The following story is a work of fiction set in the format of reality. Any resemblance to real people is entirely coincidental in nature. The events portrayed are not meant to accurately reflect persons in towns, cities, or countries referred to in the story. If sexual scenes involving male to male relationships offend you, then you should not read this story.
Additionally, if you are under 18 years of age, in most states and countries, you are not allowed to read this by law.
Please send feedback to rw4uij@excite.com
The Arranged Marriage
Part 3 of 3
Kazza knocks on the door and tells us it's time for dinner. Issa is sleeping peacefully upon me. I rub him gently to wake him. "Let's eat," I whisper. "I want you to have lots of energy, tonight."
He pulls on his jeans and hands me my speedos, and we take our places at the table.
Suddenly, he jumps up and rummages in the bags and boxes he brought back from his shopping trip.
"This is for you," he tells me, holding out a small box. "It's part of the outfit I bought you for tomorrow, but I want you to have it now."
He's watching expectantly as I open it, and I know I have to control my expression; whatever may be in this box, I have to make him believe I like it.
I'm glad I was prepared. The box opens to reveal a pearl necklace, doubtless hugely expensive, but something only a woman could ever wear.
"It's beautiful," I gasp, holding it to my neck.
"I knew you'd like it. Let me put it on you." He fumbles behind my neck with the catch. "It's because you're so tanned from swimming all the time," he says. "I knew pearls would suit you."
I swallow heavily. "Let's go next door so I can see it in the mirror!" I say, hoping he can't see my disgust.
Three strings of pearls, translucent and white against my tan. . . Issa's been combing my hair into a center parting, and the lip salve makes my lips shine as if I'm wearing lipstick. I smile happily at him, but inside I'm screaming.
"I'm going to keep you tanned," he informs me, "when I take you home. You will swim naked, so you will be tanned all over. And you will grow your hair longer, especially at the front, so it strokes me when you are making love to me with your mouth."
Kazza has finished serving the meal by the time we get back. The brothers are having lamb -- my favorite.
"Oh! Fish!" I announce as I look at my own plate. "How lovely."
After we've eaten -- I'm learning to eat slowly so I don't finish too much before the others -- Kazza gets serious.
"Listen up, guys. Tomorrow's the big day, the reception. Loads of people have flown over, and everything has to go right. First thing tomorrow, they're moving some of the furniture out of here and bringing in more tables. The caterers will be here early -- they've got to set up the wedding buffet, put out all the glasses and plates and all that.
"You two have to be up early; I want you showered and dressed by nine."
He looks at me. "Ever been to a wedding reception, Ritchie?" I shake my head. "Didn't think so. Here's how it goes. The bride and groom have to receive all the guests -- there'll be a line of people waiting to meet the new bride, and I have to introduce you, one by one. Then there will be toasts and speeches, and everyone stands around drinking for ages. You two only drink lemonade, OK? You're innocent young lovers, and you don't get drunk. After everyone's gone you can have a drink. At the end, you cut the cake, and everyone gets a slice. You smile for all the photographers."
He glares at Issa. "You will be polite to your elders." Then at me. "You will be demure. If you aren't looking at your husband, you look at the floor."
Then he smiles. "But no one minds if you show them how much you're in love with each other. No groping and no necking, of course, but you're together, hand in hand, arm in arm, all the time."
Kazza looks at us. "Tomorrow you must do as I tell you, OK?" We both agree. "Very well! Off you go then. You'll want an early night, as you must be up early tomorrow. . . Unless, Issa, you want to watch your video first. . . "
Issa looks at his brother. "I don't need my video any more."
It's 8:30 and I'm toweling myself down, having already dried Issa off, when suddenly there's a wail from the bedroom.
I rush out to see what's happened.
"Noooooo!" he shouts. "I'm not wearing it. I'm not!!!"
Issa's face is twisted in anger, his fists bunched up and his nostrils flared. Kazza is standing by the double doors, furious. "You wear what you're told to wear! I told you yesterday -- and you promised -- you do what I tell you today! Get dressed!"
"I'm not wearing my school uniform! I'm not!"
