The following story is a work of fiction set in the format of reality. Any resemblance to real people is entirely coincidental in nature. The events portrayed are not meant to accurately reflect persons in towns, cities, or countries referred to in the story. If sexual scenes involving male to male relationships offend you, then you should not read this story. Additionally, if you are under 18 years of age, in most states and countries, you are not allowed to read this by law.
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The Arranged Marriage
Part 1 of 3
It's the Monday of the first week of the summer vacation, and I'm hanging around downtown in the mall near the Cathedral, feeling as low as I've ever felt. I'd been looking forward to this summer with such expectation, but now there's nothing. I ruined everything.
My mobile rings, taking me by surprise -- who could be ringing me? As I reach to answer it my breath catches in my throat. The call is from Kazza. . .
Kazza walked into my life about two months ago. It was a few days after a big high-school swim meet; I'd come third in my event and had stood on the podium, still dripping, as the bronze medal was hung around my neck, thinking life couldn't get any better. . . but it did. Waiting for my bus after school a few days later, I saw him walking up to the bus stop; a tall, handsome black guy of about my age. As we climbed aboard, he turned a radiant smile on me, his shining white teeth illuminating his deep black face. The bus was crowded and I felt the heat of his body next to me, and when I got off the bus, there he was next to me.
His voice was deep and throaty, a French lilt to his English. "I will meet my friend at Starbucks by the Cathedral. . . it is close to here?" And again that captivating smile; those teeth.
I walked him there, shyly answering his questions, and when he insisted on buying me a coffee to thank me for showing him the way, my heart leaped and I accepted.
Normally, I'm too shy to make friends quickly, but with Kazza everything seemed different, so welcoming. The moment I told him my name was Richard, he called me Ritchie, giving me a private nickname like a secret promise of friendship. He told me his name but it was impossibly long; so he just smiled and said, "For you, Ritchie, you can call me Kazza." He told me he was here alone, only his second time out of Africa, and that he was lonely.
Eventually my shyness caught up with me and I made my excuses and left, but that night, alone in the apartment, my mind was full of visions of that tall African guy, slowly undressing him in my thoughts as my hand grasped my cock and I jerked myself to sleep.
We always seemed to be bumping into each other after that, and eventually started to hang out; I'm too shy to have many friends at school, and rarely express myself other than when I'm swimming. I don't have the easy way the other guys have with girls, and am too inhibited to make friends with the guys I've fantasized over. . . but with Kazza, it was as if we were made for each other, it was all so easy to sit and talk about everything and anything.
We discovered neither of us had ever known our mothers, and that our fathers were distant -- Kazza's because of 'affairs of state;' mine because he works the night shift as a security guard at a factory, and only comes home to sleep in the day; I hardly ever see him.
Kazza, I learned, was a year older than me -- 18 to my 17 -- and was stuck here for a few months 'on family business;' I realized he needed a friend, and in his reflected friendship, I realized I needed a friend too. He said he was insecure about his English, and even made me spend a whole day trying to understand him only in French. It was hopeless, but I was happy -- I'd do anything for Kazza
So we hung out, and I learned to laugh and I learned to like myself more as I came to like him more.
Then I won through to the finals of the state swimming meet, and Kazza came to support me; no one ever came to support me before. He filmed the whole thing on his video camera, and his presence there was enough to drive me to do better than ever before. As I stood on the winner's podium, I sought him out in the stands, his video camera trained upon me, and when I waved, holding up the gold medal, he waved back.
But the next day, when we met at Starbucks as promised, I ruined it, like I ruin everything good that's ever happened to me. I was so happy, so looking forward to seeing more of him through the summer vacation, that I let my hand fall onto his leg as we talked, and, as my fingers started to creep along his muscular thigh, I looked into his handsome face, smiling and hoping. . .
But his expression changed, and he firmly removed my hand from his jeans and shook his head.
