Chapter 16
Charles
Every touch, every move is laced with desperation. I reach down further to brush against her clit, earning another buck from her hips. Each twitch of her body rubs against my shaft until precum smears across my tip.
As much as I want to play with her, there are demons to exorcise. Drawing up my hand, I smack the swell of her arse, groaning as it ripples under the force of my strike. Now the other one. Back and forth I spank her, pouring out the anger and resentment, the fear and longing, the need and yearning.
She takes it, all of it, offering her body to me as a sacrifice to the pain we both endure.
Like a man possessed, I continue to strike her, watching, mesmerized as slick continues to drip from her hungry pussy.
To find such a gem as this. To have such a woman who can take my violence and transform it into such an erotic dance.
Again, I smack her flesh until it becomes red, mottled, and angry. Each time she sits tomorrow, she’ll feel me. Every bouncing jaunt she takes with Henhaven, she’ll know I was here. I mark her with my fury, brand her with my ire.
Still, it is not enough.
As I drag her off of my lap, I turn her over, studying her gaze.
Her eyes are completely black, as her head lolls on her shoulders.
It’s as if she’s in a daze, a waking dream that she wants no freedom from.
But it’s that smile, that soft twitch of her lips as she lies in my arms that makes me want to hurt her all the more.
Not out of hatred. Not out of wrath for her interactions. Not because I cannot have the one thing from her that I desire most. It’s because these wounds heal a part of us. Each strike on her body is a burden lifted from our souls.
It’s part penance and part redemption. What we do is wrong, so we shall burn in it together while confessing our sins with each lusty jut, each breathless sigh, and each arch of her back as I deliver pain as skillfully as leading an army to victory.
Her legs refuse to work, and so I drag her to the edge of the bed where the post lifts high into the air. I take the remainder of the rope and tie her there, giving her an anchor as I dig into my coat pocket and pull out my tawse.
She greets it as an old friend. Normally, this is the tool of her punishment, but today, it will be the tool of her undoing. Bending low, I pull the cravat from her lips. “Kiss it, Cynthia. Kiss the leather that will soon embrace your flesh.”
Her lips quiver as she leans forward, gliding over it in a soft, almost reverent kiss. My good girl. My perfect omega. My Cynthia.
As I push the fabric back into her mouth, she doesn’t fight me. I yank on the rope, sliding it high up the wood until she’s forced onto her toes. Not quite the setup we have in my dungeon or the Rose and Thorne, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
I nudge her legs open with my foot, forcing her to bend over ever so slightly so her arse sticks out, giving me a perfect target. Her shift dares conceal what I desire to see, but I can’t rip it. Not like this.
She’ll already bear the marks of my visit. I dare not add to the suspicion with a torn shift as well. And so, I drag it up the back of her body and tuck it into the ropes, using them to keep it off her skin.
With an unholy reverence, I skim my lips down her spine, memorizing each jut of her bones as she writhes at my touch. Far too thin. I know she hasn’t been eating. That stops now.
Reaching to the front of her, I curl my fingers around her throat, holding them there as I feel her pulse rush in a maddening frenzy through her veins. “Starving yourself helps no one. I will not always be here to force-feed you. Eat, or you will lose my touch. Are we clear?”
Soft whimpers claw through the cravat as she nods her head.
“That’s my good girl,” I breathe. “I need you safe. I need you well. For that to happen, you must eat.”
Such a silly time to have this conversation, especially when it’s my cum I wish for her to consume. But we only have these few stolen moments. It’s not as if I can drag her across the breakfast table and feed her myself.
“Such a very good girl. Now then, continue to be my perfect obsession. Take the pain I offer. Thank me for it, for I show my gratitude for your sacrifice with every agonizing stroke.”
Her fingers grip the wood as I pull my shirt off and toss it to the floor, leaving just my breeches, stockings and shoes. I run my palm over her arse and smile at the heat emanating from her body. Zounds, but she’s perfect.
The tawse lies heavy in my hand as I walk back and forth, studying her, giving her time to second guess my motives. I watch her body as she braces, waiting for impact. She expects it.
Minutes go by until she finally sags forward, letting go of all the tension in her body.
That is when I strike.
The sound of the leather kissing her flesh makes my balls clench as my cock jerks forward. She seizes up, grabbing the wood as she whimpers through the cravat. Music to my ears.
How simple would it be to throw the tawse to the floor, undo my breeches, and slide into her? How easy would it be to affix my teeth to her shoulder and bite her, making her mine, to claim her for all eternity?
I strike her again, sending all the agony in my very soul into the swing. Slick drips from her body to coat the floor. Her back heaves as she forces air through her nose. It hurts. I know it does.
The bloom of the strike is evident in reddish purple that mars her skin. Two thin lines from the edge of the tawse. My marks.
When I smack her again, she bows up into it, crying out from behind her gag so only I can hear. Tears stream from her face, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I told her I wouldn’t.
I scent the air, looking for any signs of distress and find none. All I can smell is that addicting scent of peony as it blooms mixed with honey that drips so sweetly from the comb. Much like she’s dripping now.
But it’s not enough. I know it’s not. I will not stop until she’s sobbing hard enough to stain the sheets on the bed below in front of her. And so, I strike her again as I palm my erection through my breeches.
I won’t last long. Though she bears the brunt of the pain for sure, my own torment is agony lancing through my very soul. My balls are so incredibly tight, so painful. I need to cum on her, in her, I don’t care which.
Again, I strike her, giving her space to breathe, space to grieve. Deep down, I know she trusts me, that somehow I’ll find a solution to this problem. But tonight, she needs to feel herself shatter. She needs to let go of every burden until no more thoughts swirl through her mind.
