Once standing on the rug set in the corner of the room, she put her feet together at a practiced distance a few feet from where the two walls met, crossed her wrists at the small of her back, and raised her chin. Over the years she had memorized every crack in the stones of the cozy nook, and she could likely draw each of jagged lines in the rock with her eyes closed. Sometimes, to give herself something to do during longer periods of silent, unmoving banishment to her corner, she had tried naming the sparkling quartz imperfections in the granite. Standing still sounded easy enough, in theory, but her husband had conditioned her body to expect the pleasure of his touch soon after being released … which meant that she often grew anxious, and anxiousness was not conducive to remaining motionless. Shifting her legs, swaying, turning her head, swiveling her eyes from side to side, or moving her crossed arms would typically incur an immediate, and painful, correction.

Time in her corner always gave her a chance to think and reflect with nothing expected of her in the way of conversation, and since it was preferable to conjure up thoughts of pleasant things while she stared at the stonework, her musings often turned to one or more details of her admittedly unusual marriage. She recognized that it was quite unlikely that too many other ladies of Westeros dealt with the sorts of daily travails and onerous demands expected of her … not the least of which was spending meaningful periods of time in an attentive posture, wrists crossed behind her back, staring at walls.

There is a reason for everything that he does.

Those reasons were generally for her benefit, and she had realized early on that the endless rules she was required to follow were specifically intended to keep her thoughts and emotions harnessed in a productive direction. He pleasured her vigorously, frequently, and with care for the needs of her body … she had absolutely no cause for complaint in that regard … but he also strictly regimented her day-to-day life and burdened her with exacting mandates that he knew appealed to her desires and thus served to keep her wet and needy. It was impossible for her not to appreciate the cleverness of his stratagem. After all, if she filled her hours obsessing over the thought of her husband's head between her thighs or his cock in her arse then she had no time or energy to dwell on harmful notions.

In the end, people want what they are denied, and with her mind constantly directed towards the needs of her sex … which she was never allowed to touch … he kept her well distracted. It was ruthlessly simple, extraordinarily effective, and she had begged him on occasion to promise that he would never grow tired of such pastimes. If he seemed hesitant or unenthusiastic, she reminded him that he had so efficiently arranged her day-to-day life that she couldn't even remember the last time she had experienced one of her shaking, paralyzing, fear-fits. That sort of reminder usually provided him with fresh motivation, as the sight of her vibrating with terror, unable to speak or move for long minutes, was not something that he ever wished to see again.

While she counted the cracks in the stone yet again and waited, she heard him rustling in one of the larger cabinets in the room. The barest of smiles curled the corners of her mouth, for she knew very well what item he would soon be assembling. The bench, the heart of which was an old weapons rack composed of two triangular braces on either end with connecting beams running between, had been modified by her lord husband's own hands early in the marriage. Now it featured padded boards that protruded from one side, a wide top the thick wooden beam of which was covered by folded hides bound to the wood by a long piece of leather, and thick, sturdy iron loops that had been secured with spikes driven deep into the wood.

It was perfectly designed for a wife to be bent over and secured with feet, knees, and arms fixed wide apart.

As she heard him assemble the bench by sliding and securing the brackets of the frame, it grew difficult to manage her excitement … after all, she was standing nude and glistening in her corner while her husband prepared the scaffold on which she'd be tied. Her arousal, which had not at all been satisfied by the single moment of relief that had been thus far provided to her, grew to unmanageable proportions when she heard him buckle two of the thick wooden legs of the bench to the copper rings set in the floor. She rubbed her slick thighs together in a surreptitious manner and hoped he would not see.

He saw.

The pronouncement of her punishment followed immediately thereafter, as it always did. "That's three lashes more for squirming when you are supposed to be standing in a focused and calm manner as befits a princess of your station," her husband informed her as she squeezed her eyes shut and froze in place. "You're up to fifteen strokes now, Daella, and if you think I will not add more if you continue misbehaving, you are quite mistaken."

Fifteen?

