Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5491880.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, F/F
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Petyr_Baelish, Sansa_Stark, Joffrey_Baratheon, Ros_(Game_of_Thrones)
  Additional Tags:
      Forced_Oral, Forced_Orgasm, Bondage, Loss_of_Virginity, Period_talk,
      intercourse, Vaginal_Fingering
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-12-22 Updated: 2016-01-25 Chapters: 3/? Words: 16632
****** Kneel and Obey ******
by articulatez, TheDandyCrickette
Summary
     Joffrey has a most devious assignment for Lord Baelish regarding the
     future Queen.
***** Chapter 1 *****
King Joffrey, First of His Name, perched on the Iron Throne, his crown jaunty
on his golden head, and listened to the affairs of court with all the patience
they were owed. Which was little. He dismissed them with a wave of his hand and
the people began to disperse. He watched his betrothed, Sansa Stark, all but
flee back to her room. Soon enough, they'd be wed and he'd have to put little
princes in her. Mother said so. Well, no reason he couldn't have some fun with
her. "Lord Baelish," he called to his Master of Coin, giving a little skip to
catch up with him. "Might I have a word?"
Petyr Baelish doesn't slow his stride for the King, but he does turn toward him
slightly to offer him a polite bow. "How might I serve you, Your Grace?"
"I have a job for you. Walk with me, this is not for my mother's ears," he
laughs, looking at Cersei's eyes, watching him. She didn't trust him. Women
never did. He wanted Sansa to obey him even if she couldn't trust him.
Petyr raises an eyebrow. "What sort of job can't you tell your own mother
about?"
He leads him off toward a garden outside. "The sort that pertains to my lady.
She's been so melancholy of late."
Petyr keeps the distaste out of his expression. "And you think I could aid
her?"
"Oh, yes. None better for the task."
That piques his interest and he decides to play along. He is sworn to serve his
King after all. "And what task do you have in mind?"
"I'm well aware of the good and necessary work you do with young women. A
King's wife could use such an education," he grins.
"She certainly could..."
"But I only want her to learn from you, at your feet, however best you see fit.
Teach her her place."
"A whoremonger, are you certain? I may mistakenly turn her into the most
depraved of women."
"Oh, as long as she still acts a Lady in court."
"Oh, certainly."
"And one last thing... I don't need her maidenhead to claim her. Do away with
it if you like."
He manages to hide his surprise. "I thank you, Your Grace."
"Consider it your reward," he says generously. "Now, I'm off to the hunt. Do
tell my lady the good news."
Petyr watches him go, keeping his smug smile to himself. Oh, that poor girl, he
thought to himself, he'd have to break the news to her gently. He clasped his
hands behind his back and went to find her. He already had their first lesson
in mind.
Sansa sat in her room, a guard at the door and a lady in waiting watching her,
embroidering a plain dress to have little blue roses on it. She had no tears
left and, though she was surrounded by people, she was utterly alone.
Lord Baelish goes to her and tells the guard to announce him.
The guard announces him and Sansa puts aside her embroidery and stands to greet
him. "Lord Baelish," she says.
"Lady Sansa. Am I interrupting?"
"No, not at all."
"Wonderful. I have a message from His Grace."
"Oh?" she asks warily. Another viewing of her father's head? Perhaps now Lord
Baelish will beat her about the head as well as Ser Meryn?
Petyr gives the lady in waiting a dismissive look and asks her to give them
some privacy.
The girl scurries out, closing the door behind her, and now Sansa is even more
concerned.
Petyr takes a seat in one of her cushioned chairs and looks up at her over
steepled fingers, looking solemn.
She nervously takes a seat. "Yes?" she prompts him, threading her hands below
her breast.
He drinks in her nerves a moment longer. "King Joffrey has employed me to
prepare you for marriage."
She nods. That isn't so terrible, whatever it means.
"What do you suppose that entails?"
"Well...Etiquette? The state of affairs?"
"Neither of those are my particular specialty."
"And...What is your specialty?"
"I'm surprised you've not heard."
"Are you going to tell me?"
"The bedroom."
She looks at him, not wanting to understand. "...Oh. You mean marital
relations."
"Yes..." he says, urging her to catch his drift. "The most intimate of
relations."
She looks down at her lap. She doesn't want to believe him. But a small part of
her is thankful someone else will show her how, other than cruel Joffrey."
He watches her for a response. "What do you say to that?"
"I don't think I can," she says. "I'm a Lady. Soon to be a Queen. What you're
saying must be wrong somehow."
"He was very plain about it."
"Oh...Then I will do as my King bids. Of course."
"That's a good start..."
"What?"
"Your obedience."
"Yes," she says, clearly uncomfortable.
"You do not seem thrilled about this arrangement."
"Should I be?" she asks.
He shrugs. "I suspected you would feel something."
"I'm happy enough," she lies. "I should like to please him."
Petyr grins smugly. She was unconvincing, but he suspected Joffrey would prefer
her that way. The boy seemed to have a sadistic streak.
She waits for him to say something, peeks up at him anxiously. Will he start
now? She knows a little of how it's done. "Shall I undress?"
"Not quite yet."
She nods and sits there, fiddling with her fingers.
Petyr beckons for her to sit at his feet. "Come here."
Sansa rises to stand before him but hesitates.
"Kneel."
"Why?"
His expression hardens. "Why?" he mimics, his tone laced with disdain.
She winces and slowly kneels before him, looking up at him with a carefully
blank expression.
He combs his fingers through her hair. "Don't ask questions like that anymore,"
he tells her with a growl.
She nods, terribly afraid. He is going to beat her, she's sure of it. She can
still feel the bruises on her cheek. "Yes, my lord," she says.
"Good. Now rest your head on my thigh."
She places her cheek on his thigh and lets the weight of her head on him.
He grunts approvingly and pets her cheek. "Good girl..."
She flinches when he touches a bruise clothed by powder and, embarrassed, she
looks away.
He purses his lips and avoids the spot. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, my lord," she says.
"Did that hurt?"
"Yes."
Petyr says nothing; this isn't the time. He only moves his hand back to her
hair before making a deliberate show of moving his doublet aside. "Don't look
away from me."
She looks back up at him and nods. His movement only serves to confuse her. She
wants to ask what he's doing but obedience stills her tongue.
"Have you seen one?" he asks, cupping his crotch.
She shakes her head.
"Never?"
"I've seen my little brothers's..."
He smirks, keeps his hand in her hair, and uses his other hand to loose his
trousers. She keeps looking up at his face, blushing. She doesn't know what to
expect, but at least this won't hurt yet.
"I want to know what you're feeling," he says, a lascivious edge to his tone as
he reaches into his trousers to cup himself. This made the growing bulge only
more visible through his smallclothes.
"Frightened," she whispers, her hot breath inches from him. But she feels a
strange, stiff excitement too.
"Of what?" Her hot breath falling on him makes him throb and he can't help
massaging himself before her eyes.
She keeps her eyes fixed on his face, but she's well aware of what she's doing.
Others touch themselves as well? She'd thought she was the only one. "I'm
afraid of what it will look like."
His face is solemn but there's a growing desire in the curl of his mouth and
behind the slight glaze on his eyes. "Better to learn now, don't you think?"
"Will you show me?" she asks, for that is what she thinks he wants to hear. But
she won't look down until he makes her.
He smiles at the corner of his mouth and uses a moment to drink her in, her
apprehensive obedience and her budding breasts heaving against her bodice. She
sighs softly, feeling he is testing her patience. He gives her a disapproving
look but prepares to loose his cock for her.
"Watch," he orders, wrapping his hand around himself.
She lowers her gaze to him, her cheek still resting on his thigh, her face
inches from his center.
He pulls his cock from his trousers and displays it in his hand for her. It
isn't the most impressive in length or girth, but it is nonetheless proudly
erect. The veins along the shaft pulse and heat radiates off it toward her
face. The area around it is immaculately shaved. Her eyes widen and she blushes
furiously. He grins, her reaction making him throb all the harder. He cannot
help running his hand along the length of himself for her, drawing out a
dribbling of precum from the tip.
She shudders and feels a strange ache at the sight of him doing such a
perverse, intimate thing. Does he want her to touch him? She can't, she's
paralyzed.
He lets her drink in the sight for a moment as a fire grows in his belly,
stoked by the widening of her eyes and the crimson of her cheeks. "Give it a
kiss," he purrs.
Her heart pounds painfully, her gut tight. Is this what married people do? It
can't be. "I won't get in trouble?" she asks. "It isn't bad?"
"You won't get in trouble," he assures her. "This is what His Grace will expect
of you."
She takes a few moments to work up the courage before giving the tip of his
cock a dry little kiss.
The innocence of her kiss sends a shiver of need through him and he caresses
her hair tenderly. Joffrey was a fool to leave her corruption to another, to
forfeit the sight of her surprise and her discomfort as she was pushed. That
was what it took to possess a woman, and Petyr intended for Sansa to belong to
him even after her marriage to the king; he would have her body and soul. "You
kiss like a sweet little girl..."
She pulls away shyly, finding to her fascination and embarrassment that his
white essence trails after her lips. Unthinking, she flicks her tongue over her
mouth and tastes salt. Tastes him. It shocks her and she gasps.
"Oh, Lady Sansa," he purrs, "so eager to taste already?"
He's never even kissed her, yet he's saying such lewd things. She nods slowly.
"Don't stop there, then. Take me into your mouth."
"I can't," she protests weakly, ill at the thought of such a thing.
"You're going to have to."
"I don't know how!"
"I will teach you."
"What do I do?" she asks in a small voice.
"Open your mouth and cover your teeth with your lips."
She obediently drops her jaw some and does as he says. She does not feel at all
like a Lady or like a future Queen.
"Close your lips around it," he coaxes.
She moves her head forward to take his head in her mouth and closes her lips,
giving tentative, small licks.
"That's a good start," Petyr croons, sighing at her tongue upon his head.
She licks him slowly, feeling his essence form a layer on her tongue, and
wonders what is enjoyable for him about this. But... He does seem to be. She
glances up at him but isn't brave enough for eye contact. The thought of what
she's doing fills her with shame and the thought of doing it for Joffrey is
nauseating.