For a moment, I'm transfixed by the scene. Here I am, on the morning of my wedding reception, in which I am to be the demure and loving bride with my shaved legs and pearl necklace, and my 13-year-old husband, who's been raping my ass four or five times a night for the last week, is having a schoolboy tantrum.
I think Kazza is ready to beat the boy. "Do what you're told!" he shouts.
"Never!" the boy shouts back.
"Come on," I say, as calmly as possible. "Let me deal with this."
Kazza stares at me.
"Go on!" I tell him. "Get back out there and get things set up. I'll sort this out."
Issa turns to me as Kazza leaves. "I won't wear it! I won't!"
"What's wrong with it, anyway," I ask. "I've never seen it. What's it like?"
"It's horrid!" he pouts.
"Is this it?" I ask, going over to the pile of clothes on the bed. "Oh! It's one of those sailor-boy things is it?"
Issa's crying.
"Come on, my love," I whisper, hugging him. "It's only for a day. I guess you have to wear it to school, so why can't you wear it today?"
"It's my wedding reception, and they want me to look like a child. I'm not a child!"
"Issa, no one knows that better than I do. Most definitely not a child."
His tears are subsiding a bit.
"Look. Let me help you put it on."
"I don't need someone to put my clothes on," he sulks. "I'm not a baby!"
"Of course you aren't," I whisper. "But I know how much I enjoyed taking your clothes off, yesterday. . . and then how much I enjoyed what we did after that. . . " He's calmed down a bit. "So, if you'd let me help you put it on now, I can look forward to taking it all back off again tonight. . . I'll have something to look forward to all day. . . "
He considers me for a moment. "You'd look forward to that?"
"Yes, Issa. I'd really look forward to that. I like touching you. I'd enjoy helping you dress."
"OK." He sniffs. "You have to do the shirt first."
Eventually he's dressed. The shirt is a sleeveless sailor-boy thing with navy-blue collars and a crest on the breast pocket. He has to wear white socks that scarcely cover his ankles, and shiny black shoes. As I tie the shoelaces, I realize how beautiful his long thin black legs are.
The problem is the shorts. They're pencil-thin and only reach down an inch below his crutch. Trying to force his cock inside them and button them up is almost impossible.
I stand back to look at him. It's something an 8-year-old might wear, but that huge, tumescent bulge in the groin is just plain obscene.
"I have to wear a cap," he sobs. I can't see it anywhere, but he points to where he threw it in his tantrum. Blue and white stripes with a floppy white tassel on top... Poor boy! "There," I smile. "Now I can spend all day planning how to undress you tonight. That's the only thing that will get me through the day."
He strokes my hair -- he spends so much time combing it that it's become really silky now. "Thanks, Ritchie."
I realize he called me by my name, for the first time, and my heart leaps.
"Oh no!" he gasps. "Look at the time! And I haven't given you your outfit yet."
Suddenly I feel real fear. What can he have chosen for me? I have a sudden dread it'll be a full bridal gown.
There's a box on the bed, and he indicates for me to open it.
Nervous fingers scarcely manage to untie the ribbons. I lift the lid, but he's there, excited and enthusiastic, pulling something white out of the box to hold up against me.
After what just happened, I know the last thing I can do is throw a tantrum of my own.
I think I've seen pro-wrestlers wearing things like this: it has loops that go over the shoulders; it clings tightly to my buttocks, but the sides are cut away revealing my legs right up to the hip. At the front, it barely covers my groin, leaving my chest completely exposed, but the entire back is cut away, and as I climb into it I can feel the air on the top half of my asscrack.
"I think it's a bit small for me," I suggest, but he stands back and nods his head.
"I chose it because it reminds me of the video -- you know, the speedos -- but I wanted something in white, because you're the bride, and brides wear white. Now you're shaving your legs you look so much better! And I'll be able to see your nipples all the time; I know how to make you enjoy it when we make love. It's perfect, Ritchie, isn't it?"
He looks so proud, so happy; he draws me to the dressing table, and as I sit down the material stretches against me.
"Now the pearls," he smiles, and fixes the necklace around my neck. Then he starts combing my hair. "Did I tell you I love your hair?" he croons. "I love all of you, Ritchie, everything. But especially I love your hair." He walks back to the box on the bed and returns with a delicate orchid, which he pins to my hair over one ear.