Fifteen was a lot. Her naked haunches felt very exposed as she stood in the corner, not just from her positioning, but also from the knowledge of the ordeal that her pale skin would soon be subjected to. She enjoyed a good, strong whipping as much as the next woman, but there were diminishing returns to such pleasures. In an effort to spare her rear any additional punishment, she resolved to hold still and not disappoint her husband further. This corner was her quiet spot, she would remain there until her legs gave way or until he came for her, and she imagined herself bound as securely as if she were wrapped in chains or cocooned in mortar.

Spending time in her corner efficiently calmed her spirit and quelled her destructive impulses, but when it proved insufficient, he had other methods.

After making a frightful journey by land and sea to visit Storm's End so that they might attend the latest Baratheon wedding, she had experienced the worst fear-fit since her childhood when she realized that, as a princess of the House of Targaryen, she'd need to dance in front of the assembled nobles of the realm … including her parents and siblings. When she'd calmed enough to attend dinner, she hardly ate a bite and hid her eyes to avoid conversation. Her husband could see that matters would grow worse if she was not taken in hand, so he had excused them from the evening's revelries, marched her to the chamber assigned for their use, and trussed her like a lamb for slaughter. Her hands and ankles were lashed together behind her, her hair was plaited into a braid and tied so tightly to her cinched big toes so that she was bent like a bow, her used smallclothes were bound into her mouth with his belt, and once she could do nothing except flinch, sweat, and whimper, he'd endeavored to teach her that she had strength and willpower far greater than she was willing to admit to herself.

His torment of her had been unrelenting. Tickling, gagging, spanking, repeated use of her mouth and sex, forcing her to repeated moments of bliss until the pleasure of release threatened to become unbearable … he left no marks that would be visible when she was clothed and caused her no injuries, but everything else he could think of, he tried. Eventually, she found herself drifting inside her own body, disconnected from her fears, memories, and concerns, until finally she realized that she was, in fact, being quite silly. A few dances while she fixed her eyes on her husband's face was nothing compared to what she had been experiencing for the past several hours.

She had opened her eyes behind the blindfold, he sensed a change in her and removed the gag, and she told him that he had given her enough strength to endure the wedding and all that would follow. He could tell she was telling the truth … he could always tell … and he had unbound her, cradled her near the hearth for a time, and then let her sleep. The day of the wedding, her mother and father had stared with visible astonishment at her poise on the dance floor, and she'd never felt such pride as when she saw their beaming faces.

Of course, she knew that her husband was not a selfless martyr who acted for her benefit and for no other reason, and she allowed herself a grin as she thought of how much obvious pleasure he took in exercising his authority over her. While she recognized that not everything they did was to his taste … and he likely tired of the endless work required to maintain the routines that kept her mind at ease … she was also quite certain that her subjugation appealed to his nature in much the same way that it appealed to her own. After all, the Targaryen dynasty in decades past had forced the Lords of the Eyrie to bend the knee, and it would only be natural for her husband to correspondingly take some measure of satisfaction in activities such as binding the silver-haired daughter of his king and queen into a blindfolded, freshly-spanked, rosy-bottomed bundle so that she might enthusiastically suckle upon his manhood. She did not mind … let her husband enjoy their pastimes, for she begrudged him nothing. She certainly was long past any shame in finding pleasure wherever and however she could, and she wanted nothing less for him.

So deep in thought was she that when her husband laid his hand on her shoulder she flinched in surprise.

She dropped her hands to her sides as he turned her towards the assembled bench that he had chained to the floor, and she could not help but feel a flutter of trepidation at the sight. He silently moved her forward … they were long past conversation in moments like this … and she trembled as she walked. All the spots of the bench that her body would be touching were padded and lined with leather, which was thoughtful of him, but it was still an ugly, solid piece of hewn timbers that had been created specifically for the purpose of keeping her helpless while she was punished and used.

It was a pity that they had to keep it in storage when not in use.

He aided her in standing on the two small platforms set wide apart on the bench. They were just the right size for her tiny feet, and sturdily constructed enough that they could have borne someone far heavier than she without flexing. The top of the bench, which could use more padding beneath the leather, in her view, was the exact right height for her to be able to lean over, drape her body down the opposite side, and just barely reach the legs of the bench with her arms. The platforms on which she stood, conveniently enough, placed her rear at the perfect height for him to avail himself of without needing to stoop or crouch.

