Crybaby

This work may contain historical inaccuracies, anachronisms, period-like wording, and content/views some might find offensive. None of it is intended as an actual representation of anything and none of the contents are intended to come across as something to strive for or internalize.

Three weeks.

That's how long it's been since she donned her wedding dress. Three weeks. Two months since her family declared utter bankruptcy. One month and a half since Bran Marlow walked into her father's office and asked for her hand in exchange for aid. One month and a half since her family was saved from destitution, and three weeks since Sterling Wells became Sterling Marlow.

He had eyes for her for a while. She had seen him, though she'd never said a thing, felt his gaze at every outing, at every gathering, every social call. It wasn't unflattering, of course, don't misunderstand; she'd always been such a small, slight thing, like an ugly baby deer had her sister said, all legs and arms and none of the womanly curves men seemed to look for, and there was something in the man's eyes that had made her feel as if he thought her pretty. That made her feel nude, too, and she didn't like that one quite as much. He was older, with rough hands and sparse gray dots in his stubble, and Sterling felt like a girl still. When her father had promised him her hand, Sterling had been silent.

It hasn't been that bad, she supposes. Their wedding was a pretty thing, and he looked at her the whole way through, and when their wedding night had come he had seen her fearful shaking and had allowed her to remain untouched. Sterling was thankful for that. Even more thankful when he still let her the next day, and the day after, when he said in his most gentle voice that it was normal for a girl to be scared. Even in the second week when she was still too scared to be touched he had left her, though there was a new hue in his voice, something annoyed, something impatient. When he'd tried to touch her the night before and she'd pulled away he'd said nothing, just pressed his mouth into a thin line and left.

So Sterling knows her time is running out. When he left that morning it was with a look, a meaningful look, an order to wait for him. So she waits, so she walks around the estate and reads, writes letters, tends to what needs tending. And when he's not back by the time the sun begins to crawl away from the horizon she retreats to their bedrooms, like any good lady, relieved to have escaped his touch another night.

When she hears him moving downstairs ten minutes later, her relief becomes concern. Sterling sits on the bed, pretty as she can, her legs tight together, her slender hands ontop her knees. And when she hears his heavy footsteps up the wooden staircase, her concern becomes anxiety. She shifts where she's sitting, and Bran opens the door, nods his head hello at her, and she smiles, because a good wife always smiles at her husband coming home.

"Welcome home," she says, in her sweetest of voices.

And when he locks the door behind him, her anxiety becomes panic.

He has a predator's eyes when he looks at her. Sterling squirms where she's sitting on the bed, feeling both cold and hot at the same time, feeling trapped, and without much preamble Bran begins to unbutton his shirt.

"Take off your clothes."

She hopes she's heard him wrong.

"Excuse me?"

"Take off your clothes." It's more final the second time, more direct. "You've been my wife for nearly three weeks, it's about time we did something about your duties."

Sweat covers her temples. She's known it was coming, known it was inevitable, and yet some stupid, childish part of her somehow hoped she could avoid it forever. But she'd seen the way he looked at her, when they got engaged, can see the way he looks at her now, and as Bran removes his shoes she dares a quiet, trembling "please."

"Sterling," he says, and it's all warning.

Shakily, she stands up, the blood already gone from her face. It takes her one, two, three tries to undo her fastenings, with her scared fingers, and when she lets her dress fall to the floor Bran appraises her. She feels like he's expecting something, something more, but there's not a single thing she can think of; she looks at him uncertainly, her brows furrowed, and manages not to flinch when he begins to walk her way a little too quickly.

Bran grabs the top of her undergarments with those big calloused hands and in one rough yank pulls them down. Sterling both hears and feels the buttons break against her spine, but her focus is too taken by the sudden cold air against her breasts-- without even thinking about it her hands go up to cover them. She doesn't want to be seen in the nude. No one has ever seen her in the nude. But she knows, she knows, when Bran catches her eye and raises his brows, that that is not something that will matter to her husband.

"Let me see you, girl." When she hesitates, he snaps his fingers at her. Her face burns as she lowers her hands, slowly, her shoulders shaking, and Bran reaches up, cups both her breasts in his palms and kneads. She gasps, but he doesn't look at her. His face seems thoughtful.

