Writing and (W)rambling

The door to your shared chambers had barely closed behind you before Ormund's hand found your wrist.

His grip was firn, a silent command that stopped you mid-step, your body turning toward him before your mind had fully registered the movement. The warmth of the fire in the hearth washed over your arms, a pleasant contrast to the chill that had settled into your bones during the long walk back from the great hall.

He said nothing at first. His eyes swept over your face, searching for something you could not name. His jaw was tight, the muscles in his neck corded with a tension that had not been there an hour ago, when you had all sat together at the high table. You had seen that tension building throughout the evening, the way his gaze had followed you across the room, the way his fingers had drummed against the arm of his chair, the way his smile had grown thinner and more brittle with each passing course.

You had done nothing wrong. You knew that and yet your heart had begun to beat faster the moment he took your wrist, a familiar dread coiling in your stomach like a serpent waking from sleep. You had learned to recognize that dread over the months of your marriage. It was a constant companion now, a shadow that walked beside you through the halls of the Hightower, that curled beside you in the bed you shared, that whispered in your ear when you tried to sleep.

"Sit," he said.

His voice was low. Calm. That was what made it frightening, the utter control in it, the absence of any raised tone or sharp edge. He gestured to the small writing desk by the window, where a leather bound copy of the Seven Pointed Star sat waiting, its pages worn from use. The desk was positioned beneath a narrow window that looked out over the Honeywine, its waters glittering silver in the moonlight. But you did not look at the window. You looked at the book, and your stomach tightened further.

You sat. Your legs felt weak beneath you, and you were grateful for the chair's solid presence. The wood was cold through the thin fabric of your gown, a chill that seeped into your thighs and made you shiver. You clasped your hands in your lap, fingers interlaced, and tried to steady your breathing.

Ormund walked to the desk. He moved slowly, deliberately, the soft thud of his boots against the stone floor the only sound in the room besides the crackling fire. He picked up the heavy tome, its leather cover worn smooth from generations of use and opened it to a marked page. His finger traced down the lines of text, finding the passage he sought. He knew exactly where it was. He had chosen it before you ever entered the room.

"Read," he said, placing the book before you. "From here."

He pointed to a passage near the middle of the page, his fingernail pressing against the parchment hard enough to leave a faint indentation. You recognized the words even before your eyes focused on them. The Faith of the Seven's teachings on marriage. On duty. On the sacred bond between husband and wife. You had read these passages before, in the long lonely months since your wedding, when you had sought comfort in the words of the septons. You had found none.

Your throat tightened. Your voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. "What is this about?"

He did not answer. Instead, he lowered himself to his knees beside your chair, his movements fluid and unhurried. The sound of his knees settling against the rushes was soft, almost reverent. His hands came to rest on your thighs, his palms warm through the silk of your gown, his fingers curving around the soft flesh with a possessiveness that made your breath catch.

"Read," he repeated. His voice was silk over steel.

You swallowed. Your eyes dropped to the page, and your voice came out quiet and trembling as you began to read aloud.

"'The wife shall honor her husband in all things, for he is her protector and her guide. She shall not raise her voice against him, nor speak ill of him to others, nor look upon another man with desire in her heart…'"

Ormund's hands moved.

His fingers found the hem of your gown and lifted it, inch by inch, baring your legs to the cool air of the chamber. The silk slid up over your knees, your thighs, until the fabric pooled around your waist and left you exposed from the waist down. Your skin prickled with gooseflesh, and you faltered in your reading, your voice catching in your throat. But his eyes flicked up to meet yours, and something in his gaze made you continue.

"'…for the bond between man and wife is sacred, blessed by the Seven who watch from on high. A wife's body belongs to her husband, as his body belongs to her, and neither shall withhold what the other rightfully…'"

His lips pressed against the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. The words on the page blurred before your eyes, but you forced yourself to keep reading, your voice wavering as his mouth traveled higher. His lips were warm and dry, he pressed open mouthed kisses along the soft flesh, leaving a trail of warmth that made your thighs tremble.

"'…rightfully claims,'" you continued, your voice rising in pitch. "'For in the sight of the Seven, a wife who strays is as one who…'"

His hand pushed your thighs apart. You were bare beneath your gown, you always were, at his instruction, a practicality that had become a silent act of submission. The chill air of the chamber kissed your exposed flesh, and you felt yourself clench involuntarily against the cold. He parted you with his fingers, exposing you to the firelight, to his gaze, to the warmth of his breath as he leaned closer. His thumb brushed over your folds, spreading you open, and you heard the soft, wet sound of your own arousal—a sound that made your cheeks burn with shame.