"In my family," he said, "we only make love with our wife. We are not like you. Before we marry, we do not make love. After we marry, we make love only with our wife. You may not touch me there."
I ran from the cafe, and ran and ran, and when eventually I got home I threw myself on my bed and wept. I ruin everything I touch, I thought, and now I'll never see him again. But even so, I know he wants me; I've always known. In all the months since I felt him pressing against me in the bus, he's always been hard. There's always a bulge in his jeans, always straining; I know he wants me.
Since then, I've cried myself to sleep most nights, alone in the empty apartment, my father working, not knowing me.
I answer the phone. "Kazza?"
"Ritchie? Ritchie, where are you? I need to ask of you a favor. . . "
"I'm down in the mall. . . Kazza? Look, I'm sorry. . . "
"Hey, Ritchie, you shouldn't have run away. We must talk. But now I really need to ask of you a favor. Can you come to the Cathedral?"
"The Cathedral? I can be there in a few minutes. But Kazza, I just want to say how sorry. . . "
"Don't worry, Ritchie; it's all my responsibility. You'll come here, now? Please come, quickly."
The line goes dead, and my heart leaps. Maybe, maybe, I can make it up with Kazza after all. I know I can't have that. . . the secret desire I lock in my heart. . . but I can still be his friend.
I run toward the Cathedral. If he needs a favor, I'll always be there.
He's waiting at the bottom of the Cathedral steps as I run around the corner toward him.
"Ritchie! You came." His arm falls on my shoulder and squeezes me. "I knew you'd come."
"Kazza? Look, the other day. . . "
"All forgotten, my friend; Ritchie, my only friend. . . I need to ask of you a favor. . . "
"Kazza, just say the word! That's what friends are for, right?" I look up into his face -- he's a lot taller than me, but then so are most guys my age.
"I have a problem, Ritchie, and you're the only person I know here, know well enough to ask." He smiles, a bit tentatively, as he starts to lead me up the steps of the Cathedral, his arm around my shoulder. I'm acutely aware, as always, of the bulge in his jeans, and as always, feel myself responding.
"I think I told you I was here on family business? Well, one of my brothers is to be married, and I've been making the arrangements. The wedding is to take place here, this Cathedral." He smiles down at me. "Do you remember? It was when I first came here that I met you, Ritchie. . . " His voice trails off, and I feel my heart lunge; he remembers.
"Usually," he continues, "before a wedding, there's a. . . I think you say, 'wedding rehearsal'?"
I've never thought about it before, but I suppose even weddings need a rehearsal. "Like, practicing where everyone has to stand and what to say and stuff?" I suggest.
"Yes! It's all been planned, everything ready, and the reception on Saturday and everything," he beams that glorious smile. "But there is no bride!"
"The bride isn't here?"
"So we must go ahead, but we need someone, please Ritchie, we need someone to be the bride. Ritchie; I've spent all my time with you, I don't know anyone else I can ask. . . "
"You want me to go in there as if I was your brother's bride?"
He nods. "I can't do it as I am the best man. So please, Ritchie, help me here. I came to this country to arrange a wedding, and now it seems I can't even arrange this."
"Kazza! I'd do anything for you! You know that! Just tell me what to do. . . "
"I knew I could rely on you, Ritchie." He looks seriously into my eyes. "You'll be my brother's bride?"
"Of course, Kazza. Whatever you want."
At the big doors of the Cathedral, a flustered priest is wringing his hands.
"What are we to do?" he gasps. "The Cathedral is booked again from three o'clock! Is there no sign of the bride?"
Kazza produces his most stunning smile. "Don't worry, Father. My friend here will be the bride, and we can continue."
The priest looks at me doubtfully. "It's most out of the ordinary. . . "
"Don't worry, Father. Ritchie really wants to do this."
The priest draws me to one side. "Are you sure about this?"
"It's fine, sir. I'll do what's needed. Just lead the way," I answer.
