by Vanessa Vale
She was tall for a woman, but still only rose in height to reach my chin. She was trim, but with delightfully ample breasts that would cause me constant distraction. I was definitely a man who favored breasts that were an abundant handful. Her hips flared wide beneath her skirts. I'd been rock hard since I first laid eyes upon her, and was thankful for her innocence to not recognize my uncomfortable situation. This, too, would be rectified by the end of the day. Her naiveté would help as she bent to my dominance, learned how a wife should comport herself, and how she would think solely about her body and how she could use it to please me.
Sam and Cole remained quiet; the slow gait of their horses had them loping along next to us, listening to the conversation. It was my job—and privilege—to enlighten Catherine to her duties. They'd have their own wives soon enough, and they were obviously learning how to be effective when it was their turn. Ranch life held little privacy. Their role as brothers-in-law would be much different than she was familiar.
“As my wife, your job is to meet my needs. I don't mean cooking and cleaning. I mean with your body. Fucking...and other things I'll instruct you on later. If you follow my rules and do what's expected of a wife without question, without complaint, you'll please me greatly, which means I will please you. My requirements are rigorous and different from the city folk, however, so I expect some difficulties̶ "
“Um...but....” Catherine stuttered, darted glances at Sam and Cole. "Do I have to..to fuck them, too? Is that what you mean?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper and her cheeks a bright red.
We shared more than most siblings, but I wasn't going to let either of my brothers have her. Her pussy was mine. Her ass was mine. And I wouldn't hesitate to use her whenever, and wherever, I chose. Therefore, Sam and Cole would see her in various stages of undress, most likely being fucked, often punished. In the short term, trained certainly. The Bridgers didn't keep the intimacies of marriage behind closed doors.
"Hell, no. As your husband, your body is mine."
I felt Catherine's body relax at those words.
“Is there anyone else at the ranch?” she asked.
“There are a few ranch hands, our cousin Grant - who is the foreman - and his wife, Maura,” I replied.
“Will I...do I have to—”
“No, sweetheart,” I said, assuaging her fears.
“How many will I have to cook for? Eight or nine?”
“As I said, you don't have to cook. Or clean. Or any other task like that. Maura will come in and tend to it all.”
“So then what am I to do?” she asked. Her head turned to the side and I could see she worried her lip between her teeth. Obviously, she placed her value as a wife on her abilities to maintain the home.
“You'll be busy learning how to be my wife, sweetheart. I don't want you distracted with anything else.” In a day or two, she wouldn't have anything else on her mind.
She looked down at her lap, her fingers worrying at the fabric of her skirt. “I don't know how to be a wife,” she whispered. “What if I don't do it right?”
The “it” I had in mind involved fucking and pleasing me with her body - her pussy, her ass and her mouth. I had no doubt she'd do it right. Wives were given daily doses of an aphrodisiac, discovered originally by the Indians in the area to stimulate a woman's arousal. The plant, and its unique use, was shared with the original settlers of Liberty. Life in the wilds of Montana were hard, even harder on women. Keeping them aroused kept them happy, and dependent on a good fucking only a husband could provide.
At first, the ground plant had been taken by mouth, but the terrible taste had wives refusing, which went against its intended purpose. With women refusing the plant, they were angry and rebuffed their man's attentions. Because of this, the men implemented strict rules for their wives, to force their ultimate submission. One masterful change was to form the crushed plant into not only an ointment, but also a hard, round form, which the husband pushed deep into his wife's ass daily where it was absorbed into the body and built her arousal into a continuous state of need. Humility came by the insertion itself. Quickly, the need for their husband to fuck them was too strong for them to focus on anything else and wives were once again docile and subservient. Because of the effectiveness, this procedure had not changed and continued to this day.
As a wife was constantly aroused and intently focused on relieving this condition, it was the man's job to carefully protect and care for her. It was a role I longed to fill.
In the Bridger family, it was the tradition of the husband to keep the true reason for the daily insertions a secret from his wife, who would otherwise fight against the permanent and complete domination of their bodies. Catherine might resist at first, but she would submit.
Catherine
Hours later, after a quiet dinner by ourselves ─ Sam and Cole had returned to their own houses on the ranch ─ I stood in my new bedroom with my husband, his large frame all but blocking out the remaining daylight from the window. His home was big, like the man himself. Fashioned from logs, it was rustic, but comparable in size to the mansions of the wealthy in St. Louis: two stories with many rooms I would have to explore, and a large porch to sit upon and take in the vast Bridger lands. The ranch, too, appeared vast and thriving. I'd seen a barn, a stable, and several other buildings in the distance, perhaps Sam and Cole's own homes. It appeared my husband was successful in his endeavors.
Would he have the same mastery in marriage? I looked up at him from beneath lowered lashes, knowing I was about to find out. Nervous didn't begin to describe how I felt. My hands were shaking, my palms damp, yet I wasn't frightened. He gave no indication of harming me - quite the contrary, in fact. The words he'd used repeatedly were protect, cherish, love, pleasure. Punish, as well, but I didn't think I could do much that would require that. I'd always been obedient with my father, even though he was a man who drank away all our money, and knew I should obey my husband. Mr. Bridger used the word fucking, too. He wanted to fuck me. I swallowed at the implications I could only guess at.
