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Simon’s been watching him for the last hour while he sips on his whiskey and chews on the butt of his cigarette, filter dissolving on the tip of his tongue. It’s as if he’s looking in a mirror. A washed up mutt with hardened skin finally reclining after too many years of work. Tapping his finger on the table, he keeps count of each respiration and breathes in time with the creature. He twitches in his sleep—tail wagging, cheeks puffing up with emphatic growls that hardly roll past his canines. 

There’s nothing else of value to watch in the saloon besides the mangy creature. The poker game taking place three tables down is smothered with ancient men sporting white hair and liver spots who hardly let anything out of their lips except wet coughs, and the bartender has been muttering curses to himself for half the evening that Simon doubts he would make good conversation. Besides, he's a wayward man. Constantly on the move, traveling from place to place, refusing to linger for too long lest trouble finds him.

For now, he’s perfectly content on leaning back in his chair and enjoying his solitude—

—until you stumble in. 

Pale pink fingerprints stain the cotton of your apron that you either didn’t bother to remove or forgot to hang up in the kitchen before bursting into the saloon with wild eyes and a heaving chest. As he takes a drag of his cigarette, Simon half expects some inebriated bastard to stagger in after you, caught in a drunken stupor trying to chase after some girl who he doesn't have even half the skill to catch in his maw. You are a sight for sore eyes. Certainly better than the half dead mutt keeping him company. Clad in a sky blue dress that seems all too common for women settling in the west and a gaze that can’t help but be magnetically attracted to the floor as you walk to the bar on lubberly legs, he nearly chuckles when you hold your hands behind your back. 

“You’re late,” the barkeep berates. 

“Sorry Daddy, I was finishing up chores, and the geese were pitching a fit again—” You’re tripping over your words worse than you do your feet. They spew between your teeth like water from a well pump that has too much pressure behind it. 

“I don’t give a damn what held you up, girl. I tell you to be here no later than seven, and I expect that you listen to that,” the man—your father—snaps. Your apology comes so quiet that Simon can’t make out what you say, but he can tell by the curling of your shoulders that it exists. All you get in response is raised brows and a clenching jaw. “Well? Go on. I didn’t ask you to be here just to stand around.”

You slink away from the bar without another word before your gaze is cast out at the swathes of unoccupied tables around you. Simon flicks the ash from his cigarette onto the floor as he studies the way you mentally drink up the tasks laid out for you before you're springing to work. One by one you ignite the oil lamps that hang from the ceiling with precariously rusty chains. A curse hisses between your pursed lips when you burn your fingers on one of the matches, and you shove the raw pad against your tongue to numb the pain.

Simon doesn't bother to hide the way he watches you. His gaze is heavy beneath the brim of his hat, darker than the coal mines that line this pathetic excuse for a town and ten times more suffocating. You make the mistake of not carrying a canary with you as you approach his table—there is no sudden silence of a bird's song to warn you of the danger you're in—a meek smile graces your face as you light another match and reach up to ignite his lamp.

"Good evening, sir," you greet.

His fingers freeze against the table. Simon's lost his interest in keeping count of an old dog's breathing. "Evenin."

Your scent washes over him just as the oil begins to burn. Sweet like fresh strawberries, yet smothered by crude, unadulterated earth. Wet soil, the muck of animals. Simon studies the curve of your face as the flames illuminate your skin. Delectable flesh, pliable and soft—softer than him—yet the blemish on the apple of your cheek screams at him.

"Look at me, sweetheart." The pet name is kind, but his voice isn't. Jumping, the match burns down to your fingers again forcing you to yelp, but even through the pain you listen to him.

He's traded one dog for another.

When you question if something is wrong, Simon gives you no answer except for the beckoning of his fingers. Complying, you lean forward as he snatches your jaw in one hand and sticks his thumb into his mouth before smearing his spit across your cheek. It's wet like a kiss, and your skin drinks up his touch like starved earth yearning for any bit of rain the skies will bless it with. The dried mud flakes off with ease, and he wipes the remainder off on his stained jeans.

"O-Oh." When he relinquishes you, your hand flies up to your face where you begin to rub at your skin as if you can feel the mark he's left on you. "Thank you, sir."

Simon only hums in response before tapping the side of his glass. It rings like church bells on a bleak Sunday. "I'm dry."

Gruff. Short. Seemingly having no time for pleasantries. You awkwardly snatch his glass up before bringing it to your father where he berates you for not asking what was in it before you took it away. Luckily the saloon isn't too busy, and when you return his drink back to him Simon's happy to find that it's exactly what he ordered even though half of it is beaded on the outside of the cup from your blatant mishandling.

His night has become much more interesting now that he can watch you through the haze of his whiskey. Bent over on your hands and knees, sweat beading on your brow, you scrub the floor in the unoccupied areas of the saloon with a bristle brush. The view is nice. The curve of your ass presses through your dress like rising sourdough while you work, and when you're facing him your bodice cuts so low your cleavage glistens in the marmalade lighting.

John Price has always told him views like this were worth the money. His business partner has always been fond of the little thing he keeps locked up at home fat with his kids and sticky with the food he buys. Always got a fresh meal on the table for dinner and a sweet cunt to sink into for dessert. It's not half bad, Riley.

But he knows that type of life isn't for him. Always on the road, gloves tainted with blood turned russet from weeks of baking in the sun before he even bothers to rinse it off. The money in his billfold is far from honest, but men like Simon Riley don't leave the comfort of England to come to the American West for pure business. Face muddled with scars, thighs sore from years of riding, and back ruined from sleeping on the cold earth—he'll be dead long before he ever sincerely dreams of settling down with a wife and kid.

