.” He says the words easily, emptying a pipe he’d been ignoring since you entered and standing up. “We’ve both spent the last few weeks holed up in the sanatorium, you especially. Hunched over all those records, in dimly lit rooms.”

Marco steps over to where you are, straightening up his suit before holding out a hand. “A stroll through the gardens, and perhaps a spot of tea while we’re outside, should be just what we both need.”

You look at his offered hand and he shifts to help you stand up. “Y-yes, of course.”

“Worry not, sweet dove, Tate will have excused most of the rest of the staff when she left. Aside from a couple maids to assist Colscon, no one else is at the manor today.” He assures you. “Relax. Let me help you through the day, and just enjoy it.”

You tried, you really did. Neither Colscon, nor the two maids, seemed to take any note of your predicament, and the weather outside was immaculate. Enough sun to be warm, enough of a small breeze to stay pleasant. The garden scents were relaxing, and so was the pace.

You and Marco strolled quite leisurely through the garden, and he took the time to speak of the landscaping in detail. Where certain fruit trees and bushes were from, which ones he enjoyed, those his brothers often enjoyed. He spoke about how you would be meeting his family more directly over the next few months. He’d specifically requested that you both have time to yourselves, giving you ample time to adjust to life away from your family, and for the two of you to bond, since you hadn’t had much time prior to the wedding to do so.

He checked on your comfort several times, and carefully helped you sip some tea once you both sat and enjoyed a cup.

The entire time you were slightly distracted, no matter how you tried to focus. Every step would shift the items inside you. Because of the ropes and chastity belt you had almost no actual underclothing on, and the rougher material of your dress was prickling at your nipples, and nipping at your legs. The sensations by themselves wouldn’t have been all that bad, but combined it was difficult to ignore.

Sitting for tea had been a relief, but your body barely had time to settle before you were strolling through the garden paths again with Marco.

There was no way he didn’t know the effect things were having on you. The occasional glance from him was enough to assure you that he knew exactly what was going on. The weather was nice, and the posture collar was actually a relief, because you had been haunched over the files, but the relief wasn’t much compared to the subtle, endless, horribly effective teasing.

Marco assisted you in eating an easy lunch, finger sandwiches and a few petite cakes, and more tea. Proximity prompted Marco to steal a soft kiss, but the contact went straight to your thighs and you couldn’t complain. You wanted more, you wanted relief.

But you weren’t in the bedroom, and you weren’t in his office, and there might only be three other people in the entire manor, but you couldn’t form the words. Beyond small talk and polite offerings of thanks when he helped you eat and drink, you couldn’t bring yourself to ask for relief.

When he suggested one more walk through the gardens you finally cracked.

“I… I would r-rather sit.” You admit, eyes downcast. A finger under your chin brings your gaze up to his on command, and you feel heat rush into your face.

“Have I meandered you around the gardens too much for one day?” He prompts and you shake your head softly.

“N-no, I just… can feel them, when I walk and it’s dis-distracting.” You scramble a bit for a good reason, but you can feel the heat burning against your ears. “Please I…”

“Are you aroused, sweet dove?” He questions pointedly, and when you look away he tugs you back to his piercing gaze. “Answer me clearly.”

You press your lips together for a second and then nod softly. “Yes.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, but after a moment he steps beside you and puts a hand on your shoulder. “Very well. The study gets good light this time of day, so we can sit there and still enjoy the day.”

Marco escorts you to the study, letting you set the pace. Admitting your situation to him seems to have made it worse, and each step sends a sweet shiver through you as things shift. When you arrive, he pulls the curtains aside and throws one of the windows open completely. Setting one of the chairs by the window, he sits down and pats his lap.

“Come here, sit and enjoy the view with me.” He says it like an offer, but you know the command for what it is. You’re on the top floor of the estate, and the study faces the backside of the property, so it’s not like anyone would be able to see you.

You seat yourself as well as you can on his lap, and once you do he easily moves you, adjusting you into a position more comfortable for both of you. Comfort, however, meant that you were leaning against Marco’s chest, your legs on either side of his. He was keeping his legs together, and his hands on your hips for the moment.

“Since yesterday,” he says, his voice calm and steady. “You’ve seemed rather tense.” His hands move as he speaks, and he rubs your shoulders.

“I’m not sure what the cause is,” he admits, squeezing your arms as he kisses the side of your face. “But you seem reluctant to bring it up.”

He begins to unbutton your dress, and you shift against him. “What-what are you-.”

“Hush now, I’m just going to help you relax.” His voice drops, more command than reassurance. Something in his tone licks cold against your skin as your breasts are exposed to the open window. He pulls the material down just enough that it covers nothing you want it to.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” you whimper as his hands cup your breasts, his fingers teasing your nipples. The sensation makes you moan, you’re so sensitive from all the earlier teasing that you can’t stop the sudden sweet shudder from escaping.

“Sorry? You’re not being punished, sweet dove.” He hums, applying a little more pressure to your stiffening nipples, and opening his legs, parting yours more. Your skirts have your lower half covered, but the motion is still enough to make you mewl and squirm in embarrassment.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” He prompts and you nod reluctantly before crying out in pleasure when his fingers flick the pert, sensitive nubs of flesh.

“If you tell me what was bothering you yesterday, you’ll feel even better.” He promises, lips and teeth teasing your ear and neck as he continues to fondle your breasts. “There’s hardly anyone here, but who knows when Colscon will come in to check on us?”

Whining, you squirm, and try to wriggle away from the pleasure, but Marco just spreads his legs wider, locking you between him and the chair, holding onto your breasts with his large hands and twisting your tender nipples just to the barest edge of pain, giving the sweet pleasure a sharp edge.

“I won’t force you,” he says, and there’s truth in his words. You aren’t sure how you can be so sure. Maybe because you know he expects, demands, truth from you, and he’s not one to hold double standards in any facet of his life.

Or maybe you just want to believe him.

“But I will edge you for the rest of the day.” His words sink into your skin as his lips press against your neck. “I will bring you to the brink of pleasure and stop.” He punctuates the threat by doing just that.

You weren’t close to orgasm in the first place, but the sudden end to the building pleasure still makes your body curl, and you whimper. He resumes, fondling your chest and shifting his legs, pushing one up, and then the other. It’s a subtle movement, but it makes your hips shift and moves the items inside you.

You’ve been aware of the wet slick between your thighs since you had tea in the garden, and with your legs parted its even harder to ignore now.

“Mmm…” He kneads your breasts, before teasing the tips of your nipples with gentle circles using the tips of his fingers. “Maybe you’re worried about getting someone else in trouble.”

Marco pulls you into his chest firmly, twisting your nipples until you cry out. As soon as the pain jolts into your chest he lets go, continuing his gentle touches again, kissing your shoulders. He hasn’t given you a chance to really try and answer yet, his words woven in between actions that keep addling your thoughts.

“I… I didn’t know how to,” You stammer, unsure of what to say. You don’t want to bring up Tate, but it’ll be obvious if you tell him that she knew as well. Marco promised not to punish you too severely, as per your agreement, but he made no such promises about anyone else. “How to,” your body curls, the attention to your chest muddling your thoughts. “Start, how to start, I don’t-hnngh!”

Marco flicks your nipples, the sensation is sharp, but not painful. It’s still jarring enough to shatter your thoughts, and break you from the building pleasure between your thighs.

“Tell me truthfully and I’ll cover you back up, and take you in the bedroom, as you prefer, granting you sweet relief from this torment.” He nips at your shoulders with his teeth. “Lie to me, I’ll strip you naked and leave you out in the hall, at the mercy of Colscon or one of the maids to let you into our room.