"It's all so strange," the priest mutters. "I've never had instructions like this from the Bishop. I really don't know. . . " But he sighs and leads me inside the Cathedral.
It's very dark in there; I can hardly see a thing.
"Because it's so unorthodox," the priest states, "I'll need you to sign this before we proceed." He points to a huge book.
Kazza steps over to look at it.
"It's OK, Ritchie," he tells me. "They need to know who was present, that's all; just some bureaucracy, nothing to trouble us," he concludes, and puts a pen in my hand. I feel the weight concealed in his jeans pressing into my back as he pulls me in front of him.
I can scarcely see the book, but the priest shows me where to sign, and then rushes off to get into position.
"You sure you want to do this?" Kazza asks, as we look into the darkened building, and I feel that swelling as he leans over me.
"I'm happy just to be with you," I tell him.
"Right! Me too, Ritchie! This can be fun for us." He moves next to me and takes my arm. "First, as there's no one to give the bride away, I'll play that part too. We shall walk down the aisle, with you on my arm." He gives me a conspiratorial look. "Who'd have thought you and I would end up walking down the aisle together. . . "
Suddenly, I'm back in Starbucks, experiencing his rejection of me, a hundred times more painfully.
"But, I think we both can dream, can't we?" he smiles, and all the hurts of the last few days are wiped away like a summer's shower.
"Lead me down the aisle, Kazza," I smile. "You're the best; you really are."
As we enter the nave of the Cathedral, an organ starts swirling the bridal march. I can see, somewhere in the gloomy interior, the priest standing at the alter-rail, and a rather lonely-looking black guy, dressed in jeans and a white tee, waiting there, anxiously looking over his shoulder. There's also a couple of older guys, obviously from Kazza's country, hovering around with video cameras.
"Slow down, Ritchie," Kazza whispers. "This is one of the reasons people need to rehearse; you're walking much too fast. Imagine yourself in a white gown with a long white veil and bridesmaids and stuff. Walk slowly."
So, slowly, Kazza and I walk down the aisle, my arm resting on his, my white hand in his strong black hand, the heat of his body engulfing me.
"Couldn't the guys with the cameras have done this?" I whisper -- I don't know why I'm whispering, really.
"They have to find the best angles; the video of the wedding is terribly important for everyone from my country who can't be here," he whispers back.
As we approach the alter-rail, I get my first look at the groom-to-be. "He's so young," I gasp.
"My little brother," Kazza states.
"But he's only like 14 or 15 isn't he?" I whisper.
"Actually," Kazza whispers back, "he hasn't turned 14 yet, but he's big for his age. That's what the priest was going on about, it's so unorthodox and everything. But in my family, when a boy, you know, reaches puberty, a marriage is arranged for him. It's like a law for us. But you needn't worry about that." Again, I feel Kazza's hand on my own, and the warmth emanating from him. "You see, because he's so young, he's going to be nervous about the wedding. . . saying all the right words and everything. That's why I need your help so badly."
"I understand, Kazza. I'll do what I can to help you."
"Thanks, Ritchie, I knew I could count on you. Help Issa as much as you can; he'll be so nervous."
Eventually, we are at the alter-rail; Kazza is on one side of me and the groom-to-be on the other, and the priest in front of us starts the order of service as the guys with video cameras walk around filming, working out the best camera positions.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today. . . "
I kinda blank out the priest's words and glance at Kazza's brother.
He's got his brother's looks, although he's still half a child; and although I can see he'll be as tall as Kazza one day he's only about my height now. Like Kazza, he's very black -- a deep, rich blackness, glowing with strength. His hair is very short, tightly curled. He's slim and gangly, his arms and legs way too long, like a colt.
He's evidently really hyper; I suddenly realize the poor kid must be acutely embarrassed. Here he is, only 13, forced by the customs of his country to face an arranged marriage, and standing next to him at the alter-rail, instead of his bride-to-be, is some white guy he's never seen before. My goodness, he must be burning up in embarrassment.
