New England Bride

Tighter and tighter it coiled, this sensation within me, until I felt I would scream in frustration if I could not be delivered from it. My husband, a heavy coating of perspiration now glistening upon his hairy flesh, began to tremble, to shake before me as his member swelled to even greater proportions. Then, with a loud groan he shuddered and I felt myself flooded with heat, the molten effluent of his ministrations as it filled my body. A few more lunges, slower now and deliberate, and he slumped atop my flushed and unrequited form.

I lay stunned. Was there no more? Was the fire that had begun to consume me to find no release in this bed? In reticence I remembered the mad pulsating rush that had accompanied his touch before our nuptials. Perhaps that was just an aberration, the wanton response of this whore's body that held me captive. I must control my emotions, I cautioned myself. This nocturnal pastime is a man's pleasure, not a woman's…and certainly not a lady's. Once more my mother's words filled my mind. I must be prepared to give to my husband that which is rightfully his, and without hesitation.

But…what about me?

Chapter Four

The next morning my husband stripped the bloody sheet from our marriage bed and hung it from the open window for all to see that my deflowering was complete and the union had been resoundingly consummated. I was mortified, but my husband proudly waved to his minions, then returned to his bed to levy an encore upon my sore and aching body.

This time, however, possibly in an effort to spare the naked mattress a soaking, he forced me to my knees beside the bed, my naked derriere exposed for purposes. Then, taking his pleasure as a dog is wont to do, he forced his knob into my slit, penetrating deeply with brutally painful lunges until I feared my that newly broken flesh would rupture once more and send me into gales of tears. Finally, after he had taken his fill, he flooded my battered womb with his boiling fluids amid a chorus of guttural epithets and slumped atop my quivering form to regain his strength.

I have no concept of time at this point, but at last he pulled his limp member from my torn and weeping channel and rose to dress for the day. Gratefully, I slumped to the floor, my eyes dully taking in his naked form as he once more donned his clothing and prepared to break his morning fast.

"Get dressed," he ordered, "…and be quick about it. You'll find no freeloading in this house, Girl. If you're to eat, then you'll earn it by God!" So saying, he strode toward the door, then abruptly turned. "And, if I don't see you downstairs straightaway, you'll be eating more than porridge this morn, Woman!" He laughed heartily at his choice of words, then giving his manhood a significant squeeze, he turned and vanished from the room.

Oh, how I wished that I could bring that sheet indoors and hide it forever, but I knew that I dare not. Instead, I stiffly attended to my toilet and opened the first of my trunks to secure a muslin dress and pinafore for the day ahead. Then hastily, dreading the thought of his footsteps on the stairs once more, I gathered my clothing about me, pinned my hair and scurried to the kitchen to begin my daily chores as mistress of the household.

By the time I arrived, my husband had, gratefully, consumed his massive portion of sausages and eggs and had gone to saddle his horse for a tour of his pastures before luncheon. Pania, for that was what the young Maori woman was called, had already cleared away the Master's dishes and had set a portion on the sideboard for my own morning ritual. Wordlessly she stifled her concern as I tenderly settled my abused undercarriage into a heavy, straight-backed chair and tried to make myself comfortable for the meal to come.

"Aitia, she" smiled in sympathy. Then offering a downy cushion to comfort my abused flesh, she once more turned to her chores.

"Aitia?" I replied curiously. "I don't understand. What's 'aitia'?"

Again the young woman turned, this time curling the fingers of her left hand into a circle and thrusting the rigid prongs of her right in and out in a lascivious motion.

I flushed a beet red. So that was "aitia." I feared that the whole of New Zealand would be thinking "aitia" this day, and chuckling at my horrified expense.

Pania laughed at my shocked expression. "Ure," she explained, indicating the stiffened fingers of her right hand. "Nono," she added, holding out the circled digits of her left. Then with both together she cupped her belly and smiled. "Maybe 'hapu" you," she concluded, her message clear. Perhaps I was already with child!

If that proved to be the case, I pondered, it would be a double blessing indeed. Not only would I have the child I so craved, but it would replace the need for my husband to mate with me again for years to come. "Hapu" indeed! I only wished it were so.

