Vows Pt. 02

***Part 2***

Colton Broderick Keene is a man who wears a big silver watch -- he'd probably call it a 'time piece'. It is the first thing I notice when he meets us the first time, in the sitting room of the main house of his estate, coming toward us in a muted-colored suit that is tailored to hug his substantial body and emphasize the masculine muscles and bulges of him.

Dylan told me on our way here that there was an 'estate'. That his father was rich by the Vow. I got nervous.

"Don't worry about it," he said as he put his hand on my thigh. "He's not a rich asshole type. He's just my dad, and he's good at what he does. That's why he deserves his wealth. It's all how it's supposed to be." His pinky finger stroked the inside of my thigh. "You'll see."

"Dad." Dylan greets him with a bear hug.

"Son." Colton claps him on the back once. "Good to see you."

Then his face turns to me. I try and fail to not stare at the scar bisecting his cheek from his mouth all the way to his ear, made more obvious by the more-salt-than-pepper beard around it.

Dylan told me once about the car accident. His mom tragically died in it. His three-year-old self and his father survived with broken bones, concussions, and scratches, thanks to a man who pulled them both out of the wreck. This man also gave the grieving Colton his copy of the Penitent's Vow when he was in hospital, "and the rest is history," as Dylan puts it.

I smile at my future father-in-law. "Hello, Mr Keene. I'm so glad to finally meet you. I'm-"

"I know who you are," he interrupts, and his tone of voice and relaxed sort of command is immediately familiar. His son has it, too. I click my jaw shut.

Mr Keene looks me up and down in my sundress-and-denim-jacket combo. His eyes get stuck on my chest for a second. My cheeks heat. The dress is quite modest in terms of the height of its collar, but the fabric is airy. It is not meant to be worn without a bra.

"They are clamped properly?" he asks.

They prick up as though they realize they're being mentioned. The dull pain gets more acute.

I open my mouth to reply somehow -- even though I'm not sure what I even want to say -- but Dylan preempts me.

"Of course," he says with a smirk and a shrug. "Can't have her in the car for four hours without something to distract her from her cunt on the seat."

"Dylan!" I gasp. My face feels like it's on fire. Belatedly, I wrap my jacket around my upper body more to shield my nipples from view. The jostle and pressure on my tender tits make the pain flare up again and I flinch. "Please!"

Neither of the men minds me.

"Unless you ramp up and then bring down the pain continuously, you'll just condition and desensitize her, son." Colton's gaze fixes on me again. "I bet she's already leaking into her panties because her greedy clit is envious of the nips."

Dylan laughs, carefree. "I kinda like it that way, to be honest." He slings an arm around my shoulders and smiles at my embarrassed moue. "And if anything, she's leaking down her legs. She has lost her panty privileges last night."

"You'll tell me about it during dinner," Dylan's father states. "You can take her to your rooms now and relax until then. Make sure she's ready for the first lection tonight."

"You want to start tonight already?"

Colton glances at me again, then turns back to his son. "From the looks of it, we should have started years ago. We should not waste another day."

I shiver despite the balmy air, mostly at the feeling of the wet trail creeping down the inside of my thigh.

***

Dylan and his father talk about life and business over dinner -- salmon and asparagus and an expensive-looking bottle of white wine -- which we enjoy on the back porch. The food and drink are delicious, the scenery is wonderful.

Still, I can't relax even a little bit. I nibble the food and sip my wine and feel like I'm sitting on nettles. For once, it's not because of anything Dylan has done -- although the lack of underwear, for which he is responsible, heightens my senses to an uncomfortable degree. Knowing that I would have to sit in the car for hours on end, Dylan hasn't done anything to me for five days now.

I'm afraid that the restless, tingling feeling stems precisely from that. From... the lack. The unfulfilled need for... I feel the blush rise from my chest to my face. My chest... Even my chest feels wrong now that the clamps are off. Strangely naked.

"Your betrothed seems discontented," Mr. Keene remarks to his son when I squirm and shuffle my shoulders for the nth time. Our table is normal-sized ad rectangular. The men are sitting across from each other at the short ends, while I am seated at Dylan's right. I feel both overlooked and caught in the direct line of sight.

Dylan shoots me a fond smile. "She's chomping at the bit, that's all. An eager beaver." He grins wickedly.

"Dylan, stop it," I murmur. The heat in my face intensifies.