"Suck at it, lightly," he sighs.
She experimentally sucks on the head. She's rather tall and starting to feel
stiff from bending this way, so she places her hands on his thighs to balance
better.
He strokes her hair and lets her reposition herself a bit. "That's a lovely
sight," he tells her and guides her head ever so gently in sucking him off,
"Its a shame Joffrey likely won't appreciate the beauty of such a dignified
Lady putting herself at his feet like this..."
His words send an unexpected and not unpleasant tremor through her, resonating
between her legs. Gods, what is the matter with her? She shouldn't be enjoying
this! She draws her tongue firmly up the cleft in his head, then moves back
down and dares to take a couple inches of him further into her mouth, only to
gag and cough.
"Careful," he chides, but his hand doesn't allow her to pull too far back. He
wonders if she can feel how her noise made him ache all the more in her mouth.
She inhales sharply to compensate for the choking and notes that he wants her
there, taking him in. That's how it's done. Slowly, her lips creep forward,
stretching around him, quashing the feeling of her gorge bobbing as he fills
her mouth. Eyes slightly rimmed with tears, she looks up at him. He rewards her
with a lascivious smile, smug and full of all manner of perverse desires on
display for her to see.
She looks quickly back down, flushed further by the look on his face, and
presses her thighs together under her dress as she licks him, occasionally
remembering to suck.
He's pleased with her response. "Go on, put your spirit into it," he coaxes,
"His Grace wants this between the three of us, so no one else will hear of it."
She makes a soft sound at that, acknowledging him, and tries running her tongue
up his underside to resume sucking at the skin on top.
He groans softly. "Your wedding is still a ways off," he goes on, "so we have a
long time to help you get the hang of this, and many other things.."
She nods wordlessly, though it's not something she wants to think about so she
focuses instead on his warmth on the roof of her mouth, on his noises.
"A whore, that's what he wants out of you. A whore in a Lady's gown. I'm
certain you can see the appeal. To have a demure, innocent thing like yourself
on his arm before the court and knowing not a single one of those old friends
of his father's suspects he will have you swallowing his cock the moment your
bedchamber door shuts behind you..."
She thinks about interacting with Lord Baelish in public, of it being very much
like that. Him cordial and gracious, but his smile just a touch knowing, a
little gleam in his eyes. She's angry that this will be her life but hears
herself moan at the thought all the same. Swallowing his cock. That's what she
was doing. Sansa took more of him into her mouth, inhaling and exhaling hard
through her nostrils.
Petyr moans again, his eyes glazing over a little. "That's it," he grunts,
"continue just like that but keep sucking."
She bows her head again, sucking a little harder, grasping his thighs a little
tighter.
He curls his fingers in her hair and makes an approving sound. "Moan," he
commands her.
She furrows her brow. Moan? She makes a small noise, mimicking his sounds.
"Good," he says, his voice catching in his throat. "Gods, Sansa, that boy has
no clue what a boon he's given me." He tilts her head so he may look into her
eyes as he tells her this. "The moment I met you I knew, I knew I needed to
have you. As a Lady certainly, and as a shrieking, bucking harlot in my bed,
wet as sin and depraved."
She moans in earnest this time, sucking hard, though she doesn't fully
understand his horribly words. Her legs shift under her dress, trying to quell
the sudden ache.
"He's given me that, that and more," Petyr groans, pulling on her hair in his
rising pleasure. "He's commanded me to ruin you completely and utterly, to
leave no part of you untarnished. He's given me the honor of seeing your purity
stripped from you piece by piece and I am going to relish every moment of it. I
am going to make *you* relish every moment of it. By the time you're joined to
Joffrey, I'll have you splayed beneath me, begging me to put an end to your
wretched maidenhood, begging me to desecrate the sweet temple of your cunt with
a horrid desperation that you will never, ever manage to give to Joffrey."
She moans wantonly around his cock, heat rising in her core, and buries her
face between his legs, taking as much of him as she can bear. He wants her,
that much she knows, and there is someone other than Joffrey who does-- someone
who ignites a strange fire inside her, and she licks and sucks and squirms
helplessly at his feet, full of an ache she doesn't understand how to relieve.
"Keep your legs apart," he tells her, "I want to see you squirm."
She unwillingly parts her pressed thighs for him, and she looks up at him
pleadingly, silently begging for him to help her.
"Good," he says again, unintentionally lifting his hips just a little. "You'll
grow wanton in my presence, I see it happening already in the way you moan and
squirm around my cock. It's like you've been waiting for this. But I tell you,
Sansa," He pauses to comb her hair out of her face so he can fix her with the
full intensity of his gaze. "Soon enough you won't hesitate to bend to my
pleasures even in the shadowed corners and sheltered stairwells of the Keep.
You'll learn to look for hidden places for these dalliances in spite of
yourself and it'll happen with no prompting or instruction from me."
She believes him. Gods, she doesn't want to, but she does. He will drag her
down to the depths and she will be helpless to stop it. There's a new sensation
between her legs... a warm trickling in her smallclothes.
It is precisely her helplessness that that drives his pleasure now and he can
feel himself throbbing hard against the back of her throat. No doubt his precum
already coats her mouth but it wouldn't be right to make her swallow the first
time, especially if she is to be prepared for His Grace. Still, he can't help
moving against her for a moment before gently pulling her mouth off of him so
that suddenly she's eye-to-eye with his swollen, pulsing cock.
She gasps, all the blood either in her face or in her nethers, ensnared by him,
unable to look away. It's grotesque but it's hers, the only thing in the world
that's hers.
The sense of mingled horror and pride on her face tells him this was a good
move. Grasping himself firmly again, he runs his hand down his length and
toward her with purpose.
Sansa gazes up at him, feeling a strange gratitude. Someone wants her. Someone
has always wanted her.
He drinks in her gratitude and is even so bold as to cup her jaw as he strokes
himself rhythmically, gripping tighter and moving faster as he nears the very
precipice of his pleasure. He owns her, in this moment and in every moment
after, she belongs to him. Let Joffrey play his games with her and pretend he
can claim her for himself after this, but it would always be Petyr who first
made her kneel and obey.
Her breaths come shallow and she is uncertain where to look, at his ruby red
staff aching for her, or at his intense eyes, boring into her depths. He's
never even kissed her, she thinks with a deep ache.
He grunts as he comes closer, closer, and he can feel the boiling in his gut
overflowing. His hips jerk and his seed shoots out of him to splash hot on her
face.
Sansa cries out and tries to flinch backwards, shutting her eyes.
He holds her in place with his grip on her jaw and bows over her, panting
harshly as he spills the rest of his seed upon her sweet, innocent face.
It's in her mouth before she can close it and in her eyelashes and hot on her
cheek, and she's shaking hard, filled with shock.
Once the flood leaves him, he bows over her, breathing hard. It's a moment
before he looks at her and finds himself gazing with a sort of pride at her
rosy face covered with the essence of his depravity. It dripped from her
eyelashes and her chin. If there was ever a more beautiful baptism it was
unknown to him. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and cups her cheek with
it, wiping his cum from around her eyes. "That's a good girl," he purrs, "You
did that exactly right."
Sansa sputters, her lips wet, and opens her eyes to see his joy at her filth
and corruption. Good girl. It echoes inside her and fills her with an unusual
warmth. Someone is praising her. After all the hate that's been sent her way-
- and, worse, the silence-- she drinks in this attention as if he were her
oasis in a desert. And he can scarcely catch his breath because of her, because
of her kisses to his cock. She watches it, still stiff in front of her but
beginning to soften, and does feel a swelling of pride inside her. 
Once he's able to catch his breath some, he pulls her up onto his lap so he can
hold her as he carefully cleans the cum off her face so he can cradle her chin
in his hands. "Tell me how you feel."
"There aren't words, my lord," she says simply, looking into his eyes with a
little more courage.
He smiles fondly. She's going to do very well under him, he can tell. He wipes
the last of the cum off her chin and with his other hand he reaches between her
legs to feel her arousal, to see how much need he's awakened in her.
She stiffens, shrinking backwards a little. It's one thing to touch him, but
for him to touch her is another intimacy.
"What's the matter?" he demands. He slides his hand up her leg and sighs when
he finds the heavenly dampness of her smalls. 
"I need a moment to rest," she says, still reeling from what just happened. She
shifts in his lap, away from questing fingers.
"Do you think Joffrey will give you a moment?" he asks and pulls her closer so
that he can cup her firmly and rub.
She gasps and stiffens, arching toward him and clinging to his shoulders,
burying her face against his neck so he can't see her tortured expression.
Joffrey wouldn't do this to her. He wouldn't want to get his hands dirty with
her, and she is soaked through just for Lord Baelish.
"See?" he says, rubbing her. The fabric of her smalls clings to the shape of
her folds and he can feel everything. His fingers trace the llines of her folds
against her ever so faintly. "You long for this."
"Yes, my lord," she says faintly, and to thank him for showing her as well as
to show she knows her place she kisses his cheek.
The gesture, demure and sweet, warms him and he rewards her by continuing to
stroke her. "You can't help but bend to this, can you dear girl?"
She nods her head and breathes, "Yes, my lord..." She reaches down to hike her
skirt up around her thighs for him, baring her legs.
He gropes at her milky thigh and draws his fingers through the cleft of her
folds. "I suspect you've always been a little slut on the inside," he muses,
tracing a finger over the hood of her clit. "I'll be sure to put your
inclinations to their proper use."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
She's panting now, gazing at him, her mouth pouting and full from the act of
sucking, and oh she wants to be kissed. Surely it's impossible with where her
mouth has just been, but she wants it all the same. Sansa wants obscene things,
namely for him to tear away her smallclothes.
He feels her growing more fervent for him and answers that by moving her so
that he can bounce her on his knee like the filthy girl she is. She would stain
his trousers no doubt, but it was a small matter when he had her at the mercy
of his hand upon her cunt.
She feels the sparks in her belly overflow and she keens as it overtakes her
with a pleasure she has never known. "Oh, my lord, oh," she cries, moving,
moving with him, hard and fast.