Hunching low, I take the tawse and aim it between her thighs, smacking the slick, swollen flesh of her pussy until she cries out in a garbled scream only muffled by the fabric.
Again. Again. And even again until her entire body shakes in erratic motions. Her hips jut back and forth as she rocks, her body trembling as if in the throes of release.
Impossible.
Could it be I have my very own masochist? I knew Cynthia was not averse to pain, but I had no idea the treasure I had in my hand, the treasure I threw away for want of impressing my brother. And where did that get me? Nowhere I ever want to be again.
Growling, I throw the tawse to the side and tug at the ropes. The instant there’s slack, Cynthia collapses into my arms. I hold her there, clutching her closer as she breathes against me in ragged inhales.
“I’m going to remove the cravat, sweet girl,” I whisper against her temple. “Do not scream.”
With each bit of fabric I release from her lips, my cock twitches. Precum soaks into the fabric of my breeches until I’m sure I’ll be just as wet as she by the end of this.
“Now then, you know how we end our sessions?”
She looks up at me, eyes pitch black, as she nods. I make quick work of my breeches, shucking them down to release my cock. Without another word or demand, she’s there, her mouth covering me, her tongue teasing me, and her breath driving me to distraction.
I thread my fingers through her damp hair and hold her close, choking her with my cock. Zounds but the noises she makes as she sucks me, devouring me as if I were the most special treat she could ever consume.
“You love tasting me, don’t you?”
She pulls back and blinks up at me. “It is you. I would take anything you would give me. But to hold you so intimately in my mouth. That is a closeness I will always treasure.”
Groaning, I close my eyes and just revel in the feel of her tasting me. “Touch yourself,” I rasp out. “Pleasure yourself as you pleasure me.”
Even with her hands bound, she slides them between her thighs and moves them across her clit with the same fervor as sucking me. Her lips cast a spell on me, transfixing me, gluing me to the spot.
Heavens above, but I will never tire of the way she sighs and whimpers around me, doing her best to please. “Such a good obsession,” I rasp out. “Such a good, good girl for me. I am going to empty myself into you. You’re going to take every fucking drop.”
At that, her body spasms again, spurred on by my filthy words. My knot swells and I lift my hand from her head to wrap my fingers around it, clenching it, gripping it ever so tightly as cum spurts from my tip and into her mouth.
She laps me up, swallowing every bit down with frantic moans and needy whimpers. Her fingers slide over my balls, touching them, fondling them as she sucks even harder, drinking me dry. I’m helpless to her touch as I pour out every bit into her.
When she lets go, I sink to my knees in front of her. Neither of us says a word as I hold her, allowing her to sob into me. I’m helpless to her pain. This is one not directly caused by me, but indirectly my fault.
Eventually, she cries herself to sleep, and I put her to bed, purring as she lies there so I can take at least a little bit of this burden away from her.
With gentle tugs, I remove the rope and slide the blanket back over her.
Once I know she’s fast asleep, I redress and gather my things, leaving no trace that I was ever there.
The air is crisp and cold as I slip out from Mother’s house and make my way to my own. By now, all servants should be in their beds, and I refuse to wake them because I’m a lecher who cannot keep his hands off another man’s betrothed.
Just like with my mother’s town house, I slip into mine unannounced. No one knows I’m here. No one knows I left. Plausible deniability. Just how I want it.
Instead of going to my own bedchambers to sleep it off, I slink down the hall to my study. Perhaps some fresh correspondence can rip this mask, this facade off of Henhaven so I can expose the truth.
No such luck.
With a groan, I set my tawse onto the desk and lean back to rub at my eyes. I let myself have a moment of weakness now that I’m not around Cynthia. The world feels so very heavy, and I, Sisyphus, must continue to push forward, only to find myself back here.
“You can come out,” I growl as my brother’s scent tickles my nose.
“Out of all of London, you’re the only one who knows I’m here when I do not wish to be found,” he chuckles. “I suppose I cannot keep anything from you.”
Cracking an eye open, I look at him as my energy drains from me. I’m too tired to fight, too exhausted to go into this with him.
“Where were you?” he asks. Though his tone is neutral, I hear the threat behind it.
“If you are as clever as you lead everyone to believe, then you would know I was out.”
“It doesn’t take a man of science, faith, or learning to know you were not here in your house, arse. Where were you?”
“Blowing off some steam.”
“With her?”
This time, I sit up fully and grab the tawse before he can scent Cynthia on it. “You will have to be a bit more specific, brother. I haven’t a wife that I keep to, and the Rose and Thorne has several birds with wings to clip.”
“She’s engaged.”
“Pray tell, who?”
“You know who.”
“There are several out this Season. It could be any one of the omegas out on the market. But then, I don’t busy myself with idle gossip. So you’ll have to forgive me when I act the fool since I do not know who you refer to.”
“The Ton is watching you,” he growls. “They measure every step. They speak behind their fans and in the smoking rooms. Hell, there’s even a wager down at White’s.”
“Saw that, did you? And you saw the bastard who affixed his signature to it?”
“I did. It doesn’t make it any less damning.”
“Unless you’ve come to lecture me again, I suggest you get home to your wife. I’m sure she’ll worry as to your whereabouts.”
“It’s not a lecture, brother. But a warning. Our sisters are next to wed. Do not ruin their prospects because someone else has what you now want.”
Blood drains from my face as I glare at my brother. The impertinence. As if this is some new fixation, a lark I choose to play.
“Get out. I will not ask you again.”
“You don’t have to. Careful, brother. London has eyes and ears in the most unobtrusive places.”
The moment he leaves my study, I grip the desk as I sit there, mulling over his words. He’s right. As much as I loathe to admit it, he’s right. That won’t stop me though. Nothing short of pistols at dawn will keep me from my obsession wrapped in peony.