The Arranged Marriage
by rw4uij
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.
Please send feedback to rw4uij@excite.com
The Arranged Marriage
Part 2 of 3
"Rise and shine, sleepy heads!"
Kazza's voice wakes me, and for a moment I don't know where I am, and then I feel the size of the boy inside me and feel his weight, still sleeping heavily on top of me.
"Come on, come on! You can't live on love alone, you have to eat."
The boy stirs and raises himself, sees his brother, and then looks at me in contentment.
"You little love birds need to take a bath," Kazza orders. "They'll send someone in to change the bedding, and I'll have room service bring us a meal. It's late afternoon already! Plenty of time for you to make love later; but you need to get clean and eat now."
He bustles around a bit more, and I realize he's taken my jeans with him when he leaves.
The boy, Issa, leans over me on his elbows. I feel his dick stirring inside me -- it's been in there for nearly 24 hours. He gives me a formal little kiss on the nose. "I shall carry you into the bathroom," he announces. "It'll make a mess, when I take it out of you. . . "
I help him carry me, clinging tightly to his shoulders, and when we're in the bathroom he lifts me from him and seats me on the toilet. As he turns to close the door and run the bath, I feel a great pressure in my bowels and then I'm farting his cum out of me furiously. He turns and smirks at me, but I'm too embarrassed to meet his eye.
As the bath fills, he says we will have a shower first, to clean up 'down there.' I guess he's pretty dirty too. "Kazza says you should clean yourself out before we make love," he states. "We didn't have time yesterday, but you must remember to prepare yourself in the future."
He pulls me up from the toilet and walks me into the shower. "You need to clean me, first," he says, handing me a bar of soap, and looking down at his cock. I'm so traumatized I just automatically obey, cleaning away the dirt that stuck to him while he was buried inside me.
"Now do your hole," he says, while he steps into the bath, "and then join me here."
When I climb into the hot water, he has me sit down facing him, my legs around his waist and his around mine. His cock sticks proudly up between us. He takes a sponge and rinses my face; "so many tears," he sighs, happily. Then he places a bar of soap in my hands and leans back contentedly, his hands behind his neck, waiting for me to get to work.
I feel my tears starting again, but he just smiles. "Come on, I'm hungry; get started."
I lather up and wash him. There's no hair on his body or arms, just a little in his armpits. His chest is thin; I can feel all his ribs, although there's a touch of puppy fat around his breasts. He lies back patiently as I work down him, until I come to his little spattering of wiry hair and feel the base of that huge cock. He nods happily, and I clean him all over. His balls are huge, I realize.
Then he sits up, leans his arms over my shoulders, and gives me access to his back, rising up slightly so I can do his buttocks and asscrack. I'm crying quite fiercely by this time; why am I doing this? But when I'm done, he takes the soap and does the same to me, although he doesn't touch my cock or balls, handing me the soap to do that.
Then he takes me back to the shower to rinse off, and this time he squirts shampoo into his hands and starts to lather my hair.
When he finally turns off the water, he stands there examining me for a while. He raises my arms, looks at my armpits, and announces, "You will shave, here," and then he runs his hands over my arms, "and here," and my asscrack, "and here, and there," he points to my legs. "And your balls; but just cut the hair above; about half-an-inch is good. You will do it after we've eaten, while you're preparing for tonight."
Then he hands me a towel and stands there holding his arms out from his sides, and waits for me to dry him. When I'm finished, he walks silently back into the bedroom, his black buttocks pert and high and round.
I clasp the towel to my face, sit on the floor, and weep.
Eventually he comes to get me. He takes me to a bureau in the bedroom and sits me down on a stool in front of the mirror, placing a hair-drier in my hand.
As I dry my hair, I see him in the mirror moving around the room, opening draws, investigating; like any young kid surrounded by luxury, he wants to see everything. He comes over to stand behind me, grabbing a comb, and starts playing with my hair, trying it in different styles until he finds something he likes. I can see he enjoys stroking it -- it's shoulder-length and very blonde.
As he stands behind me while I sit before the mirror, his cock swings menacingly by my head. In the cold light of day, it looks even bigger to me. I cannot believe he got that inside me.
Then he finds his jeans and pulls them on, before holding out to me something small and white he found in one of the bureaus. It's a skimpy speedo -- several sizes too small, it turns out -- that displays my every contour. Satisfied, he places his arm over my shoulder. "Time to eat!" he states, opening the double doors into the other room.
Kazza is there, standing by a table that's laden with dishes and platters covered with metal lids. "Ah! The newly-weds," he breathes as we walk into the room. "Yes! So happy," he pronounces, as if he can't see the tears on my cheeks.
