She had no choice but to be nice to you at dinner, don’t you see? The servants were there.
You have been too nasty to her for too long. Her opinion of you is set in stone. It’s too late to change anything. No point trying anymore. Just fuck her as much as you want—that’s all you can salvage from this marriage.
And then, from the din in my head emerges a tiny, diffident voice. Have you considered that perhaps she is even more frightened than you are? You have always been more fiendish to her whenever you’ve been more fearful that she would slip from your grasp. Think of how she must feel, especially if she feels a thawing in her heart. It would be terrifying for her, the thought of ever trusting you.
I don't know which voice to listen to, so I stuff a few sashes and two other items into my pockets and return to her room.
She is sitting before the vanity, brushing her glorious hair, her expression a strange, empty one. Without further ado, I approach her and tie the blindfold securely. Then I take the hairbrush from her hand and draw it through her hair, something I’ve always wanted to do.
But not like this, with enough turmoil in my head to make me cross-eyed.
“And you will be quiet this time, won’t you?” she asks, as if in afterthought.
I set down the brush with a thump. She recoils just perceptibly. I lift her hair aside and bite her nape, causing her to suck in a sharp breath.
I inhale deeply, trying to control myself.
She does not wear perfumes. Occasionally I think of her as scented like orange blossoms, because she has worn them in her hair on more than one occasion, usually when she serves as a bridesmaid. Tonight she does not smell of orange blossoms, but of the second bath she must have taken, its water fragranced again with lavender and peppermint leaves.
I pull her to her feet and lift her nightgown over her head. The expression on her face—I cannot tell whether it is fear or arousal.
Does it make any difference?
I lead her to the bed, place her on her stomach, and bind her wrists to separate slats in the headboard. For the first time, she tugs at the sashes, testing their strength—testing the strength of my will, in truth. Her taut, firm bottom flexes with her motions. My cock comes alive, even though my heart feels dead.
I kiss her from the soles of her feet to her slender calves. She squirms when I make love to the backs of her knees, emitting little whimpers. And squirms again when I nibble where her thighs join her buttocks. My kisses march upward, to the indentation of her waist, her slender back, her nape, where I first started, and I bite her again, knowing she is not finished with me, that she is only biding her time to unleash a new assault upon me.
She shivers.
Her face is turned to the side. I kiss her on her cool, unresisting mouth, then make my way back south. This time, when I reach her bottom, I place my hand underneath and lift her to her knees.
She hisses at being hoisted into such a carnal position. The sight of her perfectly round bottom canted high in the air, her lovely cunt nakedly displayed—I close my fists so I won’t grab her like an animal. But I cannot stop myself from touching her altogether: My fingers are already spreading open her folds, dipping into the first moist beads of her arousal.
“Darling,” she murmurs.
I freeze.
“Don’t stop, darling. I’ve missed you so,” she continues, her voice dulcet as honey. “And I’m so glad it’s you and not that despicable husband of mine.”
That despicable husband of hers, despite knowing what is coming, finds himself paralyzed, unable to either speak or move.
“Don’t be shy, darling. Do that trick you do that I love so much, that makes me scream like a banshee.”
My heart pounding, I get off the bed and force myself to count to ten. Then I remember that I have not come unprepared. That, in fact, I have come perfectly prepared.
I take out the glass dildo from my pocket. It is small, no longer and no thicker than my index finger.
I look back at her. As if sensing my gaze on her, she speaks again. “I let him fuck me—I have no choice. And he fucks me relentlessly. But when I am alone, I wash off all traces of him and think of you. I imagine your fingers spreading my cunt, your tongue licking me in my favorite place, and your cock penetrating me to rapturous depths.”
Dear God, she is good. I open the vial of oil I’ve brought along and lubricate the dildo, my hands trembling only slightly. Then I tip the vial over her bottom and let a small stream fall into the crack.
She lets out a small yelp of surprise. “Of course you would. You have always been endlessly inventive.”
I massage her rosebud.
“Yes, exactly.” Her words are now breathy moans, but she has never been one to give up. “I remember the last time you did this, I—”