This is a stand alone excerpt from a larger arranged marriage story that remains unfinished. The gist: The couple has been tucked away in some long forgotten castle in the Westerlands. Sansa is of age at this point, they have had time to develop a relationship, and she and Sandor have been exploring their sexual relationship.
**This story has aided in the conception of at least one child. Please read responsibly.**
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As part of his rehabilitation, Sandor was instructed to walk - anywhere, for as long as he could. Now, healed for the most part, he does it for other reasons.
He watches her.
Nested in the shadowy recesses of Tytan Hall, the Hound is covert in stalking his prey. It's a game of which he is no stranger; he has been watching the little bird since the moment he rode into her life. First in Winterfell, then on the Kings Road, then in King's Landing, now here - in their home.
Their home. Their home.
In the beginning, when his little wife was a proper lady, infatuated with everything golden and beautiful, he would take pleasure in her discomfort with his cruelty disguised as entertainment. Oh the joy of having her squirm and try to redirect that cruelty with her courtesy. It felt as though it sated him at the time, watching carefully built dreams and ambitions burn to the ground. How broken he had been then. It was easy to feel good in the midst of her misery, any misery, allowing his own to be left by the wayside. But the wash was always short-lived, and it never felt nearly as good without first drinking himself numb. Yet the trouble with maintaining such a flawless sense of apathy is that you must drink more and more in order to ensure your depth of callousness is sufficient enough to buffer against the hostile tide of another person's anguish. As such, the more he drank, the more numb he was to the satisfaction of it all as well.
Like a dog chasing it's tail... and equally fucking futile. Now, though... Now there's a greater prize.
He can watch her for hours flitting here and there, chirping at those around her. Watch her smile when she's happy, and blush when she's thinking about his cock - or so he cares to interpret it.
But through it all he waits. He is intrepid in his hunt - one has to be able to endure to ensure their prey is not warned and given the chance to skitter away.
When the flock separates and the little bird is left alone, and he knows his time is near. Eventually she will turn down an unused corridor, or investigate a dark and remote room or storage closet, or return to her solar or their chambers.
She will, true enough. He merely has to be patient.
Today Lady Sansa is reviewing a room she wants to extend into the existing infirmary. With a greater number of men in his service comes a greater number or injuries. The room is dark and dusty, with an old loom rotting in the corner, beside it is a fairly uncomfortable looking armchair from an era long - and best - forgotten.
She doesn't hear him enter. It is only when he bars the door that she swings around with a look of terrible confusion. When she recognizes who it is she smiles easy for him, but when the Hound approaches at little more than a crouch, with a look in his eyes meaning only one thing - you have nowhere to run, little creature - her face is wiped clean of girlish admiration.
What replaces it is different every time, and dependant entirely on the Hound.
He is backing her further into the dark, into a damp stony corner; she butts into it with a startled huff.
There are no words, only action. The Hound has her hands up over her head and secured in one of his within moments. He is holding them too tightly and pushing her skin into the rough mortar too hard. His other hand is coarsely mapping her neck and chest, over her teats and down her stomach, he wants little to do with everything except one part of her. His hand clutches her mound through the fabric of her skirts and he can hear a whimper try to escape her throat
She is breathing heavy and looking directly at him, wide-eyed, her focus darting here and there. It would be unnerving if it wasn't making his dick so hard.
"Spread your legs." The demand is accentuated with a squeeze of his hand on her cunt.
Sansa says nothing, simply complies, but when he removes his hand, taps her feet even wider with one of his, and bends his knees to grind his hardened arousal into her - the motion both lifts the little bird off the floor and causes her to moan at the friction.
The Hound smiles, perverse and satisfied. Fear never tastes this good.
As if reaffirming his thought, he licks from the curve at the base of her neck, over her cheek to the hairline at the top of her forehead. He can feel her start to giggle, so he further shoves his groin into hers - the wall behind her only adding to the force of it - to shut her up. And what started as laughter crumbles into another moan.
If anyone were to miraculously enter the room, their sight would be drawn to the mail and leather-clad back of a giant man seemingly fucking himself into a wall. The only hint of a woman are pretty slippered feet poking around the man's thighs, small hands barely showing through a massive paw, and gasps that could never be associated with a man that large - or any man, in general.
He has the burned side of his face resting on her temple, growling out his words. "Tell me."
Another demand. This one seems vague, but not to her.
The open hole that was once his ear catches her breath like a whirlwind as she answers, "No."
Before he can reply he feels the little wolf clamp her fangs into the flesh of his neck. It's vicious, she's vicious, and he doesn't know if she's broken the skin, but his blood is thumping hard in his veins and his senses have been notched to a higher position.
