“That is your fault, little whore,” he murmured. “I am thinking about what I shall do to your bottom now.”
“What is that, My Lord?” I asked, though I was certain I knew. At last I was going to be made to undergo what Sir Odo had done to Lady Agnes.
“My staff of Cupid shall enter at your postern gate, My Lady.” He put the tip of his finger there, then, in case I should miss his meaning.
“Oh, My Lord, no!” I exclaimed. “It is far too big. You will do me mischief!”
“I shall not, my sweet countess, but in any case you must make up your mind to it, for you shall not avoid it. I shall have my rights as your lord, this night.”
Strange to write, and perhaps also strange to read, Robert and I were at play. I cannot deny that ever since I had seen Lady Agnes taken that way by Sir Odo, I had imagined the count of Gassein doing the same to me. But from that day I had also known that the reason I longed for it to such distraction was that it was wicked and whorish and against the decrees of nature. I wanted to have my lord’s manhood there because I knew that I was a wicked girl, and if my lord possessed me that way, it would show that he understood me and what I deserved.
Robert got out of the bed. “Lie over the side of the bed, now, Sophia,” he said, “your feet upon the floor.” As I obeyed, he put two more logs on the fire, since it had burned down and the air in the chamber had begun to cool.
He returned from the hearth to find me laid out for him as an obedient whore should be laid out for her master, my feet on the floor, my elbows on the coverlet, my backside presented to my lord husband. I understood now: I wanted to be forced; that was what our play was about. Only if I felt that this baron of the Duke of Normandy and king of England had somehow taken me as the spoils of his victory—only if I knew that he had seen at a glance what kind of girl I was, how I deserved to have his hard manhood in my most wicked place—only if as a conqueror he demanded it of me, forced it upon me—only then would it be the act that made the wantonness of my loins burn hotter than the fires of hell.
He stood by me and laid his right hand possessively upon my bottom. When he spoke, his voice had changed. “This will be hard for you, I know, slut, but if you are obedient and let me take my pleasure as I like, I promise to reward you.”
Then, without warning, he began to prepare me. I felt his hand leave my bottom and then suddenly return with a spank hard enough to make me cry out.
“What kind of lady wife lays herself over the side of her bridal bed to feel her lord husband’s staff inside her hind part?” he asked brutally, continuing to spank me. “One who needs punishment, I should think.”
“Yes, My Lord,” I cried. I felt my secret cleft begin to grow wet once again at the sting of his hand and at the thought of myself with my reddening bottom, the whore he had claimed.
The spanking stopped, and I felt my face grow hot as he peremptorily thrust his fingers into my little grotto, where my maidenhead had been until such a short time ago. He was rough there, and that made me feel more wicked, and the flow of Venus’ sap grew ever greater.
“Just a little ride in your cunt, now,” he said. “I cannot resist.” I moaned as he entered there again, holding my hips firmly enough to make me feel that I was at his pleasure and could not escape the dart and the possession. He possessed me slowly, and the feeling was heavenly both in the motion of his manly part within me and in the way he mastered me, riding me like a young refractory filly might be ridden.
Then, not ceasing his motions, with the thumb of his right hand, he sought out Cupid’s postern gate, and the burning feeling of being forced there made me shout in surprise and discomfort. “Open up, little whore, my little countess,” he said. “Push out. Open, as you know how.”
I screamed then, as his left thumb joined his right, and his other fingers grasped my little cheeks.
“Oh, but this is a delightful bottom, my lady. I wish you could see how primly it receives its training.” He worked me in silence, still moving his manhood inside my womb slowly and gently. The pain began to change, and I began to understand how to open, and then his motions stopped, and suddenly there was something soft and round there, wider even than the thumbs. It was pushing, harder and harder.
“Oh, My Lord,” I cried. “It is too big.”
“Hush, Sophia. Open to me.”
I screamed, “I cannot, My Lord!”
For a long, long moment, I was sure I had made a terrible mistake and the thing I had wanted most was indeed my ruin: the pain in my bottom was simply a precursor to the pain of the fiery torments that would await me one day.
Robert did not care that I was screaming; my count loved to make me feel the pain that he was pleased to bestow upon me. I was his, and he would do as he might. That thought at last let me open, and I heard my lord groan as he came at last inside me where he belonged. There he stayed for a time, praising me as he caressed the bottom he had ridden, calling me his “sweet girl” and his “little slut”.
Then he began his ride. Long was his labor there, and loud were my cries. His hands roamed up and down my back as he rode; he took my hair and twisted it into a kind of reins for me and made me arch my back as he drove in deeper and deeper, and I was both his steed and his whore for a time.
Then he let me rest my face upon the bed and whispered in my ear, “Touch your little cunt, my girl.”
With a sob, I put my right hand under me and felt myself climbing to the angels; the whole region between my hips and my knees seemed to glow, and the sinews there moved in clenchings and unclenchings of their own accord, and my lord gave a mighty shout. He buried himself deep within me and took hold of my hips as if he were wrestling with a demon and loosed himself into my narrow passage, calling me by name the while, “Sophia, my Sophia, my bride, my own.”
And then all was still.
