The Princess' Wedding Night

It was like a fairytale.

She had dreamt of this for so long. Since she was a little girl, surely. Her beautiful dress, the people watching, everyone taken by her beauty, her handsome husband. Sure, maybe it wasn't quite as she'd dreamt of, maybe she had never met her husband before, maybe in her dreams he had been a dashing knight instead of some sort of distant king, but the skies were clear and the day beautiful and she was okay with being the bargaining chip in this alliance. Besides, her parents had no sons, and after her father died and the kingdom was left kingless this was the most happy alternative for them. Wasn't this what good princesses did? Help their Kingdom and their families?

Her parents had told her that king Bolton was brave, and strong, and capable, exactly what a ruler should be, exactly what a husband should be. Clara had no doubt he'd love her from the moment he met her. And when she saw him at the altar, in his royal outfit? Oh, her heart soared. He was no dashing knight, but he was handsome, with ink black hair and a thick mustache, his eyes shiny and blue just a shade darker than her own. She'd instantly wanted to give him a million little blue-eyed children to run around their feet.

He was handsome, and he was huge. Tall enough that it made her feel like a tiny mouse standing next to him as the priest wed them, and when he put his hands around her waist for the sealing kiss she instantly felt somehow owned by the touch alone. He would probably pick her up with one hand, she was sure of it. But then the crowd cheered, and she smiled, and all of it was forgotten in a flurry of food and dance and laughter.

He'd taken home in a carriage, after. Clara wasn't sure how they had managed it so quickly, but when she'd tried to head to her rooms, Bolton had stopped her with a hand on her wrist. He'd smiled, though it hadn't eased her confusion, and asked one of the staff to guide them to their rooms. The confusion had only turned to apprehension when she was finally standing in front of the doors, the doors, big and dark mahogany, to what once had been her father's rooms. Bolton had opened them and entered as if it were nothing. He'd only stopped when she didn't follow.

"I am your king now," he'd said, "so it is only natural that I am given the king's room. Come."

So there she was now, standing uncomfortably next to a drawer and gently touching a wooden horse model there, while Bolton removed the heavy cloak from his shoulders. Well, he was probably right, wasn't he? He was the king now. But Clara couldn't stop thinking about how her parents slept in here, once, how she remembered them on this bed when she was a child, though the covers and the beddings and the curtains were clearly new. She felt way out of place in this too-familiar room with its dark walls, standing there in her pristine white dress, a lily amidst the rocks.

Her new husband seemed none the wiser. He'd undone the top buttons of his vest when Clara looked at him again, and had taken off his boots, too, stretching with all the comfort in the world. She wasn't sure what to do. Slowly, she stepped out of her shoes too.

"Do you know what happens now, Clara?"

She did. Well, a little. Her mother had told her some things, but vaguely, and Clara had pretended to understand them. Still, she nodded.

"We-- Today we will have to consummate the marriage." She sounded more uncertain than she would have liked. "And then I will be your wife and give you children." A pause. "Your grace."

She wasn't sure what the consummating meant, but she liked the children. Little sons and daughters with blue eyes and chocolate or ink hair, if God would bless them so. Her mother had said she'd know when one would be preparing to come.

Bolton smiled at her, his eyes kind. He gave her a nod. Then, his tone almost curious, "You sound uncertain. Do you want to be my wife and give me children, princess?"

"Yes." This time she didn't hesitate. His smile widened.

"Many?"

"Yes." Many so they would not be lonely like she had, little heirs to the throne with adorable pink cheeks and hair that she could brush. "As many as the good Lord would bless us with."

He liked that, she could tell. Liked her. She'd just become his wife and she was already doing things right; like a fairytale. He nodded at her.

"Come." And she did, her bare feet cold on the stone floor as she made his way to him, the tail of her dress trailing. He gently turned her around once she was close, until her back was to him, and though confused she let him without hesitation. Her confusion deepened when she felt a tug at the closing of her dress- and then it began to loosen dangerously, the front began to slip. Clara gasped and flinched away, a hand going to her chest to hold her dress up, confusion and embarrassment fighting in her chest.