Every time I glance at him he's looking at me, and I realize that the poor kid is desperately horny, like he hasn't gotten off in weeks. He can hardly keep his hands off his jeans, and the swelling down there is painfully obvious, painfully painful. Poor kid; he's gotta wait till Saturday, I guess, but there's no way he's gonna get there; this kid needs to jack off, like now.
Kazza nudges me in the ribs, bringing me back to the priest's words.
"Again," the priest sighs. "Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Kazza points to the card in front of us, with the order-of-service printed out, and nods for me to play my part.
"I do," I answer.
When it's his turn, the kid next to me also says, "I do," but his words are so stifled in embarrassment the priest makes him do it again before he gets it clear enough.
The priest is looking at me.
"Repeat after me: I. . . " He glances at Kazza. "Sorry, I didn't get the name. . . "
Kazza responds immediately. "Richard Frederick Davies."
The priest continues. "Repeat after me: I, Richard Frederick Davies. . . "
"I, Richard Frederick Davies, take this man, to live as his wife in the holy estate of matrimony; I vow to submit to him, serve him, love, honor, and obey him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep myself only unto him, so long as we both shall live."
How did Kazza know my middle name, I wonder, as the priest gets the boy standing next to me to repeat his lines. No one knows my middle name. . .
The priest looks at Kazza. "The ring?"
Kazza pulls a ring out of the pocket of his jeans; he's so hard, inside that denim. . .
The priest blesses it, and then tells Kazza's brother to place the ring on my finger. The poor kid drops it, and I feel his embarrassment burn again. We both fall to our knees to look for it, and we reach for it at the same moment. I feel a surge of electricity as our fingers touch. Standing, I put the ring on the palm of his hand. Poor kid, this must be the most embarrassing experience of his life.
The priest turns to him and continues. "Repeat after me: With this ring, I thee wed. With my body, I thee endow. . . "
I feel the trembling fingers of the boy, taking my left hand, trying to fit the ring onto my finger. "Don't worry," I whisper to him, "It'll be over soon." He looks at me, and smiles eagerly. "Soon?"
"I now pronounce you man and wife," the priest intones, and I see he too feels the absurdity.
"You may now kiss the bride."
The boy leans over and places a chaste kiss on my cheek.
"Oh, come on, Issa!" Kazza whispers. "Can't you do better than that? Your bride, standing next to you, married to you. . . Show a little passion!"
And suddenly I feel a surprisingly powerful hand on my neck, forcing me down, pulling me to him; and then his lips are touching mine and his tongue is touching me; and although I've never been held in an embrace like this before, it seems my lips just respond automatically, letting his tongue into my mouth while my own waves and wavers against it. . . I grab his shoulders to keep my balance.
"If you guys can take a break," Kazza eventually interrupts, laughing, "you next have to process down the aisle. . . "
The boy finally releases me and I feel again the overwhelming intensity of his need. This kid won't make it to Saturday.
"You take your bride's hand," Kazza tells his brother. "Place your arm under the bride's, and put your other hand on the bride's hand."
The boy tries to follow the instructions, and eventually we start marching down the aisle. "Slow down, slow down," Kazza hisses. "Of course you guys need to be in bed like yesterday, but you gotta walk slowly; let everyone watching see how much you love each other."
The boy slows his pace, and we walk down the aisle, the video guys catching every moment. I feel I should make conversation, somehow make this kid feel at ease. "Your name is Issa?" I ask. "I'm Ritchie." I realize only Kazza has ever called me that, but it seems the best I can offer.
The kid looks at me. "You're my wife," he says, and there's a look of hunger and desire and ownership.
I realize it'll take a while for him to get his head sorted out -- he's pulsing with sexual energy and just has to jack off; by Saturday, when his real wedding happens, he should be sorted out.
As we step outside the Cathedral, I notice it's started raining.