The Hound growls at her and shakes his head to dislodge her. He slowly leans into her, his body applying more pressure to hers.
"Tell me."
She's struggling a little now, shifting her torso in order to help fill her lungs, panting at the effort and still trying to bite.
Her voice is no more than a growl of her own. "Have... Me..."
The Hound always has his foul language, the little bird always has her courtesy, and regardless of the words she uses, the implication is clear.
At that, the Hound lets go her hands, firmly grips her ass, yanks her away from the wall, and walks with her still perched on his groin over to that decrepit chair.
As soon as the pressure on her body is lifted she takes a deep, almost victorious, inhale.
The Hounds kicks the chair so it is turned toward them, and drops to his knees, sitting the little wolf down in the same motion.
She is still panting and finds to her delight that he is doing the same.
They don't take their eyes from each other as he sets to work. There isn't much to do: he pushes her skirts up, tears off her undergarments as though they were made of parchment, then lifts and spreads her legs wide over the arms of the chair.
His eyes leave hers with a fluttering blink. He wants to see it. He tugs her ass until she's resting on the front edge of the chair and shoves her knees back farther. He isn't sure she can bend easily this way, but he doesn't necessarily care, all he wants is to see her cunt exposed to him.
She leans back, her spine curling slightly inward, she can almost lay down on the seat of the chair - the straight back holding up her shoulders and head.
The Hound is salivating over his find, his hands still pushing her legs wider.
It's her pink he cares about. It is that part of her that beckons to him. Her smooth folds glistening like some flower in the morning - or whatever the fuck poets talk about. It is what makes him hard, it is what makes him think of nothing else.
Her cunt.
He's captivated by the stunning vulgarity in front of him, he doesn't know whether to fuck it or eat it, and it's the best dilemma he has ever had in his life. Fittingly of the moment, he barely notices little claws reach forward and start to pull and untie his breeches.
Dilemma solved.
She has to reach too far and it's taking too fucking long, he flings her hands out of the way and makes short work of the only thing restraining him.
He pulls his cock out, hot and hard already, pushing his breeches aside just enough to pull his balls out too. They're heavy and tight so he gives them a light squeeze, adding to his stimulation.
The Hound then grips his cock, watching her cunt twitch as he strokes twice and pulls back the skin to reveal his own drooling sex.
He pushes her skirts up higher, showing more of her belly, and lays the root of his member on the top of her cunt. It's like he's measuring her for size, showing her exactly how far he will fuck into her - it's quite a distance because she's curled up a bit, the effect is dramatic.
Without so much as a verbal warning, the Hound pulls back, lines up, and thrusts his cock, tip to base, into his little bird.
She grits out a moan, but she's smiling at him. A wicked grin of satisfaction.
He doesn't even look at her, he only has eyes for his cock, and the way her cunt fits snugly around it. How the pink of her stretches and holds on to him.
Fuck...
He can't miss this opportunity, she's not quite ready for him and the friction is intense - just this side of pain. He fucks into her hard and deep, bottoming out every time. He hears her grunt, bloody politely, and take it, like she's singing some carnal lyric. His mind is reeling, but only after a few strokes her snug flesh is getting wetter so he has to fuck her faster, slam into her harder, to maintain that same feeling.
"Hurts..."
She only has to say it once. He knows. The Hound backs off immediately and only fucks her with his first few inches before pulling out altogether.
He leans right over her, his hands on the armrests, his face hovering right above hers. She's blinking and getting her bearings back. Now he's the one with the wicked grin.
Standing up, his cock jutting straight out in front of him, he pulls her arms until she's sitting more upright.
The little bird goes to move her legs from the arms of the chair.
"You'll leave them."
His first direction is lewd at best; his second is the best kind of obscene.
"Open your mouth."
She looks up at him then, bleary eyed, and opens her mouth into an O. She pokes her tongue out just a tiny bit - the way she knows he likes it.
The Hound doesn't even have to touch his cock, it's hard enough, and she's at the perfect height in this gods-send of a chair. He simply rests the tip of himself on the tip of her tongue and pulls her arms again, which pulls the rest of her forward. He watches as the top portion of his cock is swallowed into the prettiest mouth ever created.
There is no need to guide or instruct her anymore, she knows how to make him pant.
The Hound takes in the view: her mouth wrapped around his cock, her eyes looking up at him, and if he tilts his head to the side a tiny amount he can still see her cunt spread open and freshly fucked.