“Or.

“If I find you still in the hall, perhaps I’ll take you to the gardens,” his tone is low, seductive, and dangerous. He wants you to take this option, you can feel it. Eventually, he’s not going to need an excuse to claim you outdoors, but you don’t want it to happen until it’s unavoidable.

“I- I accidentally s-saw you treat-treating a patient.” You manage to admit, shivering against him. He stops teasing you, covering your breasts with his hands and leaving you to continue. “She - I mean - you said that treatment could be distressing, and that-that some patients will reject it.”

“Ah,” he sighs. “That certainly explains the look on your face when I came to fetch you.” He hums, returning to teasing your breasts. “Treatment can be quite intense, what did it make you feel?”

“I was, ah-mm, wuh-worried you were going to ha-hurt her,” you stammer. It was easier to answer him now that you had started, but his attention to your chest is distracting. “When she insulted muh-me.”

“Oh? So Tate saw you then?”

You shake your head. “Please don’t be angry with her, I didn’t want to, to, interrupt you!” Marco tweaks your nipples at the last two words, causing you to shout.

“You were afraid I would be angry.”

You shake your head even more. “N-No, I didn’t know, ah, please, mercy, please Marco, I didn’t know how you’d react and I didn’t—hnnngh!—didn’t want to cau-cause trouble.” You beg as he plays with your breasts until your body is shivering, and you’re starting to sweat from the tension. “And, and then I, I had thoughts, and I didn’t know what to say.”

“Thoughts?” Marco’s hands leave your breasts and he starts to pull your skirts up.

“Please, please don’t, not here, not-not at the window like this, please.” You do your best not to sob, trying to look at him as you plead with him, even with the posture collar’s restrictions.

“Tell me the thoughts.” He commands. His hands are still on your skirts, but he’s not pulling them up.

Taking a few deep breaths, you close your eyes, and focus on the patient rather than yourself for a moment.

“She was restrained so completely, and I just… I can’t stop thinking about it.” You admit shakily. “Being… I mean, not having any, that is, just… just being in that situation. I can’t stop picturing myself-.” You stop when Marco hugs you, leaving your skirts to slide back down to your ankles.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” you say hastily. “I shouldn’t think that way about a medical-.”

“No, it’s…” He breathes in deeply, kissing your neck and teasing your breasts gently. “It’s not uncommon, sweet dove. There’s nothing wrong about having those kinds of thoughts.” You can feel the need rolling off him and it sends a sweet shiver through you.

“Give me some time,” he husks, lips against your skin, and his hands are already pulling your dress off as he stands you both up. “And I’ll indulge every fantasy you confess to me, yoi.”

A strong hand grips you by your hair and he captures your lips before you can say anything. The rush of the action, the thrill of his desire, your own long-simmering need—you barely even protest when he pulls the dress off you entirely.

For now, nothing else exists except him.

Marco’s eyes move around the study as he kneels beside you and undoes the chastity belt you’re wearing. Setting it aside he pulls the small toy out of your vagina easily, steadying you as your legs shiver from the rushed sensation. Taking off his jacket he lays it on the rug, and then lays you down on the jacket.

“You’re dripping down your legs, pretty bird,” he grins, as he pushes your legs back. Your soft gasp at the sudden exposure turns into a keening whine as he slips quickly inside you. Your so wet, and while the small toy wasn’t much it was enough to stop the intense stretch from hurting as he fills you up.

He still for a second once he fills you, his hands flexing against your ankles before he sets them against his chest, leaning over you, he places his hands on the floor on either side of your shoulders, grinding deep inside you for a second, and trying to give you just a moment more to adjust.

“Beg me to stop,” he husks, pulling back and thrusting in heavily. The action pushes the air from your lungs. “Beg me to stop, yoi.” He commands, thrusting in again.

“N-no! Puh-please, I-!” He thrusts in again, pressing against your clit. The moan of pleasure that passes your lips with the rush of air forced from your lungs is heady. “Want it,” you gasp, legs shivering. “I-I want it, please.”

“Please,” you whine when he doesn’t move again, trying to shift your hips despite your position.

“It?” He questions, his eyes holding your gaze. You feel very small, and very exposed suddenly. “What ‘it’ would that be, pretty bird?”

“That’s… I - you - the or-orga, I mean, your, I-.”

He thrusts in heavy again, pushing the air from you and making you moan. “Be clear. Do you want to cum, do you want my cock, or do you want me, yoi?”

You might have been addled and disoriented, but you weren’t stupid.

“You, I want you,” you manage to gasp clearly. “I want you to, to, ah, I…”

“Fuck you?” Marco prompts and you feel your face warm up so much you’re a little dizzy from the sudden heat. “Say it, pretty bird.” He commands, slowly rolling his hips, gently moving inside you. “Say you want me to fuck you with that sweet voice of yours, yoi.”

“P-please, I-.” Marco grabs your face, squishing your cheeks and forcing you to look at him. The feeling of him shifting inside you is driving you mad. It’s worse than the way the toys were shifting while you walked, and it was by no means enough to push you over the edge.

If you didn’t say anything he would probably edge you for who knew how long.

“Pwease fuck me,” you say it quietly, but clearly, despite his grip on your cheeks.

“As you wish, pretty bird.” He hums, letting go of your face and bracing himself against the floor again.

He moves slowly at first, watching your face and drinking in every twitch as he slowly speeds up. It only takes him a few minutes to begin railing you so hard he has to wrap his arms around you and hold you in place, hugging you into him as your legs slip off his chest and shudder in the air from the rough pace.

The first time you cum you can barely cry out, he’s fucking the air out of your lungs with the heavy pace, and the lack of air on top of the orgasm is disorienting. You can feel him fill you up soon after, but he doesn’t even slow down.

You can’t grab onto him, your arms are still bound, and the posture collar is restricting you. His body is effectively pinning your legs in place. All you can think of is the device that the patient was in, restricted more than you are right now, but the idea was the same. If your legs were tied down you wouldn’t even be able to wiggle, not that you could move much like this at all.

You weren’t submitting to him, like when he bent you over the desk and you had to keep yourself in the position he wanted. Right now he was taking you completely.

Your body tenses at the sudden rush and you cry out, cumming hard against Marco, legs kicking as your body thrashes as much as it can. You think you can feel the plug in your ass fall out, the strange added sensation causing you to buck.

“So soon, yoi?” He hums, shifting enough to watch your eyes fill with water as he doesn’t even give you a moment to recover. The overstimulation was licking the edges of pain, orgasming so soon on the heels of the first one.

Marco shifts, grabbing your calf and pushing your leg nearly to the floor. He grabs the other and does the same, pressing your knees into his jacket beneath you. You had no idea your legs would bend that way, the stretch is incredible, almost painful, but your body is covered in sweat, from the teasing to the successive orgasms, you’re tired.

Tired enough your body doesn’t fight him effectively folding you in half.

With your knees on the rug, your hips are pushed up into him. You’re well and truly pinned, and with the posture collar you can’t even move your head that much, the new position is pushing the collar into your jaw and holding your face in place. It’s not comfortable, but it’s not painful, and your throbbing clit is teased by Marco’s torso with every thrust.

“Beg,” he insists, still pistoning into you.

“Please, I can’t, I can’t, please,” you beg as best as you can. He’s not human, he’s a machine, a beast, he’s not even breathing heavy. You’re not even sure he’s sweating. He’s still almost fully dressed, and your hair’s sticking to your skin from sweat.