"Small," he mumbles, displeased, and Sterling has never thought too much about the desirability of her body, but suddenly all she feels is shame. "Almost nothing. Pretty nipples, though." He drops his hands. "Not to worry, they'll fill out after a couple of sons." And that's so much worse, so much worse, and Sterling still feels like a little kid, wanting to beg to be kept away from all these things she's not ready for. And then Bran grabs her mons, and she squeals. His fingers dig into the hair there.

"The tits of a boy and the cunt of a woman. God, you're a wonder."

Is that bad? She's not sure what to do. Somewhere between gentle and assertive Bran takes her hand, and places it on the buttons of his pants. And that, she does know what that means, and with trembling fingers she undoes the first, then the second. She's shivering all over by the time his pants are falling around his ankles, though whether it's from fear or from embarrassment she doesn't know. She'd tell herself it was the cold, had the estate not been quite so well maintained. Bran kicks his pants to the side and she makes sure work of not looking at the swell in his pants, it still feels inappropriate, feels like something a hussy would do, but then he grabs her chin and makes her meet his eyes.

There is silence, for a moment. Then Bran says, "Get on the bed."

She's so relieved to put distance between them that she barely even considers what is coming next. She scrambles to the bed, a hunted deer, while Bran removes his underwear too. By the time her back touches the pillows the mattress is already dipping with his weight.

She doesn't get the chance to position herself or to look upon his nakedness. Strong calloused hands wrap around her thin legs, and he pries her thighs wide open. Oh, she's sure she's going to die, sure she will explode as his eyes bear into her most private places, studying something she cannot name and something no one else has ever seen, she shudders in his grasp. He says nothing. Why does he say nothing? Do I look wrong? And then he lets go. Sterling's legs slam closed with a loud noise.

"You're going to ride me." His tone leaves no room for arguments, and yet Sterling wants to argue.

She knows better. He moves her out of the way with a wave of his hand and takes her place, laying back against the pillows, and only then does Sterling lay eyes on his cock for the first time. She can't breathe, for a moment. She's never seen one before, can't tell whether it's too big or too small, how they're meant to measure, but what she does know is that she's always been a small girl, birdlike, her mother had once said, and this looks far too long and far too much and she can't. Any cock of any size would be too much for her. She'd dared take a look, the night before her wedding, a mirror down between her legs, and she's sure nothing could ever fit inside an opening quite that small.

"I can't," she whispers, and doesn't try to hide her fear.

"You will." He doesn't even sound concerned.

"Please, I'm tired, can't we try another day?"

"Sterling," he says, and she flinches at her name. "Come on, girl, I've waited long enough. We can either do this the easy way or the hard way."

She doesn't think she wants to know what the hard way is.

She's shaking almost too much to stay steady as she slowly straddles his hips, so slowly, fighting down panic as her eyes take in his glistening, swollen cockhead. A part of her hopes that if she waits long enough to do it then he will give up, but she already knows how patient he is, doesn't trust that he won't simply go the hard way. She gulps so loudly that she's sure he hears it. And then she raises herself up on her knees, closes her eyes so she can't see, and tries to position her opening above his cock. It's all going too fast. Too fast and she's not ready, she's not, she wishes he had kissed her.

Her eyes well up as she lowers herself, before he's even entering her, before it even hurts. Oh, she knows it will hurt, that's what everyone always said, that it hurts to become a woman, and when she feels the heat of him prod her lips she freezes, near paralyzed with fear. But he clicks his tongue at her, and there it is again, the promise of the hard way, so Sterling stifles a soundless sniffle and lets him breach her.

It's... not so bad. For a moment, at least. Strange and foreign, hot where it presses, and, stupidly, Sterling thinks she was worried for nothing. But then it stops being just the very tip, starts to feel wider and dryer against her entrance, and when Sterling tries to take in more of it she finds herself whimpering.

"It burns." Is it supposed to burn? She's shocked when Bran spits on two fingers and reaches down, spreading his spittle around the head of his cock. If that is supposed to assure her, it certainly does not.

