Weeks go by in one long, endless torture session. My aching arousal waxes and wanes but is always there, accompanying me the same way my breath and my pulse do.

I learn to embrace any pain because it occasionally distracts me from the ache. I learn that the ache comes mostly from inside, from an unreasonable expectation, and that just like the Vow says, I don’t have any real control over it. Only my teacher does, and he uses discomfort as reins and leashes, as carrot and stick.

I learn about the wedding process according to the Vow. Colton has me fitted for a dress – a timeless and simple white number with embroidery on the shoulders which I suspect was Dylan’s mother’s dress – by an old tailor with very soft, wrinkly hands. The tailor clearly thinks that I am Colton’s bride-to-be, especially since Colton offers the man the service of my mouth for his troubles. He declines but pats and gropes my butt and bust more than strictly necessary.

I read and hear about married life from Colton and Dylan both, about my duties and privileges at the different stages. The honeymoon phase. The construction phase. The various fertile phases, pregnant phases, motherhood phases – because Dylan expects me to give him children at some point. “We will talk about this when the time comes,” he assures me.

Meanwhile, his father tells me that his son has a lactation fetish I will satisfy.

I learn and re-learn housework. It is more complicated in the harness, which I wear for long hours every day. My wrists are bound to various straps and rings on my torso or thighs, all designed to limit my range of movement and keep my fingers away from my cunt or tits or both. Only during my workout sessions with Dylan – we go for jogs in the morning before breakfast, do short but high-intensity rounds in the fitness studio, and occasionally play tennis or badminton on the estate’s own courts – do they come off for any length of time.

Importantly, I am also instructed in computer work because I am expected to help the Keenes run the ecclesia. I learn the structure and business of the massive religious organization Dylan is likely to inherit from his father in the future. In order to be perfect for foreign visitors, I learn to greet and bid farewell in ten foreign languages. I learn dozens of different sets of manners.

On one particular day, I learn how to mind them during a telephone call to my mother.

I’m on a chaiselongue in the downstairs salon, leaning back into the cushions, my knees up in the air and spread wide.

“You will learn to keep it short, Elizabeth,” Colton tells me as he hands me the phone. While it’s ringing, he affixes a clamp to my clit. Loosely at first, then tighter and tighter as the minutes go by and my mother keeps talking. Eventually, he tugs on it.

I bite my lips and shudder hard enough to almost lose hold of the phone on my ear. “Mom. Mom. I am doing really great, so stop worrying. Dylan and I are both just super busy. I will see you next week, on our wedding day. We will send you and dad a driver to pick you up in the morning. Ah!-I, uh, I gotta go. Bye!” I hammer the red button on the screen and let the phone fall. “Please, Sir!” I gasp and then yell out when Colton tugs the clamp hard enough for it to slip off. My body flinches from the bright pain of it, and sweat pricks out of every pore.

I have begun to call both men ‘Sir’. It happened naturally.

Colton taps my sore, puffed-out clit and makes me gasp. “Anything important should always be said face-to-face, therefore, chatting on the phone is nothing but an exchange of vacuous words. Telephone calls are a waste of your time. You will spend plenty of time with your parents, don’t worry.”

“Yuh-Yes, Sir,” I agree and wish he would stop fiddling my clit, or never stop, or… something. “Oww.”

“I imagine your parents will, however, notice your endless fidgeting, so you should probably come up with a good excuse and explanation, or muster up more self-discipline.” He doesn’t stop tweaking my clit, and he smirks at my moue. It makes him look like Dylan’s older clone. A hot spike of arousal and attraction zaps through me.

“Your husband-to-be will not make it easy for you to stay away from him. He’ll probably put some Icy Hot on your whore nub and watch you prance.”

I gulp, remembering my first experience with the infernal stuff. “Yes, Sir.”

“Or he might pump your clit. Make it look like a small pecker. Make sure that it sticks out between your pubes and rubs against your skirt all the time. Would you like that, Elizabeth?”

“That’s… That’s not relevant, Sir,” I quickly reply. “Behavior is relevant. My future husband’s order and his satisfaction are relevant. If my, uhm, my clit being pumped would be conducive to his order, then it, uh, it should be, uh… pumped.”

Colton’s smirk widens. “That is correct.” He pulls his hand back and leaves me throbbing hotly, as always. “You are ready for the last part of your training, I believe.”

My heart sinks in fear and – just a little – disappointment. I don’t like change. I don’t feel ready for anything to end.

