Chapter Twelve
MILDRED TRIED TO shift her weight off her breasts, but there was little relief to be had. Her bosom would be flattened against the table till he was done. But she was not quite ready for him to be done, though her derrière smarted quite intensely beneath that last blow. Her whole backside tingled, but certain parts burned most deliciously. It was precisely what she had longed for, what she had hoped to receive at Château Follet.
But she never would have expected her cousin to be the one administering to her deepest, darkest desires. His offer had taken her completely by surprise, and if he had not wanted her to accept, he ought not have kissed her. She understood now why so many of her sex delighted in his presence. They knew what he was capable of.
She had known it, too, but as she knew she would never receive his attention in that way, she had suppressed her acknowledgment of these qualities in Alastair. And because he had many faults that she did not admire, she had chosen not to see his seductive qualities. They might was well have been cousins by blood.
Alastair was right. If she had been in full command of her faculties, if her reservations were not thawed by the port, she would not have allowed this to come to pass. She would not be strewn across the table, her rump exposed, happy to receive a flogging from her cousin. She was glad he had placed the mask over her eyes. At first, she thought she could imagine it was Lord Devon spanking her with the crop.
With each successive slap, however, she found herself balking less and less at the fact that it was Alastair who wielded the crop. In truth, why should she be troubled? She had all the weaknesses of her sex, and her cousin was a highly desirable man. With a firm hand. And searing lips. She would have liked to be kissed again by him. Harder. Longer.
The sharp bite of the crop roused her from her thoughts. “Thank you, my lord!”
She tried to raise herself to the tips of her toes so that the edge of the table did not dig into her hips. The crop rained on her rump.
“Thank you, thank you!” she mumbled between gasps.
She rolled onto her side to take the weight off her breasts.
“I did not allow that you could move.”
With a groan, she settled her chest back onto the table. Her backside felt hot, as did the interior of her womanhood. A pressure had welled there, furthered by every whack of the crop.
She felt his hand upon her rump and thrilled to his touch. She had not felt the caress of a man in a very long time, and though it was wrong—very wrong—she welcomed his hand, its warmth, its firmness, how it encompassed more than half the cheek. She wanted to be touched elsewhere by him.
He gently rubbed her where the flesh burned most before withdrawing. She felt bereft.
"I think you have had enough."
"Not at all," she replied. Though she actually would have welcomed a respite from the crop, she was not ready to be done. Her body yearned for release, yearned for him to provide it.
“You should see the crimson blush across your arse.”
“I was in earnest when I said I wished to indulge in what Château Follet offered. You have given me but a small sampling."
He sounded incredulous. "You wish for more?"
"Indeed, my lord."
He was silent in contemplation before saying, "Hold this."
Something pressed against her lips and she parted them. A thin rod slid between her teeth.
“Do not let fall the crop,” he warned, “lest you intend to speak your safety word.”
She closed her mouth over the thin rod and heard him take up something from the table.
She heard him slap it against his palm. It must be a wooden paddle he held. She gulped. She had never been struck by one before.
Whack!
She screamed into the crop. Dear God. The paddle dealt quite the bloody blow. Her derrière ached.
"Remember you have but to use your safety word to put a stop to this."
She considered it for a moment, but through the pain, or because of it, the heat inside her grew. She wanted more.
The paddle walloped the other side of her form. She bit into the crop as she whined, grateful to have an object to hold on to. He walloped her square upon both cheeks.
Dear God! Tears pressed against her eyes, and she was glad they were hidden behind the mask.
He paused. She braced herself for another blow, but it did not come. Did he worry that she could not sustain another? But she had not uttered her safety word. Why did he wait? Did he feeling guilty, remorseful, shameful? She feared to relax, but keeping her body tense was tiring.
As if reading her mind, he said, "I am allowing each blow to sink in, that you may appreciate every second of its pain."
The devil. And just as she relaxed, the paddle struck her full in the backside. She cried out, and the crop fell from her.
“Well,” he noted, his footsteps approaching her. She heard him bend down to retrieve the crop from the ground. “Surely you are done now?”
“Not at all…my lord,” she replied, her voice wavering much less than she would have expected.
“Millie, you have nothing to prove to me. You have sustained far more than I would have expected of a novice here.”
“I will let you know when I am done. My lord. Please proceed.”
He sighed but replaced the crop between her lips. “You let fall the crop, and in so doing, contravened my bidding. You have earned your first punishment.”
Punishment? She wondered what a punishment entailed.
He walked back to the other side of the table and smacked the paddle once more against her. It was the most forceful blow thus far. She clenched down on the crop, determined not to disappoint him again by letting it drop.
But she did.
For his hand had grazed her there. Between the thighs. Where wetness had formed. He had made her gasp, and thus she had lost the crop.
He made a tsking sound, but his hand remained where it was, grazing the outer lips of that most intimate space.
She knew not how to breathe. The gentleness of his caress contrasted greatly to the smarting of the paddle. His fingers now nestled themselves in her folds, coaxing a rapturous agony. She quivered and moaned. This other sensation between her legs overtook the ache in her rump.
Until he withdrew his hand and slapped her with the paddle again. She suppressed an unladylike oath. The paddle struck again, even harder, and it seemed the smack seemed to reverberate off the walls. Her ensuing cry might have been heard all the way down the hall.
Had the door even been shut? What had she gotten herself into?
But his hand returned to tease her flesh, and the pain in her buttocks mattered less than the agitation blooming beneath her waist. He rubbed the small, sensitive bud between her folds, coating it with the moisture her body had produced. The discomfort of being bent and pressed over the hard wooden table melted away as he stroked, and stroked, and stroked.
What blissful torture! A happy warmth spread to the tips of her toes and fingers. She wanted it to never end.
Alas, her punishment awaited.