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Home / Stormy Night Publications Newsletter / Humbling His Bride by Loki Renard – Extended Preview

Humbling His Bride by Loki Renard – Extended Preview

Humbling His BrideThe doctor released her from the examination and she was led from the medical bay in a state of disbelief, barely noticing her continued nudity as she tried to understand what was happening. At no point had she anticipated coming into the presence of the president of New Paris. How should she conduct herself in the presence of a man who had destroyed the society she had been raised to love? She should almost certainly have been angry at him, especially given that it was by his orders that she had been taken from her home, told to strip, and thenceforth subjected to an intimate medical examination. And yet, it was not anger that consumed her mind. Curiosity was far stronger, aided and abetted by no small amount of excitement and anticipation.

Her mind whirling, her bare feet padded along rich carpets with soft steps until she was quite dwarfed by large ornate doors at which two more guards were posted. Their professionalism was to the extent that not a single openly lecherous gaze was cast in her direction, or perhaps the soldiers were simply so inured to the sight of naked young women going about the place that it was no longer a sight worthy of overt attention.

The doors to the presidential office were opened for her and Lydia found herself sent into a space that once would have been populated with the grandest furniture and decorative carpets and fine art, but that was now a much more masculine room holding a large desk, many shelves of books, a fireplace, and a large dark couch and armchairs. A map of New Paris hung where old art would once have graced the walls, and upon it were marked a great many points and boundaries, none of which Lydia understood at first glance, not that she was trying to understand the map at all. Her eye was not on the décor. It was drawn toward the tall figure standing before the grand windows, a man who turned toward her as the doors closed behind her. He crossed the room toward her, his step sounding precise and strong, and Lydia found herself holding her breath as she looked at the man her father had cursed at nightly for what seemed like most of the last year.

Tristan Kane was handsome. Very handsome. He had thick dark hair that was a little longer than most of his soldiers were allowed to wear, a square jaw, and high cheekbones. He was a good deal taller than Lydia, and broader too. She felt quite small in comparison, especially as she still did not have the benefit of any form of clothing. He was perhaps not quite as brawny as some of the soldiers were, but he was taller and had a presence that made the soldiers who had led her into the office seem diminutive in comparison. Lydia had heard of charisma before, but as Tristan smiled at her, she felt the full force of it in a way that redefined the word. His gaze was penetrating, knowing, and wise.

“Hello, Lydia,” he said, his greeting cordial and warm.

She lowered her eyes to where long leather boots rose to just below his knees below dark blue pants. His clothing was immaculate. He was wearing the royal blue, tall-collared blazer of his office, and under that a starched white shirt. He cut an intimidating figure and Lydia wished more than ever that she was dressed. Her vulnerability was amplified by her nudity as she tried in vain to stand in such a way that might preserve her modesty. As she replied, she kept her eyes on those well-shined leather boots, not daring to look into his face. “Hello, Mr. President.”

There was a long silence in which she felt herself being visually inspected. She shifted nervously, her weight going from foot to foot as she waited to see what he wanted with her. Anxiety was beginning to twist in her stomach as it occurred to her ever more strongly that she could very well be in trouble.

“Your father was the minister of economics in the previous government, was he not?”

Lydia cringed inwardly. So she was to be punished for her father’s role in the old regime. “Yes, sir,” she said again in a voice that was barely audible even to her own ears.

Two fingers slid beneath her chin, lifting her head so he could meet her eyes. For a long moment she looked into his deep, almost hypnotically brown gaze and found some of her fear melting away.

His voice softened and became gentler still. “You are very pretty, Lydia.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Keeping her chin up, Tristan produced a cloth with a gentle solvent agent imbued in its fibers and began dabbing at her face, cleaning her makeup away in soft swipes. She was quite confused as to why, but perhaps he understood that it was the last veil between her and complete vulnerability.

“There,” he said, nodding in a satisfied fashion as her bare face emerged under powder and color. “As I suspected, you are a natural beauty, hiding behind a different kind of beauty.”

A blush rose to Lydia’s cheeks, and this time it was not hidden by her foundation and powder. Now her reactions were laid bare before Tristan’s knowing brown gaze. His eyes searched hers for long moments, looking for some intangible thing.