As always, Kazza is in control. "The limo is waiting down there," he points to the bottom of the Cathedral steps. "Imagine it's a beautiful day and there's a crowd of people taking photos." He looks at his brother. "Take your bride down the steps; be careful not to slip."
The boy's lean black fingers have a tight grip on my arm, and although we're getting soaked in the rain, he walks slowly and carefully down the steps.
Someone throws confetti over us, and it sticks to our clothes in the rain.
Kazza is holding open the door of the limo. "Let the bride climb in first," he orders. "Now go round to the other side and get in."
Then Kazza climbs in too, and the limo sets off.
"It's not far; we have the bridal suite at the hotel." He smiles at us. "But these things are planned so the other cars would get there first, with the guests and the camera guys and everything, and although today it's just us, we still have to take a long route round. Gives you two a chance to get to know each other."
I look at the boy sitting next to me. The rain has soaked his clothes, and you can see the outlines of his body clearly; he'll be as muscular as his brother one day, although at the moment he has all the angularity you'd expect of a nervous 13-year-old. Still his body quivers; the huge bulge in his jeans made more prominent by the rain. Big bulges must run in the family, I suppose. I absent-mindedly pick some confetti off his jeans.
"I've booked the suite for the whole week, so you can stay there until the reception on Saturday," Kazza tells us. "By then you guys will be so used to married life you'll have forgotten what all these nerves were about." He smiles warmly.
"Kazza," I say, "I think you're taking this a bit too far. . . " but suddenly the boy puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me toward him. Again I feel his lips coming close to mine, but I break free and look at him. "Back off, kid; get a grip."
He looks questioningly at Kazza, who just nods at him, encouraging him, and again he comes to kiss me, this time holding my head too firmly for me to break away.
I struggle against the embrace, but as the limo rounds a corner I lose my balance and slip down along the seat, and the boy is on top of me, his body pressing me down and pinning me in place as he kisses me.
Eventually the limo halts and Kazza tells his brother to stop.
"What the fuck are you playing at?" I shout at the boy.
He looks so hurt. "But you're my wife," he murmurs.
I round on Kazza, angry with him for the first time since we met, but he holds up a finger to stop me from shouting at him. "Let's get inside; there's some champagne waiting for us, and we can sort it all out. But please, both of you, don't make a scene in the hotel foyer. There are so many people around."
He jumps out of the car and takes my arm to help me out, holding firmly while his brother climbs out too. What a sight we must make -- the confetti sticking to our wet clothes, sticking in the boy's hair, and mine too, I suppose. People are staring at us.
"Quickly," says Kazza, his hand still holding me firmly. "Just come with me."
He leads us across the lobby and into a plush elevator -- thankfully we're alone in it -- and pushes the button for the top floor.
I knock some of the confetti off my clothes, seething with anger now.
Kazza leads us to a door marked "Bridal Suite," and pushes us inside.
The room is luxurious, with sofas and tables covered in starched white cloths, and there's a bottle of champagne in a cooler on one of the tables, with three glasses.
The boy sits heavily on one of the sofas and starts fumbling to untie the laces of his shoes.
"Will you tell me what's going on?" I demand, as Kazza expertly pops the cork and pours three glasses.
"It's quite obvious really," he smiles. "You and my brother just got married. Now we're going to drink a toast to the bride and groom, and then you're going in there to start your new life together." He points to some double doors leading into another room, and I can see in the subdued light a huge four-poster bed.
He gives a champagne flute to his brother, who has taken off his shoes and socks and is unbuckling the belt of his denims, and then gives one to me.
"Stand up, Issa." The boy comes next to me. Kazza raises his glass: "To the bride and groom," he declares.
Neither of us responds, so Kazza just repeats, "To the bride and groom." This time, the boy clinks his glass against mine. He takes a long sip, puts the glass back on the table, and pulls off his soaking tee.