The remainder of the day was spent in familiarizing myself with the rituals of my husband's household. There, I began to learn the ways of this beautiful new country, and found that it would not be as alien as I had feared. Pania proved to be invaluable to me in this, explaining in her halting English and graphic gestures that which I strived to learn.

By the time by husband had returned from the fields for his afternoon meal, I was already carving thick slabs of cold cheese and mutton and slicing warm, buttered bread to fill his stomach until evening. Quickly, I served him his meal, then retired to the fireplace to stir the stew I was simmering for the evening.

"Ale, Woman. My glass is empty. I need a refill." He shot in my direction.

Quickly, I reached for his glass, and began to turn toward the keg which sat on its cradle in the corner of the room. I had not gotten a single step, however, before my husband drew me back against him and settled me upon his lap.

"How are ya feelin' this afternoon, Wife?" He asked, his fingers idly tracing the exposed neckline of my chemisette. "Has your puss begun to heal yet?"

Immediately, I flushed a deep red. My "puss" as he called it, was as sore as bushel of bee stings. I would be glad and grateful indeed when he let me go.

"I'm fine, Sir," I lied. "I have my chores to attend to now, if you would allow me to return with your ale."

With that his face became contorted with ire, and I felt his grip tighten about my waist.

"Chores, is it? Are you talking back to me, Woman? I'm the only chore you can't put off! If I want you on my lap, then it's on my lap you'll be until I say differently. Do you understand?"

Eyes widening, I nodded my head. This was no place for a sharp tongue, I surmised. And so I remained until my husband had properly investigated my cleavage and had moved on to more intimate objectives.

His hand now slipped beneath my skirts and began to probe within the slit of my drawers, fingering with gusto that which he had destroyed the night before. Ashamed, I the listened for the sound of approaching footsteps. What if someone were to come upon us now, I wondered. What would be said of this sorry American wench over evening meals this night? What lurid whispers would fill the darkness at my expense?

As though responding to my most dreaded fears, my husband slowly rose and brushed the pewter plates to the floor. Then, landing me resoundingly on my back atop the heavy wooden table, be proceeded to unleash his tool once more.

"Take off those blasted pantalettes," he demanded, "…and don't put them back on until I give you leave!"

Impatiently he watched as I struggled to divest myself of my undergarments, and then began to stroke himself vigorously with his right hand.

"Slide your arse to the end of the table, Woman, and raise your heels atop the table. Be quick about it!"

Hurriedly, I complied, fearful of what might come to pass if I should displease him. I had not long to wait, however, before he pressed my thighs apart, butterfly fashioned, and I felt his gruff facial hair abrading the soft flesh of my tortured "puss'. This time there was no barrier to bar his way, and replacing my nether-lips with his own, he at once thrust his broad tongue full-length into my torn aperture, sucking his dessert with gusto as I lay quivering beneath him.

Immediately, my juices began to flow into his hungry maw, like a cow being milked by its Master. Fitfully, I squirmed, trying to quell the insidious torment that once again filled my belly. Was he correct in his estimations then? Was I indeed a whore?

"Ya want it, don't ya, Woman? Ya want this "ure" of mine sticking right up your puss, don't ya?" He smiled then, not a smile of contentment, but one of perverse delight. "Then beg for it, Bitch. Beg, and maybe I'll give you a little piece to tide you over until bedtime," he chuckled, as he returned to his task.

Over and over he thrust, his tongue drawing forth an irrepressible mewling that shamed me to the core. Fitfully, I tore at my breast, vainly attempting to satisfy my urgency as he took his due between my legs. I wouldn't beg…I couldn't. What would be left of my dignity if I were reduced to such a degraded state?

Finally, a dam burst within me, and a torrent of pleas escaped into the silence of the room.

"Please," I begged. "Oh please, Sir. I must have…I need…"

"Too late," he interrupted. "You had your chance, but it's gone now." Then, spinning me around atop the table, he forced my head backwards over the edge so than my hair brushed the flooring by his boots.

"Open your mouth, Woman," he ordered huskily. "Let's see what other chores you're good for." Then, placing his fingers beneath my chin, he tilted my head back and guided his engorged sex past my lips and began to thrust deeply. A jut of his hips and he was fully immersed, his hairy sack dangling stiflingly against my nostrils. I began to choke, to cry as hot, salty tears ran upwards into my hairline.