Petyr is nearly taken aback by her reaction, he had underestimated how
sensitive and ready she was. For a moment he was tempted to lift her off his
knee and watch her desperation as she struggled for friction, but he felt
charitable toward her. As she was rocking and shuddering on his lap he hiked
her skirt up further and yanked down her smallclothes.
Her sticky self is open and exposed to the air and she circles her hips,
chasing the last of her pleasure as it ebbs, enjoying the fabric and the
pressure of his knee against her bare wetness. "Oh," she sighs, pushing her
hair back from her face and finding that there is sweat on her brow and a
strange, sweet smell on the air between them.
He gives her a moment to take a breath and then seizes her about the waist to
lift her over his shoulder and spanks her ass hard. She shouts and kicks her
legs. He slaps her again, the sound of flesh hitting flesh filling the room.
 Is this punishment for feeling such ecstasy? She's overwhelmed and cries out
again, her voice rising in pitch, almost a shriek. Everyone will hear, everyone
will know. He slaps her ass one more time and gropes her heavily, reaching to
feel through her slick folds again.
"My lord," she whines, going limp on him.
He strokes her back and the red skin of her ass. "Sansa..." he murmurs.
 She relaxes there over his shoulder, breathing hard. 
He pulls her into his lap again and cradles her to his chest. "There, there.."
She rests her head on his breast and pulls her skirt down to cover her legs
again, her whole body wilting from the exhaustion of her first... first
something. "What happened to me?" she asks.
"Which part?"
"You know... you know what I mean, the pleasure."
He pets her hair. "You climaxed."
"Climaxed?" She shuts her eyes. Her face feels stiff from his seed.
He gathers her against him and stands up, cradling her against him like a
child, so he can get a wet cloth from the basin in her room. He uses the warm
cloth to clean himself off of her face.
Sansa's surprised by his strength, soothed by being in his arms, soothed by him
cleaning her off. She wraps her arms around his neck and keeps her eyes closed,
ready to sleep and shut out the world.
He's careful to get it all off and then to rinse her face with clean water.
"Did I wear you out?"
She nods. "Can I rest now, please?"
"I'll put you to bed," he tells her and kisses the top of her head.
She smiles a little, the first time she has done so since he came into her room
and changed everything. He carries her to the bed and lays her down on the soft
mattress. 
She lets go of him to curl up on her side. She is sure she looks a mess, and
anyone who comes in will see what a harlot she really is, but she can't find it
in herself to care terribly. Her feelings for Lord Baelish are softening, full
of comfort and encroaching dreams.
 
He fixes her skirts and wraps her in blankets so no one will see her disarray.
And then he sits beside her for a sort while, stroking her hair and gazing at
her tenderly. "You have such potential," he croons to her, "You'll see yet what
a blessing this is for you." When she's settled and drifting off to sleep, he
rises and leaves wordlessly.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Sansa rose the next morning, rather feeling it had all been a dream. She
dressed and ate and wondered if things were going back to their usual state,
and she would be ignored and sent a little wiser into a marriage she did not
want anymore.

Lord Baelish had risen and dressed early and instructed a maid to let him know
when Lady Sansa called for breakfast. He had plans enough for the day that he
suspected she would like far better than yesterday's. When the maid came to
him, he went directly to Sansa's chambers and knocked.
She answers the door and feels the blood rush to her face as her body remembers
him all over. It was no dream. "Lord Baelish," she says.
"You can call me Petyr," he insists. "May I come in?"
She has a sense he isn't really asking and stands back to let him in. "Petyr,"
she acknowledges.
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him before looking her over,
appraising her.
She feels oddly shy at that. More lessons? "You look very handsome," she says.
He gives her a knowing sort of smile. "And how are you this morning?"
"I thought I was waking from a dream," she sighs. "Are we going to...?"
He runs his fingers through her hair and strokes her cheek. "Not right now."
She inclines her head into his touch somewhat. "Then to what do I owe the
pleasure of your company?"
"I hoped you would join me for a walk."
“Oh, yes, that would be lovely.”
Petyr smiles. “Excellent. As soon as you’ve finished eating, then.”
She looks back at her breakfast of cheese and honeyed peaches with light
pastries and crackers. “Would you like some?”
He looks over the fare and smirks. “I may help myself to your honeyed peach
another time…” She looks puzzled by that and invites him to sit so she can eat.
Petyr sits down with a bit of a flourish with his hands to move the skirt of
his doublet out of his way. “How did you sleep?”
“Soundly,” she says, sitting and taking small bites.
He leans against the arm of his chair and watches her with a genial expression
but with a devilish gleam in his eye.
Sansa looks up at him and her cheeks grow a little rosy. “Yes?”
“I noticed yesterday, but I’m struck by what a glowing beauty you possess,” he
tells her, thinking about the glow of her cheeks after she cums and how he’s
going to wear her out with fucking soon enough.
“Thank you,” she says, “I don’t deserve such kindness.”
“You don’t deserve to hear the truth?”
She smiles and shakes her head. “You aren’t here to give me love lessons?”
“No, I’ll let you rest. You need it.”
Sansa nods. “Thank you.” But why are you here acting like a suitor, she
wonders.
Petyr grins. “Tomorrow we may try something new however.”
“Oh? Is it a surprise?”
“I haven’t quite decided yet.”
“What are your options? Perhaps I could help you decide.”
“Well, I will have to bind you sooner or later…”
“Bind? Like a vow?”
“No…”
“What do you mean by bind?” Sansa presses.
“I mean to tie you up, with rope or sheets.”
She gives him a confused look. “I don’t understand. That is part of
lovemaking?”
“It can be, and I don’t doubt it will occur to His Grace, if it hasn’t
already.”
“…Does that appeal to you?” she asks. All she can picture is a trussed deer.
“There would be a certain appeal in seeing you writhe helplessly against your
bonds as your pleasure became all the more desperate…” he muses.
“Oh…” She suppresses a shiver. “You think Joffrey would like me like that?” she
asks with all the sweetness of a loving bride. Hoping, maybe, to remind him
what these lessons are for.
Petyr smiles sourly, but he knows his assignment. As long as he could make her
forget periodically, all would be well. “Oh, I’m certain His Grace would
delight to have you helpless before him.”
She smiles at him. “Shall we walk?”
He nods and rises from his seat, offering her his arm when she gets up to join
him and they head for the gardens. “What of you, though? Does that stir
anything within you?”
“Should a Lady disclose such things?” she asks uncertainly, taking his arm.
“Certainly, to her tutor,” he answers, then in a lower voice he adds, “To her
lover..”
She looks askance, flushing. After a moment, she turns back to him, leans in
close, and murmurs, “It’s exciting, to be sure.”
He grins and covers her hand with his to give her a soft squeeze. “Good to
know.”
“Though it does make me think of a hunted animal.”
“Like a hare tied at the legs?”
“Yes.”
Petyr chuckles softly. “You may find some appeal in that as well, but there are
other ways to tie you.”
“Will it involve an apple in my mouth like a boar?” she quips.
“Only if you can’t hold that sharp tongue of yours.”
“Is it sharp? At least it isn’t silver like yours,” she purrs.
“You’ll learn to appreciate this silver tongue.”
“How can I possibly when your mouth avoids mine?”
“I’m avoiding you, is that what you think?”
“It is.”
Scowling and affronted, Petyr glances over at her and then pulls her behind a
stone pillar and out of sight so he can pin her up against the red stone and
catch her mouth in a firm, possessive kiss. Sansa resists at first and then
rather melts into it, letting him take her lips. He runs his hands up her waist
and flicks his tongue over her lips, making her gasp and part her lips. He
grazes her lip with his teeth and gropes at her bosom.
“We can’t…” she protests, “Not here.”
Petyr pauses long enough to glare at her warningly and she wilts. She had quite
forgotten that she has no choice as his plaything. Hoping to assuage him, she
cups his cheek softly. “I’m sorry,” she says.
He looks at her coldly and pulls his handkerchief from his pocket, folds it
into a ball, and hisses “Open your mouth.” She looks at him in fear… But
there’s excitement too. She’s frozen like a startled fawn. He presses the
kerchief to her lips and breathes again, “Open. Your. Mouth.” She would learn
to hold her tongue one way or another.
Sansa opens her mouth, trembling, pleading with her eyes for him not to hurt
her. Holding her gaze, Petyr pushes the gag into her mouth and gently closes
her jaw. She whimpers, feeling herself breathing harder, almost heaving.
He presses himself against her, pressing his hips flush with hers
threateningly. “You do not get to complain of my neglect and then reject my
attentions,” he growls in her ear and she nods frantically. Petyr pulls her
skirts up until he can reach under and grope her sweet peach, inhaling the
scent of her neck deeply. She shuts her eyes and feels his clutching fingers
grasp damp smalls. He sighs against her jaw, horribly aroused at how responsive
her body is to him. “You wanton little whore…” he purrs and sucks briefly at a
tender spot on her neck, “You’re enjoying this…”
She whimpers, biting her lip. He rubs her until he’s made a noticeably wet spot
in her drawers. Then he scrapes his teeth down her neck before dropping to his
knees and moving his head beneath her skirt. Her aroma is cloying and sweet and
he nuzzles her crotch as he inhales her slowly. Ever so light, his teeth tease
the fabric and his lips trace the shape of her folds beneath.
Sansa feels her neck and ears and cheeks blush and she gasps through the gag.
She thinks that he must want her humiliated, surely someone will catch them
like this.
Petyr sucks a taste of her sweet honey from the cloth of her drawers and runs
his hands up her thighs before disentangling himself from her skirts and
standing upright again.
He pulls the gag from her mouth with his teeth, his lips brushing hers
momentarily. She’s rosy and panting, braced back on the pillar. “Thank you,”
she breathes, thoroughly put in her place.
“I hope you’ve learned something.” She nods quickly. “Good,” he says and tucks
his kerchief away. That done, he offers her his arm again. “Shall we continue
to the gardens?”
Sansa takes his arm, a bit shaky.
He guides her out of hiding and continues toward the gardens. He’d said no
lessons today but she had rather forced his hand, he hoped she understood that.