"I sure hope that unclothed beaver is not currently eagerly rubbing up against my seat cushion," Colton says, and I can't tell if he's joking or serious. He fixes his eyes on me. "They were presents. I shall not like to see them ruined with your pussy drool."

Even though his son has been talking to me like this daily for a month now, hearing such words out of the mouth of a man I barely know still gives me zap up my spine.

"Mr Keene, I wouldn't..." I try to hold eye contact. It takes a lot of willpower. His eyes are green like Dylan's, but they don't look at me with much warmth. "Please, don't speak like that. I'm not like that."

I'm not a helplessly horny slut of a woman. I'm not in a constant state of arousal to the point of ruining the upholstery. I'm not.

He silently watches me squirm for long seconds. "Not very honest, is she?" he eventually asks his son. "Ill-behaved."

I drop the cutlery on my plate and lift my hands to my cheeks. They are flaming. "Excuse me, Mr Keene. I'm not a child. I'm 25 years old-"

They ignore me and for some reason, that makes me blush even harder and makes my belly feel tight.

"There's 24 years of deprogramming to do, dad," Dylan shrugs. "But I have faith in the power of the Vow, in you and your training, and in her. She protests and hems and haws, but her body is honest enough. There's potential. You'll see."

"Yes, I will," Colton agrees as he, too, puts his cutlery down, takes up the cloth napkin to wipe his mouth with deliberation. "I won't see my only son married to an undisciplined mendacious whore. You and your offspring stand to inherit an ecclesia. Your wife will be perfect."

Dylan nods at his father, then looks at me. There is sharp arousal and desire in his eyes, and my heart shrinks and thumps at the same time.

***

My boyfriend leads me by the hand into a salon. There are chaiselongues and armchairs in dark grey around a low, oval wooden table, next to a fireplace that looks authentic but unused. Bookshelves with glass doors and two chests of drawers made of dark wood, oil paintings, brass-colored curtains and a small, elegant chandelier finish the look.

Mr Keene comes in behind us and closes the door. The sound raises my trepidation. I hold my stomach that's fluttering like a small swarm of bees.

"Sit, son." Mr Keene offers a seat to Dylan and then goes to fix them both a squat glass of scotch or maybe whiskey -- some sort of amber-colored alcohol. He offers me none and doesn't ask me to get seated, either.

Dylan kisses the back of my hand, shooting me heated look as he does, and makes himself comfortable in one of the armchairs.

"Elizabeth Sophia Wright," Mr Keene says my name slowly as he re-stoppers the bottle.

"Nobody calls me that." I chuckle with embarrassment because I haven't heard my full name, let alone my second name, in years. Not unless I was in serious trouble with my mom. "Call me 'Liz', please."

Colton turns towards me, one hand in his pocket, his drink in the other. "I decide what I call you."

My stomach sinks. I press my lips together. "Sorr-"

"Don't apologize."

He sounds just like Dylan, just... harder. Even more self-assured. My belly tightens even more.

I click my mouth shut. My neck prickles with goosebumps.

Colton sips from his glass. "Dylan has told me that you were given a copy of the Vow almost a month ago, and that you have read it."

"Well, uh. Some of it, yes. It's... difficult for me to understand," I admit. It is. The language and meaning are both a bit cryptic. It's not exactly a novel.

"Dylan has told me that he impressed on you the cardinal principle. Intentions, words, behavior."

Intentions are just shapes found in clouds. Words are just noise. Behavior is all that matters. I nod, a little too eager. I know this! "Yes, I--"

"Then you will understand that apologies are worthless. I have no need for them."

I swallow, and nod.

"Take off your clothes."

"B-"

"Lizzie." Dylan immediately shoots down my objection. "Behavior."

My palms itch. My nipples tingle. I feel sweaty under my arms.

And always, always wet between my thighs.

With another look at Dylan, I step out of my ballerinas and peel my dress off my body, twitchy with agitation, my hands unsteady. I'm not wearing underwear, so once the dress is off, I'm entirely nude right away. My skin is covered in goosepimples. My chest is pointing right at Mr. Keene.

My gaze slides to the windows. The curtains are open. Outside is dark, so I can see myself in the reflection.

Anyone could be watching me.

I cross my arms in front of my breasts.

"Arms to the sides," Colton commands me coolly.

Immediately I take them down, interlace my fingers vaguely in front of my bare crotch at first, but then let go again and let them fall uselessly to my sides when Colton gives me a long, stern look.