"'…who strays is as one who denies the Mother's wisdom and the Father's…'"

He lowered his mouth to you.

The words died in your throat, replaced by a sharp gasp, his tongue was warm and wet against your most intimate flesh, tracing a slow, deliberate path from your entrance to the small bud of nerves at the apex. The sensation was electric, a jolt of pleasure that shot through your pelvis and made your hips jerk involuntarily. Your hands gripped the edges of the book so tightly that the leather creaked beneath your fingers.

"Keep reading," Ormund said, his voice muffled against your skin.

You could not. You could not form words, could not remember the passage, could not think past the sensation of his mouth working against you. His tongue circled your clit, slow and torturous, and your vision swam. But he had not asked—he had commanded, and you had learned that his commands were not suggestions. You had learned that in the first weeks of your marriage, in the long nights when he had taught you what it meant to be his.

"'The Father,'" you started, your voice high and strained. "'The Father judges the faithful and the unfaithful, and the Mother's mercy extends only to those who…'"

His tongue flicked against you, quick and precise, and your hips bucked of their own accord. You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper, trying to stifle the sound that wanted to escape your throat. But he heard it anyway—felt it, perhaps, in the way your body reacted to him—and his hands tightened on your thighs, holding you steady. His fingers dug into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises, and you knew you would find purple marks there in the morning.

"'…who repent,'" you forced out, the words a broken whisper. "'And who return to the arms of their…'"

He hummed against you. The vibration shot through your pelvis like a bolt of lightning, and your vision went white at the edges. Your body was betraying you—had always betrayed you, in this room, in this bed, in his hands. The pleasure was unwelcome and unwanted, a violation in its own right, and yet you could not stop it. Your hips were moving now, rocking against his mouth, seeking more of that sensation, and you hated yourself for it.

"'…their husband,'" you gasped, the words tumbling from your lips without thought. "'For the husband is the head of the household, and the wife is his…'"

He pressed his tongue inside you.

Your back arched. The book slipped from your hands and fell to the floor with a heavy thud, its pages splaying open on the rushes. You did not reach for it. You could not reach for it. Your hands had found the arms of the chair, gripping the carved wood so tightly that your knuckles went white. The wood was smooth beneath your fingers, worn by the hands of generations of Hightower lords, and you clung to it as though it could save you.

His tongue was inside you, curling and stroking, and the pleasure was building into something unbearable. He lapped at your inner walls, tasting you, drinking you in, and the wet sounds of his mouth against your flesh filled the room. You could feel his breath hot against your skin, could feel the rough callouses of his fingers as they gripped your hips.

"His," Ormund prompted, his voice a low rumble against your flesh. He pulled his tongue out just long enough to speak, his lips brushing against your clit as he did, and the sensation made you sob.

You could not answer. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. His tongue was moving inside you again, curling against that sensitive spot that made your vision flicker. The pleasure was mounting, coiling in your belly like a spring wound too tight, and you knew what was coming. You knew it was inevitable.

"His what?" he asked, and his teeth grazed you lightly—a warning, a reminder of who was in control. He bit down just enough to make you gasp, a sharp jolt of pain that cut through the pleasure like a blade.

"'His—'" You sobbed the word. "'His vessel. His—his property.'"

"Good girl." His voice was muffled against your flesh, but you heard the satisfaction in it. "That's right. You remember your lessons. You remember what you are to me."

He licked you again, long and slow, and your hips jerked toward his mouth. You could not help it. Your body was no longer your own, it belonged to him, as he had told you a hundred times before. It belonged to his hands, his mouth, his cock, his will. You were just the vessel that housed it, the shell that contained what was his.

Ormund lowered his mouth to you again, and this time he did not stop. His tongue worked against you with a relentless intensity, licking and sucking and probing, pushing you higher and higher toward that peak you had learned to dread. His fingers pressed into your thighs, holding you open, holding you still, and you could do nothing but take it.

Your head fell back against the chair. Your eyes rolled up toward the ceiling, toward the painted beams and the shadows that danced there. Your chest heaved with each ragged breath, your breasts pressing against the bodice of your gown, your nipples tightening into hard peaks beneath the silk.