“On your knees, Lydia,” he commanded in soft tones.

She found herself bending to his will almost without any thought on her own part. His fingers slipped away from her chin as she sank toward the floor and found herself kneeling before him. He nodded, satisfied at her obedience, and even that little gesture of approval made her feel warm inside.

“Your life has changed a great deal in a matter of hours,” he said. “It will soon change all the more.”

She squirmed in place, her eyes still locked on his boots as she nodded quiet understanding.

“Thus far you have proved yourself to be a pretty and admirably obedient young woman,” he added. “Go to your hands and knees, Lydia.”

She felt a hot blush suffuse her body. She lowered her hands to the floor and looked up at Tristan hopefully. She was not sure what the purpose of the exercise was, but she knew that disobedience was not an option.

“Bottom up,” he further clarified.

She lifted her hips and slid forward, her breasts swaying under her as she assumed the position he desired. He made a growl of appreciation and began walking around her, inspecting every part of her from every angle. Lydia blushed to her very core as he stepped around behind her and gently extended his leather boot between her thighs, pushing her legs open so as to look at her most intimate places, still wet and swollen from the doctor’s exam.

“You’re wet, Lydia.”

His observation made her shy. She couldn’t help the fact that she was still lubricated from the medical exam. It wasn’t her wetness. It wasn’t because she was aroused by this treatment.

“Such a quiet girl,” he observed. “Feeling a little shy, are we?”

“You didn’t ask me a question, sir,” Lydia replied. “And we were told not to speak unless spoken to. At least, I think we were.”

A dark masculine chuckle followed her reply. “So you like to play by the rules.”

“Yes, sir,” Lydia answered again, playing at submission because she had no real choice. The sight of Melanie being thrashed had seared itself into her mind, the bright red bouncing cheeks squirming to and fro beneath that relentless paddle…

“Ouch!” she squealed as his hand met her bottom in a light slap that nevertheless shocked her. His fingertips left behind a burning imprint on her soft, sensitive skin. A moment later she let out a soft moan as his hand slid between her legs and brushed lightly over her pussy. He touched her in a gentle, familiar fashion that felt a great deal different than the clinical touch of the doctor. This was genuinely intimate… this was personal.

His hand ran up over her bottom, slid along her back in a slow caress and then over her shoulders. He was petting her almost like one might a domesticated animal and in spite of her fear and her embarrassment, Lydia found herself moving toward his touch, leaning against his hand as he caressed the underside of her breasts.

“Very nice,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I will give the aristocrats credit for breeding beautiful women. You are absolutely exquisite, Lydia.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said again, feeling a rush of pride at his compliments.

He walked over to a couch and sat down, looking at her with a sexy smile. “Stand up.”

She did as she was told, beginning to feel confident in spite of the situation. The president approved of her, seemed very pleased by her. She had never expected to find herself in the presence of such a powerful man, let alone being caressed by him and praised by him.

“Touch yourself for me,” he commanded.

Lydia stared at him, not knowing what he meant.

“Touch yourself between your thighs.” His voice and gaze took on a new masculine intensity. “Rub your pussy for me. I want to see you orgasm, Lydia. I want you to make yourself come for me.” The order was now completely clear.

Her mouth fell open, her eyes grew wider still, and she did not know what to do or say. The only time she touched herself was in the dead of night, beneath her blankets, far away from prying eyes. She could not fathom the idea of touching herself in front of any man, let alone the president of New Paris.

She stood frozen while his left brow slowly rose into an expression of displeasure.

“Lydia.” He purred her name. “Touch yourself for me.”

The order hung in the air, demanding either obedience or some other response. Finally, she found a word.


The other brow rose to match the first. “No?”

“No,” she said simply. “I don’t want to.”

“You don’t want to.” He repeated her words flatly, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, his long fingers laced together, his eyes locked with hers. “That will not do, Lydia.”

She found herself folding her arms over her chest in a protective gesture. She had obeyed every order given to her since her arrival, but that one was an order too far. She would not capitulate to such a base, wanton…

“Come here.” He crooked his finger at her, silently gesturing her closer.

She took a hesitant step, then another, then she felt his palms sliding up the outside of his thighs as he pulled her to stand between his legs.

