On the Bare

by Fiona Locke

  ‘So what’s our latitude, Mr Vane?’

  She jumped at the familiar voice, nearly dropping her sextant. ‘I haven’t done the calculations yet, sir,’ she said.

  Trevelyan gestured for her to continue, but he made no move to leave. ‘Very well, then. Carry on.’

  Emily grew even more nervous. She’d never get it right with him standing over her.

  She tried to shoot the sun the second time, but her fingers trembled so much that she couldn’t hold the instrument still. The sun was a jumpy golden gash in the mirrors, but she clamped it anyway and looked at the angle. Then she realised she’d forgotten the angle of the first sight. She’d have to take it again and risk his disapproval. Then there were the calculations and corrections, which she had yet to be successful with. She suspected her position line would be off by several degrees.

  Trevelyan stood immobile, but Emily could sense his growing impatience. She began to panic. ‘Sir, forgive me, I … I’m still learning the calculations.’

  He frowned. ‘My boy, you should have learnt those before setting foot on board. You were meant to be studying these many weeks past.’ His voice was strict and unsparing. He had been charged with the duty of making a man of this delicate boy. No one knew better than Emily that he took his responsibilities very seriously.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Emily said, crestfallen. She had no excuse to offer him.

  ‘The sailing master thinks you lack application.’ He held out his hand for the sextant and for a moment she feared he would tell her she had no place on board, that they would set her down in the next English port. But instead he put the eyepiece to his eye and took the sight himself.

  He read out the angle and Emily noted it. He took the second angle and looked at her enquiringly.

  ‘Now, Mr Vane, how do we combine the two sightings?’

  That much she could do. 60° minus the second angle should be equal to the first. But what came next? The index error? She searched her mind, but came up blank.

  Frightened as she was, she thrilled at his nearness as he stood looking down on her. She fixed on the impeccable cut of his uniform. She could see the ropes twisting round the anchors on every single gilt button.

  He had asked her a question. Oh, yes. The sightings. Emily searched her mind for an answer. She wanted desperately to please him, to prove herself worthy. But she was completely lost. True, she had neglected her studies; but her desire was also clouding her ability to concentrate.

  His ice-blue eyes glittered. ‘Perhaps I should have young Blake assist you.’

  The comment rankled. She had been feeling so much better after staring Blake down the day before. Now he was eroding what little confidence she’d acquired. Bristling, Emily held her tongue.

  ‘Come on, Mr Vane. Any of the master’s mates could have done these calculations by now.’

  ‘Then perhaps the master’s mates should do it, sir,’ she blurted out. ‘Surely an officer has more important things to do than play with numbers.’

  She regretted it the instant she said it. Trevelyan’s face hardened and she realised the enormity of her mistake.

  She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I … forgot myself.’

  Trevelyan was eyeing her severely.

  Her cheeks burned. ‘Sir, I …’ What could she say?

  ‘That will be quite enough from you,’ he said softly.

  Her head lowered, she stared fixedly at a coil of rope at her feet. She felt light-headed and if she’d been wearing a corset she might have swooned. Emily had to remind herself that she was no longer a lady. When the silence became unbearable she raised her head to face him.

  ‘Report to the gun deck at eight bells in the afternoon watch.’

  Blanching, Emily struggled to keep her voice steady. ‘Aye aye, sir,’ she said, touching her hat with unsteady fingers.

  The lieutenant turned and walked away down the deck.

  She recalled Trevelyan saying once that he liked to be present when he had ordered punishment. He said it reinforced the formality. She was frightened, but also exhilarated. The shadow of a smile touched her lips at the thought of him seeing her caned. There was the familiar tingling heat between her legs and she had to glance down to make sure there was nothing outwardly visible. The wetness felt conspicuous in her tight breeches. She tugged gently at her waistband, moaning a little at the pressure of the seam against her crotch.

  The forenoon watch had barely begun; she had several hours yet to wait. She looked around to see if anyone might have been within earshot, but she was alone. Perhaps no one else had heard the exchange. Then they wouldn’t know to listen for the telltale swish of the bosun’s rattan. She could hope.

  She busied herself as best she could, trying not to think about what was coming. But every time the ship’s bell rang out her pulse quickened. In her head she heard the lieutenant’s pronouncement over and over again. She couldn’t concentrate on anything but her impending punishment.