Once she was positioned, with practiced hand he began securing her to the bench. Bands of leather fitted through grooves in the wood secured her feet, manacled ankles, and shins to the frame of the bench, straps around her knees were fitted through iron loops and pulled tight so that her knees were spread wide … a position that could not help but separate the white, milky globes of her arse in a fashion her husband likely found appealing. More straps around her thighs kept those spread, as well, and a wide leather belt went over her back and was cinched on the beam on which she leaned.

She squeaked a bit as her husband pulled the belt tight enough to ensure that she could not separate her body from the top of the bench or shift in either direction.

He circled to the front of the bench, lifted her head up by the chin, and gave her a long lingering kiss. After that, he used the manacles fixed to her wrists to stretch her arms down and out until they were at their limits, and then he secured them to a second set of iron rings with yet more leather straps. Her fate was well sealed at that point, for she had no freedom to move so much as an inch in any direction, and with her limbs spread and tied so tightly she lacked even the leverage to squirm effectively. Her breasts he gave a few loving strokes, and either due to pity or affection he spared her aching, erect nipples the biting, wooden clips that he often affixed at moments like this.

I will have to thank him for that later.

She felt so vulnerable that the sensation was almost indescribable. Arse and cunt were on display between her spread, elongated cheeks, she could do no more than feebly thrash in her bindings, and if she said or did anything that displeased her husband, her bottom could not have been in a more ideal position to administer a thrashing. And yet … he was not quite finished. He inserted a thick wooden dowel wrapped in thick leather between her teeth and then secured the dowel by looping a cord over one end, wrapping the cord behind her head, and then tying the cord to the other end of the dowel so that she could not spit the bit from her mouth. Finally, he tied two long lengths of cord to the ends of the dowel … these cords, she knew from past experience, not only looked like the reins of a horse's bit, they functioned in exactly the same manner. Once the cords had been tied, he used the two reins to drag her head steadily upwards. When she was staring straight ahead with her head angled at what her husband judged to be the proper height, he fixed the reins to the top of the bench so that she could not lower her head nor move it from side to side.

Fixing her head in such a fashion was a rather devilish idea on his part. Not only did the gag make it impossible for her to articulate words, the manner in which the dowel's reins were tied kept her from hanging her head or relaxing her neck. If he had dragged her head upwards any farther the position would have been unbearable, but he did have a preternatural skill at discerning her limits.

"How does that feel?" he asked her in a somewhat rhetorical fashion as he ran his hand along her smooth, oiled flank.

She grunted some sort of reply through the dowel wedged between her teeth and tried, as best she could, to strain her leg nearer to his hand. Her arousal dripped down her leg, he slid two fingers into her exposed, throbbing sex and explored her depths at his leisure, and she grunted and twitched with disappointment when he pulled his fingers free and wiped her own juices on her back. The muffled pleading that she managed to voice despite the bit holding her teeth apart reached a fever pitch, her husband rubbed her sex with the palm of his hand, being careful not to possibly overstimulate her to release, and she shuddered and moaned and prayed that he would take her then and there, just as she was, and grant her hot, swollen nub the attention it so desperately needed.

"Soon," he whispered, which dashed her hopes that he might punish her after. "You have earned these fifteen strokes, haven't you?"

Nodding wasn't really possible given her present circumstances, but she jerked her head against the reins and tried to voice her agreement.

He ran the leather of the tawse along the pale, smooth skin of her back … she hadn't even heard him pick it up … and she could not help but tense as the implement teased at her flesh. This would hurt, she knew that, but the pain would take her mind to places that she'd never been able to reach any other way. She needed to reach those places, needed him to help her, needed the pain and the pleasure so that she could forget everything else and just be.

"I'll count them off so that you don't lose track," he informed her.