“Oh no, pretty bird, your chance to beg me to stop is gone, yoi.” He says, slowing just enough to make sure he has your attention.

“You asked so sweetly for me to fuck you.” Marco’s eyes make your heart skip a beat. Cold, blue, focused on you with an intensity that twists your stomach in fear.

“Beg me for it, yoi.” He commands. “Make sure I believe it’s me you want.”

Chapter Text

Marco took you for hours, making you beg for him until you were covered in tears, snot and sweat. You lost count of how many times you came against him.

How many times he filled you up.

He fed you by hand afterward. Cleaned your sore and aching body, and soothed sore muscles with a firm massaging grip that nearly sent you drifting off to sleep a few times before all was said and done. His voice was like a beating heart against your ear, praising you, instructing you to eat, to drink, to relax as he moved your body again.

The tender cadence slipped over your skin and nuzzled against your cheek, leaving soft kisses on your memories even as the evening itself was hazy. The next morning his kindness was just as strong.

You woke to Marco still in bed with you. He hummed questions softly in the early morning, making sure you felt well enough to work. He insisted on breakfast in bed, and helped you get ready for the day himself.

It was embarrassing, in the bright light of the morning, compared to the fuzzy comfort of the evening, pleasure no longer taking away the sharp clarity of impropriety. Marco gave you the illusion of efficiency, but you could feel his eyes focused on you. The tender touch of his fingers against bruised skin and toothy welts. The way his fingers grazed your skin as he buttoned your dress up for you.

Tender, warm knuckles dragging along the back of your neck as he skillfully pulls your hair up into a simple coiffed bun. He catches your gaze in the mirror, smiling softly while he explains that he often did his sisters’ hair, and even a few of his brothers, who had favored long locks in their younger days. With so many siblings, most of them were pretty good at such things.

When you reached the sanatorium, Marco left you to your work. He did check in a couple times more than he usually did, but your new research space, and it’s superior lighting, meant you were doing well. He’d steal a kiss if no one else was around, and while you’d tut about your agreement - no hanky panky at work - you did so with a smile.

He took the teasing in stride, apologizing even as he kissed your cheek. It left you feeling as though you were a normal couple. Perhaps, aside from his appetites and your contract, you weren’t too far off from that. There was no malice in how he treated you, and his praise of your work was neither empty nor placating.

You hadn’t believed that he was truly enamored with you when he first told you. More than that you believed him when he said he wanted to utilize your education. But you’d felt he was adamant about it being you instead of your sister because he was already aggravated by the years between you.

But that night he took you so sweetly. Kissing the marks on your skin and rubbing his hands against the aches in your body. His lips were nestled against your neck, murmuring soft praises into your ear as you shivered in orgasm, cumming against his cock a moment before you felt him fill you up. The way his hands engulfed you, teasing your breasts and holding you against his body, was grounding and comforting.

The next morning he assisted you in getting ready again, though you had breakfast in the dining room this time. You weren’t sure if he was doing so as an apology for the rough treatment a couple of days ago, or if it was going to be your new normal.

But by the third morning, you had to ask.

Marco had finished buttoning you up, and had left his now expected kiss upon the back of your neck. When you turn toward him, you can see a knowing smirk on his lips and feel your face flush despite yourself.

“I can always tell,” he hums gently, brushing his knuckles against your cheek softly. “What’s on your mind, sweet dove?”

“Is… Has Miss Tate resigned?” You question.

A worried expression crosses his face. “She has not. I just wanted you to myself the past few mornings, is that so bad?”

You shake your head. “I was worried that maybe I had offended her somehow.”

He laughs, short and clipped, squeezing your shoulder gently. “If such was the case you wouldn’t be uncertain.” He assures you. “But no, I have simply been greedy the past few days.”

Greedy to serve you? That seemed unlikely, but that’s what he had been doing in place of Tate, going beyond even what she did for you. You didn’t require Tate’s assistance, while most of your clothes were designed under the assumption you would have assistance, it wasn’t impossible for you to manage on your own. You did appreciate her, however, and the simple fact that Marco cared enough to pay someone to support you through the day.

Later that day at the sanatorium Tate had come and spoke to you, reassuring you and teasing Marco in the same breath.

“I’d been so busy here I hadn’t even thought to say something,” Tate hums, smiling as she sits beside you, taking a quick break. “He’s so twitterpated it’s almost pathetic.”

It wasn’t love, it was lust. Not that you were going to say as much, it was better for the perception to be a positive one, and if other people saw things how Tate did, it worked better for both of you. Everything he did was for the sake of perception. Whether it was everyone else’s, or yours, but you weren’t going to do anything to ruin that work.

Perceptions could still make or break a family in this day and age more than their finances and capabilities. The days of nobles marrying for duty and honor were fading away, and most marriages, even those that were arranged, were considerate of the ideal of love. Even your parents had hoped for it for you. So it was better overall if society believed you loved one another.

Even if that love might take a while longer to truly take root, since you hadn’t had much time prior to your wedding.

You reminded yourself that you were grateful for the things Marco allowed you. Whether he did it simply to keep the peace, or because he was truly supportive didn’t really matter. Whichever it was would be brought to light soon enough.

You were almost done with your work.

It took a couple more weeks of research, and admittedly you took some extra time to be extra sure since it was your first official job. After that you built your presentation and then laid out everything for Marco and the area leaders that supported him within the sanatorium. What few scoffs were had at the start were silent by the middle of your presentation, and nodding in agreement by the end.

You had practice in minding your tone, and word choice. In such a way that allowed you to educate while seeming to defer to those gathered. A skill your mother and father had both instilled in you, since a large part of the world often cared little for what a young lady had to say, no matter how objectively correct she was, or was not.

A week later, you learned just how well you did.

“You’re certain you cannot see?” Marco questions, holding onto your hand as you smile.

“I have even closed my eyes,” you assure him. “I am in your care, husband.”

“Perfect.” He purrs the word before guiding you. It’s not much different than when you walk with him through the garden. Marco guides you well whether you can see or not. Today it’s just a blindfold, but you’re being led to your reward for a job well done for the sanatorium.

“I assumed you would be more comfortable here, than at the sanatorium,” he says idly while you walk down the hall. “So it took me a few days to get everything I needed.”

You hear a door open and assume you’re stopped in front of your destination.

“Everything you needed?”

“For your reward, sweet doveling.” He says, his voice by your ear as his hands are on your shoulders. “Go on, take a few steps forward, I’m right here.”

You walk forward carefully, taking what you assume are enough steps to enter the room. Listening for Marco to urge you forward or tell you to stop you only take another step or two before you hear the door close. There’s a sense of something else in the room with you, but there’s a long few moments of relative silence.

You think you can hear the shift of clothing, but you’re unnerved about being blindfolded and aren’t sure if you’re hearing things or not.

“Marco?” The question leaves your lips with only a small amount of concern. You’re quite certain he’s in the room with you.

“Please, call me Dr. Edward.” He instructs in the same professional tone you’ve heard him use at the sanatorium. The blindfold comes off and he’s standing before you, his white doctor’s coat over his clothes.

You feel your heart quicken, blood rushing to your face. “I, sorry, doctor?”

Marco smiles, and then gestures, causing you to look around. The room was rearranged. Everything that was normally in it was pushed to the sides, covered in white sheets, and in the middle of the room was an exam table.

Just like the ones at the sanatorium.