Still, the thought is tempting.

His daydreams shatter the moment you bucket spills, sending water and suds all along the floor, flooding the wood until puddles reflect both the oil lamps and your shame back into your face. Cursing, your father marches over to where you stare at your mess with watery eyes. You jump when he kicks the bucket, sending it flying across the room. Even the near-dead dog in the corner can't sleep through the ruckus.

"Useless daughter of mine! What are you good for besides making a damn mess of my work?" His disparaging cuts so deep Simon can see the quiver in your bottom lip as you stare up at your father, hands neatly folded on your lap despite the way the water soaks your apron. "Don't just sit there! Go fetch some rags and dry this shit up!"

When you stand to your feet, Simon is reminded of the fawn he slaughtered last spring. Wobbly legs, unsure feet, trotting out the door as if you're a fresh babe again. He only killed the small creature out of pity, not malice. Having shot its mother, it was left alone with without a teat to suckle on or any maternal guidance to raise it into adulthood. It didn't even flinch at the flash of his knife or the cut of the blade, it only stared up at him with soft brown eyes that reflected the whole world back at him.

The meat wasn't half bad, neither.

Sucking down the dregs of his drink, Simon saunters up to your father with his empty glass in hand while you work on fixing the mess you've made of the floor. He towers over the bar so much that when he goes to lean on it he has to curve his spine forward, shoulders hunching as if he's some inhuman creature preying on the animals below him. Your father looks at him without so much as a second glance before swiping his empty glass away from him.

"Another?" he asks. He's already grabbing the bottle of whiskey before Simon even nods.

While his cup is poured, Simon glances back down at you. Head bowed, you're wringing out your rag back into your bucket in an attempt to fill it up, but at the rate your tears are streaming down your face, he knows you'll have another flood to worry about before you're even halfway through.

"That your daughter?" Simon inquires with half-hearted interest.

Your father doesn't even bother to look at you before scoffing. "You mean that useless animal? Yeah, she's mine."

"What's she good for?"

Your father sets Simon's drink in front of him, prompting him to return the favor with a few coins on the scarred counter. The whiskey slides over his tongue like rough sandpaper, but the burn in the back of his throat and the cotton being shoved between his ears is worth it.

"Not a damn thing," he huffs before crossing his arms. Your father glares at you from across the room, and you must feel his gaze on you because it isn't long before you're finally raising your head. Sorrow is strewn all over your face, a hefty guilt you can't rid yourself of. "She's a klutz, hardly speaks loud enough for anyone to hear her, always hurting herself like she's still some child."

"Haven't married her off yet? That'd get 'er off your hands." Simon means it as a sour joke, but your father grumbles before he returns to his chores.

"No man's stupid enough to marry her."

The harsh reality of it is no worse than Simon's used to, but he finds himself mulling the idea over anyway. Certainly you're good for something. Glazed eye candy for men to gawk at—men who like their women soft around the edges. Tiny little puppy teeth that can hardly break skin and gets a chuckle when it starts to tickle.

Besides, Simon's learned well enough not to trust the words that comes spewing out of an angry father's mouth. Rancid with the decay clogging their arteries, his own father wasn't much different. A right bastard who knew just how to wiggle his way beneath everyone's skin, slicing through tendon and pure bone just to get a reaction, anything that would justify his hand upon a cheek.

Simon won't pretend to be a good man, but he's certainly better, and if it wasn't for the fact this man has provided him the means to get drunk, his blood would be joining the soapy water in an instant.

"I'd buy 'er off ya."

It takes your father several moments to formulate a response; long enough for Simon to down the rest of his whiskey in a single swig. For the first time since he's walked through those doors he finally notes a smile on the man. It's ugly, twisted at the corners in the way only malevolent things can, but it's sincere.

"Quit pulling on my leg, son," he dismisses.

"I'm not pullin' on anythin," Simon grunts.

A large hand snakes through Simon's vest as he presses his fingers into his breast pocket to retrieve his billfold. It's old. Probably ancient. A dilapidating piece of leather he snatched off of a body just outside Lead two years back when he realized it was much better than the coin purse he had. Perusing through the folded up notes, he yanks out a fifty dollar bill and places it face up on the counter.

Your father's smile vanishes once he sees the money, but the twinkle in his eye only strengthens. "What are you playing at?"

"I'm playin' at buyin' myself a wife and giving you a migraine free end of your life," Simon says bluntly. Brows raising, he spots a bottle behind the man and nods towards it. "Better throw in that bottle of Kentucky bourbon, too."

"Now why would I do that?" your father scoffs.

Simon shrugs. "A wedding gift."

It doesn't take your father very long at all to think over this offer before he snatches the money off the counter and hands Simon the key to his spoils.

"You have my blessing."

You put up a teary-eyed fuss as your new future is laid out before you in the form of a tall stranger who smells like whiskey and iron. Despite the pitiful protests that bleed from your lips, your father has trained you all too well—a sharp snap, a show of teeth, and you're falling quiet like the dead of night in winter. Your father doesn't tell you that he's giving you away for a crisp fifty dollar bill. Not out loud, anyway. He certainly doesn't try to hide it when he shoves it into his pocket.

