Chapter Eighteen

Trials and Tribulations

Two large soldiers flanked Petyr, one holding each arm right up until he was standing directly before Sansa and her peers for judgement. They let go of him and stepped back, but stayed close enough to imply that he wouldn't get far at all should he be stupid enough to try something rash. Petyr's gaze kept shifting to the Captain of the Vale forces present, Ramsay noticed.

The murmur of voices in the room grew as all assembled and then died down as Petyr was positioned for trial. Sansa lifted her head to speak and all grew quiet save her, "Petyr Baelish, you are being tried today for murder, treason and conspiracy against not one but several crowns, all so that you could prosper from the damage you left in your wake."

Petyr stood tall, lifting his head as he spoke out to the assembled throng, "These accusations are erroneous, and I would like to point out that I do not have adequate representation in this biased court. My lord the prince of the Vale must know what is happening here; I demand to be allowed audience with him to make this matter fair."

A sudden stifled grunt of a laugh escaped the lips of the Captain standing off to his side, and Petyr shot a glare his way, though he couldn't quite hide the fear there as well. If that man was laughing at his demand then the chances that the young prince was going to be of assistance in the matter were slim. He looked back to Sansa.

She was only watching him carefully, in a fashion that reminded Petyr too much of a snake waiting for the perfect moment to strike. "You are in no position to make demands, Baelish. Not only is this the case, but such an audience would do you no benefit at all; Dear Captain, could you please recount to the court the prince's words on the matter?"

Petyr's face was losing color as the large balding man stepped forward and cleared his throat to speak, quoting the prince of the Vale, "For murdering my beloved mother and lying to me, you may do whatever you wish to that man, I only wish never to see him again, though I do very much hope that you decide to make him fly."

Sansa watched as Petyr stiffened yet further to the words spoken, despite knowing beforehand that they weren't going to be pretty. His face took on an air of offended outrage, though his voice shook in fear and failed to carry the act convincingly, "You have misrepresented me to my liege, making this whole trial even more of a farce!"

A murmur whispered through the hall at the sound of Petyr's bellowed protests, but they disappeared quickly in the advent of Sansa's reply, "Your professed 'liege', a boy recently orphaned by your own actions in murdering his mother, was sent my personal testimony of what happened to said parent." She watched Petyr continue to squirm where he stood.

"Yes, I am acting as witness concerning your murder of my Aunt, so if you would like to try and explain to this assemblage why they should not believe my first-hand record of events, please go ahead."

A long silence fell over the room then, not a sound emanating from anywhere, and no one moved, especially not Petyr, whom seemed as if frozen in place.

Ramsay watched him carefully; Petyr's face was unreadable, stuck in an expression devoid of emotion. The man certainly knew that defying Sansa's testimony was the only way he could have any chance of clearing himself of a charge of regicide, the penalty of which was most certainly death. At the same time, he must also know how foolhardy trying would be.

They all stood within the walls of Winterfell, ancestral home of the Starks, and even if he wasn't a terribly hated individual by the standards of most individuals present, not a soul in sight would be insane enough to deny the account of the only remaining member of the House whose banners now flew the walls of the keep once more.

In what Ramsay supposed should have been a predictable move, Petyr dropped down upon his knees in front of her, his eyes shining with desperation, "Sansa... everything I have done concerning you has been with your best interests in my heart whether you believe it or not. I didn't mean for any of the things that happened to go the way they did…"

Sansa's eyes hardened as she watched him prostrate himself before the mercy of her court. Clearly she had expected Petyr to put up much more of an argument, but the man had sense enough to know when he had been beaten, and when all outside support and chance of escape had been very thoroughly denied him.

When she did finally begin to speak, breaking the pall of silence that had fallen over the room, her words were terse and clipped, "So you no longer deny any of the allegations made against you concerning your murder of my Aunt and of the volumes of scheming that have caused so much death, including even my own father as your collateral victim."

Petyr only dropped his hands palm up onto his knees as he sank further to the floor, hanging his head as he let out a short sigh of defeat and resignation to his fate, whatever it might be, "I deny nothing; I only appeal to this court and especially to you Sansa to understand that the harm I have done was accident born of noble intention."