He shows us to our seats and starts to carve from an immense leg of beef. "Well, Issa? How was it?"
His kid brother starts talking in French, and I know enough to understand he's giving Kazza a complete, blow-by-blow account of the entire night. As he listens, Kazza loads a plate full of meat and vegetables, and places it in front of his brother. "Eat well," he says. "Evidently your wife will tire you out at this pace." He loads another huge plate for himself, listening all the while. "Four times before your wife enjoyed it?" he grins. "You see how much energy you will need every night. Eat!" Then he looks at me and pushes one of the platters in front of me, pulling off the metal lid to reveal a small helping of fish on a bed of rice. "Bon appetit!"
The brothers continue to discuss Issa's sexual exploits in French as they tuck into their meal, while I just sit there in silence.
Kazza looks at me. "Eat up, Ritchie, you need your strength too, you know."
"Can I have some of that?" I ask, pointing at the meat.
"No! Red meat makes your sweat smell; not very lady-like. I ordered fish especially for you. Anyway, you must think of your figure now, got to keep attractive for your husband."
Something cracks inside me. "I don't want to be married," I scream. "I don't want a husband. I don't want to be lady-like. I don't want to be some 13-year-old's fuck-toy. I don't want to be his wife!"
"Oh, Ritchie!" sighs Kazza. "I thought we cleared all this up yesterday! You're married now; that's the way it is. I gave you to my brother because I know you will be happy together. Now eat up!"
"I'm not yours to give away!" I snap.
"Really?" he sneers. "Are you sure?"
Issa looks distressed. "Doesn't the bride love me?" he gasps. "I made love really well! I made it last for ever and ever; I made the bride enjoy it!" It looks like he's on the verge of tears, as he turns on Kazza. "You said my bride would love me! You promised me!"
"Oh! Look what you've done now!" Kazza barks at me crossly. "Do you ever think of other people's feelings?"
He goes round the table to put his arms around his brother. "Of course your wife will love you! I think your wife already loves you, in fact. But they do things differently in this country; it's all a shock for Ritchie. It's not your fault. Of course your wife loves you; just give it time. I promise, by the time your honeymoon is finished, Ritchie will adore you as much as you adore Ritchie."
The boy seems to calm down a bit. "You've only had one night of love together," Kazza continues. "But you've got all week; by the time of the reception, I swear Ritchie will do all the things he vowed in the Cathedral yesterday; love, honor, and obey you, submit to you and serve you, everything in the oath. I promise you."
The boy looks mollified. "Now finish your meal. If you don't keep yourself strong, how will you have the energy to make love to your wife? And the more you make love to your wife, the more your wife will love you."
He glances over to me. "You too; eat up, and don't cause any more problems."
The meal continues in silence, and I realize how terribly hungry I am and soon tuck in greedily.
"Now, Issa," Kazza says. "I'm going to take Ritchie into the bathroom and show him how to get shaved and prepared. But you need to do some homework, so take your books over to that table."
"Homework! But it's my honeymoon!" the boy wails.
"Just for an hour," Kazza says strictly. "And when we're done, you can watch your favorite video -- you'd like to watch it with your wife, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, I suppose. . . "
"OK. So you do some homework and I'll get your wife tidied up, and then we'll watch the video together before you go to bed. OK?"
Kazza takes my arm and leads me through the bedroom into the bathroom. "You really need to use lip-salve, you know, if you're going to kiss all night! You're all raw.
"Now, get those speedos off and I'll find a razor," he tells me, but I just stand there in shock. "Come on Ritchie, this isn't like you. What's up?"
Suddenly all the trauma and the pain overwhelms me. "He fucked me! He fucked me all night." I look up at Kazza. "It hurt; he's too big; it hurt me. And he treated me like dirt afterwards, making me wash him and dry him and giving me orders. He hasn't said a word to me apart from that. Oh Kazza, get me out of here, please!"
"Ritchie! You wanted to be fucked! Think of last week in Starbucks! You were practically begging me to."
"But I love you, Kazza. I love you, and I like you. . . but he's not you! He's only 13; I don't want to be fucked by a little boy. . . "
Kazza looks exasperated. "Ritchie! If you think a little boy is too big and it's painful when he makes love to you, just imagine what it'd be like if I did! Look, you promised to do this for me, and you promised to help him. Now, get those speedos off and let's get you shaved."
"I want to leave here, Kazza. I want to go home. I want to go now!"
"Your home is by your husband's side. You are home." He smiles that smile. "You don't understand anything yet, Ritchie. Give it time."
