Peepaw Nation

The hour grows late, yet the small council shows no sign of concluding. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky in twilight. Lord Otto Hightower, his fingers steepled, listened intently to the proceedings. In the Tower of the Hand, his young bride eagerly anticipates his arrival.

She was his companion, a wife who managed his household and warmed his bed. He preferred her company to being stuck in this repetitive debate. The mere thought of his wife caused his breeches to feel noticeably tighter. His mind drifted to the image of her carefully stepping forward, her gaze hesitantly meeting his.

With the fabric of her skirt bunched high around her waist, her undergarments a soft blur against her skin, his wife leaned over the polished oak of the small council table. Otto stood there, the warm candle glinting off the smooth expanse of her pretty backside. A faint scent of lavender from her perfume hung in the air. Soon, he imagined, the skin would bloom a vibrant crimson, a stark contrast to its pale flesh, a consequence for her audacity in interrupting him as the day’s duties drew to a close.

Against her skin, the small council table’s wood felt cool and smooth, a stark contrast to the heat rising in her cheeks. His voice, a low rumble that vibrated in the air, echoed within the stone chamber. “Have I not instructed you to wait in the Tower of the Hand?”

A small, almost inaudible "Yes, Husband," escaped her lips, barely a whisper against the oppressive silence.

"Was I not clear enough?" The words sharpened, carrying a metallic edge.

"No, but—" A sharp sting, a brutal impact from his ringed hand against her soft, unblemished skin, silenced her. The sudden pain made her gasp, the sound swallowed by the heavy air. "I did not give you permission to speak, wife," his voice boomed, the words like stones dropped into still water.

A quiet descended as she acknowledged with a nod. She, who had always been his submissive and obedient wife, had now returned. With a sigh, his frustrated fingers worked through his russet hair, the salt and pepper strands catching the light. The deep green of his velvet doublet contrasted with the visible strain of his breeches as he silently worked at the laces.

“There’s much you haven’t grasped yet, but we can address it later.” He leaned in, his hands pressing into the yielding softness of her backside. “Your companionship is delightful; however, it is now incumbent upon you to discharge your wifely duties.”

Her chest heaved, a rapid pulse thrumming against her ribs as she strained to hear. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken words. “Should we not depart for the Tower of Hand?” The question hung in the silence, sharp and urgent. “No,” came the low reply, a rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very bones of the room, “I shall have you here.”

Otto slipped his hand inside his breeches, freeing his hardened cock, and said, “I am no cruel husband, but you will be left wanting a fitting punishment,” while his thumb traced the flushed pearl tucked between her lips. The first flutter of pleasure arose from the slightest brush as Otto encircled the pearl. “Husband, please,”

"To be so wanton, wife, when my touch has been so light," Otto murmured, his voice a low rumble. He felt the delicate tremor beneath his fingertips as he traced the soft curves of her body. "Though I recognise your desire," he continued, his tone firm, "I will not allow my mouth to taste your exquisite sweetness." His fingers moved with a musician's precision over her folds, their gentle pressure a soft caress, before slipping inside his wife, as if she were a finely tuned instrument. A soft gasp escaped her lips, followed by a low moan, her body trembling as she chased ecstatic heights. Then, he stilled his hand, the warmth of her response still lingering on his skin.

"Husband?" Her voice cracked, a whisper lost in the sudden silence. No answer came, only the slick slide of his fingers withdrawing, leaving a hollow ache where they'd been. Before a plea could form, Otto's presence surged, a thick, demanding weight filling her, his thrusts a hard, rhythmic punctuation. His hands clamped onto her hips, anchoring her as he set a brutal, unyielding pace.

The wood biting into the soft flesh of her thighs, with each thrust of his lips, but still she could not hold back as her body shuddered, convulsing as she climbed higher and higher, her hips rocking back against him. “Otto” as the warmth circled within, tightened with each snap of his hips.

“Such a good girl, look at how well you take me.” His fingers dug into her skin; the painful pressure a testament to his awareness and indifference. How his dear wife is gripping him elicits a hiss as viscous, hot waves of pleasure wash over him. He is close.