He stands me up and we look at ourselves, side by side in the full-length mirrors. Oh God! What a pair we make.
That's how Kazza finds us. He takes a deep breath. "You look good together," he says, his eyes shining. "Ritchie, here's some new lip-salve for you." He fishes into the pocket of his tuxedo -- how fine he looks. "Just a touch of red, to bring out your complexion," he smiles, and watches as I apply it. "I'll keep it in my pocket," he says. "You'll need more later"
He looks us over.
"Perfect! You guys all happy now?"
"We're in love, and we don't care what anyone thinks," Issa states belligerently.
Kazza looks at me, questioningly. "Like he said," I gulp, "we're in love. . . "
I'm standing next to Issa in his sailor-boy outfit as a line of guests forms. The guys from the Cathedral are there, videoing everything.
Kazza, in control as ever, introduces the first guest.
"My elder brother," he tells me. A tall African man in a long multi-colored robe is standing there. He shakes Issa by the hand and congratulates him.
"Father sends his apologies that he couldn't come, but his wife is expecting any day now; however, he sent a gift," and he places a flat box on a table.
Then he comes and stands in front of me.
"May I kiss the bride?" he asks, glancing at Issa, but it's Kazza's approval he seeks.
"Of course you can," Kazza smiles. "It's a wedding reception."
The man grabs the back of my neck and pulls me up towards him, lifting me off my feet in his strength. I smell the urgency on his breath, and then his tongue penetrates my mouth as his fingers grope into the cleft of my asscheeks.
It seems like a long time before he puts me down. "My Father will like you, when you meet," he tells me, and then he moves on.
"Another of my brothers," Kazza states, and again I'm lifted up by a man in colorful robes, my mouth pressed against the black lips of the next guest, my ass invaded by more searching fingers.
"Another brother," Kazza continues, and yet another tall black guy lifts me to him and lets me taste his tongue while his fingers intrude on me.
As the line of guests moves on, I'm worried how Issa is taking this, and glance at him. In his sailor-suit, he looks so child-like; it seems crazy to me that a boy like that could be jealous to see me being kissed by so many strangers, but as their fingers encroach on me I'm getting increasingly aroused, and the skimpy outfit I'm wearing can't hide anything.
The moment there's a chance, I whisper: "I'm so looking forward to tonight, Issa!" and I see him relax again. "You look so good," I tell him, and he stands straighter, tall and possessive, and despite his ridiculous outfit, I realize he does look good. And then the next of Kazza's brothers is asking if he might kiss the bride, and this one has huge fingers, and his invasion takes my breath away.
Eventually, all the guests have been introduced and are standing around talking.
"You didn't tell me all the guests would kiss the bride," I say.
Kazza laughs. "I wanted it to be spontaneous."
"All the guests except you," I continue.
Kazza looks at Issa, for a long time. "May I kiss the bride?" he asks formally.
His fingers are trembling as he touches the back of my neck, his breath rasping and irregular. As our lips touch, I hear a little sigh of passion.
"Thank you, Issa," he says afterwards. "You're the luckiest man alive."
Then he's back in charge again, clapping his hands.
"It's time for everyone to take their seats," he announces. He turns to us: "The bride and groom will sit here," he says, pointing to a pair of formal chairs.
"Now," he continues, "we shall watch the video of the wedding."
I must admit, the guys did a good job on the video. There's no trace of any hesitation on my part, or nerves on Issa's. It all looks so loving, and the moment when Issa and I fall to our knees to look for the ring it does, actually, look like we're in love.
Sitting side by side, watching our wedding, our hands reach out for each other.
When it's over, the guests all move off to get their food, but we still sit there, hand in hand, staring at the blank TV screen.
"Your orchid got crushed," he says after a while.
"You have so many brothers," I reply, my hand clinging to him. Then, after a long silence, "I'm not sure the pearls suit me,"
"You're right," he says. "I think a gold chain; much better."
"Yup," I agree. "Gold would be better." There's another long silence.
"Gold would look good on you, too."
"I never had any jewelry," he says.