There was a silence that fell over the room then that could be felt by all present, as the assemblage waited to see what verdict Sansa would give now that the accused had so easily pled guilty of the crimes of which he was being held accountable for. Ramsay wondered if perhaps Petyr's defeatist tactic had caught her by surprise.

After all, he could only assume that the entire time they had stood there waiting, well, he had stood anyways, but he had thought that the most likely thing she had been doing as she sat there meditating was that she was going over the many things that might be said here tonight. All of the various arguments that Petyr might hold to sway an innocent verdict despite the odds.

Petyr had in all likelihood just ruined a great deal of planned responses by folding so very easily. Ramsay leaned forward a bit and cocked his head to the side, trying to get a read on whether Sansa might be annoyed or even angered by such a turn of events, but her face was stolid, reflecting not an ounce of how she might feel on the matter.

As tense as the wait for her words was for Ramsay and all of the others eagerly awaiting her verdict, the former Lord Bolton could only imagine how much more agonizing the silence was for Petyr Baelish, who squirmed a bit upon the floor, his upturned palms and forehead glistening with a bit of nervous sweat. He was intelligent enough to have assumed the worse, but it made waiting for it no easier.

"Petyr Baelish, I have not the smallest of doubts that every single underhanded, manipulative, self-serving action you have taken has been both intentional and even in some cases malicious. Your claimed 'noble intentions' are at best laughable, and I have no intention whatsoever of showing you anything that might resemble mercy."

Ramsay smiled; he did so love the part where people were sentenced to death. Ever since he had moved into the keep proper to live with his father as a teenager, he had always relished those days when his father had commanded a man to be put to death, especially when they had annoyed the Lord Bolton enough to merit flaying.

Petyr's face had become quite grim now; he wasn't exactly surprised, but Ramsay supposed the man had as all people do held onto some fantastical thread of 'what if' that perhaps involved him surviving this experience. He sagged yet further upon his position kneeling before Sansa, his head hanging a bit as he stared at the floor and perhaps pondered his own mortality.

"As with the murderous and sadistic Ramsay Snow, you shall be withheld the mercy of a quick death, so that on the day that you die you will have suffered innumerably for your many heinous crimes. It is time that you were met judgement for every action you carried out to harm another, and death could only rob many of their justice."

Ramsay flinched at his name being used in such a negative connotation. Once he might have reveled in being referred to in such a tone of malcontent, but hearing Sansa say it brought him no joy. Even more than that though he blanched at her pronouncement that Petyr would be spared execution, along with almost all of the Vale forces present.

The remainder of Sansa's renewed court were less surprised by such a strange announcement, but the commander of the Vale guard stepped forward, his brow creased in consternation, "My Lady, surely you don't mean that he is going to be allowed to live after his many betrayals? This simply isn't how things are done in Westeros…"

The man glanced at those in attendance and could clearly see that many present shared his misgivings, "…if your brother Jon were here I doubt he would have passed such a verdict. The man has blood on his hands, and those lives must be repaid in his own blood."

Sansa waited until the armored knight had spoken his piece before she replied, her voice firm but respectful.

"I understand completely why you feel this way, Ser, but I remind you that my brother has placed me in command of Winterfell in his absence. He has faith in my ability to make such choices, and so I ask that you do the same. You say he has to repay his sins in blood and that is fair, but look at the man; he doesn't have enough blood in his body to atone for so many sins."

"I stand by what I mentioned in my judgement; Petyr Baelish will live, if only so that he may be met with the full course of righteous punishment."

The Captain glanced around, noting that no one else was standing to voice support of his argument. He had been camped outside of Winterfell with the bulk of his forces most of the time that he had spent with them after the Battle of the Bastards, and so he had missed Sansa's reform of Ramsay and the decisions she had forced upon her own court.

He hadn't missed Ramsay, though, and as he glared at that man standing behind Sansa it was clear on his face that he didn't approve of that either and simply hadn't stated his feelings on it, "It seems you have made up your mind, Lady Sansa. I only ask that whatever form of tortures you use upon him be reported to my Lord so that he might know justice was done on behalf of his mother."

