Yellowstone's Dark Wedding

I couldn't stop my mind from drifting back to that godawful day Dad laid it all out for me—the meeting with Mike Johnson that sealed my fate. It was just a week ago, in the dim light of the ranch office, the air thick with cigar smoke and desperation. Dad, John Dutton, sat behind his massive oak desk, his face lined like cracked leather from years of fighting for this land. Across from him was Mike Johnson, the billionaire prick in his crisp suit, smirking like he already owned us. Mike leaned forward, his voice smooth as oil. 'John, the deal's simple. As soon as Jamie marries my son Tim, I'll wipe out every cent of debt on the Yellowstone. But until he learns to obey his new husband, he'll be fed nothing but white bread and water. His duties? Cook, clean, and be available in Tim's bed for the rest of his life. No divorce, John. Jamie belongs to him—lock, stock, and barrel.' Dad's jaw clenched, his knuckles white on the armrests, but he nodded, eyes hollow. 'Agreed,' he muttered, shaking Mike's hand like it burned. That's when the bastard slid over the papers, the fine print spelling out my enslavement. Dad came home that night, tossed a white wedding dress at me, along with stacks of bras, panties, and nightgowns. 'You'll wear women's clothing from now on,' he said, voice breaking just a fraction. 'It's the only way to save the ranch.' I stared at the lace, bile rising, knowing Mike's development firm was circling like vultures, eyeing the land for an airport and ski resort. But Dad didn't know that part—or if he did, he buried it deep.

The wind whipped across the open field on the Yellowstone ranch, carrying the sharp tang of hay and distant horse shit. I stood there in that fucking white wedding dress my father had shoved at me, the lace scratching against my skin like a bad joke. At 47, I felt ridiculous, the skirt billowing around my legs, hiding the panties underneath. My heart hammered in my chest—adopted son turned sacrificial lamb to save the ranch. No choice, no escape. I shifted on my heels, sweat beading under the veil, wondering how the hell I'd ended up here, obedient and trapped.

A sleek black car pulled up, kicking up dust. Out stepped Tim Johnson, 30 years old, tall and built like he owned the world—which he pretty much did now. His suit hugged his broad shoulders, eyes locking on me with a predatory gleam. 'Sorry I'm late,' he said, smirking as he strode up to the altar, some quickie officiant waiting. 'You must be the bride. I'm your groom, Tim Johnson.' His voice was smooth, commanding, sending a shiver down my spine. I swallowed hard, mumbling vows that tasted like ash, my hands trembling as we exchanged rings. Forty-five minutes later, the guy pronounced us husband and wife. Tim grabbed my waist, yanking me close, his mouth crashing onto mine in a deep, bruising kiss. His tongue forced its way in, tasting of mint and dominance, his stubble scraping my chin. My cock twitched unwillingly under the dress as he pulled back, grinning. 'Time to go, wife.'

He dragged me to the car, my skirt hiking up as I stumbled after him. The drive to his apartment on the edge of Bozeman was silent, his hand heavy on my thigh, squeezing through the fabric. We burst through the door, and he shoved me onto the couch, the cushions sinking under my weight. 'Which bedroom is mine?' I asked, voice shaky, hoping for some space in this nightmare.

Tim laughed, low and dark. 'There's only one bedroom. One bed. We're gonna share.' Before I could protest, he scooped me up like I weighed nothing, slinging me over his shoulder. My face burned as the dress rode up, exposing my ass in those panties. He carried me into the bedroom, the air thick with his cologne, and dumped me on the king-sized bed. His hands were rough, unzipping the dress, peeling it off my shoulders, down my arms, until I lay there in just the bra and panties—white lace that made me feel like a whore. 'Look at you,' he growled, eyes raking over my body, my chest heaving. He unhooked the bra, tossing it aside, then hooked his fingers in the panties and yanked them down, my half-hard cock springing free.

I gasped as he grabbed the lube from the nightstand, squirting it cold onto his fingers. 'Spread your legs, Jamie,' he ordered, and I did, submissive instinct kicking in. He shoved two fingers into my ass, twisting, stretching me open. The burn made me groan, my hole clenching around the intrusion. 'That's it, take it for your husband.' He worked me fast, adding a third finger, scissoring until I was slick and panting, my dick leaking pre-cum onto my stomach. Then he stripped, his thick cock bobbing free—eight inches, veined and hard. He slicked himself up, positioned between my thighs, and slammed in.

'Fuck!' I cried out, the stretch tearing a moan from my throat as he buried himself balls-deep in one thrust. His hips snapped forward, pounding my ass relentlessly, the bed creaking under us. Each brutal stroke hit my prostate, sparks shooting through me, forcing unwanted pleasure. 'You're mine now,' he grunted, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, his balls slapping against me. Sweat dripped from his brow onto my chest as he fucked me raw, urgent, claiming every inch. I clawed at the sheets, my body betraying me, cock throbbing as he railed me. 'Gonna fill you up, wife.' With a roar, he came, hot seed flooding my ass, pulsing deep inside. I shuddered, spilling my own load across my abs without a touch, humiliated and spent.

He pulled out, cum leaking from my hole, and slapped my ass. 'Good boy. Now make me a sandwich—one of your duties is cooking.' I stumbled to the kitchen naked, legs shaky, assembling ham and cheese on white bread, the taste of submission bitter on my tongue. As I handed it over, my phone buzzed—Dad's number, but it went to voicemail. Tim smirked, checking his own. 'Everything's on schedule back at the ranch.'

I didn't know what he meant until later, piecing it from the shadows in my mind, but he told me bits as we ate. While I'd been getting fucked, his employees had stormed the ranch house. Dad—John Dutton, the unbreakable patriarch in his 70s—got bound first, ropes biting into his wrists, a gag stuffing his mouth, blindfold over his eyes. My brother Kayce, tough as nails in his 40s, fought but ended up hogtied, dragged kicking. Sister Beth and her husband Rip, nephews, even the cowboys—all gagged, blindfolded, hands zip-tied behind backs. They loaded them onto a private jet like cattle: Dad, Kayce, and young Carter in the guest cabin, strapped to chairs, ropes cinching tight. The rest crammed in the cargo hold, wrists chained overhead, dangling helpless.

Tim finished his sandwich and yanked me back to bed. For three hours, he fucked me nonstop—my mouth first, forcing me to suck his cock clean, gagging on the salty mix of cum and lube. Then he bent me over, pounding my ass again, then flipped me to ride him, my sore hole taking every thrust. I moaned like a slut, body aching, mind fracturing under the assault. Finally, exhausted, he grabbed ropes from the drawer. 'Time to go, pet.' He bound my wrists behind my back, ankles tied loosely for walking, then blindfolded me with a silk scarf. The world went dark as he led me to the car, my cum-streaked body still in just the panties, dress long forgotten.

We drove, the engine humming, his hand groping my crotch through the lace. 'We're heading to the jet, then my yacht—the Jolly Roger. A restored pirate ship. You'll love it.' His voice dripped promise, dark plans unspoken. My heart raced—what about Dad? Kayce? Carter? The blindfold hid my tears, but the ropes bit deeper, binding me to this twisted marriage. As the car sped toward Bozeman airport, I wondered what fresh hell awaited on that ship, my ass still throbbing from his cock, the future a black void of obedience and pain.