  At ten minutes before eight bells, the new officer of the watch came on deck. It was time. Emily didn’t want Trevelyan to get to the gundeck before her.

  She forced herself to hold her head up, in disgrace but not dishonour. Her heart banged behind her ribs and her legs wavered like a drunken sailor’s as she made her way below deck.

  The gundeck normally bustled with activity and noise. Now it was deserted. Trevelyan must have given orders. Emily was thankful for that. While witnesses might strengthen her resolve to take the punishment bravely, she didn’t know how she would face them afterwards. She stood beside one of the twelve-pounders, caressing its cold body. It was so much larger than she had imagined back home. Very soon she would be bent over it, suffering under the cane.

  The air was warm and heavy and Emily felt the back of her neck begin to prickle. For a moment she regretted taking Sebastian’s place here, but she shook off the thought disgustedly. She had wanted adventure. She had demanded it. Now that she faced her fantasies at last, she had no choice but to follow through.

  She lifted her head proudly. She was a King’s officer. If she flinched at the prospect of a caning, how could she ever face the French in battle? Or look in the mirror?

  In the distance she heard the ship’s bell herald the end of the watch. Then the sound of boots on the ladder. This was it. She took several deep breaths to calm herself. No one would know how much she secretly wanted this.

  Lieutenant Trevelyan appeared with Harmwell, the bosun. Emily flinched when she saw the stout malacca cane he carried. She lowered her head, hoping they would take it for penitence and not fear.

  Trevelyan’s stern voice boomed in the confined space. ‘Mr Vane seems to think navigation is beneath him. But I think we have the means to teach him some humility. Haven’t we, Mr Vane?’

  ‘Yes, sir’ was the only answer to that. Emily thought she would melt.

  ‘Twelve good hard strokes, I think, Mr Harmwell.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Trevelyan nodded solemnly towards the cannon and Emily steeled herself as she turned towards it. She removed her hat and laid it aside. Then she placed her hands on the cannon. With her legs together she bent forward at the waist, sideways over the gun. She knew she must bear the indignity.

  ‘Not like that, lad,’ came Harmwell’s gruff voice. ‘Along the gun. One leg either side.’

  She choked back a gasp. She hadn’t pictured it like that! The idea of wrapping her legs around the barrel seemed indecent. It was the way a gentleman rode a horse. But she obeyed, straddling the cold metal and stretching herself out along its length, presenting her bottom for the cane.

  At that moment she wished she could see Trevelyan’s face. What expression did he wear? Stern indifference? Sadistic pleasure? She didn’t dare turn round to see.

  Emily flinched as she felt the malacca touch her bottom, measuring the first stroke. She tensed in anticipation, waiting. An age passed before Trevelyan gave the command for the punishment to begin.

  The cane
drew back and she heard a low deep whistle as it cut through the air. It sliced into her bottom with a loud thwack! She was unprepared for the force of the stroke and she yelped, more out of surprise than pain.

  ‘One,’ Harmwell counted.

  The sting began to bloom in a line across her bottom and she fought the urge to reach back and clutch the burning flesh. Her breeches offered no protection at all. The position pulled them deep into the cleft of her bottom, separating her cheeks. A perfect target.

  Emily gritted her teeth for the next stroke and managed to stay silent as it painted a second burning stripe across her posterior.

  ‘Two.’

  The third stroke forced a sharp intake of breath and she clung to the cannon as tightly as she could. Her arms trembled with the effort and her hands were clammy against the metal. In her fantasies Trevelyan had usually tied her wrists together. That would be a mercy now. The possibility of disgracing herself by leaping out of position was a challenge she hadn’t counted on. Sweat trickled down her face and she panted, waiting for the next stroke.

  Again the bosun’s rattan met her tender bottom. She hissed through her teeth, determined to stifle her cries. Trevelyan was watching; she could not bear his reproach.

  ‘Four.’

  Harmwell’s dutiful counting was strangely humbling. It was clear he got no pleasure from this; he was simply obeying orders. It was inexplicably erotic. The lieutenant’s power over her was absolute.