"Your grace!" Surely he knew better than to pull a lady's dress! What was he doing?

But her new husband seemed unbothered. He cocked his head at her. "Would it please you more to take it off yourself?"

"Would I-- this is most improper! You're a lord and I'm a lady."

Men were not supposed to see her unclothed, she knew this, and doubtlessly so did he! Maybe these things were of no concern when she had been a child, but she was a woman grown now, with a woman's bosom and hair between her legs, and those were things that were kept to oneself. Bolton's eyebrows went only the slightest bit higher.

"I'm your lord husband." He stressed the word in a way that made her feel guilty even though she could not pinpoint why. "And I shall see my wife. Only I."

He stepped towards her and she tensed a little, not understanding, as he reached out and took her wrist in his hand. It didn't matter if she tried to keep it there or not; she was powerless against his strength. He pulled it away from her dress, and slowly it began to slip-- she let out a small, unbecoming squeal of shame when it slipped free of her chest and pooled around her hips where her skirts were wide. Her face burned. But there was pleasure in Bolton's eyes. He trailed his free hand up her side and she shivered; her body was shock still when, gently, he cupped one of her breasts in his big big palm.

"Only I," he repeated. "These sweet little morsels beneath your undergarments belong to me." Sometime while she was distracted his other hand had snaked behind her back and undone her skirts, too. They clattered as they fell on the floor, but Clara had no time to react to that or to the sudden chill on her legs before Bolton cupped the mound between her thighs as well. She startled. "And so does this pristine treasure right here."

Clara was lost. She stared at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes, lips parted in a question that wasn't coming, and then Bolton gently pressed one of her nipples between his fingers. She gasped, but it did something weird. It sent a hot jolt all the way down across her tummy.

He stepped away from her, then, and she took a step back too, bringing her hands up to cover her nudity. He barely seemed to notice as he removed his vest and shirt.

"Take off your undergarments and get on the bed." He turned away from her and began to fiddle with his trousers. She was prepared to object, but when he lowered his underpants every thought in her brain left her. The-- thing between his legs. The monster between his legs. She had never seen a man's privates before, and this beast was terrifying, long as a poker and easily the width of her arm, perhaps wider. It almost floated, not quite dangling and not quite standing, in some sort of strange middle stage that confused and terrified her.

"Princess." His voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "I'm waiting."

Face on fire, Clara stepped out of her undergarments, made her way to the bed quickly to avoid her exposed state. She half sat, half laid on it, her knees close to her stomach, a hand over her breasts. When he was done with his clothes he joined her too, the plush mattress dipping with his weight, the sight of his heavy, hair-covered body almost enough to distract her completely.

"Attagirl." He sat in front of her as if it was the easiest thing in the world. "Open up your legs for me."

Her confusion was threatening to tip over into fear. "What for?"

"So I can claim my treasure."

She didn't understand. This never happened in the books. But she'd never been married before, and maybe it was... normal. Maybe this was what the consummation was. Sharing with each other all the things they could never share with someone else. It was kind of romantic, if she thought about it.

But she still found herself trembling a little as she spread her thighs.

Bolton let out a low, satisfied grunt, his eyes scanning over the sparse brown hair on the top of her mound, her puffy pink folds. Her ladies had made sure to groom and oil her there too, and though she was sure it was so every inch of her was perfect for the wedding she was glad for it now.

"That's a girl." Even his voice sounded satisfied, though quiet and distracted. She couldn't comprehend what about her privates would excite him so much. He hadn't even looked away. "There's nothing more natural and feminine than opening your legs and presenting your cunt to a strong man for seeding."

For seeding? Before she had the chance to ask he placed two fingers on either side of the base of her thighs and spread her folds open. She gasped again, at the sudden cold air on this part of her that never saw it, at the embarrassment too. Bolton's brows furrowed, for a second, and he cocked his head as if to take a better look. Then he sighed a small sigh and shook his head.

"This might be a challenge."

She was sure she felt the fear now. She didn't want to disappoint him on their first night together.

"What might, my king?"

"You're too small to take me."