"I haven't got any money," I tell him, suddenly wishing I had. "Maybe we could ask Kazza to trade in the pearls and get some gold chains instead?"
"You love Kazza, don't you?" he asks me.
"Not as much as I love you," I tell him.
He looks at me for a long time. "Then we'll get Kazza to sell the pearls and buy matching gold chains instead," he states. "Kazza will do whatever we tell him."
The guests are all eating, and eventually Issa and I walk over to the buffet, hand in hand. Issa's brothers take him away fro me and start talking to him in French.
As I eat, I feel eyes watching me and look up. Kazza is standing by me.
"Good boy, Ritchie," he says. "You didn't choose any meat. The sign of an obedient wife."
I look around at the guests, all happily eating and drinking.
"How long does this go on?"
"Oh, into the evening, I should think."
"Kazza. . . I've got a problem."
"What's up, Ritchie?"
"It's. . . it's sort of personal. . . "
"Go on, you can tell me."
"You see, Kazza, ever since. . . since the wedding day. . . You see. . . "
I can't find the words, but he nods encouragingly, as if he was expecting this.
"You see, every night, he makes love to me, and then when he's done he goes to sleep, and. . . he's still inside me, you know? Then, apart from when we're in the bath, or eating, he's been making love to me; and he's inside me. . . This is the longest that we've been, you know. . . separate; and. . . I can't explain it, but I need. . . I need him inside me. . . now. . . I can't wait till tonight. I need it now!"
Kazza's eyes are gleaming. "You love your husband so much, you can't last till evening without making love?"
"I can't explain it, Kazza. I'm so empty; I need him inside me."
"I shall inform your husband what the problem is," he announces, and walks off.
He returns with Issa.
"You were right, Kazza," the boy says, excitedly. "You said by the time of the reception my wife would be in love with me."
"That's right, Issa It's like I told you: the more you make love to your wife, the more your wife loves you. And now, because you have made love so passionately and so often, your wife has grown to love you. . ."
I hate it that they stand there discussing me like an object, but all the time the need is growing -- I feel so empty, I need him, I need him. . .
Kazza continues. "He's learned to 'love, honor and obey you; submit to you and serve you,' just like the wedding vow says. It's true, Ritchie, isn't it?"
He turns to me for confirmation, and however much I want to scream and swear and escape, I know he's right. I need to be with my husband, I need to be full of him and be complete.
"So now, it's up to you, Issa. If you tell your wife to wait until tonight, your wife will obey. And if you wish to make love with your wife now, your wife will obey that, too. That's right, isn't it, Ritchie?"
I agree, in resignation.
"You remember everything I told you about the reception, Issa?" The boy nods. "Then, you must make the decision."
Issa holds my hands, smiling. "We shall make love now."
"Thank you, Issa," I say.
Then Kazza is clanging a spoon against his glass to attract everyone's attention.
"Gentlemen," he begins. "I know you only briefly made the acquaintance of Issa's bride, Ritchie, when you arrived." He places one hand on my shoulder, and the other on Issa's. "There is no one here to make speeches on behalf of the blushing bride, but I want to tell you all that I am certain Ritchie will be a good and obedient wife to our little brother, and that he loves Issa very deeply." Everyone applauds.
"And now -- and I know this is a moment many of you have been waiting for -- Ritchie has asked to be allowed to give everyone a demonstration of how much he loves his husband!"
"No, Kazza, no!" I moan.
"So, gentlemen, if you would like to refill your glasses, it is time to adjourn to the bridal chamber."
Issa takes my hand tightly. He has to drag me across to the double doors into the bedroom. The wedding guests form a semicircle around us.
"First we will kiss, and then you will remove your clothes," Issa tells me in a low voice as he holds me by the shoulders.
I'm horrified to see the video cameras. "Please, not on video," I beg.
"I insisted," Issa tells me. "We will watch the video many times in the future, while you are making love to me with your mouth."
And then he clasps his hand against the back of my neck, and I surrender into his kiss, my hands desperately clinging to his shoulders.
The African men all applaud when I stand naked and erect before my husband.
I expected him to undress as well, but he just sits on the side of the bed, and I realize I have to keep the promise I made this morning, in front of all these people.