Kazza turns on the shower and finds some shaving foam in a closet. "Come on! In you get! And Ritchie, you'll understand a lot more after you've seen Issa's video."
By the time Kazza leads me back into the main room of the suite, I've stopped crying. Kazza kept insisting that of course Issa wouldn't want his wife to have hair in places he doesn't, and that me being shaved like this will make me more attractive to him so he will want to make love to me even more. I can't say the prospect appeals to me too much.
The process of getting myself prepared and cleaned inside was degrading, but Kazza was there to help me through it, making sure I remember how to do it every evening.
Issa runs his fingers over my body happily. "Much better, now," he giggles, and his hand strokes my buttocks through the thin fabric of the speedos.
"OK, love birds," Kazza says. "Time for the video."
He turns the lights down as Issa leads me to a sofa in front of a huge wall-mounted TV screen. He unbuttons the flies of his jeans before he sits down, pulling me close under his arm, and kisses me, eagerly.
"This is Issa's favorite video," Kazza announces in a low voice. "You watch it every night, don't you Issa?"
The first images flicker across the screen. I realize it's the street outside my school! And then there am I, walking toward the camera, carrying my books. It must be morning, there are loads of other guys heading toward the school, but the camera stays just on me, focusing on the way I walk, the way my trousers move, and then panning up to my face.
"What is this?" I gasp, but Issa shushes me and cuddles me closer.
Then there's a long montage of shots -- me eating a hamburger in the mall, me walking down the street to my home, my shadow against the wall as I undress...
Issa takes my hand, and pushes it between his legs, moving the material of his jeans aside. He spreads his legs wider in anticipation.
The images on the TV screen change. Next I'm in a park, playing soccer, stripped to the waist. The camera lingers on my legs as I run, and pans up my chest.
Issa nudges my wrist. . . He wants me to jerk him while he watches!
Now, I'm at a swimming meet; the camera runs down the line of competitors, waiting on our blocks, and focuses on me again, on my speedos, then panning out to show my torso and my chest as I raise my arms ready to dive. The camera follows me through the pool, as my butt surfaces and my arms swirl. I'm moving toward the camera, and the screen is filled with a close-up of my butt. You can see the top of my crack -- the speedos are too small.
Issa moves my hand again, onto the shaft of his cock, and makes me grip his girth. He steers my hand until it starts moving; and presses my head down onto his chest while he watches the video of me in the pool.
On the screen, I'm climbing out of the pool, the water running off me as my speedos sag, and then I turn to look at my time and my arms raise in triumph. I pull off my goggles and then my swimming cap, my blond hair hanging damply around my neck; and I see the happiness on my face, the broad smile, my teeth shining and my eyes in glee.
Issa prods my wrist, encouraging me to move faster.
Then it's the podium, and there I am, receiving my medal; the camera moves up my body, slowly, from my feet and legs, lingering long on my crutch, moving up my chest, to my happy face as I hold my medal.
The video ends.
"Issa likes to watch it over and over, don't you Issa?" Kazza croons gently from behind us. "Do you want to watch it again, Issa?"
"Yes please, Kazza, please!"
"He's never been able to pleasure himself when he watched it before, have you Issa? Issa's a good boy, and knows he can't make love until his wedding night. You've been waiting for this for a long time, haven't you, Issa?"
"Please, Kazza, please!" he gasps, and still he encourages me to stroke and feel him all along his length.
"Sometimes you watch it in slow motion, don't you Issa? Which bits do you like in slow motion?"
"In the park," he gasps, "and in the pool," and his heart is pounding against my ear.
So we watch it again, while my hand explores the immensity of his passion.
It takes longer, in slow motion, and as the video runs to its close and shows me once more on the podium holding my medal, I suddenly realize it's a bronze medal, and I remember the meet, as the screen freezes.
"But that was before I met you!" I gasp, rising and turning to stare at Kazza. "That meet was before I met you!"
"Naturally," Kazza whispers. "I'd been following you for some time, you, and a few others. But I decided you were the one for Issa, and then I brought him the video to see if he agreed. You agreed, didn't you, Issa; just one look and you were decided, weren't you, Issa? So then, I came to get you, Ritchie."
The image on the screen is frozen on my body, standing there in triumph, and Issa's fingers are grabbing at my wrist, pulling me back to stroke him once more.
"But although I knew Issa wanted you, I had to find out if you would want him too. Because it wouldn't be fun for either of you if you were married to a man you couldn't love, so I had to make sure. And soon enough, I knew you would love him, because I knew you loved me. And I knew he'd love you, because I knew I loved you too."
"I don't understand... Why does it have to be this way?"
