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You’d barely had enough time to process the events of the past hour. The wedding ritual was over. Your soul, pawned off to the cult of Mr. Le Bail. Your sister, slaughtering the goat herself and bathing in its blood. The gears of Le Bail’s mechanical clock clicked into place, and a low horn filled the room while your new groom - your second husband this week, whom you’d met for the first time only earlier today - flaunted the large, golden signet on his left ring finger upon the room of velvet-robed sycophants now under his control. You thought this was the only way it would all really be over. Give in to Mr. Le Bail, and everyone survives.
Marry Titus, and you’d have the world. But you weren’t quite sure what being married to Titus would entail, and what that would mean for you tonight. He walked you not to his personal room in the lodge, but back to the bedroom where he had you prepare for the wedding - where, mere hours ago, you watched him snap the neck of his twin sister right in front of you. He shut the door behind him and approached you. You were uncertain of what would happen next.
“Get on your knees,” Titus growls, grabbing at his collar, loosening his scarf. “Don’t make me ask you again. You’ve already been doing so well tonight.”
You gather the layers of chiffon and tulle draped around your legs, creating enough room for your knees to more easily meet the floor. You crouch down to all fours to adjust yourself, but as you try to sit upright, the weight of Titus’ leather shoe presses against the small of your back. The surprise makes you let out a soft gasp.
“Actually, stay right there,” he purrs. “From now on, you do exactly what I tell you to do. Do you know why? Because now you’re fucking mine. Do you understand?”
You nod softly, keeping your head down. The crown starts to feel heavier on your head, your veil falling back over your face. “I understand,” you manage to reply.
“Tell me you’ll do exactly what I say.”
“I’ll do exactly as you say,” you repeat, now feeling the lightness of your back after he finally takes his foot off it. You knew the price of your survival. If you were going to have to learn to live with Titus forever, it was best for you to know exactly what you were getting into. You start to feel his hands grab the crown and rip it, along with the headpiece, off your head. He bends down to meet your face and uses his fingers to tip your uncertain gaze upon his domineering glare.
Titus cocks his head to the side, almost as if he was admiring your appearance. “So beautiful. I’m going to have so much fun with you tonight.”
You can hear the rapid unbuckling of his belt with his absent hand, the shuffling open of his fly, the lowering of his trousers to fully expose himself to you. You watch Titus begin to stroke himself and walk across the room, having a seat on the armchair with the lower half of his outfit now gathered around his ankles.
“I want you to crawl to me on your hands and knees,” Titus says, the mound between his legs beginning to perk up in his hands. “Come here and beg to suck my cock.”
His voice drops by a register on the last word, the bass of it sounding almost like a deep growl. Hearing him say those last three words starts to change something within you. For the first time tonight, you feel a shift in the circuitry of your body, like a sudden surge of heat throughout your entire nervous system. The thought of you choosing to be subservient to this man, after he’d spent most of the day in a murderous hunt for your blood, it should make you sick. And yet you knew, you know, that there was also a part of you that was done fighting.
Tonight, and perhaps from now on, you find yourself ready to submit. You don’t even bother to ask about a safe word, knowing what you know about how this man moves. You’re smart enough to realize that when it comes to Titus Danforth, there was no such thing as a fucking safe word.
You start to crawl toward him, which proves more difficult than expected while still wearing the bulk of your wedding gown, the layers of fabric crumpling in the space between your knees and the floor. But eventually, your hands make their way to Titus’ exposed knees, to his warming, exposed thighs. He moves his hands from his now-hard shaft and plants them forcefully on top of yours.
“Keep your eyes on me now,” you hear him say next. Every rasp in his tone sends a chilling tickle across the tiny hairs on your skin. You look up at Titus, his face slightly obscured against the lamp resembling a halo on this demon of a man.
You realize that you are now kneeling at the altar of Titus Danforth, your husband, your master, your owner, whose seated stature now looms over you while your face is inches away from his throbbing shaft. “Please, Titus,” you start to plead. “I beg you to let me suck your cock.”
He smirks, his eyes filled with a devilish idea. “Hm… you know what? Actually, I want you… to confess. Confess to me like I’m the fucking pope. Maybe then I’ll give you what you want.”
You tilt back a little, almost in awe. All day this man has scared the living shit out of you, and yet now, in this moment, you are starting to feel your own body seem to come alive.
“I confess,” you begin, biting your lip and leaning back forward, “to killing my last set of in-laws, eliminating entire family lineages, and choosing power with you over a righteous life.”
Your lips are so close to his cock as you speak. You can feel it with the hiss of your breath.
He leans closer to your face. “And how do you feel about choosing Satan?”
“I…” you keep your breath right on his shaft, your lips still not quite touching it. “...fucking… love… it.” You pause, smirking back at him now, and purse your lips. “Now will you please… let me… suck… your cock.” You watch it twitch. It’s dancing for you.
“Open your mouth,” Titus says, so you do as he asks, feeling the gradual relaxation in your body as you feel yourself continuing to give in. He places one hand around your head and forcefully pushes your face up closer to him. You watch him lick his lips, gathering a wad in his mouth before spitting it onto your throat. You swallow it like a reflex and open your mouth again, now sticking your tongue out. He takes this cue to tighten his grip on your hair before he pushes your face onto the length of his throbbing, hungry cock.
It feels so full in your mouth, so you relax the muscles at the back of your throat to better fit all of him. The girth of Titus’ cock stretches out your cheeks as he guides your head on and off it, so much that your eyes quickly well with tears. You try to moan, but your voice only registers in muffled, choked groans as you feel your eyes close.
