Felford draws in a sharp breath. I hope that means he likes what he sees. I’m young. In shape, and I’m bending over for him. What’s not to like? Even he can’t be that fussy.

A hand cups my ass cheek. I shudder. His touch is scalding. It burns through me and ignites my arousal, that was already smoldering thanks to the tea. Lust floods my veins. It pumps through to every part of my body. My cock swells and stiffens. Thank goodness. I need to spill to release my magic. This is a damn good start.

My hand only trembles a little as I pick up my brace from its delicate chain around my neck and place it between my teeth. My hand falls back down to the smooth handle of the rutting stool, and I wait.

The only sound I can hear is the pounding of my heart. It seems to take an age before Felford tugs the plug out of me. My hands tighten on the handles. My teeth bite down on my brace.

This is it. The most important moment of my life. My husband is about to take my body and unleash my magic. I will no longer be an untapped vessel. I will be forever changed. A person who absorbs magic from the world around them and regularly needs to submit to their husband to be emptied.

It is profound. Sacred. I am taking up my position of duty. Yet all I can think about is how I’m about to take my first real cock. Is it going to feel different from a dildo? Will it be better?

Anticipation is making me shake. A handsome man is about to take me. I shouldn’t care for that at all. He is my husband. He deserves my honor and my respect. His looks should not interest me. It is shameful to be so excited by his appearance.

I feel him move behind me. I hate that the rutting stool is designed so that only the very necessary parts of the mage and vessel touch. Damn those prudish ancestors. I’d much prefer to be rolling around a bed in a delightful tangle of limbs.

Something nudges at my entrance. Something blunt, large, and far warmer than a dildo. My breath comes out in a gasp. My teeth clench harder on the brace. I will not disgrace myself by making a noise. A good vessel is a quiet vessel.

Suddenly, a thousand sensations explode through me. My lungs grunt. My hole burns. My guts cramp. I’m stuffed, spread, stretched and filled deep, deep inside. Holy fuck. Felford has rammed right into me. I opened myself up well, shoved lots of oil inside myself and then kept everything prepared with the butt plug. But there is still pain. I must have done something wrong.

Felford groans. A deep, manly groan of pleasure. My toes curl. He likes the feel of me. I am pleasing him.

His enormous cock eases a little way out and then slides back in, nearly forcing another grunt from me. My cock throbs. The heavy fullness feels good. A real cock is more silken than a phallus. Heated too. It feels much, much better. And I adore that I am giving pleasure and not only receiving it.

Felford’s hips pick up a rhythm and he rocks into me. In and out. In and out.

Memories surge. A hundred recollections of bending over for my trainer while he worked me over with a dildo until I spilled. My eyes scrunch up tight. I don’t want to think of that. I want to banish those memories forever.

I learned. I got better. I am not frigid. I know how to relax and let myself go.

I can do this. I will do this. It is my duty. I need to cum so my magic is freed and Felford can take it. And I have to do it soon before he grows frustrated with me.

He is not here to service me. He is here for my magic. Any pleasure is incidental. And should only be his. I am a vessel, my enjoyment needs only be functional. Just enough for me to find my release. Wanting anything more is decadent and greedy. I know this. I know it well.

I must stop wasting time and get on with it. But my peak feels so very far away. Distant enough to make me despair. But I can do this. I have to. It is my duty.

I need to pull up my favorite fantasy and lose myself in it. Picture myself surrounded by warmth. Hands touching me with tenderness and affection. Soft words. Sweet caresses. A languid pace. Gentle lips brushing over my own.

A whispered, ‘I love you,’ in my ear.

My orgasm erupts with the power of Vesuvius. Sudden and overwhelming. Far stronger than anything I have experienced before. I am power and flame. Fire and fury. Destruction and wrath. My magic is pouring out of me. Thick, deadly, unstoppable lava destroying everything in its path.

My thoughts are obliterated. My soul is scattered. My humanity burned away. I am nothing but the raw magic surging from me.

Felford is here. Dark and cold. Ice to my fire. Absorbing my unleashed inferno. Taking it all. Stopping it from destroying the world.

I sob in relief and spin away into the void.

It is done.

I have given my magic to my husband.

I truly am a vessel.

Chapter four

Drew

Ican’t focus on this morning’s newspaper. Or eat a bite of breakfast. I’m brimming with Lucien Mallory’s magic and it is all I can think about. It is thick. Viscous. Blood red and oh, so very potent. It is exhilarating. I feel as if I can take on the world. I’m vibrating with power, and the taste of it on my tongue is going to be addictive. I just know it is. Damn it.

I wish I could remember last night. Any of it. But that blasted tea stole my wits away. Clearly, my wedding night was successful, or else I wouldn’t be sitting here stuffed with Lucien’s magic. But that is all I’ll ever know about my nuptials.

It is a shame. I’ve been looking forward to knowing what prim and proper Lucien Mallory is like in bed. I suspect he is a little fiend. The quiet ones usually are. Now I’m going to have to wait until he is ripe to find out.

My cock twitches in interest, and I grimace. The breakfast table really is not the place. But apparently my libido knows no shame because now my thoughts are recalling the night Lucien used the True Phallus. That was a fun evening indeed. A little disconcerting. But pleasurable, nonetheless. And intriguing. It’s impossible to tell anything about a person from the phantom feel of them wrapped around your cock. But it left me wanting to know more.

I give up on the paper and put it down. Lucien is standing by the table. I bite back my yelp of surprise. Sneaky little shit. Why is he creeping up on me for?

His eyes are fixed demurely down on the floor and he is impeccably dressed. Not one strand of dark hair out of place.

“Good morning, my lord husband,” he says softly.

“Good morning,” I reply automatically.

I watch transfixed as he takes his place across from me, pours himself some tea and begins buttering a piece of toast.

He really is stupidly pretty. All dark hair, delicate features, and, on the rare occasion I’ve seen them, dazzling green eyes. His body is wet dream material too. Slender and graceful. I wonder if he does ballet?

A few months ago, at some society function, I noticed he had started growing his hair out. I have no idea why, but it suits him. Really suits him. And that’s not just my weakness for pretty boys with long hair speaking.

His hair is now long enough to brush along his well-defined jawline. The urge to lean forward and tuck it behind his ear is strong. Is his hair as soft as it looks? Did I run my hands through it last night?

He continues to ignore me. I pick up my coffee and take a sip. Pale winter sunlight is streaming through the windows. It’s far warmer than Lucien Mallory is. Cold. Aloof. Looking down his nose at everyone. I’ve always known he doesn’t think I’m a good enough match for him, but now the deed is done, surely he can make his peace with it? Or is he going to sulk at me for the rest of our lives?

The silence stretches. I sigh. Sulking it is. Old-fashioned fools say a vessel should not speak unless spoken to, but not even Lucien Mallory is that traditional. And he greeted me first. Though he would likely claim that was some exception to the stupid rules.

“Lucien Mallory, are you going to give me the silent treatment for the next sixty years?” I ask.

His entire body tenses. The knife pauses half-way across the bread.

“Lucien Colville, Count Consort Felford,” he says softly.

Fuck. So he is. He is my consort. My vessel. He bears my name now, however strange it sounds.

Even so, being corrected at my own breakfast table is a piss take. My coffee cup hits the saucer a little too forcefully.

Lucien flinches. “My apologies, my lord husband.”

A growl escapes me. Is this how it is going to be? Snide comments quickly followed by sincere seeming apologies? I fucking hate bitchy, passive aggressive shit like that. My mother has it down to a fine art. I’ve been subjected to it more than enough for one lifetime.