"Please…no." I tried to plead, but all that came out was a mishmash of unrecognizable gibberish.

His other hand now grasped my hair, his favorite handle, so that I was forced to remain immovable as he plunged unmercifully down my gullet. His other hand, the one beneath my chin, began to rise and fall with each lunge, a sight which apparently gave my husband great satisfaction.

Finally, as tiny pinpricks of light invaded the darkness behind my eyelids, heralding the end of my reserves, he rammed himself further into my decidedly narrow passageway one last time and began to pump his slippery offal deep into my throat.

Desperate for air, I swallowed convulsively, taking his sluggish offering into my body as I tried in vain to settle the gorge which now threatened to engulf me

"Swallow it Woman," my husband growled. "It's a gift from your Lord and Master, and not to be denied."

So saying, he covered my mouth with his hand until he was sure that I had done as I was directed. Then, securing his fly once more, he strode from the room and mounted his horse for his evening rounds, leaving me disheveled and gasping atop the kitchen table.

Chapter five:

How long I lay there, I can't be sure, but when I finally found the strength to cover my naked thighs and roll myself from the hard surface of the table, I found John Thomas standing in the doorway.

The look on his face told of pity for my sorry condition, and anger at his uncle for his brutal abuse. In his eyes I found the tenderness I had so long desired, a reflection of my own self-worth that I would never see in my husband's gaze.

I turned away from him then, intent on covering my shame with the tasks at hand, but it was too late. Instead, I began to sob most fitfully, hanging my head in humiliation at his forlorn expression. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he came to me and held me tenderly in his arms, drying my tears with the cuff of his shirt as I wailed against him.

Then, settling himself upon the table where I had once lain, be cradled me like a lost babe, rocking my quivering body back and forth until my tears subsided and I could once again raise my eyes to his.

"You've made a bad bargain, I fear, Caroline," he whispered gently. "Had I know in Boston that he would treat you so cruelly, I would never have acted as his agent. As it is, there is no hope. You're properly wed now, and my uncle has legal recourse to your body and anything else he wishes. My hands are tied."

Somehow, at that moment, just the thought that someone in this hemisphere actually cared, was enough to see me through. Gratefully, I pressed his hand against my breast and looked to him in profound gratitude. He was not mine, but he was not far away…and he cared. I could deal with my wifely burdens no matter what, as long as I knew that someone, somewhere loved me…even if he was not my husband.

And so the remainder of the day passed uneventfully, thoughts of John filling my childish heart with fantasies which allowed me to escape from the realities of my loveless marriage. By the time evening had fallen, and we were all gathered around the dining table once more, I had resolved myself to be the best wife that I could be, and hoped that my husband's horse would soon toss him over a steep precipice. Until then, thoughts of my gentle John would comfort me in my times of need. It would have to be enough.

Solemnly, we settled ourselves around the huge dining table, sitting in silence as Pania began to serve crusty Maori bread and bowls of thick New England chowder which I had prepared for the meal. My husband looked skeptically at the unusual fare, but John smacked his lips over every mouthful, declaring it a concoction fit for the Gods.

"May I get you another bowl, John…or some more ale?" I offered as he downed his last. "I'm so pleased that you liked it. Was it salty enough then? I wasn't sure that the pipis would do, but the clams that I'm used to are far from here," I prattled on, referring to the orangish shellfish which filled their bowls.

My husband listened in controlled silence as he observed my fanciful repartee with his nephew, his eyes taking on a smoky look which I would later learn to avoid at all costs. Pania then brought on the kumara pie and we finished it smartly before Sean signaled it was time for us to retire for the evening.

"I'll be along shortly, Sir," I replied boldly, my newfound bravery more a testament to John's presence than to anything I could have borne alone. "Just let me help Pania clear the table and say good-night, and I'll be there straightaway."

John looked on with foreboding as I so blithely dismissed my husband, his look one of warning. Somehow, in my foolishness, I didn't care a whit however, and remained downstairs chatting with John and Pania until the candlelight beneath my husband's door had been long extinguished and I had reason to believe that he had fallen asleep without me.

