#(if only)

The silence in the solar was a physical presence woven from unspoken fury. Moonlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, carving the room into stark planes of silver and deepest shadow. You stood before him, near the centre of the room, feeling like a specimen pinned for display.

"You shamed yourself tonight."

Baelor's voice was quiet, cold. He did not look at you, but stared into the hearth where the last embers of the fire were dying, casting a faint, ruddy glow on his profile. "You shamed your father, you shamed our house, and most of all," he paused, "you shamed me."

Never, in the entire course of your marriage, had he spoken to you with such venom, such withering contempt. This was not the gentle prince who had tried so hard to meet you halfway and earn your favour. In his place stood a stranger, a man whose shoulders were rigid with a fury so tightly leashed it felt dangerous.

You opened your mouth, a hundred defences and accusations crowding your tongue. It was just a dance. It was a festival. No one recognised me. But the words died, unspoken, as he turned his back to you.

"Undress," he commanded.

The word was so out of place that for a moment you were sure you had misheard him. A short, disbelieving laugh escaped your lips. "You cannot be serious."

He did not turn. "I will not ask you again."

The finality in his tone left no room for argument, no space for defiance, no crack for your pride to slip through. Your hands clenched into tight fists at your sides, your nails digging sharp, painful crescents into your palms. This was madness. And yet, as you stood there in the moonlit bedchamber, you felt the urge to obey.

Your fingers trembled as they found the laces of your gown. The heavy, expensive silk seemed to resist your touch, clinging to you as if reluctant to abandon your body to the cold air and the even colder gaze of your husband. The knots were stubborn, your fumbling, shaking fingers making clumsy work of them. Finally, the last knot gave way; the gown sighed as it slid from your shoulders.

You stood before him in only your thinnest shift, a simple slip of pale silk that was nearly translucent in the stark lunar light. It clung to the curves of your hips and breasts, doing little to hide the hardened peaks of your nipples, which pebbled against the sudden chill. Exposure had never felt so complete, so absolute.

Baelor turned then. His eyes raked over your body with a slow, deliberate intensity that made you feel unbearably hot despite the cold. His expression was a mask of cold indifference, giving nothing away. He walked towards you until he was right in front of you.

"Kneel," he ordered, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl that vibrated up your spine.

"No," you whispered, looking down at the floor.

His hand shot out, not to strike you, but to grip your chin, forcing your head up to meet his gaze. "You will do as you are told."

A choked breath escaped your throat, and with it, the last of your defiance crumbled into dust. Your legs felt weak and watery, but they held you just long enough to lower yourself to the floor. You kept your eyes downcast, focusing on the intricate patterns on the floor, on anything but the man towering over you, a dark colossus of rage and ownership.

His fingers moved to tangle viciously in your hair, gripping thick handfuls of the strands. He pulled your head back, the sting on your scalp a sharp, searing line of fire that made you cry out. Your neck was arched at an uncomfortable, vulnerable angle, your throat exposed to the cool air.

"Look at me," he demanded. "What shall I do with you, princess."

The word princess was a curse on his lips. His other hand moved to the laces of his breeches, his long, skilled fingers working with practised efficiency. Your eyes widened even further as he freed himself. His cock sprang forth from the confines of his leather and linen. It was massive; longer and thicker than you had imagined, a roadmap of thick, prominent veins pulsing beneath the skin. He began to stroke himself, his hand moving slowly up and down the length, and a strange, dark, undeniable arousal coursed through you. Your cunt clenched in a sudden, aching throb of need.

"Open your mouth."

You complied without thinking, lips parting automatically. The surprise of your own submission hit you then. How could you be aroused by this humiliation? But there was no denying the slick wetness gathering between your thighs, the way your body responded to his authority, to the sheer power he exuded, even as you felt shame.

"Keep your knees apart," he ordered. "Hands behind your back."

You shifted your position on the cold floor, spreading your knees wide, the position feeling obscene and open. You laced your fingers together at the small of your back, the posture thrusting your breasts forward and leaving you utterly at his mercy.

The swollen head of his cock brushed against your lower lip, leaving a salty trail. The taste of him; salt and pure, unadulterated masculinity, exploded on your tongue. At first he was slow, allowing you only an inch, then two, letting you adjust, but his patience, if he had ever possessed any, vanished quickly.