With his bourbon in one hand and the small of your back in the other, Simon leads you out of the saloon. Neither he nor your father give you any opportunity to gather your things back home—you have nothing to your name but the clothes on your back. Dusk brushes over the sky with a plain pallet of deep reds and bruising purples only to be blotched out by migrating geese that honk in the distance. Long shadows tickle your footprints in the dirt until you reach the hardened rocks and earth that surround your hometown. Not a single word is exchanged between the two of you as your travels begin to wane. There is only the jingle of the spurs on Simon's boots and your intermittent sniffling as you attempt to keep your tears at bay.

Simon's camp is nestled in the valley of a ravine where the soil is cool and the walls are high—a protective den for a wild animal to hide in with his back covered and eyes focused on any throat that gets within sniffing distance. He sets you at the yawning mouth of his tent, a simple lean-to with stained white canvas and hardly enough space for the brute of a man himself, let alone you too.

You try to keep your shivering at bay while Simon crouches in front of a stone fire pit. By the looks of it, he's been here for a few days at least. A moderate stockpile of wood rests next to where his horse is hitched and his feet mar the earth so viciously you fear she may be scarred until the next thunderstorm rolls overhead to smother out all traces of human life.

Fire blooms to life with waifish flames licking up towards Simon's face, demanding more. He feeds kindling and small blocks of wood into it until it's purring content near the tips of his toes, illuminating all the gnarly features that comprise his body. Deep scars cut without care around his cheeks and lips, some spanning even as far as his hairline, distorting the growth with keloids and angry skin. His nose is curved worse than a sickle, and is more crooked than a pianist's index finger.

Despite his flaws, he is not an ugly man. Only slightly painful to look at in the way beasts are—striking fear through your heart as if wielding a dagger. His broad shoulders would be something your friends would squeal over, and his height would send any mentally stable person running for the hills if they were ever unfortunate enough to cross paths with him. Still, you're not sure what to make of him or the way he looks at you. Dark eyes pinning you into the dirt, dry lips parting just enough for him to huff as he stands.

"You hungry?"

All you can do is stare at him. Simon Riley; this man who is to now suddenly be your husband, who bought you off of your father for a single scrap of paper. Some untamed piece of you wants to snap at him, snarl with your teeth bared—how dare he pretend to care for you as if he sees you as anything more than a piece of meat.

"Yeah, starvin' aren't ya? Scroungy thing you are." Before you have the time to argue with him, Simon begins to sort through an old leather satchel held together with a spotty stitching job and a half-hearted prayer. From it, he produces a fair amount of jerky and holds out a stringy piece for you to take. "Here."

You swallow down the smoke wafting from the campfire. "I'm not hungry."

Simon doesn't waver in the face of the stern attitude you attempt to wear; instead, he presses the jerky closer to your face. "Mad at your daddy so you're mad at the world, yeah? That shit doesn't fly with me, sweetheart. Eat your dinner 'fore I give ya somethin' else to keep that pretty mouth occupied."

He doesn't give you an opportunity to argue further before he's pressing the food against your lips, pressing past them and jamming into your teeth. To prevent him from shattering your enamel, you take it from him with a fawn-like glare. It's salty. Harder than the rocks at your feet. Still, you gnaw on it, jaw clenching as your molars grind it as best as you can. As you swallow, you pretend it's Simon's throat.

Your husband-to-be doesn't bother to sit while he eats. The speed in which he devours his food like some gluttonous beast leaves your brain spinning—crooked teeth, sharp canines, and a bad habit of licking his lips afterwards like he yearns for something more than just simple brine on his tongue. Neither of you speak. You're glad for it. Conversation has never been your strong suit, and your father has always treated every sound that's ever left your throat like a chore.

Sparks fly into the night sky to dance with the stars as Simon tosses another chopped log on top of the fire, but you don't get the chance to revel in the beauty of the flames before he's obscuring your view. He removes his hat to reveal short cropped hair before he tosses it onto the bedding behind you where it lands with a dull thunk. You stare up at him. Already a large man, he looks baronial when you're settled on your haunches, attempting to make yourself unnoticeable by his burning gaze.

"You know what comes next, don't ya sweetheart?" he questions.

It's as if the fire doesn't exist at all. You can't stop shivering. Simon's belt buckle flashes in the umbra as he sticks his thumb into the waist of his jeans. You can smell him now—or, at least your brain can make sense of the scent. Long soaked tobacco and the whiskey he drank at your father's saloon, along with something heavier. Like ichor. Like lead.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about." Your faux courage doesn't get you very far—there's a waver in your voice that trills on the end of your words, and Simon finds it cute enough to chuckle.

"Didn't realize I bought myself a dumb fawn."

A fat palm rests on the nape of your neck with lightning speed and precision, and before you know it your torso is twisted until you're face first into blankets that smell like musk and gun powder. Your yelp is lost into the sparse padding against your cheek. A wounded animal, bleeding out and waiting to be gutted.

You jump as his other hand lands on your rump, not in a spank but in an arcing motion that smooths over your thighs. Even through the skirt of your dress he can feel the way you quiver as you struggle against the palm on your neck. A feisty barn cat, scruffed when it doesn't want to be.

"That's alright, I don't mind spellin' it out for ya if ya need it," Simon muses.

"Wait, wait, please!"

He silences your pleas as his hand wanders down the back of your thigh. Breath catching in your throat, fingers curling into rough blankets that choke you with lingering tar—you squeal when he pulls up the skirt of your dress, exposing your backside to the fire. Warmth licks up your legs both from rigid shame and the flames dancing behind you, but nothing compares to the way he rips through your pantalets as if they're as thin as paper.

"This is how this is gonna work sweetheart." His hands are wandering further, fingertips brushing where they shouldn't, dipping into the warmest part of you with enough friction to make you yelp. "You're gonna lay right there nice, pretty, and quiet for me while I christen this new union of ours, yeah? Gonna get the best bang for my buck, that's for fuckin' sure."