"I want to see your body. I've been imagining what you look like all day. I want to feel the weight of your breasts, to know the color of your nipples, to see how distended and long they are. To see your pretty pussy."
Mr. Bridger moved directly in front of me as he spoke and began to undo the buttons of my blouse at my neck. His words froze me in place. I felt embarrassment and heat spread through me at his blunt and carnal language.
I licked my lips. "You said no marital relations until I'm ready."
My blouse was white and long sleeved. Not a bit of skin showed, just as Mr. Beecham had expected of a virtuous woman. Once he'd verbally slandered me, I avoided even the consideration of undoing the top button. That would be scandalous.
"I agreed to no fucking." He kept his eyes on what his fingers were doing. "Taking off your clothes is not fucking."
Swallowing, I closed my eyes as my shirt parted and I felt the cool air on my exposed skin. I could smell him, a mixture of some kind of soap, leather and a hint of maleness. I'd never had a man close like this. Ever. I'd never even been touched in this way. Could he see my heart beating frantically against my chest? Mr. Bridger's fingers worked the buttons lower and lower, his knuckles brushing over my corset covered breasts. My nipples tingled and tightened into hard tips at the contact.
"Take down your hair." His voice was deeper. Demanding. I did as he bid, lifting my fingers into my tresses to pull the pins free. My hair tumbled down my back.
“So lovely,” he murmured against my ear. His breath was warm against my skin. He pulled the blouse from my shoulders, letting it slide down my arms and off entirely. I stood in front of him in my black skirt and white corset, the snug ties lifting my breasts up so they were bountiful mounds. I was large bosomed, something that was impossible to hide. It didn't bode well for the trimmer lines of today's fashion, and I could only tighten my corset so far to diminish them before I couldn't breathe at all.
>
He ran a hand over the exposed flesh, goose bumps rising in his wake. I shivered at the gentleness of his rough finger. His skin was so dark compared to the paleness of my flesh.
The buttons on the side of my skirt were quickly undone and I was stripped of it with efficient ease. I took the proffered hand as balance as I stepped out of my skirt. Mr. Bridger lowered himself to his knees to undo my boots, slide down my stockings. Next, he stood once again, went around behind me and undid the tie on my drawers and let them drop. Mr. Bridger helped me step from those as well. Now, I stood solely in my corset. He walked around me once, taking his time to look me over, remaining silent, before working the corset hooks free down the front one at a time with expert precision. All at once it parted, causing my breasts to tumble out.
I covered myself as best I could, one hand crossed over my breasts, the other to cover up my woman's mound, but it was impossible to avoid his gaze. There was just too much of me revealed, my hands too small a protection. I looked at the gleaming floorboards beneath my small feet, unable to look up as my mortification built to epic proportions. I squirmed, finding it impossible to just stand there while he looked his fill at my naked form.
“You are so lovely, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice dark. "More than I had ever hoped for in a wife."
His words were meant to soothe, but nothing would assuage my discomfort but the return of my clothing.
“Come, stand over here.” Mr. Bridger led me by the hand to a mirror that hung a few feet from the bed. I had no choice but to acquiesce. Hiding was not an option. I couldn't flee—I was unclothed. I could throw a fit and cry, but I would still be naked. So I took his hand and let him lead. Beneath the mirror was a short bar attached to the wall, similar to a short section of hand railing for a stairwell, about two feet in length. “Hands on the bar.”
I did as he asked, thankful to be facing away from him, although he could see my bottom. I knew he was looking there because I could see his handsome reflection gazing upon it in the mirror.
“As I said, it is my job to protect and care for you,” my husband espoused. “As my woman, you are the center of my world now. We are bound together as a family. But there are rules you must follow, things I expect of you as a wife.”
His gaze was serious as he said all this, a hand running gently up and down my back in a soothing way. He was the epitome of calmness. My husband did not appear to be a man that riled easily.
“From now on, you will have your ass filled. It will either have a plug in it or you will be corked.”
His finger tapped at the seam of my bottom once. I jolted at his touch in such an unseemly place. My mouth fell open, appalled. I was to...what? “I...um, I don't understand.” I licked my lips.
“A married woman has her ass filled,” he repeated.
I released the bar and spun around. There was no way I was going to let him do...that to me. There was no valid reasoning behind his expectation. "They do no such thing," I countered.
Before I could utter another word, he arched one dark brow before turning my shoulders and placed my hands back on the bar. "In this town they do. More importantly than that, my wife does."
“Why?” I sputtered, fighting against his hand that held mine to the smooth wood.
My hips were pulled back by my husband's firm grip, then pushed me forward.
"Don't let go of the bar," he ordered, instead of answering my question.
I was bent over, my arms out in front of me, my bottom sticking straight out. My breasts swung heavily below me, like ripe fruit ready to be plucked. My nipples tightened painfully, unused to being exposed such as this. If a table had been beneath me, I would have been lying across it, my feet flat on the ground. I stood up out of mortification. "You agreed to no...no fucking!"