His hips began to move, thrusting deeper with each powerful stroke. His grip on your hair tightened, using the strands as reins to control your movements, to pull you onto him. The head of his cock battered against the back of your throat, making you gag, your body convulsing with the reflex. Tears streamed freely down your face, blurring your vision, as you struggled to breathe through your nose, to accommodate his relentless, punishing pace. The sounds were obscene; the wet, slurping noises of your mouth, the grunts from his chest, the desperate, choking gasps that tore from your own throat.

"That is it," he grunted, his voice rough with exertion, his hips snapping forward. "Take it all."

You found your body beginning to move, a desperate, instinctual rhythm. You rocked back and forth on your knees, seeking friction, some small measure of relief from the throbbing ache building between your legs. Baelor noticed.

"Filthy girl," he growled, his voice laced with contempt. He yanked your head back harshly, pulling his cock from your mouth with a wet pop. A string of saliva connected your lips to his head for a moment before breaking. "Did I give you permission? Stop that right now."

You froze, the shame burning through you, hot and sharp. "This is your punishment." His voice was as cold and hard as the stone beneath your knees.

With that, he shoved his cock back into your mouth, resuming with renewed vigour. His heavy sack slapped against your chin with each drive. Your jaw ached, a deep, throbbing pain, and your throat burned, stretched to its absolute limit. And still he used you, his breathing growing ragged, his thrusts becoming increasingly erratic, chasing his own pleasure with a singular, selfish focus.

Then he spilled his seed down your throat in hot, thick pulses, a seemingly endless flood of cum that flooded your mouth, coating your tongue. You swallowed frantically, your throat working, desperate to take it all, to please him, to prove you could obey, to be good, even as some of the viscous fluid escaped your lips to trickle down your chin and drip onto your heaving breasts.

When he finally pulled away, you were left gasping for air, your body trembling with a combination of exhaustion, pain, and a searing, unfulfilled desire that made you want to scream. He stood over you for a long moment, his cock still semi-erect and glistening. Then he reached down and hauled you to your feet.

His hands gripped the delicate neckline of your shift. With a sharp tug, he ripped it in half. The fine silk tore like wet paper, leaving you completely, shockingly naked before him.

"Get on the bed," he commanded, gesturing with a jerk of his head toward the large, four-poster bed against the far wall.

For a moment you could only stare at him, your mind a complete blank.

"If I have to ask you again, I will increase your punishment."

The threat, spoken so calmly, sent a bolt of fear and excitement through you. You scrambled backward, almost falling, before turning and half-running, half-stumbling toward the bed. You climbed onto it, the cool, smooth sheets a shocking sensation against your overheated, sweat-sheened bare skin.

"On all fours."

You complied instantly, positioning yourself on your hands and knees in the centre of the mattress, your backside facing him. The position exposed your most intimate, vulnerable parts to his gaze. You could feel his eyes on you, taking in the delicate curve of your spine and the glistening, flushed folds of your cunt, already dripping and swollen with need.

You felt the mattress dip heavily as he knelt behind you. For a moment there was only the sound of your own panting breaths. Then his touch landed on you, light and gentle, as his fingers traced the elegant curve of your spine from the nape of your neck to the cleft of your backside. The touch made you shiver, a wave of gooseflesh rising on your skin. You thought, perhaps hoped, he might take you then, might finally end this exquisite torture and fill the aching emptiness inside you.

Impatience got the better of you. You pushed your hips back, a silent, shameless begging, trying to impale yourself on what you hoped was waiting for you.

"Do you wish to be taken like this?"

"Yes," you breathed, the word a desperate, broken puff of air. "Now, Baelor."

His hand came down on your backside hard. The sound, a sharp, crisp smack, echoed in the quiet room. The sharp, biting sting made you cry out, more from shock than from any real pain.

"You still lack manners," he said, his voice hardening again, all the softness gone. "You will take what I give you, when I give it to you."

His hand came down again, this time on the other cheek, a matching blow that landed with perfect, stinging precision. The blows began to alternate. You lost count of how many he gave you. The initial sharp sting morphed, spreading into a deep, pervasive heat that throbbed through your entire body. The pain mingled with pleasure, creating a confusing, intoxicating mixture of sensation that made your head spin.