She walks with him, forcing her breathing to return to normal. Petyr takes note
and feels a slight swelling of pride. “Good,” he encourages her, “That’s how
it’s done. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.”
She follows his instructions. “Tell me about yourself, my lord. You’re from the
Fingers?”
“That’s so…” She smiles at him. “It wasn’t the most pleasant place to grow.
Living among the Tullys was much more interesting.”
“What was that like?”
“It was exciting,” he says, “I was surrounded by nobility and knights,
beautiful Ladies… What more could a young, starry-eyed boy want?”
“Home,” she says.
He’s quiet a moment. “Perhaps at times…”
“What was my mother like as a girl?”
“Oh, she was lovely. A beauty, sweet and charming.” Sansa delights in hearing
about the Lady mother she misses so dearly and smiles at him. “She and her
sister did treat me rather like a doll, but I’m certain they meant no harm.”
“A doll? How?”
"Yes, they dressed me up and carried me around."
She giggles, pleased to have him share this with her. "How sweet. You must have
been small." He was still small, shorter than her.
"Oh, quite. That's precisely how I received such a clever nickname."
"I don't think it's very clever," she says. "You don't even have little
fingers."
"No, but I am *from* the Fingers," he teases.
"Yes, you come from the Fingers," she says, "and now you're here, with me, Lady
Catelyn's daughter. Now I'm rather your doll."
"You rather are, aren't you? Funny how things turn out that way."
"What do you think my mother would say?" she asks, a little teasingly.
"I'm certain she would have all manner of things to say..."
"How dare you, for one," she says. "Or maybe she would think we make a lovely
couple, seeing us arm in arm."
"Perhaps she would, you do fit nicely on my arm.."
She squeezes his arm, miming affection. "Could we do the lesson today? With the
rope?"
"Why should we? I told you we would do it tomorrow."
"I want to."
"My dear, you'll need a better reason than that."
She sighs and looks around to see if they're alone or being watched. Then,
satisfied, she whispers to him, "Are you not firm in your trousers?"
"I most certainly am."
"Well, it is a lovely day."
He gives her a cool once-over before asking. "Why do you want to?"
"I want to kiss you at my leisure and we would need to be alone for that."
He finds himself smiling. "We certainly would.."
"I used to kiss my friend, Jeyne."
"Jeyne? Really? Tell me about that."
"We would sleep in the same bed and practice for our future husbands." She
wonders if she should be shy about it, but she never saw any harm in such
innocent fun. It wasn't as if they were real kisses.
He feels the heat in his gut growing. "So you'd had some practice before I got
to you."
"A little, yes."
"What do you suppose that image does to my staff?"
"I... I don't know, my lord. They weren't real kisses, it was only play."
"Kisses shared between girls are especially tantalizing, Lady Sansa."
"Oh, I didn't know."
"Now you do. And Sansa, my wretched little minx, you're doing terrible and
wonderful things to my trousers."
She stops to release his arm and smell a rose, mostly so he can't see her
blushing, shocked expression.
He pauses for her, pleased to see his words having an effect on her. He leans
toward her after checking that no one is in the area and murmurs just loud
enough for her to hear, "And I don't doubt your flower will be as rosy as the
one you're smelling soon enough. It is already just as fragrant.
Her eyes flash at him. How dare he... but it thrills her to be spoken to so.
"Is it a flower?" she asks, puzzled. She'd thought it was just a hole covered
with hair.
"Most certainly," he tells her and steps forward to cup the rose in his hand.
His fingers trace the petals gently, with a certain tenderness. "It is just as
delicately petaled and its petals just as soft and vibrant."
"Petals," she says softly, looking at the rose. She looks at him shyly. "Will
you show me?"
"Here? Very well," he obliges before she can correct him and turns the rose's
face toward her. His fingers glide over and between the petals delicately.
"Imagine that these are your cunny lips," he instructs her. "They bloom and
unfold outward to be displayed and they fold together into a peak like so..."
He trails his fingers toward the center of the rose where the petals form a
closely packed nub of a spiral.
"Oh," she says, suddenly breathless, picturing a dripping red rose tucked
between her legs.
He watches her face, pleased. "Understand?"
She nods.
"Good," he purrs.
"Shall we continue our walk?" she asks.
"Yes, let's go on," he coaxes her.
He leads her down a path of roses, deliberately drawing her attention to the
most striking.
Her head is filled with terrible visions of him drinking dew from her red rose,
memories of touching it and feeling it soft as flower petals, and she can
barely manage polite remarks.
He teases her along like this until his staff aches and he can barely keep his
arousal out of his voice. He pulls her into a little alcove hidden by tall rose
bushes and hanging ivy and pulls her against him so she can feel the heat
throbbing in his trousers. "Do you see what you've done to me?" he growls.
"Me?" she says with breathless wonder, instinctively pressing a little with her
hips.
"You," he says again, gripping her hips more tightly and moving her against
him. His breath catches ever so slightly at the friction.
She gasps. Oh, that feels lovely. She's terribly aware of how damp she is.
"You feel it?"
"Yes.."
"You're going to have to take care of that..."
“You mean kiss it?”
"Perhaps, or in some other way."
"Are we going to my room?" she asks.
He strokes her cheek tenderly. "Yes, I believe so."
"We could go to yours," she says.
"We could... The thought doesn't frighten you?"
"It does, but there's less likely to be gossip that way,"
"That's very astute of you."
"So..?"
"My room it is."
She moves to pull away from him and keep walking.
He matches stride with her and takes her directly to his quarters. Sansa
observes her surroundings, letting go of his arm to do so. The room is lushly
furnished with dark wood furniture and luxurious imported fabrics. She goes up
to his desk and examines a small figurine of a bird as Petyr goes to a chest of
drawers and procures a coil of fine, expensive rope.
She glances over at what he's doing and her heart races. "You're really going
to tie me up?"
"Did you think I said that in jest?"
"No... Do you have other women?"
"No."
"Then how is this your expertise?"
He smiles wickedly as he unwinds the coils of rope. "I employ a number of low
born women."
"O-oh..." She stays over by the desk, waiting for him to summon her.
"And my job," he says, stepping toward her, "is to ensure that their customers
experience the exquisite height of intimacy with a woman."
"Which you're doing for Joffrey," she says.
"Exactly. But with an added service to you."
"And what service is that?"
"You won't go unprepared to Joffrey's bed."
"Yes, that... I am grateful for that.”
Petyr loops the rope around one of her wrists and purrs, “As well you should
be.”
“Might I kiss you?” she asks. “If we are lovers.”
He considers the offer for a moment. “Very well.”
She presses her lips to his in a tender kiss, her mouth a little open and
breath sweet and hot. His beard tickles. Petyr pulls fast the knot he’s been
tying around her wrist and yanks her closer, accepting her sweet kiss hungrily.
Sansa's gasp is one of surprise rather than alarm, clutching his shoulder with
her free hand and pushing her tongue into his mouth, tasting mint. He sighs
approvingly and runs his tongue along her own, tasting her sweet mouth. She's a
little too enthusiastic, her eager tongue filling his mouth, flicking with the
tip, swallowing his breath.
Instead of pulling back, he pushes her backwards against the desk and nips at
the tip of her tongue gently before looping the rope around her other hand.
Wondering if what she feels is alarm or arousal, she releases his shoulder and
moans, back against the desk, feeling his firmness press her belly.
He scrapes his teeth over her lip and presses forward. "Sit," he orders.
She shuffles herself onto the desk.
He settles her the way he wants her and then pulls her arms behind her back.
She lets him, looking down at him with kissbitten lips.
Petyr binds her hands securely behind her back and runs his fingers from her
tailbone to the back of her neck once he's done. "Good girl..."
She shifts a little, adjusting her balance and shivering at the touch along her
spine. There it is again, that praise, good girl. She sighs and kisses his lips
as his voice trails off.
He repeats the words, murmuring them against her lips, “Good girl, good girl..”
He drags her hips against him, forcing her legs apart beneath her skirt and
making her cunt nearly dangle off the edge of the desk. He kneads her ass and
gropes her thighs as his cock pines to nestle in the parting of her legs.
Sansa’s breath catches, staggers, her insides are falling, she is letting him
take her marionette strings and she likes it. The rope feels good and alien on
her wrists. His words alone are forcing warmth between her legs. Thank goodness
for the dress.
He pushes her skirts up to feel the skin of her thighs, dragging his nails
lightly over her skin.
"Are you going to... are we going to..."
"Are we going to....what?"
"Make love."
"No, not yet."
"But you will? Before he does?"
"If you can convince me."
"I have to convince you?" she smiles. "You don't want to?"
"Oh, I want you," he purrs and presses himself against her. "But I need to know
you need it."
"I... If you weren't going to have me, what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to have you, but we aren't making love."
“Then.. then what..."
He squeezes her thighs and moves in to kiss her mouth again before murmuring,
"I'm going to taste your blushing rose."
She stammers, "You want to?"
"Desperately."
"Do Ladies let their Lords do such things?"
"You will."
"Petyr... I don't think Joffrey would do this."
"No, but that matters not."
"It doesn't? Isn't that why you're here?"
"It is, but I'm also teaching you to submit."
She licks her lips. "I thought you wanted me to take care of your... problem."
"You will.” He kisses her tenderly and pushes her back a little, moving down
her body to kiss her over her clothes.
"Should I lie down?" she asks, watching him progress down her body.
"You'll want to tilt your hips up."
She does her best to do so, leaning back a little. Petyr hooks his fingers
under her drawers and yanks them down.
Sansa looks down at the top of his head, holding her breath. At least she isn't
gagged this time.
He lets the drawers hang about her ankles and kneels before her, presses her
knees apart. She exhales slowly. How can he want this... how can he want this
desperately... and how can the sight of him sinking to his knees make her feel
so at his mercy? "Have you done this before?"
"What do you think?" he purrs, nuzzling her thigh.
"You wouldn't be so eager to do it if you had, I think," she says.
He looks up at her smugly. "My naive child..."
I'm not your child, she thinks. "Who did you kiss there?"
"No one," he admits.
"Then how do you know you'll like it?"
"Have you ever caught a whiff of a new dish before tasting it and known
immediately you would be having a second portion?"