The metal table was heavy, with thick leather pads for the patient’s comfort. Heavy duty stirrups were bolted to either side, with restraints hanging from them. There was a an adjustable sort of cup for where your head went, and more restraints. The padded cuffs were familiar to you not just because of your work, but also because Tate used similar items to help you with your flexibility training.

Marco was already unbuttoning the back of your dress.

“You wanted to know what it felt like, didn’t you?” He urges you firmly. “I don’t mind incorporating a bit of my work into things if it’s a reward for you.”

You can’t help the shiver that runs through you. Faced with the table all you can see is the fierce woman who had been strapped to it. He could strap you down and never let you back up and you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

Even as part of you shivered in fear, part of you throbbed with need and curiosity.

“Will you… will you stop when I ask?” You question, turning toward him as he pulls your dress down your arms. You had nothing on under it save what you needed to be decent, having long since stopped wearing anything deemed unnecessary. “Since it’s a reward?”

The smile on his face seems tight, but he nods. “Let me know when you’re satisfied, doveling, and I’ll compromise with you. But I ask you endure at least one hour, it was quite the ordeal to set this up. I’d hate to see the staff’s hard work go to waste.” Marco’s hand caresses your face as he talks, his thumb slipping over your lips lightly.

“Y-yes, of course.” You agree, trying not to think about how many people in the house knew what you and your husband got up to behind closed doors after hauling all of this in here.

He helps you strip, placing soft kisses against your skin and running his fingers over less sensitive places. The hum that rolls in your chest when his fingers slip down your spine is genuinely relaxed. Every time he does it you can feel the aches and tension in your body fade.

Marco helps you up onto the examination table, getting you centered and then assists you in laying back.

“Normally, at least two orderlies assist at this point,” he explains, that professional tone dripping from his words. “Even for patients that have accepted the treatments.” He smiles as he looks down at you, taking a hand and putting it into a cuff that was held snug to the side of the table. “It’s faster that way.”

He puts a strap across your chest, above your breasts and against your shoulders, and another across your stomach, just below your breasts. Stepping around he adjusts the head rest, making sure you’re comfortable before he leans down and kisses your forehead.

“To answer the question I’m sure you have,” he continues, taking the strap laid across your shoulders and pulling it snug against you. “We do restrain even willing patients, because sometimes the effects of the treatment can cause them to thrash.” He takes the other strap and pulls it snug as well, effectively pinning your upper body to the table. You could wriggle free if you struggled enough, at least until he put your other wrist in the padded cuff on that side of the table.

The angle put only a little pressure on your arms, limiting the leverage you had when you tried to move them. It was better for a long term situation compared to having them over your head, which could cause issues in your shoulders, or folded behind your back, which could result in blood flow concerns. Such things weren’t as risky when Marco could check in with you throughout a session, but this equipment had different uses, and Marco needed to focus on the treatment itself.

Not the effect of the restraints.

That much you had learned from your time at the sanatorium.

When Marco lifts your leg, putting it into the padded stirrup, you feel the blood rush through you. There’s a slight smirk on his face despite his efforts, while he buckles your leg into place, either because he saw you flush, or because he knows you’ll be embarrassed with your legs held open. He doesn’t say anything, turning to your other leg and putting it in the other stirrup quietly. You can’t stop your fingers and toes from flexing as the straps hold your other leg in place.

You’re stuck. The stirrups aren’t set very far apart, so it almost feels like your legs are closed, but you know it won’t last. You’ve seen one of these tables with the legs set much wider. While you have an agreement with Marco to not deny him, there’s something different between that and this.

As though some illusion of possible control has been wrested fully from you.

Marco’s hands grip your toes and you flinch, your whole body tensing for a second. You can definitely see the smirk on his face, the weight of a moment’s pause before he rubs the balls of your feet.

“It’s a reward, doveling,” he assures you. “Not a punishment.”

You relax, a little at least, even as your feet squirm in the hot grip. “Of… of course, doctor.” You manage, swallowing hard before you could finish your sentence.

Marco smiles. “Very good,” he praises, letting go of your feet and pushing the stirrups open. There were gears that caught them as they spread open, the soft clicks the only sound aside from your pounding heart as he spreads your legs apart, click by click.

When they’re wide enough he can stand between them he looks down at you. “You’ve been working on flexibility with Tate, how’s that been progressing?”

“Well, I think.” You answer honestly and Marco pushes your legs open another click.

“More?”

“I… I can, yes.” Hesitant as your answer is, Marco pushes them both two clicks. Three more and you’ll practically be in a full split. Not impossible for you at this point, but you don’t think you could hold it for as long as he’s inferred this will last.

You just aren’t sure how to express that.

“No complaints then? We’ll leave you here.” He says, effectively answering his own inquiry.

He drags his fingers over the insides of your thighs, the heat of his fingers making you sigh softly. The hot tips of his fingers trace almost idle lines along your skin, following some pattern you can’t discern beyond the sweet pleasure it provides.

“Normally, I would wear gloves.” Marco’s words sink into you as his fingers press against your skin a little more. Heated palms caress your thighs as his fingers sneak toward your hips. “Even for the sake of the treatment, it wouldn’t do to touch someone so directly.”

“But you,” the words slip from his lips like a sigh, the tone of the doctor escaping him for a moment as his gaze pulls away from your exposed body, moving up to your eyes. “Are all mine, yoi.” He clears his throat, muddling the verbal tick you’ve come to expect from him during these times.

You aren’t sure why it only crops up when you’re at his mercy like this, but you never hear it from him otherwise. You mean to ask, but he currently has your labia parted with his thumbs, his eyes no longer on yours. The attention to your pussy is embarrassing, even after this many months, but the look in his eyes causes a coil to tighten in your stomach.

At first it was just embarrassment, and then a mix of that and fear, but at some point there was an effect that was neither fear nor embarrassment. The way he looked at you. The weight of the desire in his gaze was disorienting, but also flattering. Reassuring, perhaps.

It made you feel wanted, instead of simply needed for the sake of your families.

Whatever was behind the emotion in his eyes, you were becoming certain that you were the only person he would look at this way. Whether that meant good fortune for you or not, you weren’t yet sure.

“Please,” you whisper the word, barely even meaning to say it.

“Of course,” he says, releasing his hold on your labia and looking back up at you. The professional tone is back in his voice. “We must begin your treatment, Mrs. Edward.”

Marco’s middle finger slips down your slit and plunges into your vagina before you even whimper from the start of his touch. The loud wet sound as he pushes in easily has you wishing you could turn your head away, but the table doesn’t let you move much.

“Seems the preliminary assessment won’t take long.” Marco muses, pushing a second finger inside you, watching your face as your sopping cunt accepts the intrusion easily.

Placing his other hand just below your belly button, he brushes his thumb over your clit seemingly at random while his fingers move inside you. He’s fingered you before, to get you ready to take him, but this was different. He wasn’t scissoring his fingers, or working to get a third inside of you, instead he focused on a particular spot.

The hand on your stomach pushes down just a little, and you can feel the pressure on his fingers inside you. A strange jolt rolls through you and it’s so strong it almost makes you feel ill.

“No,” you gasp as the second jolt makes your body tense, your eyes watering. “T-too much!”

“It can be intense for those in need of it,” Marco says reassuringly, sending a third jolt through you. This doesn’t make you feel ill, but the rush is like almost orgasming. There’s no steady built like you’re used to. “For someone like you, I imagine it’s even more intense.”

You shudder within your restraints, trying madly to get away from the overwhelming pleasure. Marco’s hands are holding your hips and the table is doing the rest. You can’t possibly get away from him, and he has a lot of practice with this particular action.