She closed her eyes, whimpered in fear, and with a whistling sound the first slash of the tawse struck the full width of her stretched, white bottom, each strand of leather slicing a blistering line of agony all its own. A scream escaped her lips, all breath rushed from her lungs, and she shook and struggled against the straps as burning, fiery pain erupted in her backside. Every muscle clenched and she tried to wrench herself free, but she would not be going anywhere until she'd received fourteen more brutal strokes. Her husband somehow never drew blood, nor did the whip ever strike her sex, yet the blows never failed to leave her in agony. On and on the pain went while she bit down on the dowel and let tears flow from her eyes.

Gods, does that hurt!

"One," he announced in a calm, dispassionate voice.

The tawse whistled a second time through the air and the pain, if anything, was worse. It overlaid the first slash and she imagined across her entire bottom lines of pure, agonizing fire now blazed, angry and sullen, in the candlelight. She yanked her hands against the manacles and let hoarse sobs escape her throat while her legs vibrated and tensed wildly against the bands binding her to the bench. Her jaws clenched so hard against the leather-covered gag in her mouth that she feared her teeth might snap, her fingers splayed helplessly, and she desperately tried to wriggle free.

Her efforts did not even so much as loosen any of the straps.

"Two," he called out while she howled and trembled.

He hadn't been pleased to learn of the sort of pain that she needed … not at first … but he'd sensed her disappointment with his efforts during such play early in their marriage and finally strapped her to the bed and tickled from her the truth. Half-hearted punishments, she admitted, served only to frustrate and confuse her. Once she'd revealed this shameful, dark secret, he had not judged her, as she had feared he might. Instead, he had henceforth labored at his work with renewed fervor.

The third stroke came down and it was anything but half-hearted. Another scream burst forth, louder this time. Although the thick dowel did an excellent job of strangling her cries, she often wondered if she had ever been heard … then again, her husband kept their tower free of nighttime interlopers for this very reason.

Is it too late for me to beg him for mercy?

Her thoughts drifted free of her body soon after the third stroke. She hurt so much that her mind could not take anymore, and oddly enough, everything became easier at that point. The pain remained intense, of course, but also she became aware of her sex pulsing with something that was most definitely not pain. Her nipples and cunt throbbed, her head swayed in the reins that held it upright, and she stopped fighting the straps. It was pointless anyway, for she could not escape nor even effectively struggle. Her husband continued to count out each blow he delivered, but the pain had become a bundled mass of undifferentiated agony that she felt but dimly, as though it had happened to her long ago in a dream. The whipping went on and on, for years, maybe, or only a few minutes, perhaps, but her thoughts were so detached from the hopeless ordeal that it was as if time managed to simultaneously race forward while also holding still. Whatever debts she might owe for the failings of her life, they didn't matter now, for she was paying the price for them. Her worries and guilts loosened their clawed grip on her soul and she felt a deep sense of peace as old terrors ceased troubling her.

The feeling wouldn't last, she knew that, but there was always the next whipping.

"Fifteen," he called out as he tossed the tawse aside. The wooden handle clattered to the floor, she opened her eyes … she hadn't even realized she'd closed them … and her mind returned to her as she took stock of her situation.

Ow.

Her entire bottom was an inferno and it would hurt for a good long while to sit, to walk, to do much of anything. The marks would be there for several days, at least, and the red, burning slashes would initially fade to pink lines, then to white creases, and finally vanish entirely. If she managed to behave, two weeks from now when he shaved her again there would be no whipping after, and this particular experience had been so painful that she found herself quite motivated to do better.

Which, of course, had been entirely the point.

Over the next few days, during quiet, private moments, she would lift her gown and stare at the collection of angry stripes her husband had left on her hindquarters. The perverse pleasure that she'd feel as she observed the hidden bruises would set her pulse racing and make her freshly-shaved sex throb and drip, and then she'd have to quickly lower her garments lest she give in to the temptation to touch herself. For good or for ill, that was the type of princess that she was, and she was past lying to herself or her lord husband about her desires.

He unhooked the reins connecting the dowel-gag to the beam across which she was bound and with a sigh of relief she lowered her head. The tension vanished from her neck and she tried to relax as from her inverted position she watched her husband walk with measured footsteps around the bench. When he was standing near her, he crouched down and ran a hand along the side of her face. She had a good view of his trousers and immediately spotted his manhood trapped, hard and long, beneath the fabric. At the sight, a fresh wave of desire cascaded over her. Whether it was fore or aft, she needed him inside her both for the pleasure it would bring and also to distract her from the raw misery blossoming in the lower half of her body.

