The Secret Diary of Lady Catherine Bexley by Viveka Portman Page A

stomach to the thing that jutted eagerly from betwixt his thighs. Such a thing I have never seen. It seemed eager for me, frighteningly so. The dogs I had seen had small pink things, nothing like what my husband possessed in his breeches. His was thick and rigid. Was he was going to put it in me? I confess I felt great fear then. My hands froze on my nightdress.
    ‘Pull up your skirt above your waist,’ he repeated, his tone a little less gentle and significantly more embarrassed. I hurried to obey. His hand stroked his own length and I heard him suck the air through his teeth and throw back his head.
    My skirt was now wrenched high over my waist, leaving me naked as a babe on the bed. My husband shrugged off his dressing gown and it pooled on the floor, the flickering candles making the fabric look alive as it fell.
    I shivered.
    He stared at me with his flat dark eyes, then stalked over to my dresser, where a pot of olive oil had been placed. I’d heard what uses this oil had and I watched with trepidation as my new husband dipped his hand into the pot and slid the glossy oil down his shaft. Such a wicked thing I’d never seen.
    Within a moment, my husband was beside my bed and he surveyed me much as a farmer would a prize mare. The only indication of his passion, I realise now, was the stiffness of his member.
    Without further preamble, he crawled atop me, crushing the air from my chest, before balancing above me on his forearms.
    ‘Spread your legs, Catherine,’ he growled. I realised it was the first time he had ever spoken my name. ‘Wider.’
    I did as he bid, though I was confused. Would he take me from the top, not as a dog takes its bitch?
    I had little time to wonder, I felt something large and hot nudge at the apex of my thighs. He hovered above me, his body suspended by his powerfully corded and muscled arms.
    His eyes held mine and he slipped that glistening oiled thing into me.
    I thought I might die.
    Pain such as I have never felt burned between my thighs. I was torn open as his thick member ruptured my maidenhood and split my sex asunder. I had hoped to be brave, excited and eager to please, but alas, the pain made me weep.
    ‘Quiet,’ my husband soothed, and then he began to move with slick, sharp but strangely smooth, motions. Forward, backward, forward, backward. Each thrust sent a bright burst of pain through my tortured sex.
    I sobbed, but my husband was relentless in his duty. He seemed to pace himself with the rhythm of the French clock that ticked on the mantle. His thrusts were systematic and dispassionate but each one forced the breath from me.
    After a time, the pain did subside, and I opened my eyes to observe his face. He looked down upon me with intense concentration. As his member continued to lunge rhythmically between my thighs, perspiration glowed on his forehead. Then without warning, my husband lunged deep. For a moment he froze, groaned and shuddered above me, and gave a last powerful thrust. His heat poured into me, and for the briefest of moments I thought that some apoplexy had struck him. His whole body stiffened, then fell still.
    ‘Are you well?’ I asked him, worried. His member throbbed and pulsed, still deeply embedded in my sex. He did not speak for a long time.
    ‘I am well,’ he replied eventually, his tone dry.
    He leaned into the bed and pulled his body from mine with a shocking wet sound.
    Was that all? I wondered.
    He rose from the bed, his manhood still swollen and slick with oil and other things.
    The scent of his skin lingered damp and earthy, where his body did not. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked, feeling suddenly empty and strangely unfulfilled. He did not answer but spoke to me brusquely.
    ‘I will call Hetty to help you wash,’ he replied, bending down to pick up his discarded dressing gown, his buttocks glistening with perspiration in the candlelight. He surveyed me again, and leant above me placing a hand over my beaten sex, and dipped a swift