“I feel like I’m going to pee!” You cry out desperately, having lost count of the jolts his fingers are commanding.

“It’s alright if you do, yoi.” He assures you, and his fingers move again.

This time they don’t stop.

He’d been brushing that spot inside you and then going still, giving you a moment to recover between the surge of sensation that assailed you, but now that was done. The steady rhythm has you shivering against the restraints, tears slipping down your cheeks as you struggle to speak.

“No please! Please!” You beg, knowing it won’t do any good. Reward or not, you had agreed to at least an hour and it hadn’t been a quarter of one yet. Even counting the time it took him to strap you down.

“Don’t fight it.” He commands, his thumb pressing against your clit, rolling it without stopping.

“No, no, no, I can’t - I can’t stop it!” You nearly wail the words as you cum hard. Your body can’t shake the pleasure, you’re strapped down too securely. Bucking against the small bit of movement you have available to you, you lose control of everything for a moment. Your world goes fuzzy, an odd sound coming from you as your taut body fights against your need to scream from the intense pleasure.

Something gives, but you don’t have sense enough to be sure what it is.

“I knew I’d get you to squirt.” Marco says to himself. You’re too far gone to really hear him right now.

Pulling his fingers out of you, he shakes the excess away idly. There would be other times to indulge, right now he needed to check in on you. The hazy look in your eyes has him painfully hard, and he wipes the tears from your cheeks.

“Being restrained really gets to you, doesn’t it?” He muses, rubbing the space between your breasts with a couple fingers. The warmth seems to help you come back around, and you squirm in the binds as you look away from him. “You did nothing wrong.” He promises you, his idle hand shifting over your chest and brushing over your stiff nipple.

You sigh from the pleasure. You can feel his eyes on you and shift your gaze to look back at him.

“Everything you do is by my will while you’re on this table.” He explains, the professional tone in his voice muddling the lines between procedure and session. “So don’t bother fighting it.”

Simultaneously reassuring and terrifying. You weren’t responsible for anything your body did while you were strapped down to this table, but you weren’t in control of anything either. Your body wriggles at the idea of being here for a punishment, instead of a reward.

You hadn’t been punished as yet. A few tense moments here and there, a few rough learning sessions, but the last time you’d endured anything close to a punishment it was before you were married. When Marco had you bend over so he could swat your rear a couple times.

“Normally, I would either induce hysterical paroxysm a number of times until the patient calmed, or I would deny it for several hours.” He explains, leaning against the table casually to play with your nipples while he spoke. “Hysterical paroxysm, is a fancy way of saying female orgasm. There’s a misguided belief that women can’t orgasm, and that hysterical paroxysm only occurs in those with hysteria.

“Ah, but I digress. You’re not here for a medical lesson, or a cultural one, yoi.” His tone shifts. He applies more pressure to your stiff nipples until you moan. “At least thirty more minutes, doveling, you’re doing so good. However, this next action is not part of the process.”

Marco steps away from your side, standing between your legs again. You aren’t sure what he’s going to do until he gets down on his knees and you lose sight of him. Between the binds, and the brace your head is in, you can’t see much below your knees, and even then you can only see your knees because they’re up in the stirrups.

His hot breath is cold against your wet folds and you flinch from the sensation.

“Sweet bound bird,” he hums, his voice barely making it to your ears. “So sensitive like this.” His tongue licks up your slit and you moan. “I want to take my time learning all the things that you don’t even yet know you love. But at the same time I wish I already knew it all.”

Marco’s fingers slip between yours, holding your hands and restraining you even more as his tongue slips into your cunt. You moan and gasp, his tongue plunging in deep, lips pressing heavy into yours, his nose bullying against your clit. Your body tenses and shifts in the restraints that won’t let it move, fingers flexing against his.

The sound is killing you almost more than the actual sensation. Wet, messy, lewd, you can practically feel his tongue licking your entire body it sounds so sloppy between your thighs. The mewling sounds that leave your lips are a mix of pleasure and embarrassment and when you feel the inevitable build up his hands move. Letting go of your fingers his large hands engulf your breasts, kneading them for a moment before he begins to tease your nipples again.

The combination of sensation, added to the heighten state of being bound, is too much. The pleasure in your nipples is harsh, even if Marco’s touch is tender, the sharp zings of euphoria causing your breath to catch as they crackle through your body and down to your cunt. It’s not the same intensity as before, his tongue can’t go deep enough to mimic his long fingers, but it’s close.

“Nnnnnngh-no, no no no no,” you babble the word knowing it’s pointless right now, it’s not going to halt anything. You aren’t even sure you want it to, but you can feel what little control you thought you had slipping from you. “Please, gods,” your body tenses within the restraints, sweat breaking out on your brow as your fingers and toes flex.

“Oh god, oh god,” the repeated phrase bubbles past your tongue and drips off your neck. You didn’t realize how much freedom you had, pinned beneath Marco most nights. How much you could move even if you couldn’t escape his hold. How much you could shiver and shake off as overwhelming euphoria threatened to take you. Even though it hadn’t been an actual escape, right now you had so much less.

Sucking in a big breath in anticipation of the orgasm about to crash into you, for a split second you worry Marco means to deny you, his tongue abandoning your pussy. His fingers pinch your nipples roughly as his lips suck and suckle on your clit. The harsh shift in stimulation on the edge of the orgasm vaults you over the edge and you scream.

A mix of mostly pleasure, with surprise on the edges and pain prickling through the nervous shivering cry that follows. You know you squirted again, and this time it was all over the good doctor’s chest.

“Marco, please!” You cry out, shivering in the binds, pleasure snapping at your senses because he hasn’t stopped. His tongue and lips aren’t leaving your throbbing clit. His fingers aren’t being as harsh with your nipples, but he hasn’t released them, and the soft touch is torture. You’re so sensitive that each motion is like a needle jab, painful, but pleasurable.

Maddening.

“Please, I can’t take it, this is too much, too much, oh god, please, please, hnnnngh.” Your whine turns to something more like a growl as you clench your fists against the pleasure you can’t control. “D-Doctor Edward!” You cry out, and Marco finally relents.

His fingers leave your breasts, easing between your own fingers and easing the tension as he weaves his fingers between yours. He licks your inner thigh, hot and heavy and slow. It feels good, but it’s not the same harsh rush of earlier.

“Bear with me a moment longer,” he husks against your skin and you can feel him smile. “And soon I’ll bare with you.”

Marco holds your hands as he sets about the business of licking you clean. It feels good, and it’s relaxing. He’s taking his time, and isn’t trying to bring you to the brink again, so even when his tongue slips over your clit it’s brief. The heavy lap against your labia pushes into your folds but he doesn’t linger.

The tense, nervous whines that fell from your lips when he first started had become deeper, heavier sounds. A mix of relaxation and reluctant need. You were warm, dappled in sweat, twitching from the fading remnants of your latest orgasm, and squirming against the binds because you needed it again.

When did that happen, you wonder briefly. A need for something you weren’t even fully sure you liked. Something that made you nervous because you lost control to the pleasure, and despite your position and gender you had generally been in control. But not during that. Not during this.

Not with Marco.

He stands up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in nearly the same motion that he sheds the hospital jacket. Tossing it aside he steps closer, pressing the bulge of his pants against your wet slit while he begins to undo his vest’s buttons.

