All These Roadworks note: The following text is the first part of “Practice Wife For My Brother”, one of five novellas collected in Hazel Grace’s new e-book Family Breeders. If you like what you’re reading, pick up the complete book for only $7.99 USD in the ATR store! (Click here to view.)
In the previous novella from this e-book, “Daddy’s Sick Comforts”, Martha’s sister Sadie had been tasked with providing sexual comfort to their father. Now Martha is given her own duties…
===
Forced to Serve
The morning light streams through the kitchen window, glinting off the worn wooden handle of the whisk I’m using to beat eggs. My muscles ache from milking the cows at dawn, the familiar burn in my arms a constant reminder of my place here on the family farm.
I’m humming an hymn I learned last Sunday, something about grace and salvation, the tune simple enough to match my thoughts.
Something’s been wrong with my older sister, Sadie for weeks. She moves through the farmhouse like a ghost, her eyes downcast, her shoulders slumped as if carrying a secret burden too heavy for her slender frame. Father had pulled her from her usual duties around the barn and fields, citing a need for her “delicate touch” indoors.
I’ve since seen her folding laundry, her fingers moving mechanically, her gaze distant. She isn’t mending fences or tending to the garden or the chicken coops anymore, but she isn’t truly working anymore either. It’s like she’s listless, all of a sudden.
The whisk scrapes against the bottom of the ceramic bowl, a rhythmic counterpoint to the grandfather clock’s steady tick-tock in the hallway.
Father will be down soon, expecting his breakfast. The eggs need to be fluffy, the bacon crisp, the coffee dark and strong.
My stomach’s in knots again.
If I think about it, I’ve been having a bad feeling all morning, but with nothing that seems out of place, and I’d know, cause I checked and double checked everything, I can’t really justify it, so I need to bury it and move on with my chores.
Just as I’m pouring the beaten eggs into the hot cast-iron skillet, I hear a floorboard creak on the second floor.
My breath hitches; it’s too early for anyone else to be stirring.
The sound comes from the hallway just outside Father’s bedroom, not from Sadie’s room or any of my brothers’, so I sneak in a glace.
That’s when I see her.
Sadie slips out from behind Father’s closed door. She’s completely naked, her pale skin flushed a deep pink that spreads from her cheeks down her neck and chest. Her hair is a wild mess, as if someone’s been running their hands through it for hours. She moves quickly, hunched over, her arms crossed over her breasts as she scurries toward her own room.
The sight freezes me in place, and a gasp catches in my throat.
What is going on?
The eggs in the skillet begin to sizzle and brown at the edges, but I can’t move to stir them, I can only stare at the disappearing curve of my sister’s ass, the faint red marks I can just make out on her skin in the dim light of the corridor.
My mind races to understand what I’m seeing.
Father’s bedroom.
Sadie’s flushed, naked body.
The weeks of her being pulled from chores, kept inside.
A wave of nausea rolls through me.
The implications are ugly and sinful, a dark stain on our pious household. We go to church every Sunday, we pray before meals, we live by the Good Book’s teachings. For Father to be… to be using Sadie like that… It’s unthinkable.
Before I can compose myself, before I can even remember the burning eggs, the bedroom door opens again.
Father emerges, fully dressed in his usual work clothes, but there’s a different look about him. His face is stern, as always, but there’s a satisfied set to his jaw that feels new. His eyes scan the hall, and they land directly on me.
I’ve been caught staring.
Fear, sharp and immediate, pierces through my shock. Father’s anger is a fearsome thing, and I’ve just witnessed something I was never meant to see.
“Martha.” His voice is low and dangerous. “What are you doing gaping in the hallway?”
My tongue feels thick in my mouth. “I… I was just… the eggs are burning, Father.”
My excuse sounds flimsy even to my own ears.
He takes a step toward me, his boots thudding on the wooden floor. “Eyes down when you address me. Go find your brother Caleb. Tell him I need him in the sunroom. Now.”