My lips clamped shut after I said that word. I'd never uttered it before in my life.
I heard the smack on my bottom before I felt it. I cried out in surprise. The sting wasn't terrible, but it prompted me to heed Mr. Bridger's next words. "You will learn to do as I ask, the first time, or there will be consequences. I'm being generous with your questions. In the future, you will not do so. Put your hands on the bar." His voice dropped even lower and from the look in his eye, I chose to do as he requested.
“I don't like this.” Panic set in at the position in which I was placed, at the very idea he proposed.
“You don't have to,” Mr. Bridger said, his voice brooking no nonsense. He reached and took the lid off a glass jar resting upon a shelf, dipped two fingers in and coated them in what appeared to be a salve or grease of some kind. With one hand, he pulled a cheek of my bottom to the side, exposing me in a way I'd never imagined. I squeaked at his overt action. He might be my husband, but he took liberties beyond my imagination. The shame was incredible. “Your pussy is so pretty sweetheart. And your ass, so tight.”
I shook my head, let go of the bar. "No, I can't do this!"
Mr. Bridger's one hand was quickly at my lower back, holding me down, as the other spanked my bottom, once, twice and then a third time before I put my hands back. "I can spank you until your bottom is red and too sore to sit on, then cork your ass, or you can just get corked. It's your decision."
He waited as I considered both of the miserable options. I grabbed hold of the bar again and dropped my head, not wanting to watch my humiliation in the mirror. I had never heard the word pussy before, but I knew from where he gazed to what he referred. I wasn't going to stand for this, but how could I stop him? Having sexual congress with my husband in darkness and beneath the sheets was one thing, but this was something—
I cried out as Mr. Bridger coated my back opening with the thick, cool grease. "This is not fucking," he told me. "Don't let go again or your lesson tonight will be even more uncomfortable than just spanking," he warned as he circled my forbidden hole. I bucked against his finger, but held tight. He slowly worked the grease around the area in circles.
“Shh,” he soothed. “You're doing so well. You're going to look so pretty with your fuck hole corked.”
At those words, I fought against Mr. Bridger's actions, wiggling my hips as much as I could. I did not think my fuck hole would look remotely good being corked. One hand held me firmly in place at the base of my spine. I could fight, but I would not win this battle.
“Your fuck hole is also your ass.” Mr. Bridger's finger continued to circle, slowly pushing in, then retreating, as he shared this vocabulary lesson. It didn't hurt exactly; I didn't feel anything other than complete exposure and obscene vulnerability. Did he have any idea how humiliating this was?
He stretched my opening, which had me clenching in opposition, but with his continued ministrations, his fingers breeched the untried opening. I groaned at the strangeness of it all. I felt stretched. And it burned.
“When it's not filled with a plug or a cork, then I'll use it to fuck. It's important that you're stretched to be ready for me at any time. I don't want to hurt you.” His voice was dominant, however his tone was soothing while his fingers worked deliberately upon me. Was this what my husband was really like? Calm and direct in his demands upon me, working me slowly yet in an efficient manner until I succumbed to his dominance?
One finger slid in past the muscles I squeezed tight in resistance, issuing a whimper from me. It felt so full and open. I clenched against his invasion. “I don't like this,” I breathed, my words coming out in little pants. I shook my head, trying to fight him, but afraid to let go. Mr. Bridger's foot tapped my ankle to spread me further apart.
“Like I said before, you don't have to like it. But you will know you belong to me, without doubt, being corked. It is a permanent reminder for you that your body is mine to do with as I wish, that I will always take care of you. Cherish you. Instead of a ring upon your finger, you will have something within.”
“Mr. Bridger, please! I don't need a reminder. I won't forget,” I cried as his second finger slid in.
“I love how you cal
l me that, but it's going to get pretty confusing since Cole, Sam and I are all Mr. Bridger. My name is Jake and I'd love to hear you say it.” His fingers moved clockwise, then switched direction, pushing within all the while spreading the ring of my...of my ass wider and wider.
“Jake,” I gasped as the burning intensified.
“Keep your legs just like that, sweetheart,” he said as his fingers slid free to palpable relief on my part, making me clench my bottom tightly shut. The slippery wetness he'd used to coat my opening as well as deep inside, felt cold. Soon enough, he was pushing something against me once again, bigger than his finger.
“No more, please,” I begged, my long hair swirling around my face.
“Before you get your cork, I need to give you your medicine. This is a little pill,” he told me, ignoring my plea. “It will keep you from getting sick."
I lifted my head to plead with him, wanting to cry. He held the pill up, his fingers slick and shiny. It was a ball about an inch around, a pale white like a candy. Something of that size couldn't be worked in there. Oh God, what had I gotten myself into?
"Sick?" I asked, staring at the large pill. "Why would I get sick?"
"It's the water here. It has been making people who aren't used to it sick for years. Stomach pains, vomiting. When the white people first settled, the Indians laughed at how sick they became, then showed them the plants to dry, grind into a paste and take to prevent it. You're not used to our water and it will make you ill. You've already had some water to drink from our canteens and obviously will continue to do so."