"At 13, he's too young to choose his own wife; and too shy to go through all the effort of making someone love him, like I made you love me."
"But why must he marry at 13?"
"I told you. We do not make love before we marry." Kazza comes close behind the sofa, and strokes my neck. "Look at what you are doing to your husband's cock. He's never done that; only his wife can do that. Would you have him wait and suffer for years? And then, even if he waited. . . remember the pain you felt last night, how hard it was for you to take it. . . "
"Of course I remember! It still hurts!"
"And that's when he's 13. . . Has your cock grown at all since you were 13, Ritchie?"
"Of course!"
"Well, Issa's will too, you know. It'll grow a lot. . . But because you're already married, because you'll be making love many times every night, you'll grow with it! By the time Issa is my age, he'll be much, much bigger, but you'll still be able to take it, because he'll have been stretching you every night." He strokes my neck again. "It'll still hurt, of course, but you'd expect that, if you knew how big he will get.
"Do you understand now? If Issa doesn't marry now, he won't be able to later, because no one can take something that big without years and years of training. Even marrying at 13, he needs someone several years older than him, just to be able to get it in.
"But now, there'll never be a problem. You'll stretch and grow with him, and he'll always be able to make love with you. No one else. . . When he's fully grown, there'll be no one else in the world that can take him, only you."
Kazza stands up. "And now, my little love-birds, I think it's time you were in bed."
Kazza and I are eating lunch.
It is Friday ? the week has passed in a blur of intense pain and even intenser humiliation, but now Kazza and I are alone. One of the guys that was videoing the wedding has taken Issa out shopping.
I'm still only allowed to eat fish, but I'm beginning to find it quite satisfying.
Today, Kazza has ordered a bottle of wine -- Issa isn't really old enough to drink yet, but Kazza's giving me some, as a reward, he says, for avoiding any more scenes, and being kind to his little brother.
"Tell me, Kazza. Are you guys always hard?"
"Only from puberty onwards," he smiles. "But yes, you're right. No matter how many times I cum, I'm always hard. It runs in the family." He leans closer, conspiratorially. "Once, I came ten times, non-stop, starting in the morning and going through until after midnight. My wife was scarcely conscious at the end of it all, but I was still hard!"
"Don't suggest that to Issa, please!" I gasp.
"I won't. . . But he'll figure it out himself; it's a natural part of growing up."
"Will it always hurt so much?"
"You'll get used to it, but then he'll grow some more, and you'll have to start all over again."
He finishes his meal.
"The biggest problem for you, I think, is that apart from the actual physical act of making love, you don't feel he loves you. That's right, isn't it?"
"He doesn't love me," I state with finality. "Four nights now, he's fucked me non-stop; sometimes he makes me cum, sometimes he's only interested in himself. But apart from sex, he doesn't talk to me, doesn't have any interest in me. He doesn't love me."
Kazza looks sadly at me. "It's all up to you, you know. . . " he says carefully. "If you treat him like you treat me, talk to him like you talk to me, you'll forget he's so young. If you want to feel loved, you must make him feel loved. To make him love you, you must show him that you love him."
"I don't love him, Kazza, I love you."
"Give it time, Ritchie. One of the things about being married to someone so young is that you help him to grow up. You teach him things about the world, about his body; you teach him to be interesting and fun -- you turn him into the person you want to love. And meanwhile, the more you make love, the more you come to love him."
I sip the wine.
"Tell me, Ritchie," he continues, "what happens in bed?"
"Come on Kazza, you know perfectly well. He greases himself up -- actually it seems that's one of my jobs now -- then he spends an age getting inside, and then fucks me like there's no tomorrow. After a few times he kisses me and squeezes me while he's doing it, until I cum. Mainly, he just puts his head back and fucks."
"Ritchie. When you wanted to touch me, what did you want to do with me?"
"Don't do this Kazza; it'll only hurt me more. . ."
"I'm trying to help. What did you fantasize about, all the time since we met? You did fantasize about me, didn't you?"
"Yes, Kazza, I did. . . Kissing you, I suppose. Being naked with you. You taking control of me."
"And what did I make you do, when I was in control?"
"You know. . . stuff."
"What stuff, Ritchie?"
I suddenly realize, with an indescribable hurt, that I'll never be with Kazza -- even if I could escape from Issa, I'd never see Kazza again. There's no point in hiding it any more. "I fantasized about you forcing me to undress you," I tell him, "about being made to kiss your body, worship your dick and swallow you. I fantasized about you hurting me."
I look down at my empty plate, amazed I could say such things, and I fight to hold in the tears.
"You're a brave guy, you know Ritchie, to be so honest. I was right to fall in love with you."