"Please, it's going to hurt."

She doesn't know how to feel, when she only finds impatience in his eyes.

"No more excuses, girl." They're not excuses, she wants to cry. "You're bouncing on this cock until I say you're done. No matter if it hurts."

Is this what it means to be a wife? Sterling fights not to let the tears run. His spit helps only the tiniest bit as she presses down, and she whines a long whine as he spears her, getting wider as he goes. And then there's a stab.

Sterling freezes again, her eyes wide, though she finds she isn't sure if it's shock or fear. That's the part, she thinks. The no going back part. Her virginity should be her husband's, she knows, and once he has that, then she'll really be a wife. And after that...

And after that...

She's terrified.

And after that this, forever, every night, after that he'll plant his heirs in her and after that she'll be a lady and a wife and a mother, and she doesn't want it, she's not ready for any of it, and--

Bran spreads his legs wide and kicks her knees out from beneath her, and all there is is pain.

Sterling wails. Support gone, gravity takes over in an instance and Bran rips a path right through her, right past the wreckage of her maidenhood and up inside what she's sure must be her womb, and Sterling wails, a wet, ugly thing. She can't think, all agony and fire and betrayal, can't breathe, and when she manages to gasp all the air comes out of her in a sob. I'm being torn open.

Somewhere, belatedly, she registers Bran talking.

"Oh, don't be a crybaby, girl. I can hardly help that your hymen was intact."

It's more than that, Sterling thinks. It must be, because it hurts all the way inside, like someone shoved a candle holder right up her entrance, like someone put in claws. It's too hard and too foreign, not meant to be there, it can't be meant to be there.

"Breathe through it." I can't breathe. "It's only there once, so take your pain like a woman."

I'm supposed to hurt for my husband, she tries to tell herself. But her legs have gone rigid, unresponsive, she doesn't know if she can move. Sterling looks at him, a hand over her mouth to muffle her agonized sobs, and maybe he takes pity or maybe he just wants to continue because he reaches out, then, puts his hands around her waist, and begins to bounce her.

It should have been impossible for the pain to get worse. It should have, and yet Sterling wails again, a fresh wave of tears wracking through her body as the length of his cock rubs against the raw tear of her girlhood. Everything is on fire, and she can't help it, she whines, whispers please, whispers it hurts, and Bran groans at that, rolls his hips up as he brings her down, and when he hits the wall inside of her Sterling squeals.

"Quiet down, girl, the staff is going to think I'm killing you."

You might be, she wants to say, but knows he's right, of course he's right, he's her husband and she's supposed to take this. And-- sometimes it gets better with time, she's heard, sometimes the women even enjoy it. Maybe she'll enjoy it. She squeezes the muscles of her throat, tries to keep in the noise, cry silent and pretty like the women in her mother's books.

"That's it," he grunts. "Sob on my cock, if you need to, but sob quietly."

They're both doing what they're supposed to, she tells herself. Husbands have needs and wives have pretty bodies and warm places for them. That's how God made them.

That's how it's meant to be and she needs to do her part.

Slowly she finds her legs again. Still stiff, still trembling, but Sterling gives a tiny little bounce, then another, manages not to cry out even though her face twists from the pain. She can't help the sniffles and tiny whimpers no matter how she tries.

"That's it." Now that she's moving by herself he lets one hand go off her waist, grabs her breast instead. She bites down on her lip to keep from squealing when he squeezes. "Little crybaby... does it still hurt? Does it hurt your little cunt?" He sounds so kind, somehow. Sterling's breath hitches as she nods. When Bran says "good", he wants to start sobbing all anew.

"Keep going." His voice is a low moan, almost soothing, not apologetic but grounding regardless. "Hurt your cunt on my cock. Hurt it."

He squeezes her waist when he says it. It feels almost like a warning. A brand new kind of fear bubbling in her gut, Sterling lets herself slide down on it until his sack presses against her bum, trying to ignore the hot white stab of pain deep in her tummy.

"That's it. Make it all nice and sore, girl. I want to see it all pink so I know I've picked right."