Squeezing your eyes shut, you nod. One of the working women in town once told you what sex was like. Your father has always held purity in high regard, but she talked about it as if it was nothing of importance, a flippant union that she did for work nearly every night.

Ain't nothin' but a slight burn and pleasure so underwhelming you'd wish you had your own fingers down there instead.

Finally, you nod. "Yes sir."

Chuckling, the pressure on the back of your neck vanishes as Simon stands to his feet, spurs jingling on his boots and kicking dirt up into the air as he positions himself behind you. He whistles low as if looking at a painting. Always hung up high in the gallery at the library, brushstrokes vivid as they swirl in prismatic colors—a work of art, just for him. He makes a few adjustments as he tears further through your pantalets with a knife. The iron runs across your skin. A gentle kiss with teeth hardly held at bay. You shiver as the night air rushes to meet your sex.

"Spread those legs, sweetheart," Simon orders. His words are tough, but slurred. Whiskey heavy on his tongue, alcohol burning through his blood like wildfire devouring a mountainside.

Obeying, your weight wiggles side to side as you move your knees further apart and it feels like cutting into yourself. A doe with a knife gralloching herself so that the hunter's work is less laborious.

Simon only chuckles. "C'mon, you can do better than that."

When you try again and he still isn't satisfied with the way you're contorting yourself, his feet thud into the ground behind you just before something bites the inside of your thighs. They're cruel. Like thickets gnawing into your skin as you attempt to fetch the enticing berries just before you, but you get no sweet treat in the end. Just ichor running down your legs as you lurch away from the source of pain, quivering legs spreading until your hips can't take it anymore.

"Yeah, tha's good," your husband-to-be purrs.

Shoulders curling, you attempt to look between your legs only for your dress to block your vision. "Did you- did you cut me?"

"Just used my spurs for some extra motivation," Simon shrugs. The said item jingles as he falls to his knees again, but it's smothered by the sound of his fly coming undone. "If it's not cruel 'nuff for my horse, then it's not cruel 'nuff for you."

"T-That hurt," you snap. You're glad he can't see your face right now and the way pathetic tears plunge down your cheeks with each flutter of your eyelashes.

"I'll kiss it better later if it means that damn much."

His promise tastes stale in the air as his jeans rustle down his hips and the sound prompts you to freeze as something presses against your backside. It's too warm to be a hand. Blistering hot like the surface of the sun jumping out to snatch you up on a warm summer's day. It's too smooth to be his hands; those palms of his are calloused beyond recognition.

You don't realize that it's his cock until it's butting up against you, pushing your labia apart until you're choking him. The stretch burns. Like a paper cut being pried too far apart, flesh splitting, blood oozing from the pathetic laceration. An ache blooms in your jaw as your teeth clench together, and you have to fight the urge to chew on the bedding against the side of your face. Simon grunts as he moves closer, attempting to push further into you, but your body refuses to give. Skin dimples, organs flutter, and you're left wincing at the small intrusion.

"Fuckin' hell. Never been fucked properly before, have ya?"

As Simon curses, he pulls away from you and the pressure dissipates throughout your body. Relief comes next. Bitter and cutting, it tingles between your thighs as the muscles in your back liquefy. Perhaps he's finished with you.

You don't realize how terribly wrong you are until his hand yanks back on your shoulder, forcing your torso off of the ground until your spine is bending like the branches of a willow tree. Sour fingers dart into your mouth, pushing past your lips and knocking around your teeth until gunpowder and stale tobacco presses against your tongue. You gag as the fingers move to the back of your throat, nails digging through your soft pallet, slicing up your throat until you're pulling on his forearm for any bit of reprieve he'll allow you to earn.

"Dryer than a goddamn desert," he mutters against the back of your skull. "Can hardly get you to take even an inch."

He leaves you coughing and sputtering as he retracts his fingers from your mouth and pushes you back down on the blankets. Spit coats your chin, but it isn't long before it's coating your sex too. Haphazardly wiping his fingers along your labia, Simon pushes two fingers into you, plunging too far too fast. Your feet kick at the intrusion, but Simon only laughs.

"That hurts!" you squeal, hips moving side to side as if you could buck him off like a rodeo horse.

"Relax, sweetheart. I'll get ya singin' real pretty f'me in no time," he discards.

There is no time to think or breathe before he's replacing his fingers with his cock. You split apart easier this time. Faster. Body giving into his, flesh decoupling where it's never bled before. All you can do is hold your breath as he fills you with slow, even pressure. When you're so full of him that you can't take anymore, he continues to try despite it. Breaking the laws of physics, bending your will to his own, all while growling like a guarded wolf refusing to share a meal with the rest of the pack.

"Yeah, that's it," Simon praises between gritted teeth. "Just like this, sweetheart."

When Simon picks up his pace—pumping in an out of you faster than your brain will allow you to comprehend—you realize that prostitute you spoke with all those years ago is a liar. This is more than a simple numbness swallowing you, wishing that you'd take matters into your own hands. You feel every ridge and angle of him. The way he pushes your walls out of the way, organs displacing to make room for his demanding cock, everything sliding against one another as if to start a fire within you. Friction too great. Nerves melting off at each junction.

His fingers curl into your hips as if to mark you. White hot branding iron against your skin, shaping you into the swirls of his finger prints—your husband-to-be. You've never heard of men claiming their wives with anything other than a ring on their fingers, but you suppose this man—Simon Riley—might not be much of a human at all.