She couldn't help it. "Take what, my king?"

He let go of her thighs then, straightened his back. Finally he met her eye.

"My cock, my lady. You're too little to take my cock."

Take his... Clara glanced down between his legs. His-- that? Take it where? She tried to keep from frowning, but he saw her looking.

"You won't truly be my wife until I've taken your maidenhead, princess, between those pretty legs. All wives take their husband's cocks. You agreed that you are ready when you promised yourself to be on that altar."

He left her with that thought hitting around in her head as he shuffled closer. His cock was standing now, swollen and red and angry, looking bigger and meaner than it had before. Unceremoniously he got between her legs and placed it over her mound and her stomach. The blushing tip of it reached just to her bellybutton. As she looked at it confused, Bolton muttered to himself.

"Too little and probably too tight to take my cock..." he muttered. "...But not too little to get pregnant."

He-- Oh!

It connected, then.

Clara tried to move back and away from him, but there were pillows behind her and soft bedding beneath and she could move no more than a few centimeters. "Wait." Her voice came out a little choked. He wanted to put it inside of her. That thing that was as wide as her arm, when even just his hands could wrap all the way around her waist. "My king, wait."

He looked at her, and-- was it pity in his eyes?

"Yes?"

"This feels wrong. We shouldn't do this."

It was pity in his eyes. He gave her a small smile.

"We ought to, if you want to be my wife. Otherwise the marriage is void. You want to be my wife, do you not?"

She did. She did, didn't she? Her stomach did strange jumps and knots. She wanted to be his wife and she wanted to make him happy but she did not want to take him, didn't want to hurt, and besides, she was sure he'd break her somehow, she was so small--

But Bolton sighed at the long pause. It was a sad sigh.

"Well, no matter. I want to be your king."

He put those big hands around her then, and flipped her right over. Clara squealed like a kicked pup. As if she were nothing he grabbed her hips and propped them up into the air, her backside exposed, her entrance exposed, her face pressing against the pillows. The indignity was almost too much.

"My king!"

She could feel him looming over her, a hand on the small of her back to keep her in position, his body radiating heat behind her. When he moved, she felt the coarse hair between his legs scratch against her skin.

"You're shaking all over... you can't lie to me, princess. I don't think you're ready to be my wife." His voice was calm and gentle, almost sorry, despite his rough hands. "That won't stop me, though."

Clara was shaking. She hadn't realized until he said it. She couldn't stop picturing his cock, and every time she did it seemed bigger and bigger in her memory. She couldn't stop thinking about it so near exactly where she didn't want it.

"Your grace." This wasn't how it was supposed to be. "Your grace, please, I'm scared."

Bolton hummed in sympathy behind her. A hand caressed her hair, comfortingly, almost lovingly. For a moment, she thought that he would spare her.

"That's okay," Bolton said in that kind, sad voice of his. "There is nothing more natural and feminine than a frightened, helpless young thing getting herself taken by force, either."

She whined. He laughed, as if she were a stubborn child, the hand moving from her hair to pat her head.

"You can beg if you want, princess. Your king is still going all the way inside and filling your belly with his warm seed."

There it was again. Seed. Clara wiggled in his grasp, or at least tried to. She didn't know where she was going to go if she managed it; only that she couldn't do this.

It was as if she didn't even move. Bolton shifted behind her, his hand leaving her hair, his knees placed behind her own to hold her legs open. And then something hot and terrifying touched her lips.

"Big stretch for me, princess," and she could hear the smile in his voice, and then he pushed his hips against her and she could hear nothing but the blood in her ears.

From the very beginning it hurt. One moment everything was tight and closed and untouched, as it should be, and the next Bolton's cock was forcing it all open, pushing against her entrance until it gave away with an ache that brought tears to her eyes. She could feel it press against the very bones of her hips, demanding all the space and then more, and if she could have moved she'd have spread her legs further to make room for it lest she broke. But she could not move, and there was no room, and all Clara could do was whimper long and loud as it speared her insides open.

He was pushing against something. Could he not feel he was pushing against something? For a heartbeat it was almost lost in the ache of her taking, but it kept growing, the pain sharp and tugging, whatever it was, as if refusing him entrance. Clara lost her breath.