"Yes... But it doesn't smell good to me."
He takes a deep breath. "It smells delectable to me."
She shivers. "But what if I love it and my husband will never do this?"
"Then you'll have to find a way around that."
“The king will want me to be loyal to him. I should love him.”
He nips at a place high on her thigh. “What’s unknown to him won’t hurt you,”
he purrs.
She flinches. “That’s dangerous.”
“For you?”
“For you, too.”
“A risk I am more than prepared to face.”
“You would risk losing your head.. For this?”
In reply, he holds her gaze, a mischievous gleam in his eye, and covers her
rose with his hot and wanting mouth, running the flat of his tongue up over her
folds.
She yelps, jerking her hips.
He repeats the motion with his tongue and pulls back, pulling at her folds with
his lips.
Sansa keens, falling back on the desk and scattering his papers to the floor.
The papers fall around them and he plunges his tongue deep into her, vibrating
his lips against her. She shakes, flailing her legs and thrusting her hips up
and all sense and thought leaving her as she is penetrated for the first time.
He laps at her, gripping her hips and holding her down as she squirms under his
attentions. She is sweet and hot and he cannot drink enough of her.
She grinds her bare ass into the desk, his tongue only making her wetter, and
gasps and cries until she is breathless and dizzy. Her arms are pinned under
her, wrists tied, and if not for his hands keeping her on the desk she's sure
she would hurt herself from writhing and thrashing. He continues sucking and
licking at her, giving her cunt the kiss of a lifetime and savoring her
thrashing and her noises of desperation.
"Please, oh gods, please," she whines, heat rising low in her belly. It is
depraved, it is sin, it is wet and slurping, it is a man's tongue where it
should not be, and she worries someone will come in, hearing her shouts.
He intends to finish her this way, drinking straight from her virgin spring.
His hand reaches under her to squeeze her buttocks and to pull her more firmly
to him.
Sansa squeezes his head between her closing thighs and feels a sudden warm glow
pulse through her, muscles inside tightening and pulsing, her breaths
quickening, though she's too breathless to do more than moan low. He clasps her
thighs and continues his work, driving her through her peak on his serpent's
tongue. Pleasure turns to agony all too soon as she comes down and he is still
pushing at her with his tongue, licking at too sensitive flesh, making her beg
for mercy. "I can't, it's too much!"
He eases off and caresses her thighs lightly. "What did you think?"
She inhales and exhales with a heavy chest. "It was like... like magic. How did
you know how to do that?"
He grins at her from between her creamy white thighs. "I know a great many
things, dear Sansa."
She finds herself staring at the wetness on his face, making his beard glisten
from when he was buried between her legs. It shocks her all the way through her
being. "You are so kind to teach me," she says.
"I am doing you a great kindness, aren't I?"
"Yes," she says.
He gets to his feet and leans over her to kiss her, not giving her a chance to
refuse.
His lips are wet with her and she cringes but can't get away or push him off.
He runs a hand up her side as he kisses her, licking at her lips and teasing
the tip of her tongue with his own. When he pulls back he's breathing hard and
he pants, "Learn to enjoy that."
"Must I? Even though the King won't..."
"You must," he says sternly.
She licks her lips, obediently tasting it.
“Good.”
Sansa doesn’t love the taste but she tries to smile up at him and he strokes
her hair approvingly and then scoops her up into his arms; she can’t hold onto
him with her hands behind her back, so she leans into him as best she can.
Petyr lays her down on the bed and turns her onto her side so he can untie her
hands. She sighs when she’s put on the bed, wondering if he’s going to lie with
her now, make her beg, then gag her to quiet her when he takes her.
“Sit up,” he tells her, “remove your dress.” She sits up on the bed and unlaces
the back of her dress as best she can without a handmaiden’s help, eventually
lifting it over her head. Her body is of a girl not yet flowered, breasts small
and firm. She covers them with her hands.
“Don’t hide,” he growls, reaching to pull her hands away.
Sansa lets him. He is the first to see her bare like this and she wants to get
under the covers. He traces her breasts with a light touch, gazing at her bare
skin. After a moment, he pushes her back to recline against the pillows. It
chills her where he touches her, and she lets herself be compelled down on the
bed. This is not how she imagined her deflowering. He kisses her again and
begins to tie her hands to the headboard. “I am going to show you something
beautiful.”
“I’ve already seen your sword,” she says, not bothering to struggle at the kiss
or the bondage.
He smiles. “I did not mean my sword.” Though… there is a bulge pressing hot
through his trousers.
She feels it on her belly. “Are you going to undress, too?”
“Not yet,” Petyr tells her and finishes off the bindings on her wrists. He
moves to pull her legs apart to bind her feet to the bed posts. She pulls a
little on the restraints, her chest rising and falling in quicker pace. “Tell
me how you feel.”
Between hard gasps, Sansa says, “Excited.”
“What do you expect?”
“I think you’re about to ravish me,” she says.
“Perhaps…” He secures her feet and gets off the bed to retrieve a hand mirror.
“What do you need a mirror for?”
“I said I would show you something beautiful, did I not?” He lays beside her on
the bed and positions the mirror between her thighs for her to see.
She looks at his eyes, takes a breath and looks down at her reflection. There’s
a little copper hair, but mostly it’s wet and pink and dark, like a folded
tongue. “Is it beautiful?” she asks with doubt.
“Yes. Like a dewy rose.”
She tilts her head. “I don’t see it.”
He splays her lips delicately. “Do you not see the core, the petals?”
Sansa twitches. “I…Yes. Where will my princes come from?”
He circles her opening with his fingertip. “From here.”
“…It doesn’t look big enough.”
“It stretches.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I’m sure you’re right, Lord Baelish.”
Petyr smiles slyly and moves to stroke the nub of her clit lightly. “This is
the bud I told you about…” She jerks, straining her tied limbs, and hoarsely
gasps. “It is most sensitive,” he teases.
“Yes,” she agrees breathily.
He strokes her and slides his fingers down along her folds again. “You’re very
wet,” he tells her, his breath heavy, “And so very tender..”
“Ah- ah-!” Her eyelashes flutter, breath catching, breasts rising as she
swallows an inhale. Is this when he makes her beg? For she can scarcely
breathe, much less speak.
He teases his fingertips at her opening and grins down at her smugly. “I do
believe I see another peak in you…”
“No, I.. Please, I can’t breathe,” she sighs, but she feels her wetness seep
between her spread legs and onto the bed.
“Is it too tender?” he asks, pressing.
“Yes, yes,” she whines.
He strokes, looking for the places that make her squirm. “You must learn to
bear it,” he tells her firmly and rubs her with his palm.
“For what purpose?”
“Because His Grace won’t care that you’re tender or tired,” Petyr hisses.
“Will His Grace make me tired with pleasure?”
“His Grace will make you tired in a great many other ways, but I am doing you a
kindness in teaching you through pleasure.”
“I see. I will try to bear it.”
“Good…” he breathes and thumbs her clit. She clenches her teeth but keeps
looking at the mirror.
“That’s a good girl,” Petyr praises her, working her folds and coaxing her into
writhing under his hand. Sansa twists about, his plaything, and excitement
slowly builds within her again, and she is a thirsty panting bitch hound. He
watches her strain and twist against the ropes, a smug grin growing on his
face. “Do you suppose anyone wonders where you’ve gotten to?” She shakes her
head quickly, panting. “Good. Do you feel it?”
“Feel what?”
He presses harder for a brief moment to see her squirm. “That.”
“Yes,” she grimaces.
Petyr bends over her to kiss her breast as he works her cunt, pulling her
nipple into his mouth to suckle. She shouts her pleasure, jerking her hips as
he forces her back towards ecstasy. The tip of his tongue makes circles over
her nipple and his fingers are gloriously wet with her, making him moan against
her breast.
“When will you make love to me?” she gasps, trickling on his waiting, wanting
fingers. She tries to angle her hips to catch his hold further between her
legs.
“Not today,” Petyr tells her. A string of wetness trails from her breast to his
lip when he lifts his head to speak. Not today, despite how wild she is driving
him with her noises and the undulations of her sweet, tender body.
Moaning, she shakes under him and whispers, “Why?”
“You aren’t ready.”
“How do you know?”
“I know,” is the only explanation he will give her before doubling his efforts.
It is the only explanation he owes her.
Sansa cries out over and over, calling “please!” and thrashing on the
restraints as she fast approaches her peak and finally tumbles over it in
clenched silence, convulsing. He works her through her second peak, his eyes
gleaming as he watches her and his cock achingly hard. Once she’s finished, he
eases her down and gives her a moment to catch her breath.
Sansa rests in her bonds, limbs relaxed as she can manage though stretched, and
gasps for breath, her vision white at the edges and a dull ache between her
legs. Petyr gazes at her, eyeing her heaving chest, leaning against her so she
can feel him. He traces his thumb over her softly parted lips. She flicks her
tongue at it, tasting, and lifts her hips slightly to meet him.
He's amused at the press of her hips. "What do you suppose I want now?"
“I don’t know,” she says.
“I want your mouth again.”
She nods. “You’re going to untie me?”
He shakes his head.
“But…” She tries to loose her hands, but it’s no use.
“But? You don’t need your hands for this.”
“I’m bound… You want me bound?”
“Yes.”
“Please untie me.”
“Why? This is part of your training.”
“What if I choke?” she asks.
“I assure you, I will not let you choke.”
She nods, though reluctant.
He moves to his knees and straddles her chest, looking down at her as he opens
the front of his doublet and casts it aside before then undoing the front of
his trousers.
She parts her lips for him, but she notices a scar at his collarbone.
Petyr notices where her gazes falters and pauses, hand tight on his cock. “What
are you looking at?”
“What happened to you?” she asks.
“Excuse me?”
Sansa stops and shrugs. “Nothing, my lord.”
“No,” he says, taking her chin and making her look up at him. “You had
something to say.”
“Were you hurt?” she asks. “It looks like a scar.”
He gives her a hard look and takes a breath. “That… is an old tale of
recklessness and lost love.”
“Does it still hurt?”
“In more ways than you can know.”
She moves her head to kiss him lightly to let him know it’s all right. “I won’t
hurt you,” she says.