Though she had never seen any other specimens to compare it to, she was of the opinion that her husband's organ was quite large. When she'd confessed early in their marriage that she'd been shocked and frightened when first she saw it, he'd laughed and been flattered at her reaction. He then assured her that while he had nothing to be ashamed of, certainly there were men in the world with with far more impressive examples. Perhaps that was true, but whether he was making use of her sheath or her bottom, his length thoroughly filled her … if he was any further endowed it might have been too much.

"A thorough lashing was just what you needed, wasn't it?" he asked as he continued to stroke her face.

He wiped away her tears while she nodded her head. Pain and pleasure had always been blurred for her … now, at least, her husband satisfied her most shameful, darkest cravings in a way that eased her worst impulses.

He ran a hand along one of her straining arms and asked, "I imagine you feel much better now?"

She nodded again.

He reached up and patted her behind with one hand while with the other he stroked her dangling, erect, aching nipples. Each touch seemed to trace a line of sparks toward her soaked cunt and she let out a long, uncontrollable series of wanton moans. Her husband, of course, noticed the state that she was in.

"Daella," he asked in a voice that was thick with his own lust, "can you possibly already be yet again frantic for relief?"

She vocalized a neighing yes from behind the bit.

He reached into his pocket, a gesture which made her nervous, while in a dry, amused manner he said, "I might think that you were in heat."

First, he compares me to a cow, and now a horse? Perhaps my husband should build that cage we have long japed about so that I might play the part of his farm animal?

She had long fantasized about finding herself trapped in such a way, her hands gripping metal bars while she knelt within a fur-padded pen and stared helplessly upwards.

He pulled a strip of cloth from his pocket and she relaxed immediately at the sight of the blindfold. If it had been a feather, she would have begun weeping. "Are you ready?"

Given the defenseless state she'd been reduced to, her obvious eagerness for his touch, and the reality that her body was always his to use however he wished, the question was so needless that she almost giggled in response. Still, it was immensely reassuring how often he sought from her indications of enthusiasm as opposed to confirmation of mere obedience. After all, he could have abused her submissive nature, played the part of a cruel tyrant, and left her broken and miserable. Instead, he loved her with unceasing devotion. Pleasure, pain, rules, routines … she'd come to him in shattered pieces and he'd gathered all the tiny, splintered bits of her and forged her into something new. Maybe this was what she'd always needed, or maybe this had just been the method he chose, but either way, she could not imagine life being any other way.

She smiled around the bit and energetically nodded her head to indicate that she wanted him to continue. Sometimes he made her beg and plead for her buggering, but she prayed he would not torment her in such a manner this evening. He chuckled at the fervent response to his question, kissed her forehead, and then tied the soft, black wool of the blindfold across her eyes. An instant later the reins tugged her head back up into position and were once again tied off.

She heard him fiddle with something, which made her nervous, but then his hands began to work a familiar cool, soothing lotion into the bruised, agonized skin of her stretched bottom. Her eyes fluttered beneath the blindfold as with knowing, kind caresses his fingers spread the blessed substance everywhere that hurt, and in short order the fiery pain had dulled into a far more manageable aching soreness. Her eyes then proceeded to flutter for an entirely different reason as he poured a large dollop of the lotion into his hands and proceeded to work the substance deep into the crevice of her bottom. Soon, the smooth divide of her cheeks was slippery and greased, and he took care to pay special attention to the sensitive, vulnerable ring of ridged flesh set right in the middle of her arse.

Soft sounds left her throat and her fingers curled into claws as he worked first one finger, and then two, into her puckered opening. His hands … which had caused her so much pain only minutes earlier … were so very careful to wait for her muscles to ease before they pushed their way inside. She could feel his fingers working deep within, spreading the lotion and relaxing her arse, and to be invaded in such a way was as mentally intoxicating as it was physically pleasurable. Not only did the feel of him inside her, cautiously preparing her rear to ensure that she would not be hurt, send a pulsing, white-hot thrill through her core and into her gasping lungs, but the fact that he treated her in a caring manner warmed her heart.