“Yes, Father.” I lower my gaze immediately, my heart hammering against my ribs. I scurry past him, the scent of soap and something musky clinging to him, and escape the house.
Caleb is in the barn, mending a harness, his brow furrowed in concentration. At thirty-two, he’s the oldest, the one who will inherit this farm, the one who carries Father’s expectations. He’s handsome in a severe way, his jaw strong, his shoulders broad from years of hard labor.
“Father wants you in the sunroom,” I say, my voice still shaky.
He looks up, his eyes assessing me for a moment. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” I lie, twisting the hem of my apron. “He just… he sent me to fetch you.”
Caleb nods once, setting down his tools. He wipes his hands on his trousers and stands, his presence filling the small space. I follow him back inside, my steps hesitant, my mind reeling with possibilities.
The sunroom is bright and warm, the morning light flooding through the large windows. Father stands with his back to us, looking out at the fields. When we enter, he turns slowly, his gaze sweeping over Caleb before landing on me.
A shiver runs down my spine.
“Eyes down,” he commands, and I obey instantly, staring at the worn rug at my feet.
“Caleb,” Father begins, his tone measured. “You’re a man now. It’s time you learned the duties of a husband. I’ll find you a proper wife soon, one with good breeding stock, but until then, you need practice.”
My blood runs cold at these words. Practice?
“Martha,” Father says, and my name on his lips feels like a sentence. “She will be your practice wife. She is yours to command, yours to use as you see fit, yours to punish if she disobeys. You can and should fuck her whenever you please, however you please. This will teach you how to handle a woman.”
Humiliation burns through me, so hot and sharp I feel like I might faint. I’m just an object, a tool for Caleb’s education. The tears I’ve been holding back prick at my eyes, but I blink them away. Crying would only disappoint him.
“Understood, Father,” Caleb says, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion.
“Good. She’s got wide hips and big breasts, good for birthing sons. See that she learns her place,” Father says, then turns and leaves the sunroom, the clicking of the door latch echoing in the sudden silence.
I don’t dare look up at Caleb, my gaze still fixed on the faded pattern of the rug. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.
“Well, then,” Caleb finally says, his voice breaking the quiet. “Let’s see what Father’s given me.”
His hands are on me before I can process his words. One grips my upper arm, the other fumbles with the ties of my apron. He rips it off, the strings biting into my skin before snapping free.
“Caleb, please,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Not here. Can’t we… can’t we go to the bedroom?”
He doesn’t answer, his fingers now working on the buttons of my dress. His movements are quick, efficient, and devoid of any tenderness. He’s not undressing a sister; he’s inspecting a piece of livestock.
“Please,” I beg again, trying to cover my chest as my dress falls open. “Someone could walk in.”
My pleas only seem to annoy him. With a rough tug, he pulls my dress down, the fabric pooling at my feet, leaving me in just my thin cotton chemise. The morning air is cool against my skin, raising goosebumps on my arms and thighs.
“You were given an order, Martha,” he says, his tone clipped. “You will obey.”
His hands move to the neckline of my chemise, and with a sharp tear, he rends it down the middle. The fabric parts, exposing my breasts to the bright light of the sunroom. I flinch, my hands flying up to cover myself.
“Move your hands,” he commands.
When I hesitate, he grabs my wrists in one of his large hands and pins them above my head, holding them there with an iron grip. With his free hand, he cups one of my breasts, weighing it in his palm.
“Full,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
His thumb brushes against my nipple, and it hardens instantly, a jolt of something unfamiliar shooting through me.
He releases my breast, only to slide his hand down my stomach, over my belly, and between my legs. His fingers probe at my folds, pushing inside me without warning. I gasp at the intrusion, my body tensing.
“Tight,” he observes, his clinical tone making my cheeks burn with shame.
He withdraws his fingers, holding them up to the light. A thin, glistening coating of my own wetness clings to them. He seems almost surprised by this evidence of my body’s betrayal.
“Please, Caleb,” I plead again, tears now freely streaming down my face. “Don’t do this here.”
