The Morning Wood Tree

The Morning Wood Tree SIGGY SHADE Copyright © 2023 by Siggy Shade All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Contents Trigger Warnings Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Epilogue About the Author Also by Siggy Shade Trigger Warnings The Morning Wood Tree contains the following content warnings: Abduction Anal sex Blood drinking (menstrual) Bondage Dendrophobia (tree phobia) Double penetration Double vaginal penetration Enema Figging Forced feeding Forced lactation Forced marriage Forced pregnancy Imprisonment Nipple bondage Lactation kink Male pregnancy Menstruation play Nasophilia (nose sex) Orgasm denial Period sex Perverted old grandpa Pinnochio kink Spanking Water sports To everyone who can’t get enough of that sweet, sweet morning wood. Chapter One It’s probably a bullshit old wives’ tale, but I read somewhere online that it’s bad luck to get your period on your wedding day. Thank goodness for menstrual cups because no super-maximum tampon can hold back this flow. I raise my leg to the ledge of the bathtub, fold the silicone in half, and ease it in. As I straighten, the cup settles into place and opens up to form a tiny vacuum. Relief floods my system, and I exhale the longest breath. The last thing I need on my wedding day is to worry about blood leaking through my gown. A knock sounds on the bathroom door. “Are you ready, Milly?” It’s Clara, Erik’s grandmother, who’s been standing in for my parents. My heart aches with the usual pang of loss when I think about them, but I push away the sadness and focus on the happy day ahead. “I’ll be out in a minute, Clara,” I reply. “There’s no rush,” she says. “Erik is running a few minutes late.” I take a deep breath and wash my hands, making sure there’s no trace of blood on my French manicure. When they’re clean, I glance at my reflection and rearrange my ringlets. The makeup artist has done a fantastic job and contoured my face to sharpen my rounded features. Erik made sure I hired the most popular professional in Stockholm, who has worked with the Crown Princess of Sweden. The colors bring out the highlights in my golden-brown ringlets and my eyes’ aquamarine flecks. My throat tightens. Mum and Dad would be so proud that I worked my way up through foster care and into the heart of one of Scandinavia’s most eligible bachelors. I’m wearing a bespoke Valentino gown with a Chantilly lace bodice that minimizes my huge boobs and cinches in my waist. Fortunately, the skirt is detachable, as is the ten-foot train, otherwise going to the bathroom would be impossible. “Milly?” asks another voice. “Everything okay?” I dry my hands and step out into the bedroom that’s been mine since I moved into the Freyman farmhouse. It’s a beautiful, three-story building that backs onto an ancient forest and has been my home for the past three months. One of the designer’s assistants attaches the skirt and train, while another attaches a tiara and a pair of heavy drop earrings encrusted with diamonds and pearls. Clara clasps her hands to her chest and gasps. She’s a tall, broad-shouldered blonde in her seventies with piercing blue eyes that remind me of Erik’s. Today, she wears a pastel-blue suit to match the wedding’s color scheme. “You look like a princess,” she says, her voice trembling. “I’m so proud Erik is marrying someone so healthy.” I smile, but my heart sinks. Healthy? Clara’s accent is strong, but her English is even better than mine. There has to be a reason why she called me healthy instead of beautiful. Before I can consider her words any further, she bursts into a flurry of Swedish too rapid for my mind to process, and another assistants attaches my veil. I can get a chance to take a final look in the mirror before she loops her arm through mine and marches me out into the hallway. Her husband, Mikael, is waiting outside with his arms behind his back. He’s in his late seventies with wrinkled skin and hair that’s reduced to wisps of white. I think he’s ill. Nobody has actually told me directly, but Erik said he hasn’t been the same since his great-grandmother died three months ago. Mikael’s features light up into a broad grin. “Milly, you look so radiant.” His gaze falls on my cleavage. “The wedding dress is very flattering.” I shift uncomfortably on my feet. Erik’s family has been unexpectedly warm and welcoming considering our whirlwind romance, but these compliments are a little backhanded. None of this matters. Erik is expanding the family business into the UK and after the honeymoon, we’re moving to a penthouse in London. Then it will be just the two of us, only visiting his family during the holidays. Mikael clears his throat. It’s a phlegmy rattle that only confirms my suspicions about his ill health. “Since you have no male relative to walk you down the aisle, may I do the honors?” Guilt punches me in the heart for my earlier thoughts, and I glance at Clara, who gives me an eager nod. “Take up his offer,” she says. “I’ll be watching and smiling at you both in the chapel.” She disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone with her husband. “Shall we?” Mikael offers me his elbow. With a smile, I take his arm, my insides wavering between gratitude and discomfort. As we continue down the hallway, I can’t help but notice the frailty in his steps. He isn’t much older than his wife in years but there’s