He did not work with any noticeable sense of hurry while he lathered another handful of the silky, thick substance onto her bottom and in particular her quivering ring.

The sounds leaving her throat were beyond her ability to control, her hips made small, shuddering motions as her sex quivered hot and wet, her toes curled, her hands bunched into fists, and it was only when he judged her to be thoroughly loosened and lubricated did she hear the sound of his trousers being dropped to the floor and then kicked away. When he settled in behind her, she could feel his cock bobbing and tapping against the cheeks of her arse, and each such tap triggered a resounding drumbeat against her needy cunt. She wanted nothing more than to lean back and entice him inside, but she was bound far too tightly to do anything besides tense beneath the straps, grunt into her gag, and rhythmically flex the muscles of her legs in anticipation.

When the head of his cock nuzzled against the tight opening of her arse she closed her eyes and tried again to wiggle back back against him. She couldn't move, of course, not so much as an inch, but the pat on her bottom seemed to indicate that he appreciated her attempt. His breathing had grown as ragged as her own and she hoped that his self-control would break soon, for she very much needed to be fucked. He grabbed the oiled, pale globes of her arse, which hurt, as the whip marks were still ragged and raw, and pulled her cheeks apart to give himself more room with which to work.

Though she wanted him to take her roughly, to own her, he was always patient when it came to buggering her. He pushed firmly with the warm, soft head of his cock, and she tried to relax and let herself stretch to accept the intruder. Eventually, with a popping sensation that she was sure was audible only in her imagination, he pierced the puckered ring of her arse and began to slide himself in. These moments were always frightening at first, for he was so much larger than her and his cock felt so huge, but the fear quickly faded as she enjoyed the sensation of her husband sinking into her most forbidden, private place.

She gasped, her eyes opened wide behind the blindfold, and the sensation of his thick, hard length working its way inwards was heavenly. As best she could while bent in half over the beam, she angled her hips and hollowed her back so that he could push himself further inside and inch by smooth, lotioned inch ease his cock deeper. She felt stretched in every way possible, stretched over the bench, legs stretched and bound, and her arms stretched and tied as far as she could reach.

He could have taken her without care and enjoyed his rights over her, but he moved slowly, so slowly, and let the slick grease that he'd worked into her rear help his progress. From time to time he reversed course with small movements, letting her loosen, and the feeling of him rubbing in and out was indescribably wondrous. There was some pain, of course, for the sensation was much like being pried open and speared, but the pain was, for some reason, a pleasure all its own.

When he'd pushed himself deep enough that she felt the weight of his black-haired sack sway gently against her cunt, she fought as hard as she could to thrust herself backwards against him. If only she had a hand free, just one hand, she could reach for her sex and put her fingers to work easing the torment of her need. The pressure in her nub had built to intolerable levels, and if she had the use of even one finger, she could reach down and give herself release. Unfortunately, fidgeting and whimpering were about all that she could manage.

He moved forward, gasping with his own pleasure the entire time, and she could feel the strength of his lower body and the power of his hips as he worked himself to the hilt into her bottom. So deep was he, and so squeezed was she by his weight and by the thick wooden beams upon which she was bound, that she could feel his hardness pressing against the back of her cunt. She was trapped, utterly and completely, in the Vale, in the Eyrie, in that tower, in that room, by the bench, and by her husband, and there would be no escape, not until he gave it to her. The mixture of pleasure and pain, the trust she had in him to take the care needed to avoid injuring her, the intensity of sharing something so incredibly intimate … each such night was a transformative experience.

"I love you like this, little one," he grunted as he began to work himself within her bottom. "I know you love it, too. After all, sometimes the best way to keep you focused on being a proper lady is to handle you in this way, is it not?"

