Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Duke Gregor
When I feel it is time to allow my lady wife out of isolation, my eyes and ears discern her submission.
Her body has gentled, from the lowering of her head and her shoulders.
Her gaze has been upon the floor during most of her sentence, and she began crying softly almost immediately upon her confinement.
She is much chastened, and hopefully ready to speak.
“Come to me, my lady.”
She startles at the sound of my voice then slowly obeys. I do not hurry her. She needs to do this in her own time.
When at last I glimpse her sweet face, her cheeks are streaked with tears, and her nose appears reddened by her distress. My heart yearns to comfort her, but the time is not yet right.
“Come to me, Freya.”
Her eyes leap to my face, and after a soft, ladylike sniffle, she begins to move toward me, her slippers whispering across the hard floor. She stops just out of reach of the bed bench upon which I sit.
“Come closer, my dear.”
Her eyes flare with emotion, and she hesitates, but only for a moment, then steps closer, and closer still, until she is just in front of me.
“What a good lass,” I say, and the effect of my words is immediate upon her countenance.
Her cheeks fill with color, making her even more of a beauty than she already is. Her eyes widen ever so slightly before darkening with emotion. Not for the first time, I wonder if she has any idea how much she manages to enchant me.
“Stick out your tongue, my lady.”
This time, Her Grace honors me by obeying immediately. I am not certain if she has learned her lesson, or merely hopes for the removal of her punishment.
“This will hurt,” I warn before I reach for the clothespin.
She does not move or attempt to speak—merely waits upon me to act.
I push down on the pin, causing the spring to open and free her tongue. I slip the instrument into my pocket. I shall need to find a safe place for it. The more I get to know Her Grace, the more I feel certain it shall be needed in the future.
“There now, darling,” I soothe, taking her hand in mine, my thumb running across the back of her hand. “Is that better?”
She shakes her head, and fresh tears spill from her eyes. “I-it s-still hurts, my lord,” she whimpers.
I nod. “I am sure it will sting most horribly for a few hours yet, but you will be sure to mind your tongue henceforth, will you not, wife?” I give her a look that is most stern.
She nods hastily, her lower lip trembling, which only solidifies my certainty that this lesson will not be the last. No matter. I find I am just as captivated by this contrite, submissive version of my wife as when the lady is full of fire.
“Now, the time has come for you to lie upon my lap.”
Her emerald eyes go wide once more, and the fresh pinkness in her face drains away before my eyes. “What? S-surely you c-cannot mean…” She begins to wring her hands anxiously.
“I assure you I do,” is all I say, followed by a piercing stare that commands her compliance.
For a moment, she stiffens, and I am certain she is recalling her previous encounter with my lap. But as I watch, the resistance leaves her body just as the color fled from her cheeks moments ago. She stands before me in reluctant obedience.
“A-as you say, m-my lord.”
It would seem that clothespin is far more effective than I recall. “Very good, my lady. Be so kind as to remove your petticoats.”
She freezes and swallows with obvious difficultly. But feeling my eyes upon her, she gives a single stiff nod and her hands move to follow my order.
I am enthralled by her—the raven-haired beauty who does my bidding. Fierce pride and devotion fill me as her petticoats drop to the floor.
“I… what would you have me d-do now, sir?” she whispers.
Her voice is timid, and she quivers as she awaits my next command.
I pat my knee, and she makes me wait but a moment before she steps forward once more.
I do not force her to linger in the uncertainty of what is to follow.
Perhaps in the future, I will make full use of the agony of being made to wait, but this time, I wish a swift end to this unfortunate business.
I offer her a hand, and when she places hers in mine, I help her over my knee.
Even with her petticoats a puddle of fabric upon the floor, the layers of her dress are cumbersome.
Once I have set them aside, I gaze upon her round, perfectly formed haunches.
They are paler than the moon itself, though I am certain I shall soon change that.
I lightly caress the lines of her cheeks, and her sharp intake of breath, her moan which she tries to conceal, awakens my slumbering cock.
With any luck, you might be soon satisfied, my friend, and this game can be truly won at long last.
Turning my full concentration to the duchess’s naked fundaments, I do not begin with any light taps but set my mind on earnest reproof from the onset. My hand claps across her posterior again and again, the sound echoing throughout her bedchamber, quickly followed by her cries of distress.
