Page 41 of The Seller

He said the wedding cake would be vanilla.

Dozens of photos later, I am escorted from the little cottage where I got ready and delivered to the chapel. My father is waiting for me, gruff and dark. He says nothing as he takes my hand under his arm.

The walk down the aisle begins and the world goes away. I am still conscious, still walking and talking, but I feel as though I have died. I look over my shoulder just as the chapel doors close behind us, hoping to see a tall, handsome man with dark curling hair and devious eyes behind me, but the path is empty. I sent him away, and now there’s nobody to save me.

The wedding takes place in a series of snapshots. There are voices. Smiles. Camera flashes. There is a man old enough to be my grandfather. Laughter. There is a procession. A priest. There are flowers. A bristly kiss proceeded by an announcement, once which says my name is now Sirios Corelli, that I am the wife of Don Viktor Corelli.

It’s wrong.

It is all so wrong.

The sun screams across the sky and my wedding night falls. We are staying in a hotel of Don Corelli’s choosing. He has allowed me to escape to the bathroom to get out of the dress which so weighed me down, but I can go no further.

“Come out naked,” he shouts to me as I try to think of ways to get out of this. Do I tell him I have my period? That might work, but if he checks and finds out I’m lying, there will no doubt be hell to pay.

I had some vague hope he might be unable to gain an erection, but when I emerge from the bathroom I find him very naked and somewhat erect. His cock is an abomination on his body, a strange protrusion too pale for the rest of him, but it is ready for me.

“I’m tired,” I say, doing my best to shyly avoid his gaze. I am still trying to come to terms with everything that has happened in a matter of hours, and I just can’t.

“You don’t have to do a thing,” he replies, beckoning me closer.

I know what is expected of me, and the weight of that expectation crushes my spirit. My mind is replaying Stavros’ name over and over, calling out to him silently, but he is not coming for me. Not again. Not after I fucked him and sent him away as used as he was going to use me. I wonder if he knows I am married. I doubt it. My father forced the ceremony in a matter of hours, though it was obviously prepared even before he picked me up.

How long did they know where I was?

It doesn’t matter anymore.

Iam now standing nude in front of the man I tried to flee. I don’t know how much my father told Don Corelli. I don’t know if he knows I tried to get out of the marriage. I do know I’m not going to bring the subject up. I still don’t know exactly what Don Corelli looks like naked. I can’t bring myself to actually look at him, acknowledge his existence. If he is real, then this is real and I am in hell. But if I avert my gaze and refuse to truly see his face, then perhaps some part of me will stay safe. Don Corelli is a powerful man. But he’s less sexually dynamic than a kitchen sponge.

“I don’t think I will be very good at this,” I say, trying to make him take pity on me. “I’ve never done it before, and…”

“Don’t worry,” he grunts. “You’ll learn to like it. All my girls do.”

All his girls? He intends to keep seeing his mistresses, of course. He doesn’t truly desire me. I am just a pawn to be claimed for his side of the chess board.

In the very old days, kings used to trade daughters for such ends. That’s supposed to be over in the age of democracy, but like all the old things, it has simply gone underground and is now the domain of men who know that the law is too weak a force to ever truly crush the animal out of mankind.

He grabs hold of me and pushes me over the bed. I flop down without resistance, knowing I should be fighting back, and yet somehow, just… not. I’m going to be fucked by a man I don’t love, a man who has had designs on me my entire life. I should be grateful he has waited past my nineteenth birthday, I suppose, but I don’t feel grateful as his thick hands spread my cheeks and bare the parts of me I don’t want anyone but Stavros to see.

He is my husband. I pledged obedience to him in front of man and god. This is his carnal right, and I know better than to deny it to him. I close my eyes and I think of Stavros as I feel the scratchy swell of his old belly resting against my ass, his cock hard between my thighs.

“Fucking tight,” he grunts to himself. But I’m not tight. I’m dry. There’s a difference. It’s impossible to be aroused under these circumstances. Even Stavros took more time with me when he thought I was just a girl to be sold. He was more gentle, more caring. He wanted to know who I was. Don Corelli thinks he knows who I am, and he doesn’t care if he’s wrong.

“Too fucking tight,” he complains after stubbing his softening cock against my sex for a few half-hearted thrusts. Whatever he took to encourage that erection, it wasn’t enough.

I don’t know what’s worse, having sex with a man I don’t even like, let alone feel any measure of desire for, or having him flop around limply behind me. He doesn’t seem to notice how much he is lacking and keeps jabbing at me, even though he is not remotely close to penetrating me.

“That’s right, you little slut,” Corelli curses at me. “You’ve been waiting for this cock, haven’t you. I’m going to be stuffing this into you day after day until you learn to take it like a good girl.”

His words are filthy. Depraved. Soulless. And kind of stupid.

All I can think of is Stavros. In my mind’s eye, I do my best to pretend that it is him who has me now, but that’s not possible. Stavros would never do this to me. He might cage me, or whip me, but he wouldn’t try to fuck me dry like some kind of sexual moron.

I find myself resting my chin in my hands, elbows propped up on the bed while the old man behind me entertains himself by basically pretending we’re having sex. It feels like a piece of wrinkled plastic is being rubbed against me.

“You like that?”

“Um, yes?”

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