The pressure built. The spring coiled tighter. You could feel it approaching, could feel the edges of your vision starting to grey.

"No," you whispered. The word came out broken, desperate. "Please—"

But he did not stop. He never stopped. His tongue circled your clit with renewed urgency, his hands gripping your thighs with bruising force, and the pleasure crashed over you like a wave breaking against a shore. You screamed—or tried to, the sound came out as a choked sob, your throat too tight to release it properly. Your hips bucked against his face, and he held you steady through it, his tongue continuing to work against you even as your body shuddered and convulsed.

He did not stop when the orgasm faded. He did not stop when your hands released the chair and fell limp at your sides. He did not stop when you began to weep, silent tears streaming down your cheeks, your body trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure you had not wanted and could not refuse.

He kept going. His tongue lapped at you, tasting your release, drinking it in, and you could feel yourself growing sensitive—too sensitive—and the pleasure was turning into something else, something sharper, something that bordered on pain.

"Please," you sobbed. "Please, Ormund, I can't—"

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His chin was wet with your arousal, glistening in the firelight. His eyes were dark, the pupils so dilated that they had swallowed almost all the grey-green. His lips were swollen and red, and he licked them slowly, tasting you on his own mouth.

"You can," he said. "You will."

He lowered his head again, and this time he was gentler—but that was not a kindness. His tongue traced soft, lazy circles around your clit, teasing you back toward arousal even as you tried to push him away. Your hands found his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic, and you tried to push him back.

He did not move. "You think I don't know what I saw tonight?" he asked, his voice low against your skin. His breath was warm, his words muffled by your flesh. "You think I didn't notice the way you looked at him? The way you laughed at his words?"

The accusation landed like a slap. You had done nothing wrong—you knew that—but the guilt that bloomed in your chest was real and immediate. You had laughed at something your stepson Lyonel had said at the high table. It had been a small thing, a quiet comment about a courtier's ridiculous hat, and you had laughed because it had been genuinely funny.

But Ormund had seen, every smile, every glance, every moment of warmth you had shared with the son who was closer to your age than your husband.

"I wasn't—" you started.

"Lionel is ten and seven," Ormund interrupted. His tongue flicked against your clit, and you gasped. "Closer to you than i am. Young. Strong. Handsome. And you—" He bit down lightly, and you cried out. "—my beautiful wife, who blushes when a man so much as looks at her—"

"Ormund, please, I didn't—"

"You didn't what?" He lifted his head again, and his eyes burned into yours. "You didn't look at him with desire? You didn't enjoy his attention? Because I saw you. I saw every moment."

His words were knives, and he twisted them with precision. You had done nothing wrong, and yet he had found the sin anyway—had invented it, perhaps, because he needed a reason to do this. Because he needed to remind you of your place.

"Lionel is your son," you whispered. "I was simply being kind to him. That is all."

"Kind." The word was bitter on his tongue. "Yes. You are very kind. Kind to everyone. Kind to the servants, kind to the guards, kind to my children. But you are not kind to me."

"That is not true—"

"Then why," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "do I have to remind you every day that you are mine?"

His tongue was on you again, rougher this time, less careful. He licked and sucked at your clit with a ferocity that made you cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair, pushing and pulling at the same time. You could not decide if you wanted him to stop or to continue—your body wanted the pleasure, even as your mind recoiled from it.

You were already sensitive from the first orgasm, and the second was building faster than you could have imagined. Your thighs trembled against his shoulders, and your hips were moving again, grinding against his mouth without your permission. The wet sounds of his tongue against your flesh were obscene, and you could not stop them.

"Please," you sobbed again. "Please, I'll be good, I'll be better, just—"

"Just what?" He stopped, his lips hovering over your clit, his breath hot against the sensitive flesh. "Just what, wife? Tell me what you want."

"I want—" You could not finish the sentence. Your body ached with need, and you hated yourself for it. "I want to—"

"You want to come," he said. It was not a question. "You want to come on my tongue, while you think of my son, is that it? While you pretend I am someone else?"

"No!" The denial tore from your throat, raw and desperate. "No, Ormund, I would never—"

He smiled. It was that same pleasant, courteous smile, and it was more frightening than any rage could ever be.

"Then read," he said. "Read me the passage. Read me the words that remind you what you are."

He pulled away, leaving you aching and empty, and you looked down at him through tear-blurred eyes. He was still on his knees, his face flushed, his chin wet with your arousal, his eyes dark with something that was not quite anger.