Probably because I haven’t had any relief yet. Ever. My sexual arousal is like a Shepard tone, it never resolves, so there is no… closure. No feeling of accomplishment and resolution.

I wonder, with some trepidation, if my life will always be like this now.

And I wonder if I could bring myself to be normal and to dislike it at all, as a normal person would.

***

That same night, the lecture takes place in Colton’s office again. After a couple of minutes of reciting passages from the Penitent’s Vow, he orders me to bend over his desk. My bare tits are mushed against the cool, smooth surface. My hands are fixed to the corners, my ankles to the intricately carved wooden legs, and even my hair bun is tied to something below so that I cannot lift my upper body up or really see what’s happening behind me.

In silence, Mr. Keene inserts a slick dildo into my vagina.

I gasp and moan and beg him to... I don’t know - Stop? Keep going? Something. The rubber shaft is long but too slim even for my unused, swollen tight channel to enjoy properly. I sob with disappointment and hump back against it anyways as far as my bondage allows.

Colton twists and turns it a couple of times, stirs up my always-gushing pussy, then pulls out. Next, he puts a cold lotion on my labia and clit.

The numbing warmth sets in after a couple of minutes. My crotch starts feeling… remote. My arousal is not gone at all, just less sharp. It’s like the tip of the iceberg has vanished, but all that is under the water is still there. When I drip, I can only feel it on the inside of my thigh now.

For a moment, I’m almost scared that he means to give me a piercing. Dylan has talked about clit shields. I don’t hate the idea, but I think I might need more time.

Fortunately – or unfortunately – for me, Mr. Keene is interested in another part of my anatomy today. The one he has spent weeks tenderizing, until it looked ‘like a plump little doll’s mouth, like a pair of bee-stung kissy lips, with bubblegum lipstick on’.

He nudges a lubed finger against my asshole and commands me to try and “keep it out”. With a huff of effort, I pucker as hard as I can, knowing that I can’t win.

“Dylan is not entirely happy with my decision to teach you this lesson,” he informs me calmly as he breaches me with the tip of his finger despite my resistance, then quickly pulls it out again, over and over. The motion makes a wet sucking noise, like walking through mud, or slurpingly sucking a popsicle. It makes me shiver. “He was looking forward to breaking you in, as is his right as a husband.”

“Ahh, ahh,” is all I can say.

He wriggles his fingertip around my sphincter, which feels more sensitive now than ever before, probably because my pussy is not there to distract me anymore.

“Tell me, Elizabeth, has anyone ever fucked this particular orifice?”

“Ahh, no, uhm, just-“ I gulp breaths. “One boyfriend, uhm, stuck it in by accident one time.” Kevin. Literally the only thing I remember about him.

Mr. Keene chuckles. “That was not an accident, whore. It never is.”

“Ungh, ahh, yes,” I reply, too overwhelmed by sensations to hold a coherent thought, least of all about a long-long-ago, long-irrelevant ex-boyfriend.

“How many improper orgasms have you had in this hole?” Colton tickles said hole.

“Ah! Ungh! None, Sir! Please!” I try dancing out of the way. My range of motion is severely limited. The acute feeling of helplessness drives up the temperature inside of me.

Mr. Keene grabs my left butt cheek hard and uses it to hold on to me like a handle. “And how many did you have with your whore slit?” he asks, then cavalierly adds, “roughly. Rounded to the nearest hundred.”

“I… I don’t know,” I stammer. “A… A thousand?”

“An estimate so conservative that it would be justified to call it a barefaced lie,” he chides me and sinks his digit deeper into my rectum, then pulls it out yet again. The sucking noise becomes louder. “I told you to keep it out, Elizabeth.”

“Hah! Hah! Yes, Sir!” I whine and clasp his finger as hard as I can. It feels uncomfortable and strenuous, and it makes his finger feel so much larger.

“My son has been brought up by me to never be satisfied with hand-me-downs,” he tells me. “Which is why he accepts it as propriety to forego the secondhand things and claim only the unused ones. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

“Uhn, uhm.” I try so hard to collect my thoughts. “Dylan – he, he will… uhm.”

“After you’re married, he will not be using your cunt, Elizabeth. Because your cunt is sloppy seconds material.”

“Nooo,” I wail. I’m sure my pussy is squeezing so hard right now, but it is so muffled that it is barely there. “No, please, I- Dylan and I- That can’t be right!” I remember his longing looks between my legs when he ties me to the bed at night. He’s always looking at my pussy. I was so sure… I was looking forward to… “He said he wants me to have his babies!”