I want to break her. The thoughts race through Marco’s mind and he struggles to keep them contained. I want to fuck her until she froths at the mouth. Until there’s no scream or plea left that she has the energy to give me. I want to keep her strapped to this table for the rest of her life. The perfect cage for my perfect bird.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he nearly growls the words, tossing the last of his tops aside and baring his tattooed chest again. “You’ve ruined my shirt, and now my pants.” It’s amusement that lifts his voice, there’s no actual accusation being levied at you.

And yet you’re compelled to play along.

“M-my apologies, doctor.” The words are coated in coy lies, your hips shifting into his bulge.

“Look at you, getting into your role.” The weight of his words presses into you, but you don’t have time to consider them before his cock fills you in one swift motion.

Your breath catches.

There’s no pain, you’re dripping and Marco hadn’t left you any time to tense when he thrust in. The stretch is sudden and nearly enough to make you cry out, instead you tense in your binds, moaning deep in your chest.

“You made it the hour,” he says, already setting a decent pace, the weight of his thrusts shifting your tits since nothing else is free to move because of the table and the restraints. “But I’m not done rewarding you, pretty bird.”

“Please,” you sigh, shifting your hips as much as you can to meet one of his thrusts.

The wicked smile that slips across his lips doesn’t linger, replaced by something softer and more controlled. “Please what, sweet doveling? Ask for it the way I like, yoi.”

Heat rushes to your face and you close your eyes. There’s a sharp pain as Marco grips your nipples tightly.

“Look at me, yoi.” He commands, letting go of his harsh grip when you look at him.

“Please fuck me… doctor.”

Marco leans back, thumb against your clit as he braces himself with his other hand. “Who am I to deny you when you ask so sweetly.”

He shifts, slowing and roaming around inside you with his cock until your body tenses against your will. Your eyes meet and you can immediately feel tears welling up.

“Here,” Marco says the word flatly, but he rubs the tip of his cock in the same place his fingers had been at the start. “Mmm,” his tongue slips over his lips. “I could bully you right here and tease your clit and I bet you’d cum so hard you’d vomit.”

Tears slip down your cheeks quietly. You can’t beg him not to, you can’t beg him to do it. You don’t want him to, this is meant to be a reward and the idea of vomiting during an orgasm sounds absolutely horrid. But the look in his eyes is hungry in a way you know better than to deny.

Or encourage.

The feral hunger fades and he shifts again, returning to his previous motion and pace, brushing the sensitive places inside you without focusing on them. Letting the pleasure of his thumb against your clit, and the bindings holding you in place, do most of the work.

“Another time, sweet doveling. It would be rude of me to mess you up that much when it’s your reward.” He reassures you.

You can feel some part of you relax even as the building pleasure makes your toes flex and your legs tighten in a useless attempt to close. The tension in your thighs as you fail to close your legs sends a thrill right into your depths, and it makes the sensation of Marco’s cock feel even better.

You know it, in the back of your mind, that he’s going to mess you up so completely some day that they’ll be no going back. It won’t be you accepting his hunger and his depravity because of the contract. You’ll have your own hunger, and no one else will be able to sate it but him.

Maybe you need to try and leave before that. If you explained things to your parents they would be understanding. It would be a scandal, no matter how the news broke, and some part of you would rather bend to his appetites to avoid risking your family’s name. Marco was no fool and your word against his would leave your father in a tricky position, even with your family’s reputation and comparative longevity.

Marco provided for you, but he still paid you for your work at the sanatorium, leaving it to be separate from the house’s expenses. A few more projects and you could leave without involving your parents.

Your breath is hot, riding on the edges of shivered whimpers as Marco brings you close to the peak. Tears slip down your cheeks from the weight of it all. The pleasure, the bindings, the knowledge of how easily he could disregard all your wishes and leave you bound for the rest of your days.

The fear that you would come to truly love it. That he would corrupt you to your very bones.

Which would happen faster? Your descent, or your escape?

“There you go, yoi.” Marco hums, his voice dripping against your skin as he bullies that spot inside you now that you’re so close.

“Ha-nnnNNNGH!!!” The table shivers as your body pulls taut, shuddering so hard against the bindings that they’re sure to leave marks on your skin, despite being designed to avoid just that. You’ve never sworn in your life, but if you could even hope to speak you would be right now. The euphoric feeling scratches the edges of pain, your lungs ache from your inability to draw breath against the violence of the orgasm pulling at your muscles.

Marco shows you no mercy, fucking you through the pleasure, teasing your clit even as you feel the hot rush of his own orgasm fill you up. It isn’t until your body nearly gives out, too exhausted to maintain tension, too needy for air to revel in the euphoria. When you can finally breathe, shaky and desperate, he stops before you can begin to beg him for mercy.

It’s your reward, after all.

Chapter Text

There was little more than a soft groan rolling around in your ribs when you woke up the next day.

Everything ached. Everything. Your hips especially, but your back ached and your shoulders were stiff, and your arms were effectively goo.

Marco wasn’t in bed when you woke, but it was also late in the morning before you finally stirred, so that wasn’t surprising. He had stayed up and taken care of you, after he had nearly ruined you, washing your hair and body with a strong tenderness you generally only enjoyed from him in the afterglow of sex.

You even had your flimsy nightgown on, so he’d even gone through the trouble of getting it on you. Not that you could remember.

Light pours into the room as the curtains are opened, and Tate gives you a low whistle.

“Can you sit up?” She questions, coming over into your line of sight.

“I think so.” You answer groggily, grateful that she’s pulled the bedding aside for you. It takes some effort, but you get yourself sat upright.

“The Lord,” she says the title with some snark, but not malice, “asked that I give you his apologies for the state he’s left you in, but he had to go to the sanatorium. Today I have specific orders to ensure that you take it easy and recover.”

“I appreciate that,” you reply, mustering up the energy to stretch and relieve some of the ache in your back.

“Once you’re recovered we’re going to start the next step of your training.” She explains. “Some endurance to go with that flexibility.”

You can’t help the sigh that escapes with the tired laugh, your shoulders slumping in understanding. Of course your husband rewards you to the brink of exhaustion, and then his remedy is not that he shows restraint going forward, but that you better adapt to handling it.

There was little reason to argue the point, since there wasn’t anything he was asking that wouldn’t be of benefit to you overall. The more in shape you were, the easier it would be to do all things, not just last longer for your insatiable husband.

A couple days later you’re jogging through the gardens with Tate. She’s set a route for the two of you that keeps your jog private, and keeps the pace light. The point is to last longer, not reach the goal faster.

Once you’re done, Tate offers you some water. “The second part of this is for Marco to handle,” she explains, leading you through some easy stretches while the two of you cool down. “Since he didn’t tell me what he plans, I’m sure it’s nothing complicated. You should be used to following his lead by now, I imagine.”

Marco had spent the majority of the day at the sanatorium, returning just before dinner. It had become the common tempo of the day for the last few days since your intense session with the exam table. The only difference being that you were awake alongside him after the first morning, enjoying breakfast together before he left for the day.

Light conversation carried the meal through comfortably, and afterward you both relaxed quietly in the study. Marco caught up with the evening news, and you read the book you were currently working through. Neither of you said much while your meals settled, but he would occasionally share bits of news that were interesting, and you would occasionally share passages from your book.

In these moments you almost felt like a normal couple.

Afterward you got ready for bed, and weren’t surprised to see Marco, freshly clean as he always was before you began, in little more than a loose shirt and a pair of slacks.

“We’re going to continue your endurance training,” he explains. You move toward him and he pulls the thin nightgown off, setting it aside carefully. “You had the day to rest after your run with Tate, and after tonight you’ll be able to sleep, but I must demand that you inform Tate or I if you have any lingering discomfort.