"Kazza," I begin. "This joke has gone far enough. It's not funny anymore."
"Ritchie, it isn't a joke. When did anyone say it was a joke? Sit down, have a drink, relax."
I just stand there, but he firmly pushes me to sit next to his brother on the sofa and stands in front of us.
"What the fuck are you playing at?" I demand, angrily. "Is this your way at getting back at me for what happened last week?"
Kazza looks angry too.
"Ritchie, whether you realize it or not, you just got married."
"Of course I didn't!" I snap.
"Well, we can check the video later, if you're in any doubt; but you made your wedding vows, you swore in the Cathedral to be my brother's wife; you signed the register in the sight of the priest; you're wearing my brother's wedding ring. To me, it's quite clear that you are my brother's wife."
The boy reaches over me and roughly pulls off my sneakers.
"But, I don't want to be the wife of a 13-year-old boy! I don't want to marry him!"
"But you did marry him. . . It's not about want or don't want, it's about the legal facts."
"Will you stop it," I snap at the kid, who's trying to unbutton my shirt. He looks offended. "You're my wife," he states flatly.
I try to rise, but Kazza pushes me back down. "Think about it, Ritchie. I asked you to go into the Cathedral and be my brother's bride. You said you'd do it, quite enthusiastically in fact. You said the vows. You're wearing his ring. Accept the facts."
"This is crazy. I don't want to be someone's wife. I can't be someone's wife. It's crazy," I shout.
Kazza looks at me. "Wouldn't you have wanted to be my wife?" he asks softly.
I hesitate just too long as I realize what he said.
"So, you can't be mine, because I am married already and can only make love with my own wife. But I have arranged for you to be my brother's wife, instead. I know you will be happy," he smiles. "I can see that he is."
The boy seems to decide it's time for him to resolve this, as he suddenly takes me by the chin and starts kissing me again, half climbing on top of me to stop my struggles, holding my head firmly. I try to seal my lips against him, but he prizes them open and starts embracing me hungrily.
As I struggle against him, I feel the warmth of his lean body on mine, and the urgent hardness of his groin as it grinds into mine.
No one ever kissed me before; my shyness and awkwardness around girls, and my secret, unexpressed longing for guys, have prevented that. I realize the kiss is wonderful, that despite everything my mouth is responding to the boy's urgent attentions. My hand falls on his bare back, and I feel the warmth and that electric tension within him.
By the time he releases me, my shirt is lying on the floor next to his and my jeans are unbuttoned and open.
"Now," Kazza announces. "It is time for you to move next door. I shall come back tomorrow, when the marriage is consummated."
I know I should fight now; the boy and I are the same size, I reckon I could make a go of it, but Kazza is much stronger, and against the two of them I'd have no hope.
The boy grabs my hand and starts to pull me to my feet, but Kazza stops him. "Come now. You expect your bride to walk?"
The boy smiles nervously. "Sorry, brother, I was forgetting."
He pushes one arm under my knees and the other under my shoulders, and manages to pick me up. I'm not tall, and although I have a muscled body from the swimming, I'm not heavy. Even so, it's quite an effort for him to lift me, and he sways a bit.
"That's right," Kazza croons. "The groom carries his bride over the threshold."
The boy makes it as far as the bed but basically drops me there, panting, and then he grabs the legs of my jeans and pulls them off. I squirm on the bed a little, trying to move away, but he places a hand on my chest to steady me. I hear Kazza close the double doors, and I think I hear a key in the lock.
In the subdued light, I look up at the boy standing there, as he deliberately unbuttons his denims.
"Oh my God!" I gasp, as the jeans fall to his ankles, and I see him naked. "Oh my God!"
During those long, lonely evenings at home, with my father out at work, I've of course surfed some of the sites on the net, I've seen photos and videos, I've visited sites dedicated to hung black hunks and studs, and I've carried those memories in my mind as I jerk myself to sleep.
But nothing I've seen could prepare me for the sight in front of me now.