"Sweet little thing, you are," he grunts. His pace continues at the same speed he's kept since he began, relentless and fast, desperately chasing for something he hasn't gotten in such a long time that it's left him half brain-dead. "Dunno why your daddy treats you the way he does. I've always liked dumb fawns."

Though his words sting, the pain is nothing compared to the way he moves inside of you. His words seem kind and sincere but the verbiage is cutting and wrong—a backhanded compliment meant to leave you floundering. Keeping your lips tight, you refuse to respond to him. You're not sure what you would even say to such a comment anyway. This man, who bought you off your father as a wife, now staking his claim before the matrimony has even taken place.

Seemingly displeased with your silence, Simon's pace falters as one of his hands snakes around your front and down between your thighs. His weight presses on your back. Soft stomach rolling against your rump, hair rubbing against the tender skin—he steals your breath away as his firm fingers swipe against the rawest part of you. The part where your skin hardens, puffy and stiff, blood rushing between your legs until you're brimming full with electricity like lightning.

Simon hisses as your body tenses, back arching as you lift your head up from the bedding, arms aching from keeping yourself from toppling over. He sounds like a snake. An angry rattler slithering through a garden he doesn't belong in. He chokes it off with a chuckle when you begin to gasp and choke on your own breath.

"Yeah, there she is," he chuckles as his pace begins to pick up once more. "Just need a little extra coaxing."

It feels like a betrayal to yourself to admit that it feels good—but it does. It numbs the burn inside of you as Simon continues to take what's now rightfully his. Adding water to the fire until it's no longer roaring, but sizzling, smouldering remains snuffing out with each swirl even as you clench so tightly around him that you nearly trap him inside of you.

His nose rests against your back, crooked tip nestling into the bend of your spine. You feel each exhale. Hot breath soaking into your skin. It makes you shiver.

"That feels—oh—I don't… I can't…" It's the first sentence you've attempted to string together since he began, and it comes out disjointed. Half formed stutters on a tongue that's too limp underneath his fingers.

"I feel it, sweetheart," Simon pants. "Squeezin' me as tight as you are, not sure I could stop myself even if I wanted to."

And he doesn't. He goes faster. Hips snapping against you, thighs rubbing against the new cuts on your skin, blood smearing along him until his legs are bright pink, fingers raking over your sex, digging deep until he's twisting the nerves to his liking, rewiring you until all you can do is hold your breath with clenched fingers. Then, there's the swell. The change in pressure that tenses in your core and skull. Brain throbbing, eyelids fluttering until everything becomes so tight—

—that you finally shatter.

A million pieces of you scatter all over Simon's tent as you come. Thighs quivering, cunt fluttering around him despite his relentless pace; it's sweeter than the strawberry pastries you spent all afternoon baking but the acid that follows bites worse than a wasp. A wretched give and take that leaves you gasping in the stilly night air.

Simon plunges in not too far after you. Both hands returning to your hips, he yanks you towards him and keeps you locked against his body while his cock begins to pulse inside of you, jumping rhythmically as if to a tune you can't hear. Your brain can't make sense of it until he's pulling out of you with a grunt and something warm runs down the inside of your legs—he's truly consummated this marriage-to-be with a gift only man can bestow upon a woman.

He allows you to collapse, but not without another mocking chuckle. On your side, you curl your legs up as close to your chest as you can get while Simon shuffles through items out of your view. Ruined pantalets at your ankles, dress wrinkled beyond recognition; you're soiled. Claimed down to your very marrow by this stranger who blew into town and suddenly decided to take you for himself out of the kindness of his heart.

A kindness soaked in acrimony. Both your tongue and eyes water at the mere stench of it.

When Simon yanks the skirt of your dress over your exposed rump, you can't help but jump. Hands pushing into the earth, you look over your shoulder at him and you're nearly blinded by the fire that dwindles into coals waving with remnants of heat. He holds something out for you to take—a large bottle with a skinny neck and fat bottom. Amber liquid sloshes around inside as he settles down next to you, head skimming against the lean-to tent canvas.

"Go on, then," Simon prompts.

You take the bottle into your hand and realize it's the fresh Kentucky bourbon your father sells at the saloon. The cap has already been popped off, and fresh liquid stains the rim with the remnants of Simon's lips.

"I'm not thirsty," you say, ready to discard the bottle back into his grasp.

"I told you to drink, sweetheart," he corrects you, tone severe.

Brows heavy with a scowl, you ignore the pang between your legs as you sit up and press the bottle to your mouth. Tiny sips allow the alcohol to seep between your lips and though the flavor is smooth, the sting is violent. Needles on your tongue, coals down your throat. When your mouse-like sips aren't enough to satisfy Simon, he tips the bottom of the bottle up, flooding your sinuses with the drink until you're choking it down and coughing at the sting.

"Atta girl," he chuckles before swiping it away and swallowing more gulps than he should.

The earth moves but you stay still. Frozen in time as everything moves around you, time and space warping with you at the epicenter of the destruction of your life. When your husband-to-be settles for bed, he pulls you close to his side but doesn't seem intent on offering any sort of comfort to you besides heavy snoring from his crooked nose.

Your eyes glaze over as you stare at the dying fire. It no longer cracks and spits sparks into the air, it only dances with trembling embers that remind you of waves on a lake. As a coyote howls in the night, you think of how easy it would be to wander back home. To slip from Simon's faint grasp and vanish into the night. You do not scrounge up the courage to leave.

Like your father has taught you—love is nothing if it is not painful.