“There are alternatives to impregnate you, don’t you worry about that,” my father-in-law soothes.

I believe him. The moneyed always have alternatives, and the Keenes are definitely moneyed.

“As Dylan’s spiritual guide, I have advised him to not indulge in improper things. Your cunt has stolen thousands of orgasms from him already. It is the very epitome of improper, and I am sure Dylan will punish it for all those past transgressions… one… by… one.” His finger slides fully in and out fully with each word, pumping.

Punish… all of them? There have been so many. So very many. I have taken unmeasurable amounts of pleasure and ecstasy with my- my whore slit. “I’m sorry,” I sob, so out of my mind with sensation and emotion that I forget one of my very first lessons for a second.

“I’ve told you; apologies are worthless. Also, you’re not sorry yet, but you certainly will be.” And he chuckles as though he has made a very clever joke. “Dylan will see to it, make no mistake.”

I shudder. My restraints pull hard on me.

“Given that this little hole” – he twists his finger and teases around my entire crimped rim – “is the one that my son is planning to use most, if not exclusively – your mouth and throat are perfectly serviceable, after all – I thought it proper to help you get over any significant resistance beforehand. Get all the hysterics out of the way. Wouldn’t want my son to have to console you and forgo his well-deserved pleasure on his wedding night, would we?”

“Ah, no, Sir.” My voice sounds resigned.

“You will learn how to keep this hole clean and healthy for his use. Starting today, you will use enemas regularly.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You will wear plugs and vibrators to stretch you and to strengthen your sphincter so that fucking you will feel good to him.”

“Ungh. Ungh! Ah! Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now breathe.”

I barely have the time to before he adds a second finger, somehow increasing the pressure and the sensations by a magnitude. I moan. “Too much! Please, please, slower, please, pull it out!”

“I am not your accidentally-on-purpose poking-your-shitter-once ex-boyfriend, Elizabeth.” He swats my ass hard three times with his free hand, apparently setting my skin on fire. I gasp at each hit. “Do not presume to treat me like him or talk to me in the same way. Now behave and breathe, whore, and tighten your ass. Try to push me out. Massage my fingers with your muscles.”

I whine and beg, receive several more stinging swats, and then do as I am told as best I can. His fingers feel like a 2x4 each. “Too big,” I cry.

“I’m going to plow this ass with my cock shortly,” he says.

I wail at his words and hate how my nipples harden perceptibly, and how my entire stomach tightens and quivers with dread and excitement.

“I promise you, my fingers won’t be too big anymore soon. In fact, you’ll be begging me for them.”

I don’t know how much time he spends priming my asshole with his fingers, adding so much lube that I make farting noises and feel the cool, oil-slick wetness all over my goosepimply cheeks and the backs of my thighs. Eventually, he adds a third finger and stirs me up more, and every thrust into me is like he’s squeezing in next to all my intestines, every pulling out feels like someone is suctioning my lower body out of me. Shower after shower of tingles rushes through me.

“Your ass is gaping like a fish mouth, Elizabeth.” He sounds so amused, so delighted at my obscene body. I screw my eyes shut as a hot wave of embarrassment breaks over me. “Look at how it sucks on my knuckles.” I wish the ground would swallow me up. “Your insides are so slimy and pink. Your ass truly is a second vagina.” I wish my entire body wasn't alight with addicting excitement.

Shockingly, the sensation of his fingers stays when he pulls them out. I feel my sphincter twitch uncontrollably around the ghosts of his digits. I groan. I swear I can feel the breeze inside of me. Everything feels chilled and loose and too… open.

“One of the members of the Vow’s ecclesia is a tantric sex coach.” Mr. Colton’s voice is a little distant. He has gone to the small, adjacent washroom to wash his hands. I am endlessly grateful that he didn’t make me lick him clean.

“He teaches the receiving partners the art of pompoir. It is a technique in which the receiving partner massages the giving partner’s cock with their inner muscles and brings them to orgasm. It requires strength, stamina, focus, and resilience.”

“I will learn it, Sir.” What else can I say?

“Yes,” he agrees, stepping behind me and grabbing my ass. “Yes, you will, so that you can masturbate a cock with your asshole.”

The nudge of his fat cock against my hole makes me hold my breath. Oh God, oh God…

"Breathe,” he commands, waiting, waiting endlessly, patiently, like a cat hovering by the mousehole. All the time in the world. “Push, like you’re taking a shit.”

Shaking, groaning with shame, I do.