Maybe it's because he's just 13, with his long lanky limbs and slim undeveloped chest, but he seems unbelievably huge. I know enough to see he's cut, and the broad head looks immense. But it's the shaft that is so scary -- no long thin pole here, just a steadily thickening, menacing stake of hard shiny black muscle that widens all the way to the base. There's no hair on his body, and only a small patch around the base of his shaft -- it's surreal to think he's scarcely more than a child, but that thing towering up there, beyond his navel -- it must be twice the length of mine, and at the base is at least as thick as my wrist.
I squirm over the bed trying to get away, but he catches me by my briefs and pulls me back to him. He's drooling in need, but remembers to look for the jar of grease waiting in readiness next to the bed. He still holds me firm with one hand as he coats himself thickly with grease, and then he rips my briefs from me and jumps between my legs.
"No!" I moan. "It's not possible. I can't do this! I don't want to do this!"
But he leans over me and kisses me, and I feel the weight of that shaft resting on me.
Then, purposefully, he grabs my legs and forces them apart. He maneuvers the head against my hole, and tries to push forward.
I've read enough stories on the internet to know he's meant to loosen me with his fingers or something, but he doesn't seem to care about that. When it doesn't at first go in, he grabs it and aims it, and pushes again.
By now I'm screaming in panic, desperately calling for Kazza to come and stop this. Obviously the boy can't get that thing inside me, but he can cause permanent damage in the effort.
But Kazza doesn't come to save me, and suddenly the head has found the entrance and is pressing in. "Nooooooo!" I scream, but the boy just glances up at me from his concentration, and grins. He looks so young.
Then he pushes again.
I try to squirm away, but he's got the head inside me now and uses one hand to pin me back on the covers, while his other hand grabs my knee and forces my leg to move and give him access. All the stories I read talked about stopping to let me accommodate the size, but he doesn't. He just goes on pushing, slowly, steadily, and that immense muscle begins to disappear inside as I watch incredulously. He doesn't pull out or move back and forward -- evidently he's going to try to get the whole thing inside. But it's not possible -- the way it continues to thicken all down its length -- there's no way he can get it in.
It seems to take an hour of slow steady pressure, and by the time I feel his wiry hair pressing against me I no longer have the strength to scream and shout, although my tears are incessant. This is agony.
Once he's inside me, he stops for a moment and leans forward to kiss my tear-stained face. And then he starts up, withdrawing a little and then pushing back in, slowly withdrawing more and more each time before driving it forward again. Now the pain is incessant and unadulterated, as he finally works himself into a full-paced fucking.
It seems to go on and on, and in addition to the pain in my ass my legs are in agony as he forces them wide open. He's totally immersed in his movement, staring hard at his cock as it moves in and out of me.
And then I feel him becoming more tense -- his thrusts lose their rhythm and become wild and uncontrollable, and then he lets out a great bellow and falls on top of me, his cock still quivering and pulsing inside of me.
Eventually he releases my legs, and as they fall to the bed a few inches slip out of me, but there are many more still planted inside, and there's no sign of it softening. I feel one of his fingers stroking my face, pushing the tears away, and then he whispers.
"So that's what it's like! They told me it was wonderful, but made me wait until today. It's better than I even imagined."
I'm too exhausted and traumatized to be angry with him. "So, that was your first fuck?"
He raises himself slightly to look at me, annoyed. "My first time to make love; my first time to, to, you know. . . "
"You've never cum before!" I gasp. "Never jerked off?"
"We don't make love before we marry," he states simply, and he wipes a tear from my cheek. "But now I'm married, I can make love whenever I want."
Well, that explains some of that nervous energy, I suppose.
He raises himself off me a little and feels my chest, soaked in sweat. "And you, did you make love too?" he asks. "Kazza says the wife enjoys it as much as the husband. . . It didn't happen?"
"No, Issa, it hurt too much."