There's a long silence, and then we hear Issa's excited voice in the corridor outside the room.
"One last question, Kazza. . . You know Issa's video. . . Why doesn't he like the second one, the video at the state meet, when I swam for you, and won the gold?"
Kazza rises to open the door as Issa knocks.
"Issa doesn't know about that video, Ritchie. That video is for me." He looks so utterly sad; suddenly I realize that this wretched marriage has destroyed both our lives.
When Issa comes into the room, he's full of excitement. I realize he's never seen the city before, and he's full of tales about what he's seen.
After a while he calms down and beckons for me to come and sit with him. He gives me a long kiss, and then looks at Kazza.
"What have you guys been doing?" he asks, suspiciously.
"Just talking, Issa," his brother answers.
"You're sure?" He looks at me. "Just talking?"
"We had lunch," I tell him. "I had fish. . . "
"Good. Well, I want us to go to the bedroom for a while," he announces, and pulls me up by the hand. Kazza shrugs resignedly, and Issa closes the door behind us.
We kiss -- Issa likes to kiss before we undress. Suddenly I have an idea. "Come here, Issa, a moment." I sit on the side of the bed and indicate for him to sit next to me. "Let me help you out of your clothes, OK?"
"What are you doing?" he demands, as I start undressing him. I pull off his tee, and then kneel down and untie his shoelaces and pull off his shoes and socks. "What are you doing? I'm not a child!"
"Very definitely not," I tell him, unbuckling his belt. "You've got a lovely body, Issa, but you never let me touch it apart from in the bath. I want to touch it, touch it slowly."
"You don't want me to make love to you?" he asks, nervously.
"In a minute. First, I want to look at you, touch you."
I swing him over so he's lying on the bed, with me still on my knees beside him, and I start to stroke his chest. Then I bend forward and lick him, gently running my tongue down him from the neck to the navel.
"That's weird," he gasps. "It's like tickling, but different. . . "
I do it again, up and down. I lick him everywhere he'll have hair one day, as if my saliva can help him grow. Again, I work down his chest, but when I get to his navel I don't stop. I try to recreate all the things I fantasized about Kazza making me do; running my tongue down the inside of his thighs, and then back up again; coming closer and closer to his balls every time.
His breathing is becoming more ragged. "That's good!" he gasps, as my tongue finally touches his balls. "Oh! That's great!"
Eventually, I run my tongue up the length of his shaft, and then back down, and then up again -- teasing him by stopping short of the head, and then going back down, around his balls again.
As I rise up him again, he wails "Please! Please!" and I relent. I lick all around his head, loving it and needing it, just like Kazza used to force me to in my dreams.
"I'm going to kneel between your legs," I tell him, and he spreads his knees for me. Now I can try, carefully, to pull the head of his cock into my mouth. I've read about this, but never done it; I know I must be careful not to let him feel my teeth, and it's difficult because he's so big, but eventually I get his head into my mouth.
I feel his hand grab my hair, trying to force me down, but I push him away. Pulling off him, I murmur, "Let me do this for you; let me try, try it my way. . . " and then I go back onto him, and tentatively start sucking.
Now he's moaning and tossing in bliss. I have both of my hands clasped around his shaft -- I can't enclose it in my fingers, but I can hang on, somehow, as his muscles clench and spasm while my tongue teases him. I let another inch of his cock inside me, but that's all I can manage without hurting him with my teeth. Then I try bobbing my head up and down, desperately trying to keep the rhythm as I suck.
Poor Issa, his body is a quivering wreck, his buttocks clenching and thrusting wildly upward, his chest shaking and his legs twitching. If there's one thing I've learned over the last few days, it's to know when this guy is close to climax, and I know I must get ready to swallow.
Afterwards, I lie with my head on his thigh, my nose close to his balls, loving the smell he exudes. One of his hands is absently stroking my hair, his breathing slowly returning to normal.
"That was fantastic!" he gasps. "Come to me!" I crawl up the bed to lie by his side, my leg crocked over his, my hand stroking his chest. He slips his arm round my shoulder, and holds me tight.
His fingers run through my hair. "I love your hair," he whispers. "The first thing I fell in love with was your hair." I know he's thinking about that video. "And then your eyes; I love your eyes."
Suddenly he grabs me forcefully. "You won't leave me; promise me you won't leave me!"
I kiss his cheek. What chance have I of leaving him, anyway, with Kazza in the next room?
"I couldn't leave you, Issa," I promise, and kiss him again.
He lies there for a while.
"You gave me great satisfaction, making love to me with your mouth," he announces. "So I shall give you enjoyment too. Fetch the grease."