His patience snaps. “Enough of your whining. If you can’t control yourself, then I will have to shut you up.”
He releases my wrists, and before I can react, he shoves me to my knees. The floorboards are hard and unforgiving against my kneecaps. His hands go to the front of his trousers, and I watch in horror as he frees himself. His cock is thick and long, the head dark and already glistening with a bead of moisture. It looks impossibly large, and a fresh wave of shame washes over me.
“Open your mouth,” he orders.
I shake my head, my lips pressed together in a tight line.
I can’t do this.
I won’t.
This is much to shameful!
His expression hardens. “I said, open your mouth.”
When I still refuse, he grabs a handful of my hair, forcing my head back. The pain is sharp, and I cry out. That’s all the opening he needs. He thrusts forward, the head of his cock pushing past my lips and filling my mouth.
I gag instantly, my body’s natural reaction to the intrusion. The taste of him is musky and foreign, the texture velvety yet impossibly hard against my tongue. He doesn’t give me time to adjust, doesn’t allow me a moment to breathe.
He holds my head in place and pushes deeper, the tip of him hitting the back of my throat. I choke, my muscles constricting around him as my body tries to expel the foreign object. My eyes water, tears blurring my vision as I stare up at him.
My brother’s jaw is clenched, his eyes narrowed with focus. There’s no anger in his expression, just a grim determination to complete this task Father has set for him. This is a duty to him, I realize, nothing more.
He pulls back slightly, allowing me a desperate gasp for air before pushing in again, even deeper this time. The rhythm is brutal, relentless. With each thrust, my throat protests, my gag reflex triggering violently. Drool escapes my lips, trailing down my chin in shameful rivulets.
My hands, which had been clenched into fists at my sides, now come up to push against his thighs, a feeble attempt to create some space, to lessen the force of his assault. He doesn’t seem to notice or care. His grip on my hair tightens, holding me steady as he uses my mouth for his pleasure.
The sounds coming from me are obscene—wet, choking sounds interspersed with desperate gasps for air. I’ve never felt so violated, so humiliated. Yet, beneath the disgust and fear, something else stirs—a strange, tingling heat that starts deep in my belly and spreads downward.
It’s my body’s betrayal, responding against my will to this rough treatment. The thought sickens me, but the sensation doesn’t stop. Each thrust seems to stoke that fire within me, making me ache in ways I’ve never experienced before.
Caleb’s breathing grows harsher, his movements becoming more erratic. He’s close, I can tell. The knowledge sends a fresh wave of panic through me. What will happen when he… finishes?
With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt in my throat. I feel him pulse, a hot, salty flood erupting from him and coating my tongue and throat. The taste is unexpected—bitter yet somehow compelling. Instinctively, I swallow, my throat contracting around him as I try not to choke.
For a long moment, he stays there, buried deep inside me, his chest heaving with exertion. Then, slowly, he withdraws, pulling his softening cock from my abused mouth.
I gasp for air, my throat raw and aching, my lungs burning as I greedily fill them.
He doesn’t look at me as he tucks himself back into his trousers. Without a word, he turns and walks out of the sunroom, leaving me kneeling on the floor, naked and disheveled.
I stay there for what feels like an eternity, my body trembling with delayed shock and that lingering, shameful heat. My throat feels bruised, my jaw aches, and the taste of him still coats my tongue.
Slowly, I push myself to my feet, my legs unsteady beneath me. My dress and torn chemise lie in a heap on the floor. I pick them up, my fingers fumbling with the fabric as I try to cover myself. The torn chemise is useless, so I pull my dress on, the rough fabric scratching against my sensitized skin.
My reflection in the sunroom window catches my eye. My face is flushed, my lips swollen and red, my hair a tangled mess. I look ravished, used. The sight sends a fresh wave of humiliation through me.
What am I becoming?
===
The story of “Practice Wife for My Brother” continues! You can read the concluding chapters – plus four other complete novellas – by purchasing Family Breeders by Hazel Grace in the All These Roadworks store! (Click here to view.)
===