“I want your stamina to improve, sweet dove, not cause irreparable damage.”

Marco disrobes completely, a rarity, and lays on his back on the bed. You aren’t sure what he means to do, since he just finished explaining that you would be working on your stamina. You expected intercourse, but he rarely lays on his back like this when it comes to that.

“You’re going to ride me.” He says, motioning you to come onto the bed. “Straddle me like you do when I’m sitting, I’ll help you stay steady.”

Marco reaches out and takes your hand as you move at his command. You aren’t entirely sure why you’re doing this, but following his instructions has become easier. Even when you’re confused by his meaning, you’ve learned to let him lead you.

“We’ll have you on your knees for now, and work up to a different position later,” he explains, stopping you in the middle of straddling him and slipping his fingers into your pussy. “You’ll be able to control taking me, but it’s still good to make sure you’re wet, nice and deep.”

Marco pushes his long fingers in deep when he says the word, making you tense and gasp.

“Being like this isn’t a complete waste.” He hums, smiling softly at you when you look down at him, face flushed, chest shivering from the embarrassed breaths escaping you.

He lets you line him up. You’re not used to being in control, but you can feel it in your legs, the muscles you’re using to hold yourself up as you position him and guide the tip of his cock into your wet pussy. Your lips part in a soft exhale, the heat in your cheeks curling your lips into your teeth, causing you to bite the tender flesh as the head of his length pushes inside you satisfyingly.

When Marco took you for the first time during your wedding night, he had done so with such care that the act of sex never felt like a burden. His appetite, and sometimes the activities tied in with it, could weigh on you, but the act itself was always pleasurable. He always took care to ensure you were ready for him, and recently there was a strange sense of relief when he filled you up.

Right now, with you in control of that sensation, it was even more pronounced. You weren’t overwhelmed by anything prior, you weren’t scared and new to things, you weren’t accepting what was being given. You were in control.

You work him in slowly, lost in the process, eyes closed, sighing and moaning softly, your fingers kneading into his torso subconsciously. Your hips roll at the first sensation of discomfort, adjusting the angle and settling onto him completely, your thighs resting against his hips. The satisfaction of being filled by him pulls a moan up from your chest.

Finally looking down at Marco you feel the blood rush to your face. His expression makes your heart skip a beat, something about it is almost scary. You’ve always felt like he was barely holding back, as though he was mustering every ounce of control he had to keep from pushing you too hard.

You could almost picture yourself strapped back down on that table, screaming for mercy because he wasn’t holding back anymore.

“It feels that good, hm?” He muses, holding onto your hands so you can’t cover your face. “Don’t revel in the pleasure too long, sweet dove.” Marco keeps hold of your hands, rubbing his thumbs against the backs of them to help calm you. “Use your legs and hips, and try to cum for me.”

It takes you a moment, trying to sort out how to move the way you need to, and Marco lets you lean into his hands as you shift and adjust. The hardest part of the ordeal was the lamp that was lit, and the fact that you couldn’t avoid his gaze.

Leaning forward as you settle back against him, you feel his body brush against your clit as his cock pushes in deep and your fingers tighten against his. Putting your weight into the support he silently offers, you hold that angle and start to work up a steady rhythm.

“There you go.” His voice is low and gentle. When you look at him from beneath hooded lids, his gaze is further down, watching you ride him. “Leaning into my help like this.” His tongue slips over his lips briefly before he looks up at you.

You feel your face get hotter when he doesn’t say anything more, just watches you as you ride him. Quietly enjoying the way you look, the soft moans that are growing louder as the pleasure builds between your thighs.

“Please,” you huff, wanting him to say something, but not knowing how to phrase it.

“Hm?” He prompts, rolling his hips up into you and making you moan louder. “You don’t need permission to cum, sweet doveling.”

“N-no, it… you ah!” You tense, your legs shivering and throwing off your pace for a second. “Talk.” You gasp, struggling to meet his gaze. “You always talk.”

“You like that?” He squeezes his grip on your hands. “My darling wife enjoys dirty talk? How delightful.” He hums the last word melodically, the devious joy dripping from each syllable.

“Maybe you enjoy saying it, even more than hearing it,” he prompts after a moment.

“N-no, no I-.”

“We won’t know if you don’t try, yoi.” He interrupts in an admonishing tone. “Tell me how it feels, riding my cock like a good girl.”

Your pace shudders and you press your lips together, trying to push down the sweet shiver his embarrassing words are causing you. The sensation makes your whole body tense so you know he’s well aware.

“It feels… good.” You barely manage the words, already knowing it won’t be enough.

“What feels good?” He prompts and you whimper. Struggling to speak he puts both your wrists in one of his hands and grips your face with the other.

The slight pressure isn’t something you’ll fight against, and you make sure to look at him. If you don’t he’ll just tell you to anyway, and the only thing he does this time is buck his hips.

“Don’t stop.” He commands and you start moving again, as best as you can in this new position. “I’ll help you, sweet doveling.” He says as you find your pace again. “Look at me, and say that it makes your pussy feel good to ride my cock.”

You shake your head even as you start to speak. “It… it makes my, my - my puh-pussy-hnngh!” You’re caught off guard by the rush of pleasure that slips through you when you say the word, and avert your eyes. Marco’s grip on your cheeks tightens in warning and you look back at him, tears in your eyes from the intensity of the situation.

“Riding your cock, makes- makes my p-pussy feel good,” you gasp, desperate to get the words out this time.

“There’s my good, little,” Marco’s hand shifts as he speaks and he presses two fingers into your mouth. “Whore.”

You start to shake your head in protest and Marco grabs the back of it, releasing your hands. He holds your head in place as he pushes his fingers deeper.

“Don’t stop,” he reminds you again. “I’m going to let you gag on my fingers until you cum, so focus on that. You’re mine, yoi. My wife, my companion, my partner, and my whore.” He asserts, pushing three fingers down your throat as you scramble to bring yourself to climax.

You manage to not gag on his fingers, silently grateful for all the training Tate helped you with. You grind your clit against him, steadying yourself by holding onto his arms, and doing your best to ride him the way he instructed. You can feel drool slipping down your chin from his fingers, dripping with the tears slipping down your cheeks onto your chest.

“My sweet doveling is doing her best, isn’t she?” He muses, starting to match your pace.

The help is what you needed, and you can feel yourself starting to peak. Marco pulls his fingers out of your mouth, smearing saliva all over your face.

“Say it, when you cum,” he commands, his fingers lightly teasing your nipples. His arms are still supporting you, but you’re too addled with the stimulation to think much of it.

Your legs start to shiver as you wonder if you would be able to keep moving when you start orgasming - if maybe he had started to help because he knew.

“I’m kuh-cumming!” You cry out as the inevitable pleasure begins to flood your senses. “Th-thank you!” You nearly scream the words as the orgasm tightens your entire body. Marco keeps going, pulling harried cries from you with each thrust making the pleasure spike even more than before.

He often kept going through your orgasms like this, but you hadn’t expected it from this position. His hands move to your hips and he snaps up into you harshly, pushing you down onto his body in the same motion until you feel him throb and empty inside you.

His release makes your body tense again, pulling a soft whimpered moan from your tired lips causing Marco’s fingers flex against your skin.

“See? My sweet dove is such a good whore for me, she even finds pleasure in my release, yoi.” He muses, pulling you up and off his cock, kissing you before you can say anything. His hands grip your ass, squeezing your cheeks until you moan against his tongue.