Sansa nodded to him, "A fair request; I will have a letter scribed with a full accounting of Petyr's daily punishments so that the Lord of the Vale might know that the man who harmed his family is being dealt with fairly."

That seemed to appease the knight, and he gave a curt bow at the waist, his lingering glare upon Ramsay moving to Petyr a sign that he wasn't entirely happy with the outcome, but that he was at least resigned to the decision Sansa had made. Sansa glanced out at the rest of the assembled nobility and military, "Were there any more objections or concerns?"

None answered, so she stood slowly, regarding the still shocked Petyr, who sat upon the floor with a look upon his face like a man in a waking dream, "Take him to the room I have prepared for him; I will be there shortly."

Ramsay blanched. Prepared. She had intended to keep Petyr alive all along. His expression was dour as the assemblage was dismissed and he followed Sansa as she made her way from the hall. He glanced over at her several times, but if she noticed the general foulness of his mood she chose not to mention it. Ramsay wasn't sure why he was so dismayed.

After all, Sansa was clearly going to torture the man, and Ramsay had always been game for such fun, but the simple fact that Petyr was being kept alive nettled at his subconscious in some hidden way that left him with no rest from his doubts. He might not be certain why he felt this way, but he knew one thing absolutely for certain; no good would come of this.

Petyr was dragged away from the hall by two Vale soldiers who were neither gentle nor considerate as he grunted his discomfort at being handled roughly. He was led out of the building but instead of going back towards the cell he had been held in before, they carried him into the keep proper, past a number of servant quarters and into one of the spacious rooms reserved for guests.

He was still in a daze after Sansa's completely unexpected pronouncement that he would live, so the odd fact that he was being brought to a lavish apartment rather than his dreary cell just joined the many strange feelings all of this left him with. After he was pushed inside however he realized several major changes to the room that set it apart from other guest rooms in the keep.

For one, most of the furniture had been removed, and the room was devoid of any sort of decoration. Secondly, there was an empty area of the far wall that sported a set of manacles set into the wall that one might have expected to see down in the dungeons. As the guards moved him over to them there could be no doubt that they were intended for his use.

One soldier locked his wrists into the iron rings as the other patted him down to be certain that he hadn't somehow come upon something to hide on his person that he might use as a weapon or to free himself. Once the first was certain that he was locked in tight and the second was positive that he had not secreted anything of use, they both left abruptly, as he had figured they would when finished.

Petyr stared at the wall in front of him, and the first thought that crossed his mind was to wonder why exactly he was facing the wall. Didn't they typically strap people into these contraptions so that they faced outwards? Perhaps so that the people holding them prisoner could see if they had expired or maybe just so that they could enjoy the agonized look on their faces…

He let out a long sigh and glanced to each side of him, trying to see exactly how much of his new prison he could see. Not much. Sansa had insured that there would be nothing for him to look at except the brick of the wall before him. He thought to himself that maybe Sansa had implemented the first of his punishments; the trial of boredom.

After a mere few minutes of this the position he was having to stand in became uncomfortable. All Petyr could think was how in the world did prisoners go for months locked to such devices? Of course, they had been able to rest their backs against the wall behind them, whereas the best Petyr could do was lean into the wall in a most awkward fashion that didn't really alleviate his discomfort.

What felt to Petyr to be hours passed, and he shifted from one foot to the other, feeling like he was already beginning the process of losing his sanity to the granite that stared unceasingly back at him. The familiar sound of a door being opened behind him caused him to startle almost excitedly; he welcomed almost any distraction from the void he had been left to.

Petyr craned his neck, but he could not see Sansa and Ramsay as they entered the room behind him. Ramsay was glancing over the room with a deep frown firmly entrenched upon his face. Sansa approached Petyr until she stood just behind him, just close enough for him to barely see her in his periphery vision.