He strokes her hair contemplatively. “I know you won’t.”
“Can I see it?”
“You wish to?”
“I do.”
He purses his lips but moves to undo the front of his shirt slowly, revealing
the black scar that reaches from collarbone to navel over his skin.
She takes it in and feels a swelling of emotion inside. It would be lovely to
wrap her arms around him and comfort his broken heart. But she only says, “I’m
sorry.”
He's touched by her sympathy, it's an unfamiliar feeling. "Do you want to do
something for me?" he asks gently, stroking her cheek. Sansa nods, tilting her
head into his touch. "Open your mouth."
She does so obediently and he moves forward with his staff enough for her to
reach him with her waiting mouth. She rubs the flat of her tongue on his
underside. He groans and his cock throbs against her tongue and Sansa inhales
through her nose hard in an effort not to gag as she sucks him.
He pulls back just enough to ease her gag reflex.
She looks up at him gratefully and resumes licking, her mouth rather full, and
saliva pools against her lower lip, threatening to spill over.
"Show me you enjoy it," he urges her.
She attempts to moan and bobs her head forward, in so doing forcing a dribble
to spill on her chin.
He shudders at the sight of her drool dribbling down her chin, and his cock
aches with pleasure and his arousal. "Good..."
Her hands flex and struggle, wanting to touch him, to clutch his thighs and
bring him closer, but all she can do is kiss, closing her eyes so she can
concentrate.
He watches her face and the strain of her hands. Having her bound like this,
helpless but so yielding before him, makes the work of her mouth all the more
pleasurably intense. He may have to reward her for her efforts even.
Sansa moans around him in what she hopes is a pleasing way, dragging her tongue
along his head. Petyr groans and clutches a fistful of her hair, guiding her
gently as his pleasure builds to be nearly unbearable. His fingers tight in her
hair makes her even more intent on giving him the same treatment he gave her.
He gasps and his breath comes hard. Her mouth is as exquisite as it is
inexperienced and even with a clumsy tongue she drives him mad with pleasure.
His hips jerk hard as he tries to stave off his finish.
Her concern piques when his body starts to wrack about, and she worries about
the end of his climax. It felt and tasted like soap before, and that was only
with a little in her mouth. She opens her eyes and looks up at him, brow
furrowed, but continues to suck obediently.
He sees the concern in her eyes as he jerks toward his finish and takes pity on
her the way she has had on him. Just before he tips over the edge of pleasure
upon her tongue, he pulls back and his ecstasy spills instead on her bare
breasts.
Sansa’s breath catches when he falls hot on her breasts, leaving a gleam there
all thick and milky. “Thank you,” she breathes.
Panting, he rolls off of her to lie beside her for a moment. He squeezes her
thigh tenderly to let her know she did well while he searches for his voice.
Listening to him struggle for breath because of her, she smiles at him, feeling
satisfied. Lovers. They’re lovers. She wants to trust him.
"Good girl," he pants and shifts to kiss her cheek before rising to fetch a
cloth and warm water. Her mouth curves into a sweet smile.
He cleans her up thoroughly before untying her -- washing the sticky wetness
from between her legs and then from her blessed bosom. Once he unbinds her, he
pulls her into his arms and lifts the blankets over them. "You did well," he
breathes into her hair before kissing the top of her head.
Sansa rests in his arms, lying under the covers and stroking his bare chest.
She says nothing, only breathes slowly and presses her small breasts to his
skin.
He strokes her back lightly with his nails, feeling warm and full of a glowing
pride for her. "Are you alright?" he asks.
She nods. "I enjoyed it. You're right; I am a little slut, aren't I?"
"You truly are, it's astounding."
She laughs quietly to herself. It's something that's hers, this hunger for
pleasure, her lust for giving as good as she gets. "And you won't take my
maidenhead until I beg for it?"
"Have I said that?" he muses.
"That was my impression. It seems more like you to simply toss me on your bed
and ravish me."
"And what does that thought do to you?"
“It seems only fitting for a disgraced maiden like me.”
Petyr nuzzles her. “My girl, your disgrace is the beginning of a marvelous
transformation, the likes of which you cannot imagine.” He cups her small
breast and caresses her tender skin.
“If you want a whore so terribly, why not go to a brothel?” She giggles, his
beard tickling.
“I don’t want a simple whore…” he purrs.
“What do you want?”
“I want somebody who will bow before me because that is her place,” he croons,
stroking her nipple with his thumb. “Not because I’ve bought her submission.”
“Are you not training me to submit to the King?”
“If you can submit to one, you can submit to the other…”
She pauses. “And what if I only wish to submit to one?”
“Do you think you are in a position to make such a choice?”
“No… Nor are you in a position to keep me.”
“No….”
She turns over, her back to his chest, so he won’t see her disappointment.
He brushes her long hair aside and kisses the back of her neck. “But that has
never stopped me before.”
She smiles to herself. “I don’t wish to be shared, my lord.”
“We do not always get what we want, little dove, but I will be keeping you.”
***** Chapter 3 *****
As a maid finished changing his bedclothes, Lord Baelish sat at his desk
penning a brief summons -- quite unbothered by the maid's presence. The scrap
of paper was scented with his cologne and when he finished the note and folded
it into an envelope to seal with wax, he left it unsigned. His girl would know
who was calling.
He had had several private lessons with Sansa since he first bound her to his
bed and made her wail under his touch, and with each lesson she became more
pliant, more eager to please his demanding cock. And Petyr couldn't be more
proud of her progress.
Not that Joffrey had noticed, he treated her with the same contempt before his
court no matter how much dignity she wore his bruises with.
The sound of the maid leaving made Petyr look up from his desk and he called
after her, "Wait, come back." When she obeyed and came to stand before him
meekly with her basket of laundry clutched before her, Petyr rose and tucked
the folded note into a decorated paper box. "Deliver this to Lady Sansa," he
commands the maid, "A gift to help her hide the... great stress of her
position. Do you understand?" The maid agreed that she did and he shooed her
out of his chambers promptly so he could prepare.
Sansa brushed out her long hair, covering a purple bruise on the side of her
neck where her tutor had kissed her with too much passion. She turned away from
her mirror as the door opened and accepted with grace the present she knew was
from Lord Baelish, sent through a maid. Her nethers flared with excitement when
she caught the smell of his cologne. Memories of that cologne clinging to her
clothes after he'd been under her skirts. She opened the box and found makeup
and a jar of white salve, as well as a summons to his chamber. As always, she
was at his beck and call, and after she'd spread the lotion on the dark places
on her skin and dabbed herself with makeup, she rose and went to him, tapped
her knuckles on his open door.
Lord Baelish sat at his desk, the very one he had first devoured her cunt on,
and looked up when she knocked. He beckoned her in with a light hand. "Lock it
behind you, if you would."
She comes in, shutting and locking the door behind her and then stood with her
hands clasped, waiting for instructions to obey.
He moves his chair so he's facing her and takes a moment to drink her in. "Come
here," he insists genially holding out a hand to her without rising, "We have
important things to discuss." She walks to him and takes his hand. Petyr draws
her toward him, turning her so he can pull her onto his lap. "Please, have a
seat on my knee." She sits, perching on his knee. He bounces her playfully and
wraps his arms around her waist. "You arrived delightfully quick..."
She laughs. "Is that what you wanted to discuss? My punctuality?" She pecks his
cheek.
"In a sense," he tells her and squeezes her thigh. Her kiss is sweet, innocent;
one would hardly guess at the depravity he was drawing out of her.
"Do tell me," she urges him, subtly rubbing herself on his knee.
He feels her moving against him and lifts his knee slightly to rub against her
with more friction, watching her face for any signs of arousal. "You're
learning *very* quickly," he tells her, "I have all sorts of debauchery to show
you, I need only to decide when.."
Her mouth opens in a delicate 'o' and her eyes are glazed, distracted by her
own pleasure. "Are you going to kiss me down there?" she sighs.
"Is that what you're hoping, dear girl?"
She nods, squeezing her thighs around his knee as she moves her cunny along his
thigh. "You called me here to play, didn't you?"
"I most certainly did," he smiles, gripping her hips and directing her
movements gently.
She giggles with delight. She's learned to enjoy their time together and make
believe that they are simply lovers. He sends her gifts, kisses her sweetly,
holds her when he has spent himself on her breast or on her face-- not yet in
her mouth. But she hasn't yet asked for him to fully possess her in the ways he
wants to. "Harder," she breathes, placing her hands over his, tightening his
hold.
Petyr grins and angles his knee to give her more friction and he pulls her more
firmly down upon his thigh. "Do you think of this as our play time?" he purrs.
"Oh, yes!" she says between gasps.
He pulls her closer and bounces her gently, watching her developing breasts
bounce with her. "My eager, little girl..." he sighs, "I do love to play with
you. Do you like being my plaything?"
"I do like it," she says. "But I... did you want to talk?" She tries to still
herself a bit.
When she tries to still herself, his hands keep her hips rocking softly and he
moves his leg under her. "I did... And you've already distracted me with your
wanton inclinations.." He presses a hot kiss to her neck, letting her feel the
scrape of his teeth.
"Oh!" She lays her arms around his neck and bows her head to his shoulder,
whimpering as he manipulates her movements. "Please tell me what it was.."
Petyr relishes how pliant she is in his lap, how easily her body follows his
direction. He thinks, as he has more and more since taking her on, that he
could easily manipulate her into whatever he wished. His trousers were becoming
tight from the thought combined with her whimpering against him. "I need to
know when I can take you without risking a bastard. Tell me, when did you last
bleed?"
"I..." Her brow furrows with confusion and she sits up. "I haven't bled yet,
Lord Baelish."
He stops very suddenly and sits up, brow creased. "You haven't?"
"No... Not yet."
"Why wasn't I made aware of this?"
"I didn't know you needed to know," she says. "Is that bad?"
Why, she was half a child in more ways than one. His gaze flickers down her
body, her body that he has already seen nearly all of. "I had assumed you were
a fully flowered woman..."
"Am I in trouble?" she asks. "I thought you knew... that's why I'm still
unmarried."