"Shoes first," I tell myself. I kneel before him. I place his right foot on my knee as I kneel, and untie the laces. When I've taken the shoe off, I lift his left foot, place it on my knee, and remove the other shoe.
Next, it's the socks, and then I kiss him from his toes to his thighs.
I kneel between his legs and reach up. The sailor-boy shirt with its ridiculous epaulets is next, and he sits there, tall and proud, as my tongue makes love to his chest. Then I reach for the belt of his shorts.
The watching guests are talking together in French; I guess this was unexpected. I release his flies, and pull the shorts off him.
Kneeling in front of him like this, he seems even more huge and grotesque, even than he did on our wedding night. But today, it is the little boy who threw a tantrum this morning that I worship with my tongue; I promised him I'd make love to him this way, and I have to keep my word, give him the pleasures I promised. In my dreams, if this was Kazza, my tongue would be worshipping him; so my tongue must worship Issa.
I lick his balls, kneeling in front of him, until he strokes my neck to tell me he is ready; I'm happy to surrender to his control.
I rise up to lick his head, and force myself down upon him. I hear, somewhere in the distance, deep voices speaking French, and I know my display of devotion is being appreciated. I start to suck, my eyes feasting on Issa's body.
From here, it's up to Issa.
The strange urge that's been building inside me, the feeling of emptiness and the need to have that emptiness filled, is becoming more and more intense. Although I'm touching him, licking and sucking him, still he is not inside me, and my need is getting greater.
"Make love to me," I whisper, looking up at him.
Issa seems happy to let my mouth prove my devotion to him, but I need more.
"Please, make love to me! Issa, please!"
He doesn't need to speak -- I know his mood well enough by now. I shall have to take him deeper into my throat, deeper than before, before he will make love to me.
With one hand I hold him, willing myself to open wider and wider to let him down my throat, but now my other hand is hovering there, by my butt, wanting to force my fingers inside myself as I beg him to fill me, make me complete.
"Please!" I moan as I gasp for breath; "Please, make love to me!"
He pulls my hand away from my butt -- I know it's not for me to satisfy myself; that is my husband's job. He pushes my head down, and I haven't the right to protest any more.
"Please make love to me, Issa," I gasp, but he pushes me down again, further, until I can't breathe.
When he lets me come up for air, I'm begging. "Please, please; I need you to make love to me. I need it. . . Please, Issa, please. . ."
I suppose he waited until his brothers had all seen how desperately I needed him before he was prepared to relent, but eventually he takes my chin in his hand and pulls me away.
The jar of grease is waiting, and I've learned to play my part. I'm surprised, when he lifts me onto the bed, that he wants me on my hands and knees, but his firm grip on my hair is reassuring as he enters me.
I remember that first night, how long it took before he was implanted to the root, but now he can force me to open to him more quickly, and I let out a great gasp of devotion as he plunges forward.
There's a renewed rustling of appreciation from the spectators as my tears start to fall; Issa's grip on my hair holds my face up for all to see, but the tears are not of humiliation, just pain.
He likes it best when I'm on all-fours, and he can go at me like this for hours, without having to worry about satisfying me. But today he releases me soon, and turns me over beneath him. As he buries himself in me again, my legs dangling around his shoulders, I catch his eye. I understand: this isn't for him now, or for me; it's for his guests, and today, we will get it right.
I feel him getting close, and then his fingers are working me, and he leans forward to kiss me as he strives. But I love him so much, and as I feel his urgency I give myself to him. He cums only a few moments after I do, our bodies plastered with my lust for him, and he holds himself there, in his moment of triumph, and all his brothers can see his victory and applaud enthusiastically.
And then he falls upon me, and I hear him, whispering in my ear, telling me there was never a more devoted wife, nor a more virile husband, nor a more perfect marriage; and I agree, from the bottom of my heart.
I hear the wedding guests applauding, wildly; I hear Kazza, somewhere in the distance, shout "To the bride and groom," and I hear the clinking of the glasses. But all I'm really conscious of is that Issa is inside of me, and that I am complete.
"I need you," I whisper, "I need you to make love to me. Promise me you'll always make love to me; promise me. . . "
He twists around to look at me. "You're my wife," he states, flatly, but he smiles.