The book was still on the floor. You leaned down, your fingers trembling as you retrieved it, and you searched for the page. Your hands were shaking so badly that you could barely hold the book, and tears were streaming down your cheeks, but you found the passage.

"'The wife,'" you read, your voice cracking, "'shall submit to her husband in all things, for she is his helpmate and his—'"

He pushed his face between your thighs again, and your voice dissolved into a moan. His mouth was on you again, his tongue plunging inside you, and your back arched against the chair. You could not think. You could not read. All you could do was feel.

"Keep reading," he said against your flesh.

You tried. You tried so hard. But the words were blurring together, and the pleasure was building again, and you could not focus on anything except the wet heat of his mouth and the way your hips were grinding against his face.

"'His—his property,'" you managed. "'His—his vessel, his—'"

He pressed his tongue against your clit, and the second orgasm hit you like a wave.

You screamed, a sound so raw and broken that you did not recognize it as your own. Your body arched off the chair, your hands flying to his head, gripping his hair so hard that you must have hurt him. But he did not stop. He kept his mouth on you, working you through the pleasure, until you collapsed back against the chair, trembling and weeping and utterly spent.

And then he did not stop.

You felt his tongue continue its relentless assault, and the pleasure that had been so overwhelming now teetered on the edge of pain. The sensitivity was unbearable, every stroke of his tongue sent jolts of electricity through your nerves, and you could not breathe, could not think, could not do anything but feel.

"Please," you sobbed, your hands pushing at his head. "Please, Ormund, no more, I can't—"

"You can," he said against your flesh. "You will take what I give you. You will take all of it."

His tongue flicked against your clit, and your hips jerked away instinctively. His hands tightened on your thighs, dragging you back to his mouth, holding you in place. You were trapped—trapped in this chair, trapped beneath his mouth, trapped in this body that was responding against your will.

"Please," you begged, the word a broken litany. "Please, please, please—"

The third orgasm was building before the second had fully faded. It was too much, too soon, and you were crying openly now, your tears streaming down your cheeks and dripping onto your chest. The pleasure was so intense that it was indistinguishable from pain, and you could not tell which was which anymore.

"Ormund," you gasped, "Ormund, I'm going to—please, let me, please—"

"Not yet," he said. His voice was calm, controlled, utterly unaffected by your desperation. "You will not come again until I allow it. Do you understand?"

You nodded frantically, your head bobbing up and down, anything to make him stop, to give you a moment of respite. But he did not stop. His tongue was still working against you, circling and flicking and sucking, pushing you closer and closer to that edge even as you tried to pull away.

"P-promise," you stammered. "I promise, I'll be good, I'll do anything, just please—"

"You will beg," he said, and his voice was dark, almost cruel. "You will beg me for permission to come. And you will not come until I say you may. Is that clear?"

"Yes," you sobbed. "Yes, Ormund, yes, I understand, I'll beg, I'll do whatever you want, just please—"

He hummed against you, the vibration sending another shockwave through your pelvis, and you clawed at his shoulders, trying to push him away and pull him closer all at once. The pleasure was unbearable, unbearable, and you were so close, so close to the edge that you could taste it.

"Please," you begged, the word coming out in a desperate moan. "Please let me come, please, Ormund, I'll be so good for you, I'll never look at anyone else, I'll never smile at anyone but you, I swear it, I swear it on the Seven, please—"

His tongue continued its assault, and you could feel yourself teetering on the edge, your whole body trembling with the effort of holding back. It was agony, pure agony, to be this close and not allowed to fall.

"Please," you sobbed again. "Please, please, please—"

"Look at me," he said.

You looked down at him through tear blurred eyes. He was still on his knees between your thighs, his face flushed, his chin wet with your arousal, his eyes dark and hungry. And as you watched, you saw something shift in his expression a tightening of his jaw, a shudder that ran through his body.

And then he was coming. His hands tightened on your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise, and a low groan escaped his throat. You felt his hips jerk against the air, his body arching as he spilled inside his trousers, his cock pumping into the fabric of his breeches even as his mouth remained fastened to your clit. He was coming untouched, completely undone by the sight and taste of you, and you stared at him in shocked silence as the pleasure wracked his body.

His eyes were locked on yours. He did not look away. He watched you watch him as he came, his breath ragged, his teeth grazing your clit as his body shuddered through the release. The sight of him—the perfect Lord Hightower, so composed and controlled, undone by his own desire—sent a jolt of something dark and triumphant through your chest.