Her expression was still just as measured as it had been back at the hall, and when she spoke her voice was fluid and bereft of emotion, "Your punishment starts today, Petyr Baelish. Before I do things that will forever humble you as a person, I would like you to know that I have removed you of your status as a Lord, and sent out agents to insure that your holdings are passed into other hands."

Petyr lowered his head a bit, perhaps a sign that he was thinking on the implications of what she was saying. Ramsay watched him with a look of casual indifference; he didn't give a shit what Sansa did to Petyr, but he was hoping that at least it wouldn't be boring. Perhaps in response to what Petyr might be thinking Sansa continued.

"I have done a lot of work to ferret out all the assets you have hidden throughout Westeros, and as clever as you were in hiding much of it, I am confident that I have hunted nearly every brothel, business partner and spy down that you have maintained and removed them from your reach forever. My agents will continue looking for anything we have thus far overlooked until there is nothing left."

Now Petyr blanched; perhaps until that point he had not taken Sansa's threat seriously. If he hadn't, he certainly did now. When he spoke, he voice was filled with sorrow and self-pity, "Why would you do this? It doesn't matter… I am a self-made man. I wasn't born a noble, I earned it… wait… do you plan on releasing me?"

Ramsay's face became suddenly alarmed at the notion; with the decisions Sansa was making lately, he wasn't entirely certain that Petyr's freedom wasn't also on the agenda. Why would this fuck get to walk when Ramsay had been made a prisoner in his own house? To his relief Sansa immediately shook her head, "No."

"You will never again be free to make choices for yourself. You are forever beholden to a fate of atonement for your crimes, and will likely never leave the walls of this keep in your lifetime, barring decision made by your keeper, me."

Sansa's back was turned, so she couldn't have been aware that Ramsay's mood was souring even further, his lips puckering in a way they did when he was greatly displeased. What did it matter that Sansa wanted to keep this man like he had kept Theon Greyjoy? Still, the whole affair had him bristling with a strange feeling of hostility towards Petyr.

Petyr tensed, obviously considering what his tenure under Sansa and her House for all time was going to be like. Ramsay imagined that there would be a great deal of torture involved, especially in the early days when it was new and interesting. He knew how this went, after all, and now he found himself hoping that she would bore of Petyr quickly and dispose of him.

Petyr was breathing harshly as Sansa moved closer to him; he couldn't see her after all, and though she had come unarmed he didn't know that. For all he knew, this woman whom had just promised him a lifetime of untold pain was even now lifting a dagger to carve flesh from his back. Ramsay smiled a little now; he never failed to enjoy seeing fear in others.

She didn't say anything, just lingering behind the man as he squirmed against his restraints, his skin flush with the stress she caused him and he worked hard to control his breathing. After this had gone on for some time she reached out and began ripping his shirt from him. Ramsay's pulse quickened; was she going to flay him?

It had been a very long time since Ramsay had the joy of watching a flaying, though he frowned as the follow up thought came along that Sansa did in fact not have a knife. She wore a simple dress that left no room to hide one, and when his eyes scanned the room he saw no evidence of a blade upon the simple bed or the sole dresser that resided therein. She bent down, tearing at Petyr's trousers to pull them off of each leg until he was divested of those too.

Unsummoned and unwanted came the memory of those awful dreams where Sansa and Petyr nakedly coupled almost within arm's reach of him, and Ramsay shook his head as if trying to rattle the errant thought loose and his burgeoning smile faltered and quick turned about face to a frown. Petyr was completely nude now as Sansa stepped back to admire her work.

She then moved equally wordlessly across the room to the small dresser beside the bed and opened the sole drawer in it to reach inside. Ramsay felt the exhilaration of happy relief at the thought that she had her blade for flaying stored here, or at the very least some terrible instrument designed to remove Petyr's appendages or otherwise cause him great discomfort.

That feeling was stunted as what she had gone to fetch revealed itself to be a long leather strap with a simple handle on one end. While this was a device clearly designed to bring Petyr great discomfort, this brought no joy to Ramsay, and again he found himself irrationally vexed over Sansa's choices in what to do with the fallen lord.