“Now then,” he said in a tone that was more curious than angry. “Why would you go from being such an obedient girl to refusing to even try to follow my order?”

“Because it is an order too far,” Lydia said. “I have obeyed enough. It has only gotten me further into trouble.”

“Oh, no,” he chuckled. “You weren’t in trouble before. You are now.”

The room swung as he used his grasp upon her to turn her over his lap. Lydia let out a squeal as she found herself pressed against his thighs, her soft belly and hips supported by his lap. She knew with certainty that what had happened to Melanie was about to happen to her, though it did not seem fair at all.

“You may be the president, but you, sir, are no gentleman!” She flung the accusation before he could slap her bottom.

“Correct. I am no gentleman,” he agreed as his hand fell and his palm made hard, stinging contact first with her left cheek, then with her right.

Being spanked was just as unpleasant as Melanie had made it look. Each slap brought with it a sting that burst across Lydia’s skin and was followed by a tingling ache something like an aftertaste, but in the form of a feeling. Lydia had not experienced much in the way of pain in her life, and she certainly had not experienced any kind of punishment before. Her parents had guilted her and needled at her, and said unkind things, but they had never actually disciplined her directly. The experience was as foreign as it was upsetting and before long, tears were springing to her eyes. She sniffed them back in an attempt to be stoic, tightening her body in silent resistance to the harsh slapping being unleashed on her naked rear.

“It hurts more when you’re tense,” Tristan advised her as he landed yet another hard swat to her bottom.

“That would suit your aim, would it not?”

“My aim is to teach you a lesson about obedience,” he growled down at her. “I will not tolerate ‘no’ for an answer from you.”

“Then there seems to be little point in asking questions at all,” she replied. It was not typical for Lydia to be argumentative, but the heat in her bottom and the embarrassment of being punished by this man who was so much larger and more powerful made her want to take back some measure of control. She had lost all self-determination since being taken from her home, which would not do. She was not some common woman to be ordered about; the blood of nobles ran in her veins and it was high time she acted accordingly.

“I did not ask you a question. I gave you an order, which you refused. This is the consequence of that refusal,” he explained in unnecessary thorough fashion.

Lydia crossed her arms, a difficult task given she was dangling over his lap, but one that showed her resistance without directly disobeying him. If he wished to punish her, he could, but she would not give him the satisfaction of watching her do what Melanie had done when Officer Hatton thrashed her. She would not cry audibly and she would blink back every tear that dared escape her tear ducts.

“There is no point sulking,” he said, swatting her upper thighs. To her dismay those slaps stung even more than the ones that had gone before them. “Being a pouty little brat will only earn you more punishment.”

“I imagine everything will,” Lydia said, proud of how bored she’d managed to sound.

The last little bit of attitude was a step too far, she quickly discovered. She felt his arm snake tighter around her waist and then both the tempo of the slaps and the intensity of them increased several-fold. He spanked her hard and fast, his palm slapping her cheeks in a crescendo of swats that made her twist in his grasp and squeal at the top of her lungs. The notion of modesty and self-control flew away as her swelling bottom pulsed with its own aching contractions that continued even when he was no longer spanking her.

She found herself panting over his lap, barely repressing floods of tears that threatened to break through her veneer of self-control. This man was taking her to her very limits. Her curls had loosed themselves around her head and were obscuring her vision, her body was covered in a light sheen of sweat, and her bottom and thighs felt as though they’d been dipped into a molten inferno. Still he was not done.

“When you are told to kneel, you will kneel. When you are told to touch yourself, you will touch yourself, and when you are told to come, you will come,” he said as his palm landed solidly across her cheeks. “Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Lydia replied.

He stopped spanking for a moment, clearly catching something in her tone. “You understand? Or you agree?”

“You asked me if I understood what you said. I do.”

“You brat,” he said, slapping her bottom soundly. “You are trouble, aren’t you, Lydia. A smart little aristocrat who thinks she can trick her way out of trouble.”

His words were harsh and judgmental, but there was something lighter in his tone. Not quite approval, but perhaps some kind of affection. It was strange to hear in the middle of the first punishment she had ever received. His palm swept back and forth over the rise of her cheeks in a soothing motion that did not do much to assuage the pain, but was better than being spanked.