He lets go of her arms, places one hand at the base of her skull and uses the other to unfasten the various what-the-fucks holding her hair in place. Piece after piece is removed and heard plinking on the stone floor. Not once losing sight of the little bird working her mouth and newly freed hands over his cock.
She can never take him far into her mouth, but he doesn't care. The way she enthusiastically sucks and licks and strokes at what she's comfortable with, more than makes up for it, and when she cups his balls in one of her delicate hands and moves her fingers, the Hound almost loses his knees. He has to grip the back of the chair and lean over her so as not to use her bodily as a brace.
He closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling of her warm mouth working back and forth, sucking at varying pressures, one hand moving over his shaft at the same cadence as her mouth, the other continuing to massage his sack.
The sound of her ministrations is what drives him crazy with lust, though. Yes, there's that wet slurping noise of her mouth, but more than that - she hums. The little bird audibly hums a melody, composed specifically for cocksucking he's sure, that vibrates from the top of his dick to the bottom of his balls - and when she unleashes the low notes, he has to fight every urge in him to fist her hair and fuck his way to the source.
He's growling and moaning over her. Too much longer and he'll finish in her mouth, something she's never had an aversion to, but he needs her cunt more.
The Hound removes one of his hands from the back of the chair and tightens it in a large fistful of auburn. He holds fast so she can no longer move, giving him a chance to recover.
Stable enough to stand over her, the Hound watches his cock slip from her lips.
She's smirking at him like a wolf would it's prey.
Do you know what dogs do to wolves?
He leans down and kisses the grin right off her, and when he slides his tongue over hers, he can taste her. That tangy musk of her quim is so much better when sampled from her mouth, and will send him spiraling into oblivion if he's not careful. He manages to stand upright, his dick swaying in her face.
"Get on the floor," he commands. Pointing a finger downward in case words are insufficient.
She eyes him suspiciously for a few moments before she slowly lowers herself to the dusty coarseness of the stony floor; sitting with her hands behind her, supporting her weight, her legs stretched out in front of her.
The Hound is watching her every movement, his hand stroking the long length of his cock as he does so.
"Pull your skirts up, woman."
Without a word, she bunches and pulls her skirts up to her middle.
"Open your legs and spread yourself. Show me your cunt."
He fucking loves the blush that can be seen making its slow climb from under the bodice of her gown to the tips of her ears. It makes his chest tighten, catches his breath in his throat, and causes his dick to jump.
The hesitation is only for a heartbeat. She splays her thighs wide and reaches her hand confidently to her heat. This is not the first time the Hound has asked this of her, and while his perversion was staggeringly shocking in the beginning, she trusts Sandor implicitly. However, what she truly enjoys is the satisfaction of watching the mighty Hound when she obliges his demands. Like now, blinking wildly and trying to steady his breathing in an effort not to become completely unmanned at the sight of her bounty.
The Hound may bark the rules, but it is the little bird who controls the game.
"On your stomach." The words are half rasp, half groan.
She makes sure he sees her cunning smile before she closes her legs, smooths her skirts, and rolls slowly over to lay face down on the cold, uneven floor. Without having to be told, she reaches back and lifts her skirts, exposing her arse to him. He responds with a throaty whine and she cannot help but laugh to herself.
His little bird is laying on her stomach, her gown lifted to expose her bottom, all pale and round and his.
She is beautiful. He is indecent.
The Hound descends to his hands and knees, crawls to her with his bone swinging stiff, pointed down at an angle, in the direction of where it will eventually be buried.
She can feel his breath through her stockings, starting at her ankles, moving up her legs until she feels a blunt nudging at the apex of her legs. She has to think about what he's doing, but it's not long before he's nudging her again and this time she knows it's his nose - his face - that's pushing at, and sniffing her there.
Like an overly friendly dog he's got his nose buried in her arse and as much of her cunt as he can reach. He's swimming in her scent when he starts licking every expanse of skin he can touch. He can just barely stick his tongue into her wet entrance, so he spreads her cheeks and opts for the unmentionable part of her instead.
The Hound starts laughing when she squeals and swats at him backwards, rather ineffectively. He ignores her and just keeps licking.
He loves it. She thinks it repulsive.
"Sandor, I mean it. Stop."
She will indulge him, she trusts him, she carries a passion for him that burns hotter than dragon-fire. But she has her limits, and this is one of them.
Sandor can never scrape together the right things to say that will tell her just how much he loves her. How every single part of her is something he wants nothing more than to revel in. All of her. And that what he feels for her is so far beyond physical desire and considerations, that it is more a function required to live.
But he will never deny her wishes, and opts to lick and nibble the fleshy cheeks he was just rooting between.
