By Lisabet Sarai
“Will you have more tea, Lady Wallingford?”
My elegant guest nods, a bit distracted. “Thank you, Beatrice, that would be lovely.” Her attention is focused on my master, seated across from her, next to me. “Lord Randall, pray continue. You were recounting your latest adventures in the Far East?”
My master chuckles. “I’m not certain my tales of the Hong Kong fleshpots are appropriate for someone of Beatrice’s years.”
I rise to fill her delicate porcelain cup, grateful for the chance to stand. Last night my dear master used me hard. My scratchy petticoats are agony against the lacerated flesh of my bum, and my quim is tender and raw. Sitting still is torture, as he knows very well. In fact, I suspect he insisted I host this tea in order to test my discipline.
Every instant — every movement — is a thrilling reminder of how completely he possesses me. My cunny moistens despite the discomfort —maybe even because of it. I know that my endurance pleases him.
Maribel Wallingford arches her perfect brows while her lush mouth curves into a smile. “Well, then, Geoffrey, perhaps I can prevail upon you to share the colorful details some other time.” The heat in her gaze and the flush on her cheeks make me suspect she has some intimate history with my virile master. She nibbles at her cake. Her tongue flicks a crumb from her lips, a surprisingly unladylike gesture.
“Perhaps.” He shifts in his chair and holds out his tea cup to me. “If you wouldn’t mind, my dear, I’d like more as well.”
The uninitiated might mistake his tone for avuncular indulgence. Indeed, my master is nearly my father’s age. He was Papa’s close associate before the carriage accident that made me a wealthy orphan. His close supervision and public concern for my welfare is one reason why I’m allowed to live on my own, though I’m barely twenty. Aunt Ellen, ensconced on her estate in Dover, is more than willing to relinquish responsibility for me to the respected and well-to-do Lord Randall.
No one suspects the true nature of our relationship — intensely carnal and shamefully perverse. I have given myself to him completely, and reaped the rewards, love and joy so acute that I’m breathless merely thinking about him. About us.
I step closer to his lean, powerful body, certain I can feel the heat of him even through his fashionable clothing. My skirts swish around my ankles. I tilt the teapot and pour with extreme care, trying for the grace and control he expects. A stream of tawny liquid arcs from the spout.
His cup is half full when he makes his move, snaking out his hand to surreptitiously squeeze my buttocks through my dress. Four layers of cloth separate me from his touch, but the force is enough to wake powerful echoes from last night’s whipping. The flash of pain startles me.
“Oh my!” I don’t drop the heirloom teapot, but my grip wavers. Tea splashes out of my master’s cup, spattering his woolen trousers and brocade waistcoat.
“Beatrice! How can you be so clumsy? Look at what you’ve done!” The sparkle in his dark eyes belies the stern tone of his voice, but tears gather in mine all the same. Hastily, I set the pot on a side table, before I do further damage.
“I’m so sorry, Mast—I mean, Lord Randall.”
“Your regret does not alter the fact that I may need to discard this expensive suit. Indeed, had the tea been hotter, you might have scalded me.” His eyebrows knot and his lips press together in a convincing facsimile of anger.
He’s playing with me, I know, but that doesn’t matter. His criticism cuts me to the soul. I sink to my knees before him, totally forgetting our guest. “Please, Sir. I’ll pay for the replacement. And it shan’t happen again, I swear. I was momentarily off balance....”
“Excuses won’t help you, girl.” He snags me by the elbow. “On your feet and over my knee.”
“What? Sir!” I suddenly recollect the presence of Lady Wallingford. A fierce blush turns my cheeks to flame. “You can’t be serious.”
“You’ll soon discover how serious I am, wench. Assume the position. Every instant you delay will make your punishment more severe.”
There’s no help for it. I’ve sworn to obey him in every particular. If I’m honest, I must admit that the thought of this public chastisement kindles a guilty thrill.