Her cheeks are no longer pale, but they only begin to blush with color, and I see we are far from finished. Her cries are steadily increasing in both volume and anguish. I harden my resolve against the breathy cries spilling from her lips, and raise my hand once more.
Duchess Freya
I can bear it no longer. If the duke does not release me soon, I fear I shall surely perish draped over his knee.
The thought of the carpet’s flowered scrollwork being the last thing my eyes behold is too terrible for words, but with the crisp rise and fall of his hand assaulting my naked flesh, all other thoughts grow distant.
“Y-your Grace!” I screech in a most unladylike fashion. “P-please!” My words and my ability to voice them is cut off by a stinging smack that steals my breath. Pain gnaws at my tender skin until it consumes all else.
I am unsure if he cannot hear me, if he did not understand my plea, or if the duke simply does not intend to answer my distress. In any regard, he continues to smack, causing my fundaments to quiver mightily with each application of his brisk hand.
“M-mercy, my l-lord!” I howl as his hand makes contact yet again, right upon the same spot he smacked mere moments ago. My teeth manage to snare my tongue—my poor, throbbing tongue—and I howl once more.
His Grace rests his hand on the small of my back, while I lay breathing fitfully and fighting back tears. I do not speak, for fear that anything I say might cause him to begin again. I am merely grateful for the reprieve, though it does nothing to cease the terrible burning of my soft flesh.
“Have you had enough, Your Grace?”
“Yes, please! I shall be good, I will never say anything against you again, my lord, I assure you.” I long to look at him, but held in place by his hand and the prison of my gown, I can only speak all the louder, hoping he will be moved by my desperation.
“Hmm. I think I heard similar pleas last time,” he remarks.
Heat suffuses my face, whether from the truth of his words or from the fact that he reminds me of my own folly, I do not know. “Please… I wish to show you I will do as I say.”
He does not answer straight away, and I lie tense across his knee, hoping he will heed my promise.
“We are not quite done, my lady. I intended to use an implement—I feel certain it will deliver the results I desire for a day or more—but given your sweet assurances, I shall have mercy.”
His words confuse me, and as my hindquarters ache, I cannot make sense of what he means.
But when I feel the touch of his hand once more upon my already smacked skin, I gasp.
For this touch is different—his glove has been removed!
His fingers brush across my bare buttocks, and the mortification is nearly as searing as the smacking!
And yet… as his hand soothes my sore flesh, I become aware of a heat burning hotter between my thighs.
It is a disgrace! As horrified as I am by the way my body has betrayed me yet again, I cannot deny it as I feel a growing liquid in my sex.
I press my legs together in an attempt to conceal my shameful arousal as my face burns in humiliation.
It also distracts me from making more pleas to His Grace.
I feel the absence of his hand as he lifts it, my skin tingling where his fingers were.
The tightening of his arm around my waist makes me keenly aware of what is happening even before I hear the sharp whistle of his hand moving through the air.
It lands sharply upon my bottom, and the shock of his bare flesh against my own is quickly outpaced by fresh pain.
How does it hurt even worse? Before I can think any more on the matter, another smack falls, and another.
They grow harder and closer together until my breath comes in short, fitful gasps.
I fear I might faint, but the sting becomes so great I burst into tears.
My eyes and throat burn, and there is an ever-growing horror in the back of my mind, but I can pay it no heed. The distress is too great.
I wish to plead for mercy, to beg His Grace for forgiveness, but I am trapped over his knee, helpless to stop him from exacting the penance due him.
As the smacking continues, heat spreads across my fundaments—most strange indeed, given that his hand falls on the same two spots continually.
The sound of his bare hand landing upon my bare hindquarters is undignified, but is quickly displaced by the horrifying sound of my blubbering cries.
I cannot endure it. I shall never last. I will never speak to His Grace so ever again!
But the smacking continues until all I can do is lie across his knees, robbed of even the ability to think. All I can do is cry, offering my tears to the ground as proof of my sincere regret.
“My dear?”
I startle. It would seem I have been crying so hard, I did not even realize my chastisement had ceased. “Y-yes, Your Grace?”