Kazza ushers the guests away, refilling their glasses, and then bustles into the bedroom.
"Go and wipe yourselves down, boys!"
Issa climbs off me.
"Hurry! The reception isn't over yet; get moving!"
Issa takes my hand and we walk into the bathroom -- of course, it's my job to clean him up.
When we get back, Kazza turns to Issa.
"And now, my little brother, I can give you your wedding gift from Father."
He points to the bed, where the box the first of the wedding guests brought is now lying.
"For you, Issa!"
I'm forgotten, as the brothers move toward the box.
This is the first time since the Cathedral that escape would be possible. I'd have to find clothes, but I could slip, unnoticed, from the room; I could get through the reception room -- they're all too busy, drinking champagne and telling each other in French how masterfully Issa fucked me. I could get away from them all, and no one would notice.
But. . . I want to know what's in the box. I want to see Issa's wedding present.
Issa opens the box, and pulls out a brightly colored robe, like the robes all the guests are wearing, and lets out a hoot of happiness. Kazza helps him into it, and then he stands there, my husband, a picture of manhood.
He looks at me. "I'm not a child any more! I'm married, and I'm a man."
I'm glad I stayed.
Kazza points to the pile of school uniform on the floor. "Maybe you'd like to wear this, Ritchie; it should fit. Although if you'd prefer your wedding gown, I'm sure none of the guests would mind."
As I button up the sailor-boy shirt and pull on the tiny shorts, I guess it's appropriate. My husband is a man now. Already, in his robes, he looks taller, stronger. He is a man, but I am not. I lace up the shiny shoes.
"You're forgetting your cap," Kazza says, his fingers in my hair as he places it on my head.
Issa gasps. "You're crying, Kazza!"
He forces a smile. "I'm just so happy to see you become a man, my brother, and to have watched how readily your wife submits to you."
"Hurry, Issa," Kazza shouts. "Finish packing -- we're late. If you love birds could have dragged yourself from bed a little earlier this morning we wouldn't be in such a rush"
Evidently, now the reception is done, it is time to leave.
"Here, Ritchie," Kazza says, passing me a bag with the hotel's logo on it. "I had everything laundered."
I haven't been allowed to wear anything but speedos all week, and I finger my old clothes for a while.
I feel Kazza's hand on my speedos. "I guess you'd better keep these on; your briefs were torn." His hand lingers there just a little too long.
"I should have enjoyed exploring your fantasies with you," he tells me quietly.
"What will happen to you, when you go back to your country, to your wife?" I ask him.
"I will make love to my wife, and make my wife feel loved." He glances at the bedroom, but Issa is still busy. "As for me, I will just have to watch my video, I guess." His shoulders sag, and I feel his total sadness. "But I won't let my wife see it. I couldn't hurt my wife that way."
"Is it always like this, getting hurt this way?"
"Maybe. . . We each choose for our brother the wife we would have chosen for ourselves; maybe it is always so."
As I dress, Kazza busies himself filling another case with the wedding presents the guests brought for Issa yesterday, while Issa carries a suitcase from the bedroom.
"I brought this for you; you will wear it sometimes," says Issa, holding out a bag. In addition to the white slip I wore yesterday, I see it contains the school uniform.
Issa strokes my hair for a moment, now looking so manly in his robes, and we take a last glance at the bridal suite. Then he kisses me formally. "We have all learned a lot in this room."
"Come along," Kazza urges. "Time to go. Ritchie: carry the cases."
As I follow them outside the hotel, I see the limo waiting, and one of the video guys climbs out of the driver's seat to open the door.
"We will all fly back to Africa," says Kazza. "My father's plane is waiting for us at the airport."
He stands silently, resplendent in his robes, with his brother by his side.
Then he points along the pavement. The second video guy is holding the door of another car.
"He will drive you home, to your apartment," says Kazza, "if that is your wish."
Issa holds his brother's hand as they stare at me, biting his lip nervously.
I look at the second car, suddenly lost.
"Home," I say.
Issa shudders slightly.
"Home? My home is by my husband's side," I look at him, "if you still want me to be your wife."
His handsome face relaxes into the happiest smile.
"I do," he says.