She's a good wife. She can't mess this up. It's too important, too important, she needs this, her family needs this. Sterling tries to focus on the motion of it. Up, then down, up, then down. It's a fight between her brain and her body, one wanting to do her job, the other more than anything wanting her entrance to close up again. Sterling isn't sure it's ever going to close up again.

It's easier when she focuses on how to do it rather than how it feels. Easier to get lost in the repetitive bounce, in the burn of her legs. If she tries hard enough she might forget about the pain until it's done, until he spills, and then it will be over, and then... and then she doesn't know. Will it keep on hurting, once he's done? Will he want her again soon? God, she hopes he doesn't. God.

"It's a good thing that you hate it." His quiet voice snaps her out of her thoughts. "If you liked it, then that'd mean you'd be a slut, and then I'd have to make sure to discipline you for it."

Sterling is not a slut.

"I'm- I'm a good girl." It's out before she even thinks about it, a desperate gasp, and Sterling slams herself down on his cock to prove it, sobs at the ache. But he smiles at her for it, and she's relieved, oh, she's so relieved, she has to be good for this.

"That's it, girl, take it all. Break yourself on my cock. That's how good wives are made."

She wants to be a good wife. She doesn't want his cock, and she hates being ripped open like this, and she hates the burning pain of her stuffed entrance, and that means she is a good wife. That's why he's doing this. Because it's right.

There's a thankful flutter somewhere in her stomach when he moans. She is a good wife and she is making him feel good, is doing it right, and God it hurts, it's going to kill her. Sterling tries to keep herself moving, to go faster. Somewhere deep in her body she swears she can feel him growing even stiffer.

He grunts, his nails digging into the soft flesh of her waist. And then with a great growl he pulls her down, hard, forces her still and flush against his hips, and she doesn't know what's happening but she can feel him grinding against that wall deep inside of her and she can't help it, she squeals, throws her head back to keep the tears at bay. He doesn't care a bit; he bucks up into her as if to get even deeper, even further. And then he's still, his nails painful crescents in her skin, and Sterling trembles and shakes with pain still unfaded. And then he lets go. His hand falls off her waist and rests against the curve of her bum.

"Attagirl," he breathes out, and Sterling isn't sure what has happened but he looks somehow satisfied, somehow spent. She pants, still at last, still stabbed on his cock, still trembling, but he doesn't grab at her again. Tears fall off her cheeks and hit her hands.

"That's a woman now, that only happens once you're full of seed. You're just a girl till then."

Full of--

And that's how she knows he's spilled. She wants to place a hand over her tummy, but her arms are shaking where they're holding her up and she doesn't dare move them. She thought it would feel like more. She thought she'd feel it, somehow, some sort of tickle deep inside, something, anything to prove that this is what it means to be a woman. She tries, but all she feels is him twitching against her soft insides.

Maybe that is what it means.

It's done? He pushes himself up on his elbows and she dares to let herself relax, hoping now she won't have to move again. I survived it?

Bran motions her off him, and Sterling almost falls when she tries, almost topples right ontop of him. She takes herself off his cock slowly, carefully, scared, and oh, it hurts coming out, even if not as much as it hurt going in. She feels raw and open. When his seed trickles out of her and runs down her thighs, she hisses at the feeling of it against her swollen entrance. She manages to sit on the bed and she can't help another hiss of pain. But if he hears, Bran makes no sign of it. Instead he shifts, takes one of her knees in his hand and opens up her legs again. Like before he studies her, and Sterling wants to apologize for the way her nethers now feel hot and wet, but she doesn't get the chance. When with no preamble Bran sticks a finger inside of her, Sterling starts. He hums in thought.

"You're getting my seed on the sheets. Clean it up."

And he smacks his hand on her thigh as he moves away. Sterling catches a glimpse of his softening cock and shudders to see it covered in blood and sperm.

"See now, that wasn't so bad. Isn't it so much easier to be good and quiet and let a man do what he wants?" He gets off the bed with such ease, and Sterling watches as he reaches down, grabs her ruined undergarments, and uses them to wipe the fluids off himself. "Just a little discomfort for a bit to make me feel good, and it's over before you know it. Now you can curl up and cry all you want."