Oh gods, I might burst just from what he's saying …

She grunted in agreement from behind the dowel, jerked her head in the bindings that kept her face propped up, and wriggled against his cock so that he could reach still further into her. She wanted every inch of him inside so that she would be forced to focus all of her thoughts, all of her attention on his thrusting cock. His dangling bits swung against her more vigorously as he moved with slow, steady pumps of his hips, and if they would just brush a little harder upon her sex, she might find relief. She needed release so badly that she feared that she was about to go mad. Madness would not save her, though, for she'd still be bent over the bench praying for her husband to free her cunt from the awful, terrible pressure that had built inside it.

"Right now," he continued in a hoarse tone, as his hands tightened on her cheeks and he began to move more quickly inside her, "you have no worries or concerns or fears about anything besides what is happening to your helpless, shackled body, am I right?"

She nodded again and moaned in happiness while she twisted against the manacles and straps. She was at the top of the Eyrie, which was itself practically the top of the world, the door was barred, and her husband was deep enough within her that every concern she had ever had in her life vanished from her mind.

His voice was strained and had risen in pitch when he spoke next, and she could feel droplets of sweat drip from his bare, black-haired chest to land on her rear. "My little dragon princess, this is what you need to keep you on your best behavior, isn't it?"

She squealed a chorus of yes from behind the bit and reveled in the sensation of his cock slowly working its way in and out of her most sensitive region, the spot where the hurt was as enjoyable as the pleasure. The way that she was bent kept her from properly catching her breath, and as she grew light-headed, sparks of twinkling bliss cascaded from her bottom, through her sex, and stimulated her throbbing bud. His length plunged deep into her, continued to against the rear of her sex, and as his cock slid in and out of the sensitive, tight ring of her arse, she wanted nothing more than for him to plunge himself into every corner of her body and make her his.

Her nub was wet, engorged, and so sensitive that if she could only move her hips forward a few inches she could rub it against the hard padding of the bench and achieve release … but she had been bound far too well for that. She could do nothing except remain bent and tied, revel in her husband possessing her in such a thorough manner, and hope that he might reach his hand between her legs and grant her mercy … it would not take more than a few strokes of his fingers, of that she was sure. Her cunt throbbed in time with her heartbeat, dripped arousal onto the stone floor with each of his thrusts, and she grunted in happiness and wished that they could stay this way forever.

He paused then, how he managed such self-control when he was obviously near his own release was beyond her, and held his cock just barely within her bottom. She opened her eyes wide beneath the blindfold and tried to communicate with frenzied snorts and incoherent mewls her dissatisfaction that he had stopped his buggering of her in mid-thrust.

"Do you want me to continue?" he asked, and there was a playful, cruel bite to the words. "If so, tell me how you wish to be treated."

She gibbered and with slurred, unintelligible words pled for him to carry on with reaming her spread, impaled, well-punished arse.

He began again, more urgently this time, and when he removed his right hand from its clenching grip on her behind and stretched his fingers beneath her body she keened a soft cry filled with imploring gratitude.

Please, yes!

"This is what you need, isn't it, little one?" he whispered as with the merciful hand beneath her waist he tapped a fing against the most deliciously sensitive area on her entire body. She could tell from the low rumble of his voice that his own release was close and that knowledge only served to excite her further. "This is what banishes from your mind all notions of doing yourself harm, misbehaving, or neglecting your health, is it not?"

She screamed into the dowel that muffled her speech, fought the leashes keeping her head propped upright, and tried to voice her agreement to his questions. He rubbed his hand along her sex, but not with enough pressure, and she nearly broke down in tears. She was split in two by something that felt far too large and it still wasn't enough.

Yet another question left his lips. "You've been whipped and buggered for your own good, and now I think you deserve a reward. Don't you?"

After she had mewled and begged for a time he reached for the pressed his palm against the folds of her sex and proceeded with the barest of touches to stroke the small, desperate spot peeking from beneath its hood.

OhgodsOhgodsOhgodsOhgods

That pushed her over the edge.