With the feeling that currently permeated the room, and perhaps the fact that she now bore a device that had at times graced Ramsay himself, he chose not to bring up his misgivings at that particular moment about what she was doing. Sansa stood squarely behind Petyr now, and the other man tensed again, feeling her closeness and knowing that she had fetched… something.

Sansa didn't start right away; instead she leaned in so that her breath tickled Petyr's ear and spoke slowly and deliberately, "I'm going to make you sorry that you ever crossed me or my family, and then I'm going to make you sorry for every choice you've ever made, and then I'm going to make you cry. You'll beg me for forgiveness and you'll beg me for death, but it will be an eternity before you see either."

Petyr was quavering as he stood nakedly pinned to the wall, his body shuddering like a leaf in a soft wind, and Ramsay had to admire how good Sansa had become at instilling terror in others. Petyr licked dry lips and opened his mouth to speak, but before the first syllable could escape him, Sansa brought the strap across his bared cheek with a suddenness that cause a sharp whip-like crack to echo through the room.

He screamed instead, his eyes bulging as he writhed within the narrow confines of his containment. Petyr hadn't been expecting this to happen, and his fingers flexed in and out in an extremely nervous pattern that Ramsay recognized as an inability to handle the situation that presented itself, "P-please… Sansa…"

Another harsh slap that resounded across him and caused both of Petyr's feet to momentarily leave the floor as he jumped in response to the pain. Ramsay himself began to squirm; this entire event was making him uncomfortable as well. He had never really experienced sympathy in any form before, but watching Petyr receive exactly what Sansa had given him succeeded in bringing back memories and ghost sensations.

He couldn't help but wonder how terrible it must be to be held in such a helpless state while Sansa did as she would, how excruciating it must feel to be forced to stand for it. It had always been easy for Ramsay to enjoy the suffering of others when he himself had never endured those cruelties, but now his body remembered what this was like…

She delivered more painful swats now, keeping a steady pace but very gradually increasing the tempo, so that Petyr was always getting hit a little faster, a little harder. If he reacted wildly to her first punishments, he was certainly so now, flailing against his restraints like a madman and hollering at the top of his lungs against the pain.

Ramsay knew this did no good in alleviating it, and soon enough Petyr would realize this to be the case also. He marveled at how quickly the whoremonger buckled under what Sansa was doing to him; already Petyr was acting like a man broken, and Ramsay could swear that he saw wetness in the man's eyes. He thought this would make him feel joy in that Petyr was so very weak, but instead it continued making him feel uneasy.

The former noble began to sob quickly, showing none of the anger, none of the frothing rage that Ramsay had once exhibited when pushed to this point. Perhaps he is just weak-willed, thought Ramsay, but his memory of the things Petyr had said in his defense niggled at his thoughts that this was incorrect. He wondered if Petyr's pride really was second to his affection for Sansa. Was that part really not bullshit?

If not it would explain why Petyr began to spill out a litany of apologies as Sansa thoroughly tanned his hide, blathering on and on until he was almost incoherent through the pain about how very sorry he was. Shortly after this came the promises, one after the other as to how he would make amends and do right by her.

But Sansa remained quiet through all of this part, only answering his words with the sharp sting of the strap, which spoke for her. Ramsay recognized what Petyr was doing, and credited Sansa for knowing that it was all a defense mechanism, one favored by the weak and pathetic. Petyr likely meant not a word of what he said, and Sansa wasn't giving his lip-service the dignity of a like response.

After this Petyr began to cry, just as Sansa had promised he would, his tears rolling from his eyes and he surrendered words in favor of deep, mournful, wracking sobs that resonated from deep in his chest even as Sansa continued to add layer after layer of bright red stripes across his backside. Ramsay felt shaken by the emotion coming off of Petyr in waves now, and the worst part was that it wasn't in a good way.

He almost wished to ask Sansa if he could leave, but he dared not interrupt, and he knew that she would not allow him to exit alone, leaving him feeling trapped in that room he no longer wished to be present in. He didn't like that Sansa was doing to Petyr what she had done to him, and he knew now that it must be for various reasons, because his own emotions on the topic swirled like a storm inside of him now.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, Sansa stopped, stepping away from Petyr and raising her hand to tuck a lock of hair that had come loose due to her exertions back into place. Her breathing was ever so slightly elevated, but otherwise she radiated a sense of calmness in her bearing and voice as she stated firmly, "This shall be the easiest thing you endure for your misconduct, Petyr Baelish. I want you to think on that as you wait for the next."