"Wait--"

And it tore.

Whatever it was sent a white hot knife of agony through all of Clara's nerves. She did what was most undignified of a princess: she screamed, the tears beginning to run freely down her cheeks, and she was no longer trying to escape but frozen with the pain, clutching at the bed. It broke off with a sob.

Bolton did stop, then. "Take a moment. It will only hurt for a minute."

Clara did not believe that.

"That was your maidenhead, princess. It's mine now, and the marriage has been consummated."

Consummated. Like they'd told her. Did that mean this was over, then, were they done? But no. She felt Bolton brace himself against her.

"It's okay to cry. You might wish to bury your face, though. Your king is about to make it all fit in this tiny little cunt of yours."

And before she had the chance to reply, he gave a heave of his hips, and forced it all the way inside.

He'd been right. Clara pushed her face into the pillows just as she began to scream again. She was spread wide open, all the way to her lungs it felt like, his cock holding her stretched and helpless, remolding her. Her body would never be the same, she was sure. Whatever it would be from now on it'd be in the shape of her husband.

He groaned behind her, long and loud. At least it sounded like it was good for him. Clara felt him spread her buttocks, felt the skin around her entrance pull with it, the raw remnants of what he'd said had been her maidenhead moving and rubbing with the movement. She hid a gasp against the pillow.

"Shit, princess, I wish you could see how your pretty little cunt is gripping me..." He sounded drunk on it. He pulled back a little, then pushed all the way inside again, hitting that barrier that made her ache even more. Clara mewled. "Clings to me when I move, like a vice. Pristine."

It didn't feel pristine anymore, didn't feel pristine at all.. Clara's shoulders shook with her cries. Bolton leaned his stomach over her backside, covering her like a blanket, and thrust again. And again, and again. In the haze of the pain, all Clara could picture where the hounds in her parent's yard, when the kennelmasters wanted them to whelp. She felt like a kennel bitch. She felt owned.

And then the strangest thing. A small shudder of pleasure, somewhere deep inside of her. Clara gasped, and when it came again, she moaned.

"There it is," Bolton laughed. "There, you're getting nice and wet now. That feels good, princess?"

It did. She couldn't tell if it was despite or with the pain, but it did. Clara closed her eyes and moaned again, doing her best to focus on the new feeling instead, the way Bolton's cock pressed against that small part that made her body tingle as it moved and not on the ache when it hit the deepest part of her.

"Feel that, princess?" He took one of her hands and placed it over her lower stomach. It took her brain a second to catch up with what she was feeling; movement, back and forth, in time with his thrusts. His cock bulging through her stomach. She wasn't sure if it was terror or awe that seized her, but he put his hand below hers, moaning when he felt it too.

"All mine, from the inside out."

Clara's voice was almost gone. It was near a whisper.

"You're going to wreck me."

He laughed again.

"Princess, if you think my cock is going to wreck you, just imagine what giving birth to our children will do to you."

She didn't understand. "W--What?"

Bolton gave her belly a light squeeze where he was holding it.

"When I put them in you, after your belly has finished swelling and your milk has come in, when you have to push them out, you'll thank me for opening you up then."

Surely he didn't mean...

Fear seized her. Surely he did not. That was not how people were born, not like hounds, with their swollen teats and their huge bellies, not through--

She'd know, her mother had told her, when a child would come. Is that what she'd meant? Would she know because she'd have to birth them like a dog? That was wrong, it was wrong, no one had warned her of this, even this was too big.

Clara was very quickly reconsidering what she told him about wanting children.

She began to squirm anew, newfound pleasure forgotten.

"I don't-- I don't want to be pregnant-- I don't--"

Bolton pressed down and stilled her.

"Didn't you say you wanted to give me many children?" He sounded half confused. "I don't know what you are getting so upset about. This is what you were made for."

It was not, it was not. She was made to be a princess and a queen and be pretty and kind and loved by her people, not to push out babies. She had seen how big they were! There was no way anyone was ever made for it, least of all her.