The moment of bliss spread over her entire lower body, each and every muscle tensing in waves while pleasure surged through her ass, up her hips and back, all the way to her breasts and nipples. Muscles that she scarcely knew existed except in moments like this spasmed, and when the clenching ring of her arse milked her husband's penetrating cock to such an extent that he gasped, plowed deep, and twitched his seed into her rear, it was another layer of joy atop the indescribable sensations she was already experiencing. She flopped and screamed and felt her cunt vibrate with blessed relief so powerful that it broke her into pieces, swept her into a current of raw pleasure, and obliterated her conscious thoughts.

When her mind came back to her she was entirely uncertain how much time had passed.

He said some words of affection and praise, though her mind was as of yet incapable of understanding speech, and then carefully withdrew himself from her bottom. After being stuffed and filled for so long, his absence left her feeling hollow and empty, and almost immediately she began longing for him to use her in such a way again.

The position in which she was fixed was an ungainly one that put tremendous strain on her body, and thus he moved quickly to unbuckle the dowel from her mouth and unstrap her hands and waist from the bench. Once those restraints had been removed, he helped her stand upright, and although her legs were still tied it was a blessed relief to be able to take deep breaths and move again.

He pulled the blindfold away, tossed it to the ground, and then kissed her for a long time. It was tender, and so very sweet after his rough use of her, and it almost made her forget that her arse was still a stinging collection of pain and bruises.

Almost.

When the kiss broke off, he unwound the thong that tied back her hair and let her Targaryen plumage hang free down her back. The silver strands tickled against her back as they fell and she could not help but reach up with a trembling hand and caress them into some semblance of order. She imagined that she was a red-faced, sweaty mess to look upon, and the least she could do was try to straighten her hair for her husband.

He crouched behind her and one by one removed all the bindings from her legs. Feet, shins, knees, and thighs were freed, and then he unclasped the manacles on her wrists and ankles and tossed those aside as well. Without the straps supporting her she felt weak as a newborn kitten, and she wobbled when she stepped away from the bench. Her own emissions leaked down her legs, his seed leaked from her behind, and if he had not caught her with his hands she would have fallen. With smooth, assured movements he hooked his arms beneath her back and knees, lifted her aloft, and carried her to a well-padded chair near the hearth. He sat down with her upon his lap, cradled her against his chest, and reached for a goblet set next to several pitchers on a nearby table.

She was tremendously thirsty, and he made sure she had nearly a full goblet of water and half a goblet of a light, sweet red that was far more to her liking than the overly crisp white she'd drank earlier.

She pulled her legs closer, sat in his lap, leaned her head against his muscled chest, and enjoyed the feeling of not being worried about anything in her life while her husband held her. He smiled down at her and chuckled when she dribbled a few drops of wine as she drank.

He attempted to be subtle as to the wary eye he kept on her, but she could tell that he was waiting to see if she would do something forbidden to her, such as rubbing her hands along her bottom in an attempt to ease the deep, burning ache left by the whipping or soothe her well-satisfied, but also well-buggered and quite sore, arsehole. She knew better than to tempt his ire, of course, but she loved to watch his eyes staring at her.

Her hoarse, rasping gasps eventually gave way to measured, steady breathing, the thrumming of her heart eased, and after half an hour of quiet conversation about various subjects not related to the bedchamber … and many long stares into each other's eyes … he reminded her that there was still much to be done that evening. He helped her stand, eyed her carefully to ensure that she had recovered enough to continue, then affectionately slapped her still-aching rump and sent her back to her corner.

Rather than face the stonework, this time he had her kneel facing outwards with her fingers interlaced behind her head, knees a wide distance apart, and her ankles crossed. The slashing marks that the tawse had left on her rear were painful, searing brands upon her pale skin that she dearly wished to rub with her hands, but instead she held her chin high, stretched her elbows up and away from her body, and kept her back straight.

She would stay in that pose for as long as her husband required, until she collapsed from exhaustion, in truth, but she trusted that he would never keep her in such a demanding position for long. When he did command it of her, however, the exposed, lewd nature of her posture always renewed her ardor in short order. She had only just knelt, and yet she already could feel her core warming despite the fact that her bottom and sex still throbbed from the buggering and lashing they had received. While it was tempting to watch her husband's nude, muscular form while he disassembled the bench, she knew he would be carefully observing her every move, and thus she resolved to keep her eyes pointed straight ahead.