The pressure grows and grows and grows, until the crown of his meat slides into me with a pop, my sphincter closing around the ridge.

Although it is slick with lube and possibly pre-cum, it still feels the size of a tree trunk.

“Good. Breathe,” he commands again, and the second I do, he thrusts forward all the way until his groin is cupping my ass.

I scream. I yowl and squeal like a pig. Pain, and ache, mixed together, so overwhelming that words fail me. So big. It’s breaking me apart. My legs are trembling like leaves and my breath studders. The tie around my bun pulls tight and a couple of hairs are ripped out.

I distinctly feel Colton’s bulging gut pressing up to my buttocks and lower back, and I remember, endlessly embarrassed, that phase in my past in which I searched for a very certain genre of porn on the internet.

“Good.” Colton shoves and pokes his pelvis forward and around, moving and twitching his cock inside of me, stirring me. My sore muscles squeeze him helplessly. “Very good. You’re taking it. You will always take it, won’t you? That’s why my son has chosen you.”

“Aaahn! Yes, Sir!” I confirm with a sob, and then sob some more when he pulls out again slowly, slowly, letting me feel the friction of every single inch, causing all of my muscles to flutter.

And then he rams back in.

Again, I squeal and blare like an animal.

And glacially pulls back out.

Again, I sob.

And I drip and drool down my legs, some of it artificial lube, most of it natural.

In – I scream a curse – seemingly deeper every time, enjoying the feeling of my rectum surrounding him.

Out – I snivel – pulling back out with excruciating patience.

He continues this for a long, long time, quoting scripture at me, delineating the future that is ahead, or describing in detail how my ass feels on his dick, sucking, clenching, fluttering around him.

I take it. I always will.

I wait for the "stop" to crystallize in all those overwhelming emotions and sensations, for a "let me go" to emerge inside of my chest and spill forth, but all that ever comes to my mind and out of my mouth are animalistic sounds and curses and pleas that are meant to go unheard, and I faintly remember the day that Dylan told me I was the most honest person he knew and that it was one of the things that made him fall so deeply in love with me.

Even at the mercy of Colton Keene's fat, hard cock, I cannot be anything but honest and do anything but face my desires. It is the most visceral part of the experience.

When he finally speeds up slightly and his thrusts become shallower, a wave of feverish heat breaks inside of me, and I get the horrid feeling that I have missed an orgasm. My lower belly is filled with lava that has nowhere to spill, and Colton’s rod is stoking and stirring it.

Of course, he notices. It’s in the way I clench around him, in the different sound and cadence of my moans, or even in my silence.

“Once you’re married, your husband could technically provide you with climaxes, but… I believe, Dylan and I will enjoy dissuading your little cunt from orgasming while we hammer your asshole. Teaching it its place. Keeping you nicely drippy and desperate,” he assures me, slightly out of breath. “This time, it was numbing cream. There are plenty of other options.”

Again, I believe him. I am still wailing a soft, self-pitying “please, no” when he finally spills, pulsing and jerking, in my ass. His seed is so warm.

To get me to wring the last of his jizz from him, he wraps a hand around my throat and squeezes until my air runs out and the pressure of my blood in my head makes me a little dizzy. Instinctually panicking, my entire body tenses up, all muscles and orifices squeezing in reply, my anus squeezing his cock.

“Good, good girl." He lets out a satisfied growl, and then lets go of my neck again. I gulp air.

When he pulls out, my sphincter spasms. The sensation makes me shiver and shake all over.

His cock is replaced by a bulbous plug that barely meets any resistance as it slides home but still makes me cringe. Unlike Colton Keene’s cock, it’s cold and unyielding. My muscles suck it in. The obscene feeling gives me goosebumps all over and makes my stomach somersault.

“To keep my cum inside for a bit.” He claps a heavy palm on my already tender ass, then leans down to my ear again. ”We’ll wait until the cream’s effect has worn off entirely. Then, when I pull the plug, you’ll be able to feel my cum trickle down your whore cunt. That way, you’ll know what to look forward to in your future.”

I close my eyes and feel a thick blob of pussy juice slide down my leg.

***

“Oh Lizzie, you look so wonderful!” my mother says for the nth time and apparently can’t help touching the soft, luxurious fabric of my wedding gown, or my upper arm. She seems a little sad and emotional, and also overly happy and excited. Her eyes are shiny. So are my dad’s, but he prefers not to talk at all, and to look around instead of at me. Probably to hide just those shiny eyes. It makes me smile.