I feel like a naughty schoolgirl in the strict headmaster's office and... I involuntarily recall how prominently this exact scenario has featured in my sexual life before Dylan. I've watched hours of porn of this type, read so many smutty stories; I even sext-roleplayed this once. When I met Dylan, my fixation transformed into 'schoolgirl and tutor' or 'schoolgirl and bully'.

Colton Keene is exactly the type I have envisioned so often. Older, still strong, a little hefty -- and that cool, commanding temperament. Some contempt, too. Authority that makes me weak.

I just never knew how nervous and anxious it is when it's not a fantasy.

Or when it's your fiancé's father and the key to your future.

"Spread your knees."

I need a moment to work this out. Not the legs, not the thighs -- he wants me to spread my knees. I end up in a highly unsexy shape that reminds me of the yogic 'horse pose' done shoddily.

The ungainly pose splays me open. The air licks at my slit. My thighs quickly start to tremble, from the strain and the nerves. I huff air out my nose.

"She will become more physically resilient." Colton examines me like I'm not just in horse pose, but an actual horse he wants to buy. "Fitter. Stronger."

"I'll manage her diet and exercise," Dylan says.

I hate how much their speaking like I'm not in the room affects me. My mouth makes little "uhn"- noises.

"Your vulva hasn't been touched in a month, correct?" Colton addresses me.

'Vulva'. Maybe not a headmaster. Maybe a doctor?

"I, uh," I giggle stupidly, "well, I mean, I do wipe myself when I go to the restroom..." I don't quite know why I feel the need to point this out. It's clearly not what he meant and beside the point and anyway, why am I talking about bathroom business in front of my future father-in-law?

"For the duration of your stay here, you will not be doing that anymore," he says with an acknowledging nod.

It takes me a moment to catch his meaning. "What?!" I straighten my knees and immediately feel the relief. "You cannot be serious! Dylan, this-"

"Behavior, Liz!" my boyfriend bellows, trying to silence me.

"Dylan, seriously, I won't have someone else-"

"You will have anything and everything I deem necessary to raise you to the level of an acceptable wife for my son, Elizabeth," Colton snaps. His voice booms through me. "And for your information, an acceptable wife is a woman that certainly does not contradict her husband while in company, and also one that does not contradict her spiritual leader in the middle of their first lection. Now spread your damn knees and be silent!"

I look from Dylan to Colton and back. They are a united front. With a huff, I bend my knees again and splay them wide.

God, I wish my pussy wasn't quite so wet and my nipples not quite so turgid.

"As I said, for the duration of your stay here you will ask me or Dylan to assist you in the restroom. Your whore slit has been fondled more than enough by you already, and I can already see that it is still greedy for more, as well as under the impression that it deserves the fondling. Isn't that right, Elizabeth?"

My thoughts are still reeling from the realization that I'm going to have to ask Dylan -- I certainly won't ask Colton, ever, ever -- to wipe my pussy and ass for me, so I missed a bit of the question.

"Uhm, I think so?" I reply, not entirely sure what I'm agreeing to.

Colton steps closer to me until he is right in front of me, an arm's length away. "I apparently don't have your entire attention," he says quietly, then pulls his hand out of his pocket and sticks it between my legs.

My breath halts in my lungs. My motionless body goes ice cold, then blazing hot, and the two swirl together between my legs. His fingers slide between my perpetually swollen, moist lips.

I want to slap him across the face. I want to run away. I want to cry.

I want to hump his hand.

Dylan leans forward, elbows on his knees. His avid gaze is locked on his father's hand that's rummaging between my thighs.

"I'll repeat the question," Colton tells me patiently. "Your slutty pussy still thinks it deserves to be pleasured, does it not, Elizabeth?"

"My... I, uh, it-" I gasp when his fingertip slides over the hood of my clit. "My body is, uhm, used to, to, uhm, to pleasure."

"And what do we call pleasure that leaves you dysfunctional when it is not provided?"

Not headmaster, not doctor. Priest. Oh God, oh God, I would kneel at his altar, I would-

"Uhm, addiction?" I stammer. My legs tremble from the effort of holding back a rocking motion.

"Vice," he says and casually sips his drink while his fingers probe my folds. "From the Latin word 'vitium' -- a mistake, a lack, a defect, damage. In human behavior, it's a lack of order, a defect in character, and damage done to society through behavior."