Then she turned upon her heel and made for the door. Ramsay was just a surprised as Petyr for a moment, the other man still tensed as if she might lay another stinging reprimand upon his person in physical form, but Ramsay at least understood the power of a well-played exit. He smiled as she swept past him to leave, "Well, I suppose that you…"

"Come, Ramsay."

His words were cut short as he hurried to obey, a bit chastened by the act, both in her clipped command and his automatic response to scurry after her. Sansa had him acting like a well-trained hound and he knew it, but to his chagrin Petyr now also knew it by the way that he had abandoned his insult to heel like a dog.

They walked down the halls of the keep for a few minutes in silence, Ramsay noting that they seemed to be heading back to Sansa's own quarters. Halfway there she suddenly rounded on him, shoving him into the wall and levering a hard look at him that made him squirm against her tight grip, "Why are you acting like this, Ramsay?"

"L-like what?" he sputtered. Though Ramsay knew very well what she spoke of; he had made a point of glowering and moping ever since Sansa's original decision to perform a trial for Petyr, never mind the excess of posturing he had done for all of her choices since. He realized nervously that she had not failed to notice at all.

No, she had just been ignoring the large volumes of negative energy he had been radiating her way in favor of focusing on the task that was at hand, but now he had her full attention, and suddenly all of that projected melancholy didn't seem like such a great idea in the purview of her burning gaze. It was clear in her eyes that she knew that he knew what she meant.

Sansa pulled away slightly and her hand lashed out to smack his backside, causing him to jump in surprise, his hand reflexively rubbing at the area as she continued to lock him with that steely stare. It hadn't really hurt; he had been wearing clothing and the awkward angle that she had hit him from blunted any chance of real pain, but he knew that wasn't the point.

The point was that this was a very real threat of him sharing Petyr's fate if he didn't stop doing what he was doing. He licked his lips, his worried blue eyes reflecting that he got the message and that he hoped adamantly that she was done punishing him for his misbehavior. Seeming mollified by his change of demeanor Sansa turned back to continue walking.

Following her in a far more subdued manner than he had been expressing lately, Ramsay wondered over whether her temperament towards his expressions of dissatisfaction wasn't strongly affected by the roiling emotions she undoubtedly felt concerning her dealings with Petyr. He imagined it must take a great deal of restraint to not go wild on a man who was responsible for the deaths of loved ones, even if he couldn't quite understand why she would bother doing so.

He reflected that the sharp manner of her speech and the agitated manner in which she walked must be due to her dwelling on thoughts of what she would have rather done to Petyr. At least, this was what Ramsay might have been thinking, but once they arrived at her quarters she proved to him yet again that he did not know her mind at all.

As soon as the door was shut behind them Sansa grabbed ahold of Ramsay and pressed him hard to the wall as she had in the hall. At first, he thought she might be revisiting her argument from before and his heart trilled in fear inside him at what that might mean, but instead of hard looks and angry questions, she began to rip his clothes from him. Ramsay watched, stunned, as she removed him of his pants.

"Bend over the bed; I'm going to fuck you."

It took several long moments for the shock of what Sansa had just told him to make way for reasoning thought. Apparently Sansa was feeling impatient as well, giving him another cuff on the behind to stir him to action. Ramsay moved over to the bed stiffly, feeling like he was in some sort of dream, where everything happened in a sort of slow motion.

She had used the metal cock she had crafted for him on occasion when she had first taken Ramsay on as her charge, but it had been some time, and dreadful feelings of remembered discomfort and humiliation rose within him at the sight of her mounting the device upon her person and strapping into place once again.

Sansa glanced at him as he stood there by the bed, frozen with the feelings that assailed him, "I told you to bend over."