There's a growing throb in his groin that he can neither deny nor ignore. She
was the right age, but unflowered he could know she would not give him a child.
And if she was to be married upon her flowering, well, that added a sense of
urgency to all of their dealings. "Oh, yes, you are in trouble," he purrs and
drags her over his straining manhood, grinding up against her. "Do you see what
trouble you're in?"
She nods, a certain worried solemnity in her pout, and kisses his lips, letting
him push up at her center.
He returns the kiss with a wet hunger and squeezes her buttock. "When you do
bleed, you must tell me immediately, do you understand?"
"Yes," she says. "What will you do?"
"That depends... We may be able to hide it briefly, if the thought appeals to
you."
"If anyone found out we kept that from them..." she says worriedly.
"How would they find out?"
"I don't know, but what if?"
He strokes her thigh. "In the worst case, our heads will end up on pikes
overlooking the walls of the Red Keep. Do you suspect I would allow that to
happen to either of us?"
She shuts her eyes and shudders, remembering... Her father. She had last seen
him alive just before swooning, and when she'd seen him next... "You'll protect
me?" she murmurs.
He pulls her against his chest and envelopes her in a warm hug. "I will, you
know I will."
She tightens her hold around him, head on his shoulder, and tries not to weep,
no longer wanting to play. Trembling.
He nuzzles her and strokes her back soothingly. "What do you know of it?" he
asks. She was naive of so many things, he feared under the tutelage of the
Stark house she would be just as naive of her woman's cycle as she was of her
womanhood.
"Know of what?" she asks dully. He wouldn't let her go back to her room, she
was sure of that. No, he'd make her tumble with him and kiss his cock all while
she relived that horrible day. She clings tighter.
"The cycle your blood takes."
"I don't care."
He pulls back from her and lifts her chin tenderly so he can look into her
eyes. "You miss them," he says gently, looking properly sympathetic. "It's a
terrible thing to lose those you love in such a way."
She nods, her lip wobbling. "I don't... want to think about that," she decides,
though her voice is full of held back tears. "I know I can't have Joffrey's
children while I'm not flowered. I also know I don't want Joffrey to be the
first to have me."
"He won't be, I swear it."
She hugs him again. "Will you teach me something new?"
"Yes," he tells her and strokes her cheek. He looks over her trembling body. "I
believe I have just the thing."
"What is it?"
"I'm going to tend to your body," he tells her and kisses her on the cheek
before rising from the chair, cradling her in his arms.
"That has nothing to do with submission," she says.
"I am teaching you through demonstration."
"Does that mean you're going to submit to me?"
"Only in a sense," he says and lays her down on a plush reclining couch.
She kisses his forehead. "What should I do?"
"Just lay back, relax."
She stretches out.
Petyr steps away to retrieve a scented oil and clean towel. When he returns he
sits at her feet and carefully removes her shoes and then stockings.
"What are you doing?" she asks, bemused, and runs a hand through her hair. He
likes it loose, unbraided. The first time she came to him with her hair done in
the Southern way, he had her take it down.
He pushes her skirts up to bare her legs and pulls one of her feet into his
lap. "Tending to you," he says again and pours a little oil into the palm of
his hand.
"Oh, I thought... This is a little strange," she says.
"Is it? How so?"
"You're holding my bare foot in your lap," she says.
"Is that too intimate a gesture?"
"I've never had someone touch my feet!"
"No? I think you'll soon see what a shame that is." He rubs his hands together
to warm the oil before he begins rubbing her foot, pressing deep to get at the
tightness in her muscles but trying to remain gentle.
She stiffens for a moment at the unfamiliar contact and then moans, rubbing her
body on the lounge, the sensations somehow as deep and rich as his tongue
between her legs. Her hands clutch at her raised skirts.
"I told you," he gloats.
"Is this what you want me to learn? To rub the King's feet?"
"You'll be surprised at how far non-sexual pleasure will please a man. His
Grace hunts often, he will be sore often."
Sansa doesn't relish the thought of rubbing his feet. It will be hard enough to
see him to produce little princes. "I think he would laugh if I suggested it."
"Don't suggest it. Simply do it when he complains of his aches."
"If I rub his feet, will it divert him from wanting me to please him in other
ways?"
"Perhaps, perhaps not...." He continues his work, stretching out and rubbing
her toes. "There is an art to this, for the entire body. Treating him to enough
of it may make him more susceptible to his wine for the evening."
She inhales deeply and flexes her whole body on the exhale. "Will you teach me
how best to please him without... Without loveplay? I'm sure you would know
how," she says.
"I can teach you, yes. But for now, learn by relaxing, feel what this is
supposed to feel like."
She sighs. "It feels lovely. I suppose I'll be practicing on you, won't I?"
"Yes, certainly." Her feet are beautiful, he thinks as he massages first one
and then the other. Her sweet toes under his fingers are rosy and dreadfully
inviting; each time he kneads them he imagines bowing to kiss them in the most
lascivious way.
She smiles at him, pleased and ignorant to the appeal he finds in her feet.
"When would you like me to undress?" she asks, nearly an offer.
"Not just yet," he tells her and begins up her legs, rubbing and drawing at the
tightness until he has to reach beneath her smallclothes.
She squirms. "I don't think that needs massaging," she says.
He laughs softly to himself and moves down her legs again and then holds his
hand out for hers. "Arms next."
She puts her hand in his. "Does this please you?" she asks him, glancing at his
lap.
"Touching your body like this pleases me very much," he purrs.
She lowers her gaze, contemplating. "Petyr..."
"Yes, Sansa?"
"Will you touch me?"
"Of course, where?"
She hesitates, and then sits up, moving close to him, and says in his ear, as
if anybody could be listening, "Inside."
He rubs her hand and smiles at her. "Inside? Already?"
"You've let me wait... I've done it before, but you would do better, I'm sure.
And I didn't put it in all the way."
"You've done it?"
She nods.
He watches her face. "Tell me about it."
"It felt soft inside. And... and wet."
"Did your cunny like it?"
"No, it felt strange and I only put a little bit of my finger in."
Petyr smiles. "I could do it so your cunny loves it."
"Please..."
"Are you asking me to do it now?" He seems amused. Taking up the towel, he rubs
the excess oil from her arms and legs.
"Don't you want to?" she asks, a cloud of doubt and embarrassment in her
countenance.
"Oh, I certainly do, dear girl..."
"I feel ready."
"Do you really?" he asks, cleaning the oil off his hands next. "Do you want me
to break you with my hand?"
"Will it hurt?"
"A little, but not much."
"I want you to."
"Very well..."
"Be gentle," she entreats him.
"Just this once," he teases and leans over her to kiss her mouth.
She nips his upper lip. He lays across her, letting her feel his weight as he
deepens the kiss. She lifts one leg to wrap around his waist. He sighs against
her and wraps his hand under her back to pull her against him.
"Are we going to make love right here?" she asks breathily.
"Would it offend you to?"
She shakes her head, looking up into his eyes. "Not if it pleases you."
He smiles smugly and runs a hand up her thigh to brush his fingers over the nub
of her clit.
She squirms. "Take them off," she says.
He clutches her smalls by the crotch and yanks them down.
Her heart is beating fast and hard, and for the first time today she feels
fear. "I trust you," she says.
"Good," he says, pulling her smallclothes free of her legs and kissing her jaw.
"Are we still playing?" she asks.
He nuzzles her and cups between her legs. "Yes, doesn't this feel like play to
you?"
"No. It feels more serious this time."
"Because I'm taking you?"
"Yes..."
"You'll enjoy it nonetheless."
"Please, my lord, I want you to break me."
He rubs her and nibbles at her jaw. "I will, slowly."
"Oh, why slowly?"
"To decrease the pain." He presses his weight against her and licks at her
lips.
She titters. "You're teasing me, I think. And giving me a chance to change my
mind."
He laughs. "Just kiss me, my Sansa."
She happily complies, kissing him sweetly. He sucks at her lip and rubs her
with one hand while the other strokes her waist and gropes her chest. She
writhes under him, breathing him in, pressing her bosom up into his palm.
"That's it, that's it," he coaxes her, leaning up to nibble her earlobe. His
growing erection presses against her inner thigh.
She reaches down to brush her fingertips over his hardness and kisses his
cheek, touching her tongue to his skin. He murmurs approvingly at her touch,
her kiss, and rewards her by brushing his fingers through her folds.
"Please," she whines.
He sighs heavily against her neck and clutches her breast. "You're enjoying
this... when did you get so wet?"
"When I was on your knee," she says.
He grins, absolutely delighted to hear it. "Are you as eager as you were then?"
he asks, stroking her nipple through her dress.
"Yes, I.. it's your fault I'm so eager now."
"My fault? If I recall, you began rubbing yourself against my knee nearly
immediately."
"Yes, but you introduced me to all this."
He kisses a line up her neck to her jaw. "My dear, I may have introduced you to
it but your lust and your urges were already there."
"Were they?" She gasps with his kisses.
"Oh, most definitely."
"Are you nervous, Lord Baelish?"
"Do I seem nervous?" His fingertips brush her entrance.
"If you weren't, you would have taken me already."
"I want to savor this moment," he breathes to her.
She tilts her hips up and presses, impatient, insistent. She is eager, eager
and craving him. He nips at her collarbone and obliges her, slowly slipping a
single finger into her heat. Sansa stiffens, shutting her eyes tight and
clutching at his arms, her muscles clenching around him like a vise.
He lets out a low groan. "How is it?"
"Oh, it... it... Did you break me yet?"
"No, but I'm in you."
"It's... it's tight," she says.
"Yes..." he agrees, "Deliciously tight.."
She holds her breath, waiting. He moves against her, his hardened staff rubbing
itself against her thigh, and he strokes inside her gently. She throbs around
him, terribly wet, slicking his finger. "Am I yours now?"
"You will always be mine," he tells her as he moves his finger inside her,
stroking against her walls, relishing the throbbing of her virgin cunt.
She looks into his eyes and her lithe body jerks a little beneath him. It isn't
quite pleasure but it's not pain enough to make her cry out. "Not Joffrey's,"
she says.