I know his words don't sink all the way in, and I should be worried, but his fingers are so, so good. It's been so long, it's been forever, I've been so horny all these days, please, please- "Please," I hush, searching his hard eyes for mercy and finding none.

"For the duration of your stay here, for the duration of your tuition, I will be the one to correct that mistake. Whatever it takes."

A thick finger slides into me. I whimper. Too much, not enough. I can hear myself, my wetness. I'm squelching. Gurgling.

"I will teach you order. I will teach you the abilities and competencies your future husband requires. Whatever it takes."

Oh God, those words. They seem to reach into my pussy from above and prod me in all the right places.

One more flick against my clit, and I would explode. Just one more slide against the side of my nub, one more press against it from the inside, even, would be enough.

Colton pulls his finger out of me and inflicts a stinging slap on my aroused pussy with the full palm of his hand.

It feels like a darting flame through my whole body. I yowl, bend forward and cup myself. My clit and pussy lips pulse and throb angrily a confused mixture of arousal and agony. I press my fingers to my smarting center, sobbing.

"Remove your hands from your slit, or I will handcuff you."

Looking up through teary eyes, I see Colton standing by one of the commodes, rummaging through the top drawer. Dylan, meanwhile, is sitting back in his chair, still nursing his drink, still avidly watching me with a small smile in the corner of his mouth. His free hand is draped loosely over his crotch, which is slightly tented.

My clit gives a harsh throb.

I pull my shaking hands away and stand up straight again, consciously breathing into the lessening pain. "Please, don't do that again," I beg, sniffling, but even as I say it, I know it's not entirely truthful. I know I would just need one more, just one well-placed slap, and I could explode.

"Whatever it takes, Elizabeth," Colton replies, and pulls out of the drawer a copy of the Vow, followed by a black leather riding crop.

My belly constricts so hard I lose my breath, and a fat drop of arousal splats onto the ground between my feet.

***

Dylan nuzzles the side of my neck, occasionally licking and nipping me. He is working his erection with his hand -- scooping up my pussy juice from the insides of my thighs as lube -- against my naked flank. The tip of it dabs little precum-kisses onto my thigh.

I cannot move away. I am spreadeagled, a solid bar between my knees to spread my legs apart, my wrists connected to the corners of the bed by silk ropes.

I'm humping the air again. I can feel the rhythmic twitch of my swollen clit, the gape and clench of my empty pussy, the tension in my pelvic floor.

I think I'm going insane.

My labia, the cheeks of my ass, and my anus -- oh God, my anus... Everything is sore. Slapped sore. Cropped sore. My throat is sore from all the gasping and the yelling and the hundreds of times I recited the same passage from the Vow over and over and over again.

"Take her upstairs. Clean her up. Minimal lotion tonight -- she shouldn't get used to it," Colton had instructed his son. "And restrain her, or else she will definitely diddle her clitty tonight to the memory of this."

God as my witness, I would have. The kneeling, the bending over, the sound of the crop cutting the air, the sound of the crop's leather tongue smacking my cunny... then, the sensation of my sphincter smarting with slaps -- I hadn't even known that that part could be spanked -- and the dizzying sinking feeling of my tummy when I realized what was happening -- my future father-in-law was striking my asshole with a riding crop while I was holding my cheeks apart for him -- and how many more times it would happen from now on.

I still hear Mr. Keene's voice ringing out above my keening and fussing, so strong and commanding. How he instructed me. Insulted me. How he explained to me what he would do, seconds before doing it. No hesitation. No question.

My pulse spikes just remembering it.

And Dylan's even gaze on me throughout the ordeal, always smirking, always hot-eyed, a promise dripping from it like lava. His erection so obvious down one thigh.

"When we're married, I'm going to handle you like that every day," Dylan murmurs to me, his voice and breath unsteady from his vigorous masturbation. "I swear. As your husband, I will give you discipline and order exactly as I see fit. I can't wait to mold you into my perfect wife whore."

Something in my pussy surges forwards and down. Wetness spills out between my lips. I moan his name.

"I will be even stricter than my father," Dylan gasps, "and you will be so perfect when you struggle against me. Oh, fuck, Lizzie-"

He lifts up slightly and aims his cock at my pubes. His cum hits my hair and my skin in warm, thick spatters.

Dylan licks a wet trail along the side of my neck. "Good night, my future wife," he says.