"Then we must try again," he states, and one of his hands reaches down to grasp my knee and pull it up.
"No, Issa, no! Not again, please."
He looks determined. "Kazza said the wife would enjoy it too. Maybe I finished too quickly? This time, I will last longer, I promise."
He's true to his word, and lasts a lot, lot longer. There's sweat pouring down his body, a look of fierce determination in his eyes, but he won't stop. I reach down to touch myself; maybe if I can jerk myself to climax he'll be satisfied -- but he slaps my hand away. "Mustn't touch. It's not good to touch. Husband and wife make love until both are satisfied," he gasps, and gets going again.
It's no use -- I'm in too much pain. He can't hold off forever and shudders and whimpers as he cums, but all I feel is agony.
He looks cross, frustrated, angry. "The wife must enjoy it too!" he states, and suddenly he looks like a petulant little boy who can't get his new toy to do what he wants. I see his brow furrow and his lip tremble. "The wife must enjoy it too!"
Then he clearly remembers something he's been told, and he pulls his still erect cock out of me.
At last I'm free of that intense pain. I hate to think how much I must be bleeding down there, but at last it's over.
But it isn't over. He rolls me onto my chest, grabs my hips and pulls me up toward him, immediately entering me again. "No! Issa! No! Stop it, please!" I moan, but he grabs my shoulders and pulls me up onto my hands and knees, and then starts to push inside once more. "The wife must enjoy it too!" he gasps, like a maniac, and starts fucking me furiously again.
There's no strength in my body now; my arms give way and my head slumps forward. But he grabs a handful of my hair and pulls me back up. Evidently, he's been told to do it on all fours, and that is the way it shall be.
I thought the first time took hours, and the second even longer, but this is now getting ridiculous. I realize he can probably keep going all night, seeing as he's never even jerked off before, but I start to worry if this is going to kill me.
He keeps a painful grip on my hair, and now the pain there matches the pain at my back as he continues to fuck. I hear him gasping for breath, feel his sweat on my back; but my cock won't respond to my silent prayer. I hurt too much to cum; it's impossible.
I see our reflection in a full-length mirror on the wall. His body is so thin, just a child; his legs too long for his body, his arms with just the hint of muscle as he grabs my hair. He has high, round buttocks, and sweat swirls down his back towards them, as they piston back and forth in cruel determination.
After his third orgasm -- the third of his life -- he slumps over me, and then pulls me over so we're lying alongside each other, still joined together by that insatiable, enormous cock.
I realize he's crying; he wants so much to do what he's been told, but he can't.
I twist round a little so my face is near his, raise one hand and stroke a tear away. "Don't cry! It's not your fault! You tried as hard as you can! Don't cry!" But still he cries, just a little boy now, with a broken toy that won't do what he wants.
I lick a tear from his cheek, and he cries all the more. If only I can soothe him enough to let me go, maybe I can escape; but how can I soothe him?
My tongue licks again at his tears, and slowly moves toward his lips. We embrace deeply and slowly; none of that animal urgency he showed before, in the Cathedral, in the limo; just a tender, loving kiss, trying to soothe away his hurt.
His hand strokes along my side and touches my breast. His fingers explore my body, twisting and tweaking at my nipple, and my kiss becomes more erratic and passionate. He raises himself to watch this effect as he tweaks at my nipple again, and then once more we kiss.
"So that's how to make the wife enjoy it too," he murmurs.
I'm rolled onto my back again, my ankles on his shoulders as he thrusts deep inside me. His fingers play with my body as his tongue explores my mouth. "This time will last forever," he promises me proudly, "and you will enjoy making love with your husband."
It seems like many hours pass before his words come true -- the morning sun is sneaking through a gap in the drapes before my dick explodes and my cum coats us both, and shortly after, he too groans in protracted joy, and falls heavily upon me. In moments, he is asleep, still proudly impaled within me, and I too surrender to sleep underneath him.