But the triumph was short lived.

Even as his body trembled with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his tongue continued its work. He was relentless, driven, and the pleasure that had been building inside you was now a wildfire that you could not contain. You were so close, so unbearably close, and you had not been given permission.

"Please," you sobbed. "Please, Ormund, please, I can't hold it any longer, please let me—"

He pulled back. His lips left your clit, and the sudden absence of sensation was almost worse than the overstimulation. Your hips thrust into the air, seeking his mouth, seeking the contact that had been stolen from you.

"No," he said. His voice was rough, rougher than usual, his breathing still heavy from his own release. "Not yet."

"I can't—" You were weeping openly now, your whole body trembling. "Please, Ormund, I need to—"

"You need to what?" He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, the touch soft and gentle and maddening. "You need to come? You think you deserve to come?"

"Please," you begged. "I'll do anything—"

"You will be good," he said. "You will be faithful. You will remember that you are mine."

"Yes," you sobbed. "Yes, I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours—"

"And you will not look at my son again. You will not smile at him. You will not speak to him unless I am present. Do you understand?"

"I understand," you cried. "I understand, I promise, please, please, I'm so close—"

He pressed two fingers inside you, curling them against that sensitive spot, and you screamed. Your hips bucked against his hand, and the pleasure was so intense, so overwhelming, that you could not hold it back. You were on the edge, teetering, your body screaming for release.

"Beg," he said. "Beg me properly."

"Please," you sobbed, the word a broken chant. "Please, Ormund, my husband, my lord, please let me come, I'll be so good, I'll be perfect, I'll do whatever you say, just please, please, please let me come—"

"Look at me," he commanded.

You looked. Your eyes met his, and you saw the satisfaction there, the dark pleasure he took in your desperation. He curled his fingers inside you, pressing against that spot that made your vision go white.

"Come," he said. "Come for me."

And you did.

The orgasm tore through you like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. Your body arched off the chair, your mouth open in a silent scream, your hands gripping his shoulders so hard that your nails drew blood. The pleasure was blinding, overwhelming, and you could not breathe, could not think, could not do anything but feel.

It went on and on, wave after wave crashing through you, and Ormund did not stop. His fingers continued to move inside you, working you through the orgasm, drawing it out until you were sobbing and trembling and begging for mercy that would not come.

Finally—finally—he withdrew his fingers.

You collapsed back against the chair, your body limp and shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Your thighs were wet with your own arousal, and you could feel the evidence of his release soaking through his breeches where they pressed against your leg.

Ormund rose to his feet. He was still fully clothed, his tunic and trousers intact, and the contrast between his composed appearance and your debauched state made something twist in your chest. His breeches were dark with a wet patch at the front, the evidence of his own pleasure hidden by the dim firelight.

He looked down at you—at your flushed face, your swollen lips, your tear streaked cheeks, your exposed body—and he smiled. It was that same pleasant, courteous smile, and it was more terrifying than any rage could ever be.

"Good girl," he said. "That is what I wanted to hear."

You could not respond. Your voice was gone, your throat raw, your body limp and trembling. The book had fallen to the floor again, its pages stained by your tears and the evidence of your shame.

Ormund stepped closer. His hand came up to cup your chin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed across your cheek, wiping away a tear, and his touch was almost gentle.

"Will I have to remind you again?" he asked. "Or can I trust you to behave?"

You shook your head weakly. "I'll be good," you whispered. "I promise. I'll be good."

He leaned down and kissed your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment against your damp skin. His other hand found your thigh, his fingers tracing the bruise he had left there, and you flinched at the touch.

"If I see you look at my son like that again," he said, his voice soft and calm and utterly terrifying, "I will not stop when you beg. I will keep you right there, on the edge, until you forget your own name. Do you understand?"

"Yes," you whispered. "I understand."

He smiled again and turned to walk to the door. You could see the evidence of his release darkening the front of his breeches, a damp stain that marked his own loss of control. He had come untouched, completely undone by the sight of you beneath his mouth, and the knowledge of that gave you a strange, fleeting sense of power—power that you knew would be taken from you the moment you showed it.

"Clean yourself up," he said without looking back. "I will send a servant with hot water. And then you will join me for a late supper. Lionel will not be there. I have sent him to his quarters for the evening."

The door closed behind him. The lock turned.