Finally, sure that I would be untouched this night, I climbed the stairs and began to disrobe by the light of the fire, taking care not to disturb the darkened portion of the room where I knew my husband slept. Unclothed at last, I reached for my flannel nightgown and prepared to pop it over my head when a voice broke the stillness.

"You'll not be needin' that, Woman," he snarled gruffly, his voice rising not from the bed, but from the leather chair which faced toward the fire. "Did you think I'd allow a woman of mine to set her cap for my nephew? You must be insane! You'll never make that mistake again, I can assure you. Come here!"

"Sir!" I protested. "The thought was the farthest from my mind! I was merely being a gracious hostess. In my country, one does not leave a guest to sit alone at table by abandoning him to his own devices when the meal is concluded. I was unaware that things are so different here!"

Immediately, I regretted the folly of my words, for they seemed to inflame my husband's ire to heights never before reached in my presence.

"Come here, Woman!" he fairly shouted. And grasping my upper arm until I was certain that I would be most horribly bruised, he pinned my naked body between his rock-hard thighs and bend me forwards over his left knee as one would a child who is to be punished.

It was then, and only then that I saw the riding crop clutched in his right hand, and began to whimper. Fitfully I struggled, placing my hands behind me to ward off his blows, but before I could defend myself he brought it down upon my pale, trembling flesh with a savage slice.

Whack!

I cried out at the sudden onslaught, my nether regions bursting into flames. "No…please…not again!" I pleaded, watching the shadow of his arm rise once more.

Whack! The crop landed once again, on the same spot as before, sending shooting pains throughout my body. Thrice more he whipped my livid flesh until I begged with all of my heart for him to cease and allow me to repent my willful ways.

"So, you'd cuckold me with my own nephew!" he roared, reversing his grip on the crop. "I'll teach you not to cast your net for another man! If you want a reaming that badly, well, I'll give you all you can take and then some!"

Suddenly, I felt my wrists being wrenched behind my back, lashed together by what I assumed was the cord to the curtains that enclosed the bed frame. Overcome with panic, I swore an oath to my husband that nothing had transpired between John and I, and that I would be faithful to him until the end of my days, but he would have none of it.

"Close your mouth!" he ordered. "Save your breath, Wife, you're going to need it."

So saying, he wedged the fingers of his left hand between the cheeks of my bottom, and began to position the handle of the crop against my puckered aperture.

"NO!" I cried, my horror rising. "Oh please…Sir! I swear I will never speak to your nephew again…only spare me…spare me I beg of you!"

My entreaties fell on deaf ears, however, for within seconds I felt the first painful stab on the riding crop in my narrower passage, its crudely sewn seams tearing at my flesh as it stretched and tore at my virgin passageway.

I opened my mouth to scream, but found my husband's handkerchief stuffed into my mouth, secured with one of my own hose which he had fetched from the floor. Then, licking his palm, he smacked me smartly on the arse, and applied renewed vigor to his task.

The crop, which was now tightly wedged within me, caused such pain as I had never known to fill my body. In this my husband seemed to take perverse delight, and listened with some degree of pleasure as the twists and thrusts of his implement of torture tore long, muffled wails from my throat.

Finally, he waived the blood-streaked weapon before my nose, and carried me toward the board at the foot of his bed.

"Well, I think you've had enough of the appetizer," he growled huskily, draping me face down over the waist-high railing, "Now, I'll feed you the main course!"

Struggling, I attempted to free myself, my feet kicking uselessly in the air as he divested himself of his nightshirt and tossed it over my head. Then, exposing my puckered and abused aperture once more, he again gave a mighty smack as he thrust his thick, massive weapon full bore into my backside.

I screamed until it seemed I would fairly faint from the strain! How could he treat me thusly? How could any man treat another human being in such a manner! Over and over he reamed me, my blood spattering painfully on the backs of my thighs in livid flecks and daubs until the room began to grow dim and I felt my consciousness begin to ebb. The last thing I remembered was my husband withdrawing, and his heated juices spraying over my naked back…and then nothing.

When I awoke, I found that my husband had placed me on my back, still bound, before the fireplace. A dull throbbing coursed through my veins, and the memory of what had transpired once again filled my mind.