When dawn breaks you are alone in the tent, but Simon is not far. Breathing life back into the campfire, he crouches next to it with hunched shoulders while boiling water for a canister of dry tea that rests next to his boots. Eyes like soot quickly find you as you peek your face out from the blankets, body stunned into silence as you watch him.

"Mornin' sweetheart," he greets.

Breakfast is just as dull as your pathetic dinner was. Hardtack with not enough salt, and tea that tastes like raw juniper without sugar—you do your best to keep your discontent to a minimum. Your hot cakes are better. Smothered with freshly churned butter and doused with maple syrup from up north. You think about telling him as much, but decide to keep quiet when he stands to his feet and begins to dismantle his tent.

You turn your attention to the dwindling fire as he works. It is a difficult task to focus on the way flames sputter and cry when you can still feel the way Simon ruined you last night. Your sex is swollen, puffy between your thighs, chaffing in areas you never thought were possible. His stench smothers you. Hard work and musk, salty cum between your legs, scabbed cuts screaming at the mixture as it spills out of you, soaking into your tattered pantalets.

Reality hits you without any qualms the moment you place your hand on your stomach. Even that much movement alone hurts.

There are womanly duties that are expected of a bride—of a wife. Of anyone unfortunate enough to be born into the life you are. The seed has been planted, and you're worried about the growth that will overcome your body if it decides to germinate.

"Here."

Simon's voice lulls you back to your senses. His hand is extended for you, and in his palm lies several five dollar bills, all crisp with a neat fold in the center to be stowed away somewhere safe. There's a fat wad of them—nearly 100$ total if you had to guess. Brows creasing, you look up at him.

"What's this? An allowance?" you ask with shaky snark.

He shakes the bills with a tilt of his head. "A parting gift."

Dry lips part in shock. A half-formed demand balances on the tip of your tongue, but you cut it in half with your teeth as you stare up at Simon. "A parting gift?"

"Should be plenty to get you on your way. I'll take ya to the next town over, then what you do from there is up to whatever your sweet little heart desires," he says, voice heavy laden with sarcasm.

Legs contracting, you attempt to stand to your feet only for your knees to give out underneath you, leaving you struggling like a poor-shot doe waiting to be put out of her misery. "But you-! You bought me! Told Daddy you were gonna make me your wife! And last night you took me Simon Riley!"

Tired of holding out money that you don't seem to care about taking, Simon drops the bills to the dirt at your knees. "I'll be real honest with you, sweetheart. I don't have a need for a wife. You're nothin' but just another mouth to feed. Baggage I don't need. Just needed a good night's rest, and that little cunt of yours got the job done just fine."

His haphazard disregard of you leaves thick shame bubbling in your chest like molasses being brought to a boil. No man will take you like this. A whore who has already given herself to someone who has no intention of marrying her, virtue stolen away and devoured as a midnight snack.

"You can't do this to me." Despite your anger, your words only escape your mouth as a hissing whisper.

"Trust me, sweetheart. It's better this way."

"No!" Just as he begins to turn away, your fingers curl into the front of Simon's jeans. A thick layer of dirt and grime wiggles beneath your finger nails, but you ignore the discomfort as you stare daggers up at him with wet eyes and an iron jaw. "You bought me off my daddy, you fucked me last night here in the middle of nowhere—I'm coming with you. Please Simon, you can't just… just leave me. I'll die out there."

As Simon looks down at you with your wet eyes and desperate hands, he realizes he's found himself another fawn. Dumb, looking up at him with a gaze so glassy he can see the whole world reflected within it, lost without guidance. Begging for something to be done. A knife to their throat—anything.

He has long known that he's had no use for a wife. Some woman to calf out children and stay home like a singing bird locked in a cage. But you? This fawn begging for him, desperately in search for someone to trail behind, ready to listen to his every whim? Perhaps he can get used to that.

"Okay sweetheart." He softens right before your eyes. Warm palm against your cheek, thumbing away at the tears on your skin before pressing them into your mouth, all but stunning you into silence. "I'll take care of ya if that's what ya really want. Don't mind havin' a pet."

Simon's sudden change of heart leaves you dizzy, and the thumb on your tongue doesn't help to stabilize you. You promise to be quiet as he finishes packing up the rest of camp, storing away all his items on his horse who lazily watches you while chomping away at the sparse greenery at its feet. When he's finished, he stands in front of you with the rim of his hat sitting low on his face and his thumbs hooked behind his belt buckle.

"Stay right 'ere, sweet fawn. Gonna go get your things from your daddy, yeah?"

It takes all of twenty minutes to convince yourself that Simon's abandoned you. The only thing that can convince you otherwise is that his horse is still here. Just as obnoxiously tall as he is with the same dull, dark eyes staring at you as if he doesn't know what to do with you. Either that or he's gone off to buy a horse from someone else to abandon you without hearing your pathetic shrill cries. He's certainly got enough money for it.

Yet, about an hour later, you hear him huffing and puffing as he settles back down into the ravine. Clenched in one of his hands lies your old carpet bag, something you haven't used since you stopped visiting your friends for sleepovers when you were a child. Even from a distance you can tell it's full to the brim, old fabric bulging beneath the weight of your items as they clank around.

He doesn't bother to greet you upon his return. Too busy tying your carpet bag to his saddle back, thick fingers working along frayed rope as he gives his horse yet one more thing to lug around. Rocks and sand crunch beneath your shoes as you approach him. Even at a distance you can smell the sweat on him. Thick perspiration and musk seeping from his skin, getting his pallid flesh to glow in the sunlight as morning draws dangerously close to noon.

