Since season four of Game of Thrones, I've been rather obsessed with the convoluted relationship between Ramsay and Myranda. I knew when Ramsay became legitimized that things would change. I had not anticipated the turn of events that took place in season five and I was rather upset with the way their arc combusted.
I know that Myranda is an acquired taste. I know that since the hunting episode that she was written off as a bitch. I would like to persuade everyone otherwise.
This story will follow the evolution of Ramsay and Myranda and their tumultuous love story. I have taken direct sequences from the show and inspiration from the novels to weave this intricate web interlocking the two.
As with most of my work, I get into rather dark subject matter. Foul language, violence, and rape are a give in. Please do not continue if you are squeamish or easily offended.
I know a few of my faithfuls will be reading this, so thank you all. I would also like to welcome all of the Ramsay lovers in the Game of Thrones fandom.
Without further ado, lets get on with the story.
She lay in bed, eyes wide open. The feelings had returned stronger than the night before and she was restless, tossing and turning in need. She panted, exasperated by her own desires, her lack of self-control had always been her downfall.
It was too hot here in Old Town. The lingering humidity in the air was not what had her tossing and turning and sweating in her night gown. No, it was the tumultuous burn in her loins that had her rubbing her thighs together late into the night.
She hoped above all things that tonight someone would visit. She was thinking that very idea when her door knob turned and a shadow slipped silently into her room. The door had just clasped shut when he whispered. "Are you awake?"
"If I wasn't, I certainly am now." She deadpanned.
"It is precisely that kind of attitude that has you so behind in your studies."
"Did you really come here to talk about my studies?"
He was in front of her before she knew it in the pitch black of the modest, windowless room. "This is part of your studies. I am merely testing your ability to take direction. Compliance when servicing others is the key to serving the gods."
"Is that something I need to work on?" She purred.
"We shall see. Turn over on all fours." He instructed.
The young girl did as she was told, turning on her small cot-like bed only to brace herself on her hands and knees. His hands ruffled her thin skirt up in pleats and rolled it over her jutting hips so that her bare ass was in plain view. His hands wandered further, caressing her ass, using his thumbs to pry her cheeks apart, teasingly. His fingertips fell away from her skin and she craned her neck to see him, but the darkness prevailed.
She felt a void, the abandonment of his touch being denied to her when she craved it most. She whined, rocking her body backwards. She was not rewarded with the feeling of raw, hot man behind her. All that caressed her backside was the hot, summer air of an unventilated room.
"Patience, girl." The older man hissed. His voice was faint and it was dark in the room. She had a good idea who he was, but she was not willing to stake her life on it.
She imagined him untying his breeches and loosening the fabric around his thighs. He must be stroking himself. Men knew nothing of patience. They reveled in control. He was torturing her on purpose to get some kind of self-gratification she did not understand. She had never seen a cock up close before, but she knew all too well what they felt like buried inside of her, filling that void she always felt perfectly and giving her something she could never find on her own.
She focused on staying still, choosing to think only about what was happening inside her. She imagined the broad head of his cock slipping through her wet folds and, as if on cue, it did. He rubbed his full length through the folds of her wet cunt and she felt herself envelope him as he spread her slick juices all the way to the sweet spot at the cleft of her slit. Over and over, he repeated this process, grinding the head of his cock against her pleasure spot and brushing the shaft through her slobbering lips.
She moaned, bucking against his touch to feel the sparks in her ignite with every brush to her engorged clit. "Hush, little fox. They must not hear us." He chastised. "No one must know." He warned before plunging into her tight channel, resisting at first, stretching each ring of muscle rippling inside of her walls. He was thrusting her whole body forward, he shoved her face into the bed.
He stretched her and she felt the exquisite burn of him ripping her open from the apex of her thighs up to her stomach. Everything finally felt complete, but she still was not satisfied. Night after night, the taking of pleasure became more desperate and sloppy. It was the joining of bodies and the clapping of wet skin in carnal sin powered by lust and greed.
As her mind wandered, he pulled out with a sickening pop and moments later, his seed spilled across her backside and dripped down her thighs. She was empty again, but the throbbing need had not subsided.
"Very good, little fox. There may be hope for you, yet." The older man walked towards the door. She could hear his foot falls as she imagined him tying his breeches back up on his way. "Clean yourself up and get some sleep. Sunrise is in a few hours and you need to be ready to greet the day." No light entered the room as he slipped out into the hall and left her alone again, still as needy as when he had arrived.
She used her night gown to wipe the semen off of her behind and hind quarters, but the sticky, used feeling did not wash itself away. It clung to her like her now dampened night clothes.
Unsatisfied, she rolled over onto her back with a huff. Her skin was still clammy and heated, over sensitized from the rough touches of her older teacher, the man who had defiled her and taught her the ways women were to please men.
She closed her eyes and brought her hand under her skirt to pry apart her soused slit. She gathered her own moisture on two practiced fingers and those fingers rose up to gently brush her sensitive bundle of nerves. The teasing touch was not enough for her so she increased the speed, whirling over and over her clit with speed and precision, varying the pressure of her hand for some variety. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, meeting her fingers with a gentle thrust of her hips. "You are a wicked girl." Her mind taunted. "But you belong to me." Another voice hissed in her ear. She pushed two fingers into her cunt as she worked her clit, curling them up to rub the rough place inside of her that made her toes curl. The feint burn ended in a mind numbing explosion that ended all too suddenly. She gasped for air and rocked her palm a few more times, finishing herself off like she was accustomed to doing for most of her adolescent life.
With the smoldering subsiding in her loins, she could finally close her eyes and try to rest, but her mind was running wild, fully awakened by her bodies easing of tension.
She heard her father mocking her in the far reaches of her mind. "What a pitiful little thing. Too ugly and worthless to take a husband. What else am I to do with you, wicked girl? You have become a liability to this family, to my ties to the Bolton's. Alliances are everything here. Lord Bolton can never know what you have done and that bastard of his is not the only one to blame."
He struck her, sending her careening to the floor where she collapsed against the cold stone wall of the Dreadfort. "All you have done is cause me pain. I wish only to be done with you. Maybe this way you will learn some discipline."