Soon you were dripping, slick juices running down the inside of your thighs. Your legs shook uncontrollably, the muscles straining with the effort of holding you up. You could hear yourself making sounds; mewling, babbling, desperate whimpers and pleas that you barely recognised as words.

Baelor chuckled, the sound dark and deeply mocking. "You like this, don't you? Filthy girl, your cunt is dripping for it."

The humiliation burned, but so did the desire. You found yourself pushing back to meet his hand, shamelessly asking for more, for harder, for anything and everything he was willing to give you.

"Please," you begged, the word torn from your throat, raw and ragged. "Please, Baelor."

"It seems you are learning," he said, his voice holding a note of satisfaction.

His touch changed then. The spanking stopped, leaving your cheeks throbbing and burning. Two thick fingers slid effortlessly into your dripping cunt, stretching you deliciously, filling you, giving you immediate relief. His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that made your eyes roll back in your head and a loud, unrestrained moan tear from your lips. It felt so good, exactly what you needed, a perfect, overwhelming pressure that sent you hurtling toward the edge of a blinding release.

Just as you felt the first tremors begin to build deep in your core, he stopped. He pulled his fingers out and lifted his thumb away. A desperate, frustrated wail escaped you. You wanted to cry from frustration.

"Please, please!" you begged, pressing your face into the cool, scented sheets to muffle your broken sobs. "I am sorry, husband, so sorry. I beg you, please, I need you."

A triumphant smirk crossed Baelor's handsome features, though you could not see it from your position. You felt his hand move up your spine, the touch sending shivers of anticipation through your body, before tangling once again in your hair. He leaned over you, his body blanketing yours, his hard chest pressing against your burning back. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he whispered.

"Now was that really so difficult?"

A choked, ragged sob tore from your throat, your entire body trembling. You shook your head, unable to form a single word further.

Baelor chuckled. "How fortunate you are to have a husband as forgiving as I." His fingers, which had been stilled on your skin, began to trace abstract patterns on the sensitive flesh of your thigh. His fingers brushed perilously close to the apex of your legs, and you whimpered. "I will give you what you want. You are being so good now, so pliant."

Before your muddled brain could process the shift from punishment to reward, he moved. His hands, strong and sure, gripped your hips, and with a single, decisive movement, he flipped you over onto your back. The force of it knocked the air from your lungs, your world spinning for a second before righting itself. With another rough yank, he dragged you down the mattress until your backside was on the edge. You were completely exposed, vulnerable, positioned for his use.

Your breath hitched, catching in your throat as your eyes finally took him in. You saw him in his full naked glory for the first time. He was magnificent. Lean and corded with the muscle of a warrior, his chest was a broad expanse dusted with dark hair that narrowed into a tantalising trail, a clear path leading down to the neat, trimmed dark hairs at the base of his cock. It looked even bigger than when he had forced it past your lips. Your cunt clenched instinctively at the sight of him.

You moved to snap your legs shut, but your legs barely moved an inch before you froze. Baelor's gaze had found yours. His mismatched eyes hardened. It was a silent command; you obeyed, and your legs fell open again.

"Since you seem to have a taste for fooling around with common men," he said, as he stepped between your splayed thighs, "I will treat you like a common whore." His hands were rough as they gripped the backs of your knees, pushing them up and out, wider, impossibly wider, until you were spread obscenely. "This is what whores get, is it not?" he growled, lining himself up. "Taken hard and put away wet."

He positioned the blunt, thick head of his cock at your weeping entrance, notching it against your soaked, swollen folds. You were so wet from his earlier torment. There was no warning; with one brutal, powerful thrust of his hips, he slammed into you.

A scream tore from your throat as he split you open. The stretch was incredible. He felt so much bigger at this angle, so much deeper than you had ever imagined possible. It felt like he was impaling you, driving all the way up into your chest. Your back arched off the bed, your hands fisting in the sheets.

