“Good. Breathe,” he commands again, and the second I do, he thrusts forward all the way until his groin is cupping my ass.
I scream. I yowl and squeal like a pig. Pain, and ache, mixed together, so overwhelming that words fail me. So big. It’s breaking me apart. My legs are trembling like leaves and my breath studders. The tie around my bun pulls tight and a couple of hairs are ripped out.
I distinctly feel Colton’s gut pressing up to my buttocks and lower back, and I remember, endlessly embarrassed, that phase in my past in which I searched for a very certain genre of porn on the internet.
“Good.” Colton shoves and pokes his pelvis forward and around, moves his cock inside of me. Stirs me. Twitches his cock. My sore muscles squeeze him helplessly. “Very good. You’re taking it. You will always take it, won’t you? That’s why my son has chosen you.”
“Aaahn! Yes, Sir!” I sob, and then sob some more when he pulls out again slowly, slowly, letting me feel the friction of every single inch, causing all of my muscles to flutter.
And then he rams back in.
Again I squeal and blare like an animal.
And glacially pulls back out.
Again I sob.
In — I scream — seemingly deeper every time, enjoying the feeling of my rectum surrounding him.
Out — I snivel — pulling back out with excruciating patience.
He continues this for a long, long time, quoting scripture at me, delineating the future that is ahead, or describing in detail how my ass feels on his dick.
I take it. I always will.
When he finally speeds up slightly and his thrusts become shallower, a wave of feverish heat breaks inside of me, and I get the horrid feeling that I have missed an orgasm. My lower belly is filled with lava that has nowhere to spill, and Colton’s rod is stoking and stirring it.
Of course, he notices. It’s in the way I clinch around him, in the different sound and cadence of my moans or even in my silence.
“Once you’re married, your husband could technically provide you with climaxes, but… I believe, Dylan and I will enjoy dissuading your little cunt from orgasming while we hammer your asshole. Teaching it its place. Keeping you nicely drippy and desperate,” he assures me. He is slightly out of breath. “This time, it was numbing cream. There are plenty of other options.”
Again, I believe him. I am still wailing a soft “no” when he finally spills, pulsing and jerking, in my ass. His seed is so warm.
To get me to wring the last of his jizz from him, he wraps a hand around my throat and squeezes. Instinctually panicking, my entire body tenses up, all muscles and orifices squeezing in reply. The added pressure on his cock earns me a “good girl” and a satisfied growl, and he lets go of my neck again. I gulp air.
When he pulls out, my sphincter spasms.
His cock is replaced by a bulbous plug that barely meets any resistance as it slides home but still makes me shudder. It’s cold and unyielding. My muscles suck it in. The obscene feeling gives me goosebumps all over and makes my stomach somersault.
“To keep my cum inside for a bit.” He claps a heavy palm on my already tender ass, then leans down to my ear again. “We’ll wait until the cream’s effect has worn off entirely. Then, when I pull the plug, you’ll be able to feel my cum trickle down your whore cunt. That way, you’ll know what to look forward to in your future.”
I close my eyes and feel a thick blob of pussy juice slide down my leg.
***
“Oh Lizzie, you look so wonderful!” my mother says for the nth time and apparently can’t help touching the soft, sleek fabric of my wedding gown, or my upper arm. She seems a little sad and emotional, and also overly happy and excited. Her eyes are shiny. So are my dad’s, but he prefers not to talk at all, and to look around instead of at me. Probably to hide just those shiny eyes.
To be fair, there is much to look at. The wedding takes place in the back garden of the Keene estate. There’s a string quartet playing classical music in the shade of a tree, a medium-sized tent that houses a rich buffet, a bigger tent that provides shade, seating and round tables to the guests, and the small chinoiserie-style pavilion where Dylan and I will soon exchange promises, rings, and kisses. Everything is decorated tastefully. The guests — most of them from Dylan’s side, naturally — are all radiant in the sunlight.
In comparison to them, I feel like a sweaty, red-faced mess. I would bet that very few of them are clenching a spiked vibrator with their vaginal muscles.
Dylan has personally put it there the last time I went to the bathroom. Under the guise of ‘helping me with the dress’, he accompanied me, watched me do my business, patted me clean with a wet wipe, and then bade me pull up my skirt all the way to my waist.
The plug looks like a stylized fish, but it feels more like a miniature fir tree made of hard rubber, all prickly and uncomfortable, and it’s writhing like an eel, making it entirely impossible to ignore. Dylan affixed the battery pack to my garter, then told me that he’d forgo lube tonight, should I ever drop the toy.
And then he kissed me until my knees got weak, pulled the cups of my wedding gown’s bodice down to squeeze my nipples hard, slapped my ass, and led me back out to the party.