Fingers lacing together, you rock back onto your heels just as Simon turns to face you. "Is everything alright?"

Nodding, Simon digs his thumbs behind his belt buckle once more. "Yeah."

"Good." It's impossible not to notice the stench of blood that follows him. Fresh ichor, iron thick on his skin. When you look at his hands, you see the splitting of epidermis—knuckles busted open like overripe peaches. "Did my daddy say anything?"

"Yeah. Said he was sorry."

You blink. "Sorry?"

Huffing, Simon begins to stalk forward, boots heavy on the ground, spurs ringing with each step, until your cheek is cupped in his hand. It feels wet. Freshly cooled in a nearby stream.

"Said he was sorry 'bout everythin' he ever said 'bout you, 'n that it won't happen again," he explains. The cogs in your mind begin to twist, cleaning the rust off of the gears until every web and speckle of dust is gone. Before you can stop it, you're smiling as you admire this strange man before you. Broad shoulders, crooked face, and fresh blood on the collar of his shirt. "C'mon, sweetheart, let's get outta 'ere."

You situate yourself on the back of his horse as best as you can—legs swung over to the side, arms wrapped around his torso as he kicks the beast into action. It's far from comfortable. Each bump reminds you of the way Simon's cock took you the night before, rabid like a beast and chuckling like a hyena in the night.

Your husband’s there, on the couch, some show blaring on the TV that you hate. You pause behind the couch, eyes trained on the back of his head, the shape of something you’ve grown to despise. You try to steady your breath, grasp onto any control before it shifts entirely, but you sound louder than the TV speakers.

You cross the distance, counting each step you take like a ticking time bomb. One. Two. Three. You turn to face him, prepare for the look of disgust he must wear. Prepare for the way your world is about to crumble underneath you.

Except when you lift your eyes, he’s dead asleep, passed out from drinks at the pub, and a twisted part in you wants to laugh. An ugly maniacal cackle, one that will make you keel over and make it hard to breathe.

You think it’s the only time this God has looked out for you. The only time you’ve believed in fate.

It becomes a routine every week after that, laid out on the butcher block like you’re the raw poultry Simon slices into.

You feel like you are.

He rakes his eyes down your frame, slowly, calculated like he’s thinking of every reference point to press his knife into your flesh. Drags his knuckles over your throat so he can feel you gulp, count how many breaths you manage to wheeze between your lungs. Digs his fingers into your breasts and presses his palm against your heartbeat like he’s measuring your pulse and imagining all the blood thrashing under your skin. Strokes your ribs with feather-light touches, counting each one down to the fat of your hips.

That's when he really grips, dimpling your flesh and watching as it gives under his fingertips. He does the same to your thighs, reverence only a butcher could have for warm flesh and fat. And when he parts your legs, he takes his time, like he’s committed to touching every part of your body, split you in two, and make you bleed.

You should hate it. A sacrificial lamb on the altar. But you don’t. Can’t really when it’s the first time anyone’s looked at you, all your sins and broken promises pushed aside, stripped you bare until all that was left was your bleeding layers, heartbeat, and quivering lungs that barely fill with air.

And he never asks for more, gives you his tongue and fingers without having to ask. Eats you out like you are a feast to be had, lingering between your folds like you are delectable. Two, three orgasms before your clit is so swollen and throbbing and you have to push weakly at his shoulders to stop.

He always comes back up with a smirk, lips and chin glimmering with your slick. Makes you taste it too, kissing you breathless like you weren’t already dizzy. Sends you home with a dazed smile on your lips, knees wobbly, thighs raw from hid stubble, and a pussy so drenched from his torment.

You use your mother as an excuse for your late-night returns, and it works, by some metric. Your husband believes it too.

It’s enough. It should be enough. It’s not. Not when you come home wanting more. Gluttony is a sin, but isn’t infidelity?

It takes weeks of coming home and hiding in your closet, burying your face into his coat, and imagining the taste of his cock before you act on it. Pressing your fingers to your tongue and picturing the weight of him in your mouth. You haven’t even seen it, just felt it through the seams of his jeans when he grinds it against the back of your thigh.

And it feels big. God, does it feel big.

You’re sure it drives you crazy more than it does him to be tightly confined, throbbing and leaking for attention. You think you want it more than he does because he doesn’t even touch it, doesn’t even palm himself when he’s got your thighs on either side of his cheeks.

Disciplined and controlled just for your pleasure. He even pauses when you finally work up the courage to ask, an expression on his face you can’t read because you can never quite read him. You think you overstepped your boundaries when you fall to your knees and he just walks away without a word, dragging a chair, so the legs scrape loudly against the floor.

You gulp when he sits and spreads his thighs wide before patting his lap twice.

“Come ‘ere.”

It’s unfair the way the sentence, the command, goes straight between your legs. And for some awful reason, you crawl your way over. Knees and palms hitting the concrete floor as you inch closer.

You should feel like the predator in this situation, stalking your prey with hunter eyes, except you feel like much less. An animal trapped in a cage, crawling towards the danger instead of running away in fear like you should. Towards the danger that wants to eat you whole, the danger that’s so fucking big that his thighs dwarf your shoulders with eyes so heavy as he watches you.

Possessive. Covetous. You’re not his to be had.

You look up at him through your lashes, lips parted as you glide your palms up the inside of his thighs. He cups your jaw, thumb running along your bottom lip as his face turns nasty when he sees silver glimmer on your finger.

“Take tha’ fuckin’ ring off if yer gonna suck my cock.”