When she is settled and humming again, he allows himself to slip back into his baser persona, give in to his baser needs.
Making use of the saliva he licked into place between her arse cheeks, he straddles her thighs and lays his aching cock the length of her tight crevasse. Each globe presses and envelops him, creating the beautiful friction he wants, needs; he proceeds to fuck a steady rhythm.
The Hound sits a little more pressure down on the little bird as he plants one hand beside her body and wedges his other hand under her, looking for the slick treasure that he knows is waiting for him.
He is not disappointed. His fingers slide effortlessly into her folds and over her sensitive bump.
She is grinding into his hand, rocking her hips and her ass in turn, torturing his cock sweetly.
Her release is closing in on her and the Hound needs to feel it for himself.
Removing some of his weight from her upper thighs, he uses the hand he has pressed into her clit to angle her up.
"Lift your ass. I want your cunt."
As she does his bidding he removes his hand, sits up on his knees and leans back to see what she's offering. Both palms reach for her arse, massaging rough circles, each outward movement exposing the part of her that was made for him alone.
Mine.
He slides his thumbs down the cleft connecting back to front, and spreads her wider; her entrance simply begging for his cock. He grunts at it in recognition, having to make an effort not to become completely mindless and drool like a fucking simpleton.
One hand on his cock, one hand splayed on her arse, he hunches down again - lining up to fit inside her. He does so, rolling his hips in a solid push forward.
He keeps pushing with his hips, mesmerized by how the cheeks of her ass intensify their roundness as he applies more pressure, by how his cock is squeezed when she presses her thighs together, by how the length of him doesn't hit the spot that makes it hurt - no matter how hard his pushing becomes.
When he finally relents, pulls back and out in a stroke just as languid as the one before it, he's equally mesmerized by the creases in her skin caused by the force of his pushing, by the long low moan resonating out of her in time to his cock's movement, by the way his shaft glistens - coated in her sweetness.
He lowers himself onto his forearms, his back curved so his face is resting at the hollow of her shoulder.
He fucks her.
Hard, fast and primal.
The last word makes him think of the beasts that had been caged and gawked at when he was a boy in Casterly Rock; and though he stops himself from telling her that this is how lions fuck, he doesn't stop himself from opening his jaw and clamping his teeth on the curve of her neck.
It's his possession of her. The most gifted of bards can sing every one of the worlds prettiest words, but nothing compares to mark of a man left on his woman in the act of mating.
His mind's eye then sees his little bird turned facing him, underneath him; her delicate talons gouging their own marks into his shoulders, down his back to his arse - his mind swims in lust at the mere thought of her possession of him.
He can hear her groan through her breathy moaning and it only prompts him to thrust into her harder.
He has knelt on the front of her skirts that are laying underneath her, and it is causing her to stay in place - her body wants to edge forward with every buck of his hips, but her dress is preventing it, and he feels fucking satisfied when he starts to hear the seams stretch and weaken.
I'll fuck her right out of the thing.
She brings him out of his thoughts when she holds on tight to the forearm he's brought around the front of them; pulling it toward her face, she rests her head on it and starts to whimper in a pitch and volume he knows intimately.
The tip of his cock is nudging that part inside her; that part he sometimes finds, and sometimes remains elusive. He knows enough to keep his strokes even. As much as he wants to fuck her into the floor beneath them, the greater culmination is in helping her hunt down this particular release.
It doesn't matter that her hair is covering the back of her neck, he licks and nips and kisses his way through to the sensitive skin, growling low and guttural when he feels his own peak running toward him.
Her body starts to tense and, at once, she chokes out a gasp and he can feel first the clamp of her inner walls, then a hot flood of wet around his cock. His body wants what his mind hasn't thought of yet, and he hugs himself into her hard, his pelvis slamming her backside in some unnatural tempo.
With a noise that sounds more of pain than pleasure, Sandor plants himself deep inside his little bird, and his seed even deeper.
The minutes add up and they remain unmoved, the only sound in the room is that of their breathing. His a little more ragged as he works to keep his body from laying fully weighted on top of her.
Her face is peaceful, beautiful smooth porcelain, laying on the overly scarred, overly hairy, forearm of the wreck-of-a-man, wreck-of-a-dog, she has taken to loving.
She must, he thinks, love him that is, to allow him this. Allow him to be the animal that has been burned into him for so long; allow him to exercise that animal, and accept it as part of him.
Sansa demands the Hound sometimes, and sometimes she orders the Hound away, but she loves him all the same.
And the Hound loves her too. Loves the little bird and all her parts.
But mostly he loves to fuck her, because that's the kind of dog he is.
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