Titus tugs at your hair again, angling your gaze back up toward him, the fullness of him still inside your mouth. “I said to keep your fucking eyes on me,” he hissed. “Like the good fucking slut you are.”
So you tilt your eyes toward him, even while your vision starts to blur. You can’t see for yourself but you can always tell when your eyes are bloodshot. Titus starts actively pumping into your mouth, such that you can now just barely breathe through your nose. You can taste Titus’ precum swirling with your saliva around your tongue.
“Oh fuck,” you hear him moan. “Oh you’re so fucking perfect. My perfect little slut.”
Titus finally pulls you off him, though he hasn’t come yet. You catch a glimpse of your reflection on the glass of a nearby bookcase, confirming the state of yourself. Your eyes are bulging, eyeliner and tears and sweat and mascara commingling with the smeared lipstick around your gaping mouth that could finally breathe again.
Titus notices you looking at yourself and stares at you mockingly through your shared reflection, licking his lips. “See how much better you look this way?” he teases. He pushes you off him and stands from the armchair, now towering over you, asserting his dominance. He tightens his jaw then smirks again, watching the drool dip from your lower jaw onto your collarbone and through the plunging neckline of your dress.
Sitting on yourself, your mind blanking out, your body the only source of any sort of feeling now, you feel another shudder between your legs. You roll your eyes involuntarily, then you watch Titus kick off his pants and walk over to the mantle where he had earlier murdered his twin sister, his cock still hard from fucking your face. In your delirium you can barely react as Titus comes up behind you holding a small knife. You can feel yourself dripping and shuddering at the smooth, cold metal teasing your skin, which he uses to snap the stitches connecting the buttons to your dress, just enough for him to more easily rip the fabric off you and peel your naked body off your matrimonial shroud.
“Stand now,” Titus commanded, so you follow weakly. His skin is just barely on yours now, the tip of his erect cock grazing at the side of your hip. His hand holding the knife begins to trace the outline of your silhouette, along the side of your neck, to your shoulder and down your arm, then across your chest. He keeps his other hand gently pressed against your inner thigh, playing with the delicate fabric that served as the final article of clothing on your body, when he finally feels the result of the sensation you’d felt earlier.
“Oh, what do we have here?” he raises his hand in front of your face to reveal the slick wet film covering his knuckles. “Has my little slut been cumming this whole time? I didn’t say you could make a mess all over me.”
You can’t tell if you’re in trouble or not. You’re just waiting, now, for the next set of instructions.
“Why don’t you clean that up? Stick your tongue out.” He presses his now-moist hand upon your mouth and glides the back on his mouth along your still tongue, making you taste yourself. “Very good. You need to get on the bed now. Face down. Hips up.”
You step toward the bed slowly; he pushes you down so your upper body is now bent over, planted face first on the mattress.
You don’t see Titus when he enters you from behind, but the feeling of him inside you makes you cum immediately. Your legs are still on the floor, though less firmly and shaking now. Your feet start to tiptoe and you want to collapse but he keeps going, pounding into your already quaking cunt. His thrusts are fast, deep, and have a heaviness to them. You can feel your insides expanding to accommodate him.
He pauses to admire your soaked, aching pussy and licks along the outline of your cunt, and then across the entire surface of it. Then he stands back up and continues to fuck you again.
“You like when I fuck you raw like this, hmm?” Titus growls. You can barely think, let alone muster a three-letter word of agreement. “Perfect wife, with a perfect pussy, getting slut fucked like a dirty whore? Turn around.”
He flips you over and makes you lay further back on the bed, far enough so he could get on top of you. “Eyes on me,” he says again, his chest now fully on your bare, bouncing tits, “...your fucking eyes on me. Look at me when I cum.”
After a few moments of him continuing to fuck you like that, the heft of his manhood hammering into your guts into unconsciousness, you feel him pull out and he shuffles upward toward your body.
“Open your fucking mouth,” he tells you again, and you welcome his warm, thick cum into your hungry mouth. You swallow it all because you’re such a “good fucking girl,” as he continues to praise you now. “Hail—fucking—Satan.”
Titus rolled over, lying next to you on the bed.
“Hail Satan,” you repeat drunkenly, almost smiling.
“Now get the fuck on top of me. I want to cum again—inside you, this time.”
You were such a used mess already that hearing him say that makes you kind of confused, but you were already so out of your own mind that you have nothing else to do but oblige.
The task proves more challenging as your knees are now weak from being on them for so long, not to mention the physically taxing events of the day. Still, you straddle him and rub the tip of his shaft toward your still pulsating clit, then lower yourself onto him. When Titus puts one hand around your neck you remember to affix your gaze directly upon him. His glare holds firm; you can’t tell if he enjoys the sight of you fucking him, or if he just wants to watch you struggle, or maybe a sadistic mix of both.
“Yeah, ah fuck yeah,” he moans. “You’re gonna make me cum again like that.”
You’re moaning again now, feeling him thrust his hips to get deeper into you. A line of spit drips slowly from your mouth, its trail tapering until the most of it reaches his.
The two of you share a final orgasm, longer than before, now feeling more like intimacy than a torment. You feel Titus shooting his cum inside you now, and it makes you feel… peaceful. Like you may actually be able to get used to this kind of life. After the week you’ve had, this is bliss.
No words are exchanged when Titus shuffles to get out from under you, stands over you beside the bed, and watches you writhe and roll in the aftermath. Still naked, and without grabbing his clothes, he walks out the door and closes it shut. You tuck yourself under the comforter, curl up into a fetal position, closing your eyes with a smirk, looking forward to tomorrow.