"Never Joffrey's," he tells her and presses against her lips and clit with the
ball of his hand as he works her.
"Take me," she urges him, her heart leaping at his words. Never Joffrey's.
Never. All she has to do is give all of herself to this man.
Petyr grunts and adds a second finger before pushing deeper into her. She cries
out as she is both stretched and exquisitely shattered, her knees around his
hips, body taut. Tears sting her eyes.
He kisses her eyelids tenderly. "You see?" he pants, "It's done."
"Oh, make it feel good," she pleads.
He kisses her neck to distract her from the pain and rubs her, inside and out,
trying to draw pleasure out of her cunt.
She circles her hips in counterpoint, groaning. "Not Joffrey's," she repeats,
and sighs, "Yours, I'm yours." Slut, whore... she doesn't care what she is, as
long as she isn't Joffrey's.
Petyr grinds against her thigh as he works her, his erection aching. "Yes, you
are mine," he purrs, "My plaything, my slut, my darling little girl to do with
as I please." He scrapes his teeth up along her throat and takes her mouth in a
feverish kiss.
She shudders and loses herself in the kiss, in having him between her legs, and
she gushes around his fingers, wetting his palm and the cushions beneath her.
Petyr groans into the kiss when he feels her coat his hand and he presses
deeper eagerly.
She breaks the kiss. "Make love to me," she whispers. "I need it."
"Prove it."
Sansa snakes her hands between them, to loose his trousers and grasp his cock,
tug it towards her. "I'll do what you want, whatever you want," she urges.
His hand slows in her and his breath comes in harsh gasps as she clutches his
cock. He wants to take her, to make her entirely his. "Whatever I want?" he
coaxes.
"Yes..." She runs her fist along his length.
He kisses her deeply, pulling at her lip with his teeth and reaches between
them to align himself with her. The head of his cock slips into her easily with
how wet she is though she squeezes him tight. Slowly, he pushes himself into
her inch by inch until he is buried in her to the hilt. He exhales heavily and
grips her hip tightly, his other hand clutching at her hair. “I have wanted you
like this for so long…”
Tears roll down her cheeks. He fills her completely, leaving her gasping for
breath. “Is it as you imagined?” she asks.
He kisses her tears away tenderly and strokes her side, stilling himself so she
can adjust to him. “It is so much more, my child…”
“Must you call me a child now?”
“Forgive me,” he says, pressing a wet kiss to her throat. He rocks his hips
against her gently and lets out a groan.
“It hurts, you’re so big,” she whines.
He grinds against her in little circles and with his hand he pushes one of her
thighs down. “Spread your legs, relax them.”
She parts her legs, lowering them from around his waist to lie spread out,
stretching her arms overhead so she is splayed beneath him, naked and sweet
smelling and wet as rain. But still she whimpers.
He rubs her clit and bends his head to her breast to pull her nipple into his
mouth to suckle. Sansa strokes the back of his head and neck, bucks her hips a
little. “I’m yours,” she tells him, her voice strained with the pressure.
Petyr pulls back and moves back into her experimentally a few times, trying to
find an angle that gives her some relief. Sansa gasps and grunts with each
retreat and return, kisses the top of his head, strokes his cheek where it
presses her bosom. His tongue laps at her nipple and he suckles as he moves
against her, panting and grunting and enjoying her noises immensely. The pain
ebbs, and his body rocking back and forth makes intimate noises and aromas,
overwhelming Sansa’s senses. She whines and bucks her hips.
“How does it feel?” he pants.
“Ah! Wonderful. Do you like making love to me? Is it good?”
“It is sublime,” he breathes.
“Tell me,” she says, lifting herself to meet him.
“You’re so deliciously wet,” he grunts, running his hand down her side.
“Is it better than my mouth?”
“It is a hundred-fold better than your mouth.”
She tries to smiles and wracks her thoughts for how to please him. “You can use
your plaything however you may want…”
“Anything?”
Sansa nods.
Petyr kisses her and pulls back. “Turn over,” he tells her and she winces but
turns over to lie on her stomach. He moves her so she can lean against the head
of the couch and parts her legs, rubbing her briefly before pushing into her
again. She shouts, pushing onto him with her backside. Petyr leans over her,
pressing himself against her bare back. He buries his hand in her hair and
holds her against him. “Do you feel you belong to me?” he gasps, moving against
her.
His words make her warm and wet, spreading on her thighs and on the cushion
below her. “Not the King’s?” she bleats, whining and butting into his thrusts.
“Mine,” he growls in her ear.
Whimpering, Sansa shudders and works her body. He will save her, he is the hero
of her stories. A hero who is rutting inside her, taking her hard from behind,
turning her insides into jelly. “Tell me,” she begs.
“You are mine,” he says through his labored breathing, his grunts and groans of
pleasure. “Mine alone before anyone else.” Saying the words pushes him toward
his peak nearly as much as her whining and begging and he ruts hard against
her, her honey soaking the front of his trousers.
“Yours, only yours…” And then the force of his movements flattens her into the
lounge, clinging to the head of it, unable to push back, only taking as much as
she can bear, soft cries leaving her mouth.
He kisses her throat and her back and snakes a hand beneath her to rub her as
he fucks her furiously. With each sound he pushes from her throat, he is taking
her as his own, claiming her and consecrating her to his desires. He jerks hard
against her as he peaks and spills his hot seed inside her. Sansa feels his
cock pumping and then a flood of warmth and she almost laughs with astonished
delight. Never had she imagined that this could feel so good.
He moves against her until his rise trails off. Then he turns her face toward
him and kisses her cheek, his spent cock still inside her and beginning to
soften. “What do you think?”
She smiles, her cheeks glowing and rosy. “I enjoyed it greatly.”
Petyr grins. “Wonderful.”
She slumps into the furniture, aching but safe. He pulls out of her but
continues to lay against her as he catches his breath. His fingers trail
lightly over her bare back. Sansa winces. “Oh, it’s sore..”
“It will be for a short while… I will give you something for the pain.”
“Thank you.” She hesitates, afraid to put a voice to her hopes. “What are we
going to do about Joffrey?”
“We’ll devise something before you are wed to him.”
“You mean it?”
“I do.”
“Thank you.” She lies under him, starting to feel restless.
He sits up and grabs the towel he used on her earlier, folds it under her
crotch. “Sit on this, lover.”
She slowly sits up on the towel, wincing. Her eyes flicker over him, his
flaccid manhood hanging out of his pants, a great wet stain over the front.
“Oh…”
He grins smugly and gestures at the stain. “A token of your pleasure.”
Sansa gawks, flustered and redfaced. “I didn’t mean to.”
“No, it simply happens. And I couldn’t be more pleased.”
“Did I bleed?” she asks.
He shifts to look beneath them at the couch. “Oh yes, you did.” Sansa stops
herself from looking, morbidly curious though she may be. “Don’t you want to
see?” he urges.
“I…” She glances down, sees a smear of red, and quickly looks away. “It’s just
blood,” she says.
Petyr turns her face toward him. “It’s the blood of your maidenhead,” he
corrects her, “of your devotion to me.”
She nods and leans into him. The room carries the scent of their union. “I’m
your girl,” she says.
“You’re my girl,” he agrees and hugs her to him.
Sansa shifts a little and his seed spills from her and onto her thigh, making
her gasp. “Oh!” Embarrassed, she buries her face in his chest.
He strokes her hair, messy from their lovemaking. He’d have to comb it before
she left. “…You ought to make water before too long,” he tells her.
“Why?”
“Girls who don’t get infections, even from the cleanest of men.”
“Oh… Where’s your, um..?”
Petyr directs her and she gets up to use his chamberpot, then comes back to
collect her clothes. In that time he has stripped himself of his trousers and
fetched a bowl of warm water, which he offers to her with a clean cloth. “Would
you like to wash yourself or shall I?”
“I can wash myself,” she says, and cleans her thighs and between rather
gingerly.
He cleans himself off as well and changes into clean underclothes, then picks
up her dress to examine it for stains while Sansa picks up her smalls to slip
them on. This was not as romantic as she’d imagined.
“Come to bed with me,” he tells her, laying her dress over the back of a chair.
“Before you dress.” Sansa slips her smalls on to at least cover that much
before going to his bed and curling up on her side, laying an arm to cover her
breasts. He lays down behind her and draws her back against him, inhaling the
scent of her hair, the scent of their joining. “You did spectacularly,” he
breathes, nuzzling her neck.
“I’m happy that you found me pleasing,” she says. A hundred questions race
through her mind, about the future, about his past, but she doesn’t voice them.
Petyr strokes her skin. “I’m going to take you away from here, to somewhere
safer where you can walk to gardens in peace.”
“Will you take me home? To Winterfell?” she asks, daring to hope.
“Is that what you would like?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then yes, though I don’t know when.”
“Before the wedding?”
“No, but before he touches you.”
“Isn’t that the same?”
“Not necessarily.”
“How?”
“The wedding is just the ceremony.”
“One he will expect me to consummate..”
"We don't concern ourselves with what he will expect."
"And why don't we?"
"People's expectations are often their downfalls, dear Sansa..." He caresses
her hip. "We only cater to them when it serves our own purposes."
"What are you suggesting?" she asks.
"Suggesting?"
"Yes, since you know he'll be after me until I produce an heir."
"By the time you're to be wed," he says carefully, "There will be no need for
you to produce his heir."
She turns over to face him and look into his eyes, puzzled. "Are you going to
find someone else to marry him?"
He shushes her gently. "Don't worry yourself about any of it."
She looks at him with a careful eye and decides to trust him. "Are we lovers
now, truly, or are we only playing?"
"What does it feel like, to you?"
"It could be a game to you, to see how obedient I can be. But I don't know."
"Do you expect I would trick you into such a game?"
"Would you?" she counters.
He smiles, only a little. "Not with someone I'm so fond of."
She gives him a soft, sweet kiss, cheered.
"Are you comforted?" he asks, drawing her to him in a warm embrace.
"Oh, yes," she says, and for a moment, everything is right. She is in the arms
of her protector, and even if she can't go home, at least he will take her away
from here. For a moment, her heart is not heavy, and that is worth the pain
between her legs and the smear of blood left behind.
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