Baelor gave you no time to adjust. He pulled back, his cock dragging against your clenching walls until only the head remained inside, then he drove into you again, just as hard, just as deep. Your scream dissolved into a choked, broken moan. He set a relentless rhythm, taking you as you had never even dared to imagine in your darkest, most secret fantasies. Long, impossibly deep strokes, plunging his massive length into you again and again. The room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, mingling with your desperate, tearful cries.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, your muscles trembling with the effort, needing to see, needing to witness your own possession. The sight of his sweat-slicked body moving between your spread thighs, his dark, glistening cock disappearing into you again and again, only to reappear slick and shining with the evidence of your arousal, was incredible.

You had never felt like this before. Never experienced such overwhelming pleasure so seamlessly intertwined with the feeling of being possessed, of being owned. He took you thoroughly, the thick head of his cock battering against a deep, sensitive place inside you that you never knew existed. Each brutal thrust sent electric sparks shooting through your veins, made your toes curl, made your breath catch in your throat. Your breasts bounced with the force of his movements, the nipples tight, pebbled points of aching need.

His hands left your hips, moving with deliberate purpose up your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. They settled around your throat, his long fingers wrapping around your neck in a grip that was firm but not constricting. "Look at you," he growled, his hips never ceasing their devastating rhythm. His thumbs stroked the sensitive skin over your racing pulse. "Taking my cock like you were made for it."

You could not answer. You could only gasp for air, your eyes wide, locked on his as he continued his relentless assault on your senses. "You behave so well when you are full of cock," he whispered, his voice dropping to a filthy murmur. His grip tightened infinitesimally. "Is this what you needed? A good, hard fuck to put you back in your place."

The words should have enraged you, but instead they sent another blinding wave of arousal crashing through you. Because he was right; gods help you, he was right. You felt more alive, more present, than ever before. Your body sang with a pleasure so intense it was almost painful.

You fell back against the sheets, your arms giving out, unable to hold yourself up any longer. You were completely at his mercy, unable to do anything other than scream his name and moan. "Baelor! Baelor! Oh gods, yes, do not stop, please do not stop." The words were torn from you, a litany of desperate, mindless pleas.

He shifted his stance, changing the angle of his penetration, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. The new position was devastating, allowing him to plunge even deeper, and you cried out as the thick head of his cock brushed painfully, exquisitely against your cervix. He leaned forward, folding you nearly in half, his face now close to yours, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against your breasts.

"That is it," he grunted, his breath hot and damp against your ear. "Take all of it. Every inch." His pace quickened. "You wanted this. You wanted to be used."

It was so much. The fullness, the relentless, deep stimulation, the filthy words whispered in your ear like a prayer. You felt the build starting deep inside your core, a tight, hot coil of tension winding tighter and tighter, climbing higher and higher with every powerful thrust. Your entire body tensed, your toes curling, your inner walls clamping down around his cock like a vice.

Baelor reached between your sweat-slick bodies, his fingers finding your swollen, aching clit. He began to rub it in a perfect rhythm, matching the tempo of his thrusts, applying just the right amount of pressure to send you hurtling towards the edge. "Let go for me," his voice rough with his own impending release. "Show me how much you love it."

That was all it took. Your release crashed over you; you screamed, your back arching off the bed, your body shaking uncontrollably, and then something new happened. A gush of fluid erupted from you, soaking his abdomen, drenching the sheets beneath you. You did not even know what you had done, only that it felt incredible, that your body was convulsing with a pleasure so intense it bordered on agony.

Baelor groaned. "Yes, that is it, soak me, you filthy girl," he growled, his hips pistoning faster, chasing his own release. The sight of you, the feel of you, pushed him over the edge. "I am going to fill you," he snarled, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as his own climax took hold. "Breed you."

His words pushed you into another release, smaller but just as intense. He slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, his body going rigid as a bowstring, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he spent. You felt the hot, powerful pulses of his seed deep inside you, pulse after pulse, so much of it, emptying himself into you as he groaned your name against your skin.

Baelor's full weight pressed you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside you, still twitching with the aftershocks of his release. You were a mess. A ruined, satisfied, well-taken mess.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his mismatched eyes meeting yours in the dim moonlight. The anger was gone, replaced by dark satisfaction, and a hint of something tender beneath. He gently brushed a sweaty, tangled strand of hair from your forehead.

"Now, have you learned your lesson?"