You move so quickly your knuckles hit his balls and he grits his teeth, fingers tensing at your jaw. You stammer out an apology, face warming as you rush to stuff your ring in your pocket. It’s the first time he’s sounded jealous about it, and not just amused by the fact that your husband’s not meeting your needs.

He pushes his thumb into your mouth a little angry, stamping down onto your tongue until your mouth opens wide. He unbuttons his jeans with his other hand, pushes his boxers down just enough to free his already hard cock.

He’s big. Awfully big.

It’s the first thing you thought when you initially saw him and it rings true down to the girth of his cock. Thick and fat and veiny and red and so fucking big it makes your mouth water. Curly tufts of blonde hair peek through the base and something in your gut almost makes you groan at the sight. It’s a little ugly, and a little crooked, but you like that. It’s him.

You hate doing this for your husband, all you can taste is disgust when he has you on your knees, but Simon, Simon has you salivating like a dog, crawling across the floor like his pet, eager to be sat on your heels with a promise of something more.

And you must be taking a long time, sitting there staring wide-eyed at his angry tip because his hand curls around your hair and tugs you forward lightly. He tilts his head expectantly, jutting his chin up and then down as a silent command to go on.

He guides you forward with the thumb in your mouth, hooking in your cheek, and pulling you until your lips brush the tip, replacing it with his cock instead.

You breathe on it first, panting softly to catch your breath, and you haven’t even had it in the back of your throat yet. You’re hesitant, despite how badly you wanted this, licking from base to tip before swirling around the fattened tip. Your lips follow, dragging along slowly as your ring-free hand wraps around the base, pressed against his blonde pubes.

Your restraint slips away when a bead of precum dribbles from his tip and you catch it with your tongue. You moan as you taste it, salty and a little bitter, but all Simon. It ignites something hot and searing in your core, animalistic pride or maybe it’s possession that this is Simon’s cock on your tongue, his hands in your hair and digging into your chin.

Your lips wrap around him then, sliding just slightly past the tip. His grip tightens in your hair at that, but his face remains still, a silent tell. It’s a tight fit, lips spread wide around his girth so much so that it stings, but you push further. Until you can’t anymore and your throat starts to constrict.

You come back up for air, and he tsks like he’s disappointed you didn’t take him whole.

You try again, tears welling in your lash line as you take him deeper, and you attempt to bob back up, but his hand are quicker, pushing you deeper until his head notches against the back of your throat. You gag, nails digging crescents into the hair in his thighs, but he forces you down, somehow by some miracle, until your nose presses into the blonde hair.

It hurts, and you’re gurgling around him, saliva dripping down his length, but it’s not enough for him.

“Jesus, bird, jus’ gotta breathe through yer nose.”

He says it like it’s so easy, and you’re trying really, but his shaft is so heavy against your tongue, and you like it, god, you like how suffocating it feels to have him stuffed between your cheeks. Your eyes roll to the back of your skull, and you groan obscenely around him.

He chuffs a laugh, “You like tha’?”

You nod, brows pinched as you look pathetically up at him. He just blinks, a smirk on his face like he isn’t buried to the hilt in your mouth.

Then, he rolls his hips, once, and you scratch at his thighs, tears spilling onto your cheeks, but the sick part that takes over when you’re around Simon makes you moan again like your body likes having him there, that deep, pressing into places your husband hasn’t even touched.

When he finally releases you, you scramble for air, lungs filling so rapidly it burns. And you’re a little dizzy from the mixture of tasting him and the lack of oxygen. Then he starts talking and all you can do is press your thighs together weakly at the deep cadence.

“Act all innocent, don’t you? Whole time yer moanin’ while someone fucks yer mouth.”

He guides you down again, tongue gliding along, but he lifts you back up, repeating it once, twice, again and again, until there’s a steady rhythm of bobbing. He lets up on your head when you follow the pace he sets, coating him in so much of your saliva that it collects at the base of his cock and makes his hair wet.

It’s a mess, you’re a mess of tears and saliva, and a neglected pussy that’s throbbing around nothing, but he doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand that you only like because it’s him. Because it’s his cock in your throat making it near impossible to breathe.

“Suck yer husband off like thi’?”

And his voice sounds so steady, no inflection to it like he isn’t getting his dick sucked. The sentence hurts, landing somewhere hard in your chest. A reminder. Something permanently burned into your skin like a scarlet letter.

He pulls you off, “Huh? Can’t hear you.”

The words scald even more because you don’t and he knows that, knows that this version of you is reserved just for him. And he wants to hear it, some form of jealousy twisted in his own chest. But you don’t even get the chance because he pulls you back down and your response is just a choked noise.

All you can do is shake your head, and he smiles, scars on his lips and cheeks straining at the tug.

“That’s my girl.”

He draws it out like he means it, patting your cheek twice, thumb pressing into your cheek to feel the curve of his cock in your mouth. Eyes dilated and heavy. And you feel that, tuck it into the cavity of your chest to chew on later.

It’s a few more pumps before he presses deep again, before he groans low and guttural, holding you tight, and finishes in your throat. You swallow it, as best you can, gulping it down, and taking it for your own as he stays put in your throat.

When he finally pulls out, he’s gone soft, and there’s a sticky amount of saliva and spunk beading from your lips and his tip. You lick it clean, greedy, and maybe a little filthy, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

“That’s myyy girl.”

He says it again, a little breathless this time. Repeating it like he’s hammering it into your chest, so you don’t forget.

It’s the first time you’ve felt proud to be someone’s.

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