“You did well, my dove.” He says the words softly, tenderly, even as his hands move over your body, pulling you in for another kiss. “How are your legs?”

“They ache,” you murmur as he lets you lay against his chest. “But they don’t hurt.”

“Good. I’ll get you cleaned up, and tomorrow if you need to end your job with Tate early, let her know. I won’t be angry.” He assures you.

Marco lets you lay like that on him for a few minutes, moving to clean you up only after you started to doze off. Your jogging with Tate went well, and then another round of riding your husband again that night. The process repeated itself for a couple weeks before he had you change your position.

Straddling him while staying on your feet, your knees nearly by your elbows as you steadied yourself with your hands on his chest, was much more difficult. Before you had been able to use your hips and your torso more, but now almost all the weight of the movement was being put on your legs.

The first time you came in that position you collapsed onto Marco, because your legs were tired and shaking so much you couldn’t stay upright. He caught you, didn’t berate you, and took care of you afterward.

The next day your legs were still a little sore, but you had decided to jog with Tate anyway. You don’t know what compelled you to push yourself. If it was your own foolish pride, or if you felt you would let Marco down otherwise, but the reason didn’t matter.

The result was that you had pulled your hamstring so bad you were lucky it hadn’t torn.

“There’s not much to be done except ice it and stay off it.” Marco says, his tone completely business as he stands at your bedside. You’re laying on your stomach, as you had been most of the day, so he could examine the back of your thigh.

Tate had to call Colscon to come help her carry you back inside, and she had you ice it immediately. You’d been stuck in bed since, with Tate putting ice on your leg and taking it away at regular intervals. It was embarrassing enough that you had been injured, but spending most of the day face down in bed, with your skirts pulled up enough she could put ice where it was needed made it worse.

She had let you read, but wouldn’t let you get up and limp around, pointing out that Marco would have her head if your injury was made worse before he even got home to look at it.

After Marco’s diagnosis you start to roll back over, knowing your time with the ice on the back of your leg was done, but he stops you.

“Stay like that.” He says, an edge in his voice that has nothing to do with his usual doctor tone. Your stomach twists at the sound but you don’t dare disobey.

“I was, I thought, quite clear that I did not want you to injure yourself.” He states, flipping your skirts all the way up and exposing your ass. Once you had started this most recent training you had done away with most of your undergarments.

Or rather Marco had deemed them no longer necessary. You wore only what you needed to appear proper.

“You were,” you say quietly.

“And yet, here we are.” He grabs your ass, squeezing the meat between his fingers. He’s so much taller than you that his hand grabs the entire cheek.

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Perhaps, but you didn’t inform Miss Tate that your nightly routine had changed, nor did you tell her your legs were still sore until after the fact.” He says, his tone and words making your stomach knot even worse for a breath. “I was going to punish you until you had two reasons to lay on your stomach.”

Marco squeezes your ass again, and you shiver thinking about how much it had hurt to take the switch, and he hadn’t been as upset as he was right now.

“However, the bruises would take even longer to heal, and I’m not that patient.” He admits, moving you. You don’t struggle against him, letting him put you on your back on the bed and turn you until you’re head is almost falling off the mattress.

“I’m going to fuck your mouth.” He says sternly, undoing his belt. “Your injury means you can’t cum, since your sweet body tenses and thrashes so easily, but there’s no reason for me to suffer with you.”

“Especially when it was your own fault, yoi.” He insists, leaving you no room to argue.

“I can do it.” You offer up, trying not to let the dread of this event cause you to panic. “I will bring - I’ll s-suck your cock, husband, please. It’s my fault, I can still bring you pleasure.”

“Servicing me is not a punishment.” He says, rubbing your cheek with his hand. There’s a pause and his eyes narrow dangerously.

“It’s not, it’s not!” You agree in a panic.

“Precisely, and my sweet doveling needs punished so that she doesn’t foolishly injure herself again.” He asserts. “Open your mouth, and don’t deny me, or I’ll make it worse for you, yoi.”

Gripping the sheets you open your mouth, trying to relax despite the knot in your stomach, knowing that it’ll make the ordeal easier. He eases his tip into your mouth the first time, wetting his shaft before he pushes in deeper. When you feel him get most of the way in you hum, but that was a mistake.

Marco pulls out of your mouth and slaps you across the cheek, turning your head aside from the smack. You’re too surprised by the action to react, the sting in your cheek shorting your brain. A dull throb follows in behind it and you breathe in, catching up with all of it.

Marco turns your face back where he needs it and pushes his cock into your mouth. It’s worse now because of the ache in your cheek.

“You do not get to mitigate your punishments.” He clarifies just before he shoves his entire length down your throat. His hand on your throat holds you steady as he stays that way for a few long seconds. He’s so deep and you’re on your back, you can’t help gagging but he doesn’t let up until you release your grip on the bedding.

Marco gives you space to cough and catch your breath, leaning over you and threading his fingers through yours.

“Maybe the next time I do this, it’ll be a reward, and I’ll eat your sweet pussy out while you suck on my tip,” he muses before lining back up with your mouth. “Have to use the gag for that, so you don’t accidentally bite down, yoi.”

The hold he has on your hands would almost be loving, if he wasn’t thrusting his cock down your throat without mercy. Tears and snot from gagging every time he hilts makes it hard to breathe, and drool drips down your face as his balls keep smacking you in the face.

Of all the things you had endured so far you already hated this the most. You would’ve preferred the switch to this, especially since you had healed surprisingly fast afterward the last time.

Your jaw was throbbing, your eyes stung from tears and your lungs burned from the harsh treatment. He always seemed to let up just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, and continued just as you recovered. It was probably only a few short moments, but it felt so much longer.

The only mercy is that he cums so far down your throat you can’t do anything but swallow it. He stays hilted, grinding into your face for a few seconds, reveling in the pleasure of your throat spasming against him, before he finally pulls away.

Marco helps you roll over, steadying you as you’re coughing and gasping for air, blinded by the drool, snot and tears caked on your face from the rough ordeal. He cleans your face only minimally before kissing your lips, and you lean into the affectionate act, trembling even as he pulls you into his lap.

“There’s my good girl,” he says soothingly, stealing another kiss before he cleans up your face more. “You take your punishments so well, I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you,” you sniffle, leaning into the warmth Marco offers. You can feel your aches melting away again and you don’t care why, only that it feels better when you sink into him. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize more,” he says, petting your hair and rocking softly with you. “You faced your punishment and learned your lesson, let’s not dwell on it.” He kisses the top of your head, sitting there with you quietly for a moment before he adjusts his hold on you and carries you into the bathroom to get cleaned up.

Marco’s hands wander while he cleans you, reminding you not to cum or tense even as his soapy fingers tease your breasts and ass. The warm kisses he presses into your skin soothe the small aches you feel while squirming from his attention, and by the end of the bath you’re clean and relaxed.

The redness in your cheek is barely visible by the time you’re having dinner together, and gone entirely by the next day. For all his faults, you do appreciate that as much as the slap had stung, the damage had been minimal. There was another project on the horizon, though Marco didn’t want to get into the details until after a charity event that was going to be held next week, and you were looking forward to it.

It would be the first project you ever had that would put you on your own almost completely. You’d still have an escort, probably Colscon or Tate, but before you married Marco, any work you did while living with your father was done at home, and your job for Marco was effectively under his supervision, even though he left you on your own. This would be the first time you had no familial support of any kind.

You were looking forward to the experience.