“Are you ready to follow my orders now?”

Lydia hesitated before giving her response.

The young woman over his thighs quivered with rebellion. Tristan could feel it coursing through her as he palmed her bottom in a silent reminder of the consequences of disobedience.

Lydia was a fascinating, feisty little creature and he was quite enamored of her. Tristan had seen many of these spoiled brats go through the choosing process. Most of them were meek and compliant, some resisted but soon complied once they tasted a little leather, but this young woman had a certain quiet dignity and spirit that was not touched by either pain or punishment. He could have taken a harsher implement to her, but instinct told him that it would be completely counterproductive. She would likely resist a cane far more easily than the slapping of his palm. If he was to gain her respect and obedience, he needed her trust, and there could be no trust where there was brutality.

“Are you ready to behave yourself and do as you are told?”

He watched her squirm in place, her motion increasing as the question sank in. Her wriggling was not determined by the heat in her bottom so much as the emotional discomfort she was clearly experiencing as she considered the possibility of obeying him. There was still a tell-tale gleam between her lower lips, a sign of arousal she didn’t seem to be aware of.

Tristan let his fingers drift down between her legs and played them across her soft mound. Lydia let out a little moan and her hips lifted toward his hand, a response she couldn’t control. He smiled as he let his fingertips slide up and down her lower lips with a teasing touch he knew would not satisfy and yet rewarded her for at least taking her spanking well.

She was a curious mix of stoicism, rebellion, and desire. From the way her eyes had flashed at him when she refused his order, to the sinuous motion of her hips now squirming over his thighs, she was utterly intoxicating. He thrilled to the idea of taking her, taming her, drawing out the sensual demons he knew resided deep inside her. Tristan had seen many aristocrats come and go. A few he had entertained privately, but none had made his blood sing quite like Lydia Leon. Though he had only known her a few minutes, he also knew with absolute certainly that he would not allow this one to slip through his fingers. This one was his.

“I’m not hearing the proper response from you,” he said, pulling his fingers away.

There was a little whine of complaint that probably embarrassed her, given the way she quickly fell into silence.

Tristan cupped her bottom and gave the left cheek a tap. “Lydia,” he growled.

“Very well,” she sighed. “What would you have me do?”

“Reach between your legs and touch yourself. Rub your clit for me. I want you to come. Do it for me here and now, Lydia.” He rubbed her hot, swollen bottom gently. “Show me your pleasure.”

Surely there could be no humiliation greater than this. Held over his knee, her bottom still so sore she could barely stand it, her teased pussy wet with excitement and with absolutely no choice other than to obey, Lydia slid her fingers beneath her body, between her legs, and made tentative contact with her clit.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice making her body react with a flood of fresh excitement. She pressed her fingers harder against the button at the apex of her lips and rubbed it with quick little circles, wanting to conclude the matter as quickly as possible. He wanted her to orgasm, and so she would.

She felt his hand sliding over her bottom, encouraging her. She felt him press between her cheeks and then a moment later his fingertip touched an even more sensitive part of her—her anus. Lydia let out a little squeal and for a moment her fingers left her pussy.

“Keep touching yourself,” Tristan admonished her. “I want to see you rubbing that naughty little cunt of yours.” His words were coarse and direct and they ripped through her psyche, opening up a crevasse of desire that was yet to be filled. Her fingers returned to the task of pleasuring herself as he tapped his finger against her bottom hole, a gentle spanking against that tight bud.

It was unthinkable, what she was doing, but that was because thought had no place in the realm of pure sensation. Lydia’s legs spread wider as her fingers slid from her clit further along her pussy and found the entrance of her body. She very rarely touched herself there, but her clenching inner walls demanded that she did. She wanted something inside her, even if it was only her own slim fingers.

Tristan let out a little growl of masculine approval as she pushed two fingers inside herself. The angle at which she had to work was slightly awkward but she made it work as well as she could, thrusting down to the first two knuckles.