To be fair, there is much to look at. The wedding takes place in the back garden of the Keene estate. There’s a string quartet playing classical music in the shade of a tree, a medium-sized tent that houses a rich buffet, a bigger tent that provides shade, seating and round tables to the guests, and the small chinoiserie-style pavilion where Dylan and I will soon exchange promises, rings, and kisses. Everything is decorated tastefully. The guests – most of them from Dylan’s side, naturally – are all radiant in the sunlight.

In comparison to them, I feel like a sweaty, red-faced mess. I would bet that very few of them are clenching a spiked vibrator with their vaginal muscles.

Dylan personally put it there the last time I went to the bathroom. Under the guise of ‘helping me with the dress’, he accompanied me, watched me do my business, patted me clean with a wet wipe, and then bade me pull up my skirt all the way to my waist.

The plug looks like a stylized fish, but it feels more like a miniature fir tree made of hard rubber, all prickly and uncomfortable, and it’s writhing like an eel, making it entirely impossible to ignore. Dylan affixed the battery pack to my garter, then told me that he’d forgo lube tonight should I ever drop the toy.

And then he kissed me until my knees got weak, pulled the cups of my wedding gown’s bodice down to squeeze my nipples hard, helped me straighten my outfit again, slapped my ass, and led me back out to the party.

The damn toy has first gotten bigger and then shrunk again, and it vibrates at random times. I can only hope that nobody else can hear it. I sure do. The vibration shivers through all of my bones. I am mortified at the idea of it sliding out of me. Would it land on the floor with a wet splat-and-clatter? Or would it dangle between my calves, held up by the cable, feeling like a real soggy fish?

And I am also so, so very horny. Dylan is giving attention to my vagina, so I love it even while I loathe it. It’s probably messed up. I don’t care anymore.

As though he knows I’m thinking about him – then again, I’m always thinking about him – Dylan turns away from his current conversation partner and makes eye contact with me from across a distance. His handsome face brightens with his trademark smile, smug and confident and knowing.

Just like that, I know it’s time to get married. To tie the knot.

He comes to me and gently leads me away from my parents and up to the pavilion. All around, the guests start paying attention to us as we walk past them, my hand on Dylan’s elbow, his hand covering my hand.

He huffs a laugh when it takes me forever to get up the three steps. Other people might think that it’s because of the skirt or the high-heeled shoes. Dylan and I know it’s because I’m tightening my pelvic floor to keep the wriggling vibrator from slipping out of my sopping wet pussy, which makes it hard to take a step.

In the pavilion, there is a small table with two stacks of thick luxury stationery paper, maybe two or three sheets each, and two elegant fountain pens laying on top.

According to the Vow, words are just noise. Writing them down, however, is a behavior. Thus, writing words down gives them concreteness and value. And a promise that’s written down becomes a cousin of the Vow itself.

Dylan and I have spent the last few days writing down our goals and expectations for the future. Our wishes and hopes. Our vows.

We exchange them. I stifle a scandalized gasp when I see that Dylan’s vow for me is mostly explicit descriptions of what he plans to do to me and my body parts, and how the enforcement of the behavior he wishes me to exhibit for him will generate a conscious attitude and routine conduct and deportment that will enable me to be and do whatever the hell I want in life, reach any goal, do and become anything, surpassing myself over and over again.

For your own perfection and my unending pleasure, I vow to make your cunt ache every day and night. You will accept the hurt I will give you as evidence of my honest devotion to you as your husband, of my love of all that you are, and of my vow to our shared future.

We simultaneously reach for our fountain pens. He signs my vow to him with an elegant flourish, never breaking eye contact, and I do the same. Or I try to because, when I get to the last swish of the last letter of my name, the vibrator jerks fiercely inside of me. My knees lock up, my body jolts, and the priceless pen clatters to the floor, splattering ink on the stone.

“Uhm, ungh, sorry,” I manage, half-moaning, forgetting my very first lesson yet again. The vibrator pumps into me, poking my tense vaginal muscles. I start sweating from the effort to keep it from slipping out of me.

While our audience murmurs appreciatively – I swear I can hear my mom gasp in romantic delight – Dylan goes down to a knee in front of me and picks the pen up, like a perfect gentleman. He smiles up at me and offers the sleek writing utensil that now has a visible scuff on its polished mantle. As I take the pen from him, he mouths ‘You’re perfect, Lizzie’ to me.

Or maybe it’s ‘You’re so fucked, Lizzie’.

I ache and clench and drip.

***The End***

 Thanks for reading! Leave a comment, maybe?