My voluminous skirts rustle as I drape my body over his tea-damp lap. A few blond ringlets escape from my meticulously coiffed hair and fall over my eyes, partly hiding my face. I want to disappear, to vanish into thin air. At the same time, I’m eager for him to begin.
“I’d heard that you were scrupulous and thorough in your guardianship of young Beatrice,” Lady Wallingford comments. “I hadn’t expected that to extend to corporal punishment.
“I do what’s necessary, Madam, to ensure her good behavior.” Without further discussion, he pulls up my apron, overskirt, underskirt and petticoat to bare my buttocks. I know the scarlet traces of last night’s birching crisscross my white flesh. The welts seem to burn anew, simply from being exposed.
Lady Wallingford releases her breath in a sigh full of emotion. “Oh my, Geoffrey! I thought you’d reformed...” I shoot a glance in her direction. Her ample breasts rise and fall as she struggles to contain her excitement.
“I am too old a dog to learn new tricks, Maribel.” He strokes my naked bum, gentle enough that my stripes barely hurt. “Though this exquisite creature inspires me to expand my repertoire.” Without warning he pinches my rear.
“Ow! Sorry, Sir.” I settle myself more comfortably on his firm knees. I know I can’t escape. I don’t want to escape.
“I think two dozen strokes should be sufficient. Do you agree, Beatrice?”
“That’s—ouch!—up to you, Master.”
The honorific slips out, without my thinking. My mind whirls. What will Lady Wallingford think? I wonder, then realize she understands the situation perfectly.
“Will you count for us, Maribel?”
“With pleasure,” she purrs. She has unbuttoned her her tight bodice, exposing the lace-trimmed top of her chemise. Her fingertips skim the pearl-white skin below her collarbone. Her other hand burrows into the fabric in her lap.
She’s as wanton as I am, I think. Then my master’s big hand slams down on my poor bum, driving out every thought except the pain.
The sensations are many-layered. There’s the fierce sting where his palm has connected with my rear cheeks. A sharp tingling radiates from the point of contact, prickling across my skin, along the backs of my thighs and down between my legs. Underneath, there’s a hot ache from last night’s marks, pain reawakening lascivious memory.
Wham! The next stroke hurts more, adding to the building pain, multiplying my excitement.
“Two.” Lady Wallingford’s voice has grown husky, almost hoarse. I can hear her panting.
Slam! I wail in distress, unable to keep silent any longer, and squirm on my master’s lap, but his grip is like iron.
“Be still, girl, or I’ll give you a dozen more!”
Oh, God! How can I bear this? How can I want this?
Like an automaton, my master continues to spank me and our guest continues to count. He’s fallen into a rhythm now. I know when to expect each blow. I relax into the pain, revel in the ache, surrender to my master’s will.
A particularly vicious slap lands on my left bum cheek. I automatically listen for Lady Wallingford’s voice. Silence.
At this point, my hairdo has disintegrated. I can’t see anything through the thick, honey-colored locks hanging over my face, but I know only too well what’s going on.
He finishes quickly, without a count, one spank following the next. I scarcely have time to breathe in between. My bottom’s ablaze. Tears swim in my eyes. Still, when he raises me from his lap and cradles me in his arms, that makes it all worthwhile.
“Well done, Beatrice,” he murmurs in my ear. “I believe you deserve a reward.”
His hand roots under my twisted skirts. His fingers find the magic button guarding my quim. A single firm touch is all it takes to trigger a whirlwind of ecstasy.
When I return to my senses, I find myself crumpled on the carpet near my master’s boots. With gentle fingers he combs the tangles away from my face. “Are you well, Beatrice?” he asks. I hear satisfaction in his voice. I see love in his eyes.
“Yes, Sir. Very well.” I glance over at Lady Wallingford. She has refastened her bodice. Still, she exudes a familiar, post-orgasmic glow. Her smile recalls the family tomcat after he’s devoured some poor sparrow.
“In that case,” he continues, helping me to my feet, “would you please ring Betty for another pot of tea?”