“Such a good girl,” Tristan praised, his tone guttural and ardent as he watched her lower lips stretch around her fingers. She began to work her hips against her fingers, impaling her pussy with shallow strokes, grinding her clit against the heel of her palm. As the arousal and pleasure flooded her body she began to forget the very notion of modesty. She wanted more. She wanted to feel the pleasure peak, she wanted to fuck herself harder, but the position was not suitable for it and so all she could do was writhe against her hand, bucking over his lap in a completely shameless display of lust as he watched her work herself into an erotic frenzy.

Tristan began to spank her lightly, his swats activating the heat and the sting already in her bottom. She found herself lifting her bottom to his palm and then grinding down on her own hand in a seesaw of pure ecstasy that made her body begin to shiver with impending orgasm far greater than any secret pleasure stolen in the dead of night.

He pressed his finger more firmly against her bottom hole and suddenly, as if she were a machine reacting to an input, it was upon her, a climax that made every muscle in her body react. She reached a peak of pleasure that took the nervous energy she had been struggling with and turned it into an avalanche of release. She came, quivering and squirming, legs spread wide, her pussy pressed hard against her hand, her entire body covered in a sheen of sweated desire.

Before the final shivers of ecstasy had melted away, before her conscious mind could return to full control, Tristan gently helped her slide from his lap and kneel between his thighs where a large erection was tenting the front of his pants quite obviously. As she looked on with desiring eyes, he lowered the zipper keeping the beast at bay and it sprang out, at least nine inches of turgid male arousal.

Lydia had never seen the male member in person before. She had no concept of how very large and thick it was, or how it throbbed with what seemed to be a life of its own. The thick head of his cock was glistening with the fluid of his arousal.

“Take me in your mouth,” he said as his fingers tangled in her hair.

Refusal did not so much as occur to her. She parted her lips tentatively at first and let her tongue flicker across the underside of his cock. He let out a soft growl and gave a light tug at her hair, encouraging her further. The taste of him was not at all unpleasant, and she allowed herself to explore him more, lapping at the head of his hardness where the little slit gleamed with traces of desire. He tasted salty and masculine. She looked up at him, licking her lips slowly as she met his dark gaze.

“More,” he urged.

He was being gentle with her and allowing her to slowly experience his cock, but she could sense the desire and need in his voice and she knew by the grip in her hair that, had he wanted to, he could have forced his cock upon her, pushed it deep into her mouth and even into her throat.

She wrapped her lips around him and let her tongue play about as much of the shaft as she could reach. He seemed to enjoy it when her soft, hot, wet organ lapped at him in slow circular motions, and even more when she lowered her head and took him deeper into her mouth, several inches filling her before she pulled back in a sensual retreat.

“Yes, Lydia,” he moaned softly. “Yes…”

Lydia looked up to see him looking down at her with hooded eyes, the strain of pleasure written on his face. The tension between allowing her to take her time and the conquering urge to simply have her was clear even to her relatively innocent and completely virginal self.

She could feel his cock pulsing in her mouth, and she could feel the power of the thrust of his hips even though he was being very careful not to push too deeply or overwhelm her as his hips began to roll back and forth in shallow thrusts. There was a sense of deep care from him even as he fucked her mouth, his cock surging over her tongue time and time again as she lapped and teased and suckled at the thick rod.

When she dared glance upward again, she saw that his face had become a mask of desire. His dark gaze burned down at her, his lips curled with pleasure. He was fully intent on her, her mouth, her body, herself in a way nobody had ever been so consumed before.

“Good girl,” he purred. “It’s… I’m…” That was all the warning she got before he stiffened, losing his grip on her hair as his cum filled her mouth, warm seed spilling over her tongue and down her throat. She swallowed out of reflex, feeling his essence trickle to her belly.

Tristan’s fingers slid back through her hair, caressing her scalp gently as he leaned down and kissed her, the taste of his cum mingling between their mouths. He broke the kiss and gave her a look of passion and possession that took her breath away.

“You are to be mine, Lydia. From this day forth, as long as we both shall live.”

The words were archaic, but she recognized them nevertheless. If she understood him correctly, he was invoking the old custom of marriage, and he was making her his bride. Lydia could barely believe it. She was so overwhelmed from all the sensations and intimate experiences of the day she wasn’t sure she could trust her senses.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, pulling her gently onto his lap and cradling her against his chest, his large palm soothing her still sore bottom with soft circular strokes, “that you are to be my wife.”

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