Arranged(7)

He reached the barrier inside of me, jarring against it. He didn’t stop, not at all. He didn’t so much as pause as he hit the barrier he’d paid so dearly for. Swearing roughly, he tore straight through it. The pain was sharp and sudden, a mean pinch deep inside.

Without hesitation, he drove in to the root. It was too much to take. Too hard, too big, too deep. I was stretched to the limit. Beyond it. I squeezed my eyes shut, biting my lip as I worked through my discomfort.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he gritted through his teeth. “I’m not going to last a minute.”

Then he started fucking, pounding into me with relentless, focused precision.

At least he was right. He didn’t last a minute. He cursed as he started to come. I opened my eyes and our startled, raw, vulnerable gazes clashed.

I wished then that I could’ve known him just a bit better before the wedding. Not that any amount of superficial pain would make me regret the whole arrangement, but I just wished we could have warmed up a bit more first. Enough that I could’ve perhaps felt comfortable enough to ask him—not to stop, of course—but perhaps to slow down.

It was mortifying to even think about, but I’d hoped he would in some way seduce me first. I hated myself for looking at it so emotionally, for even thinking something so pathetic, but I couldn’t push the thought away.

Even at the height of the discomfort though, I didn’t consider actually asking for anything like that. That added humiliation would have been far worse to me than the pain. Pain came and went in life. Shame lasted.

One blessing was that it was mercifully quick. He’d been right. He didn’t last a minute. About thirty seconds (I counted) after he fit himself inside me and begun to move with thick, heavy thrusts, he started coming, jerking in and out roughly, his breath hitting my ear with soft, energetic little puffs that quickly devolved into low, rough curses.

I wasn’t at all sure if the curses were directed at me or himself. Neither seemed like a good sign.

He didn’t linger, dragging himself out of and off of me like I’d burned him, or he was afraid that I would trap him in if he hesitated. I sucked in a breath at the brutal rawness of that swift, long, slick pull.

I kept my eyes shut, but I felt him staring at me after, looming over me and watching.

I don’t know if it was the unaccustomed liquor, the hostility I felt from him, or the nerve-wracking debacle of the day all coming to a head, but I suddenly and horrifyingly became quite ill.

Oh shit, I thought in horror as my body turned on me completely.

I almost threw up right there on the bed. It was a very close thing.

I used my last ounce of energy to drag my limp form off the mattress, stumble across the room, stagger into the bathroom, and dive for the toilet.

I didn’t even close the door behind me. I vaguely realized that I was having the most mortifying, graceless moment of my life in front of my new husband as my body started heaving, bile rising up.

This wasn’t what he or his father had paid for, but I had no control over my body as I started retching, emptying out the contents of my stomach.

My marriage had been consummated, and my wedding night couldn’t have gone worse.

I tried to hold my hair back from my face, clear of the vomit, but I quickly gave up even on that. All of my energy reserves were being used to stay upright, aiming the deluge, and holding myself directly over the toilet bowl.

I threw up until there was nothing left, and then I dry heaved for a good long while after that.

When I felt reasonably confident that my stomach was done rebelling, I grabbed my toothbrush, dabbed toothpaste on it, and started brushing. I shrugged and contorted my way out of my delicate teddy with one hand, tearing it to pieces in the process. When I was finally free of it, I walked directly into the shower.

I turned the water to scorching and stood under it. It was burning my skin, but I barely felt it. Somewhere along the course of the night I’d gone a bit numb.

I kept brushing my teeth until I’d gotten the bad taste out of my mouth, and then started in on my hair. I shampooed it three times before it felt clean.

I’d never been so wrung-out-tired in my life, but I stayed under the spray of water and washed every inch of myself, over and over. Each time I thought, this time I’ll feel clean, but it never happened.

Eventually I just sat down on the tile until the water ran cold.

A long time later I shut off the faucet and dragged myself out of the shower.

I wrapped my hair in one towel, and my body in another. I desperately wanted to avoid the bedroom, but I needed sleep, and the bathroom floor just wouldn’t do.

I was relieved to find that at some point he’d at least closed the bathroom door for me.

Hopefully it had been before I’d started throwing up.

I opened the door with dread, not wanting to face him.

I was unutterably relieved to find him gone. I walked on shaky legs over to the huge bed.

I winced when I saw the blood and other fluids staining the spot where we’d lain on the mattress, but I quickly moved on. I wrapped myself in every blanket I could find and curled up on the clean side of the bed.

I don’t even remember trying to fall asleep. My head just touched the pillow, and I was out for the count.

I had no romantic illusions when it came to my husband. Yes, he was handsome and rich, but he was no prince charming. He would never love me. He would never care about me at all.