She moved closer and Ramsay flinched, "I-I thought that we had moved past this sort of depreciating activity… have I not been your faithful and humble servant?" Hearing himself say such belittling words about his own person churned at Ramsay, making him feel sick to his stomach, but how much more shaming it would be to continue as they were...

Sansa gave him a smile that was both cold and warm at the same time; if he hadn't been subject to the prospect of incoming sodomy he might have taken delight in such a look. Perhaps he had taught Sansa far more about sadism than he had thought. How terribly ironic that her lust for pain and pleasure in it would then be applied to him.

Myranda had often looked at him that way, when she had held him to the bed by the wrists, or imitated choking him while they fucked. But that had all been play acting, the two of them imagining as they fed their needs. Sansa wasn't playing at dominating him; she intended to actually do so, and not as a punishment this time, but just because it would cause her satisfaction.

Apparently he was still moving too sluggishly, because Sansa suddenly pushed him down so that he fell upon the bed, barring her left arm across his back as her right hand gave him a painful swat to the pale flesh of his naked buttocks. He was feeling panicked now, mostly by the fact that he didn't think that there was anything he could say to stop her, "Wait! Wh-what brought all of this on?!"

She paused, still holding him down firmly but seeming to consider his request for a reason to her sudden interest in taking him this way, "I suppose in the interest of keeping our marriage honest I'll share with you. I have always derived joy in watching you squirm when you got what you deserved at my hands, so when I saw Petyr jump and hop about as he got a taste of what is to come, I grew hot with need."

Ramsay's eyes were wide as he strained to look over his shoulder at her. When she had fucked him with the metal cock before, he had always assumed that it was entirely as a method of torture designed to emulate one of the cruelties that he had so often forced upon her. He had never once imagined that Sansa felt joy in the doing of it.

Sansa didn't give him time to reflect on this any longer, her right hand spreading his cheek to the side so that she could press the cool, smooth device against his taint. He went stiff as a board and cried out at the feeling as she began to push her false member inside of him, inch by inch, "N-no, stop! Please, I don't want this!"

She made a shushing noise as she continued to gently but firmly invade him further and further, until nearly all of it was inside of him, "I will be as kind as I can, but you will give me my marriage due, husband."

Ramsay stiffened further at those words; they sounded so very similar to the very words that he had often spoken to her when she had objected to his treatment of her. Sansa might be acting out of lust, but he would be remiss to think that there was no element of punishment not still in play with this. There was no arguing with her, he realized; he deserved this.

As promised, Sansa took care to enter him as painlessly as possible, though feeding her need soon drove her to begin working the makeshift cock hard inside of him, her hands grasping his hips to pull him up into her as she fucked him in long thrusts that caused Ramsay to cry out in pain and dismay. He didn't argue or resist anymore; he knew the futility in it, only laying limply as she had her way with him.

While he lay there, rocked by Sansa's growing passions, he kicked himself mentally for his jealousy concerning Petyr; he should have been less concerned with her fucking Petyr and more concerned about her fucking him. His yelling grew loud and his hands entwined themselves in the sheets as he grasped them firmly against the invasive feeling of what she did.

Suddenly Sansa pressed against him so hard that it drove him down into the bedding, and she gave forth her own cry of ecstasy, her body trembling against his as her faux cock drove very deeply inside him. Ramsay glanced back at her in amazement; it was still a lot to digest, seeing her derive such joy from this.

At last she sank to lay upon his back, breathing heavily and spent from her exertions. Ramsay felt a surge of relief that she had gotten what she wanted, since it meant that he might finally be free of his humiliating position beneath her, but this feeling was truncated when he felt her begin to slowly move the cock around inside him once more.

He looked back to see a predatory look in her eyes, and her breath played hotly over the nape of his neck as she whispered into his ear, "You're not done sharing with me yet, Husband."

As she began to work herself up again Ramsay began to reconsider how he had imagined this going; Sansa seemed zealous in her passions now, and no woman was restricted to a mere single orgasm. He braced himself as well as he could, feeling the sharp sting of frustrated, hopeless tears in his eyes; this was going to be a long night indeed.