  As the caning continued Emily found herself floating, as though watching from outside herself. She could take this; perhaps she was toughening up. Trevelyan was doing what he had promised her father he would do: making a man of her. There was something poetic about that.

  A particularly hard stroke forced another cry from her and she cursed herself for her weakness. She heard the bosun counting the strokes, but the numbers meant nothing to her. Intense as the pain was, Emily felt invigorated. It was the ultimate challenge. The proving ground. This was what she’d wanted. Her beloved lieutenant was having her flogged for insubordination and he was overseeing the punishment personally. Had he been waiting for the opportunity as well, to do his duty by the fainthearted boy?

  Harmwell counted ten and Emily breathed deeply, pacing herself for the final two strokes. She could imagine the spectacle she made – her bottom turned well up, her tight breeches inviting the sting of the cane. Trevelyan had no idea he was watching a girl’s bottom and the secret knowledge gave Emily a lewd little thrill. She squeezed her thighs against the cannon, stimulating herself as the penultimate stroke fell.

  ‘Eleven,’ counted Harmwell.

  Emily held her breath for the last stroke, but the lieutenant interrupted.

  ‘The final stroke,’ he said, ‘is always the hardest. Make this one count, Mr Harmwell.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  She sensed the cane drawing back and she gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut tightly.

  The last stroke slashed through the air and into her bottom, its impact echoing in her head like a musket shot. She was lost in a strange haze of pain spiced with pleasure. It was not unlike being drunk. Her body was tingling and the throbbing in her sex was almost unbearable. She longed to rub herself against the cold metal of the cannon, to tighten her legs round it until the pleasure exploded within her. But she would have to wait. She would take care of it later that night, in her hammock in the midshipmen’s berth.

  The bosun gave a little cough and Emily shook her head to clear it.

  ‘You may stand up, Mr Vane,’ said the lieutenant.

  She slid to her feet and stood up shakily. Then she raised her eyes to look Trevelyan in the face. It was important to regain her dignity.

  ‘Have you revised your opinion of navigation, Mr Vane?’ the lieutenant asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. I most certainly have, sir.’

  He eyed her sternly for a few moments before addressing the bosun. ‘Leave us, Mr Harmwell.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  They were alone. The silence quickly became oppressive. A bead of sweat rolled down her face and she dared not rub it away.

  At last he spoke. ‘Well, Mr Vane?’

  Was it her imagination or had he emphasised the ‘Mr?’

  ‘S-sir?’

  ‘Look at me when you’re spoken to, lad.’

  Emily tried not to blush, but it was impossible. Warmth flooded her face as she raised her eyes.

  The lieutenant looked as austere as ever, yet there was a strange light in his eyes. ‘Did that satisfy your curiosity?’

  She swallowed. ‘My – curiosity, sir?’

  ‘Yes, your curiosity. Or have you forgotten our conversations in your father’s library?’

  Horrified, Emily lowered her head. She didn’t know what to say.

  The silence was broken by a harsh bark of laughter and she looked up, startled.

  ‘You took that as well as any boy,’ said Trevelyan, smiling broadly. ‘I had my suspicions from the first, but your insubordination gave you away. Your brother would never have dared.’

  Emily turned scarlet. ‘I don’t know what to say, sir.’

  ‘You might thank me.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He nodded in acknowledgment. ‘And now I should like to examine Mr Harmwell’s handiwork.’

  She blinked. ‘Sir?’

  Trevelyan gestured at the cannon. ‘We’ll have your breeches down, Emily.’

  Amazed that she could possibly flush any deeper, she hesitated.

  The lieutenant’s expression grew severe again and he drew himself up. ‘That was an order, Mr Vane.’

  She gulped. ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Then she turned away and her hands fluttered to her waist to unfasten her breeches. She looked nervously down the length of the gundeck.

  ‘We’re alone,’ Trevelyan reassured her. ‘Continue.’

  It was so strange, baring herself like this before a man. She moved as though in a dream state, undoing the buttons at her knees. Her breeches pooled round her ankles. She’d done this often enough in her fantasies, but the reality was embarrassing, excruciating.

  ‘Back in position,’ Trevelyan ordered.

  Emily did as she was told and her breeches slid down over her shoes. With her bottom on display and her bare thighs wrapped lewdly around the gun the position was positively obscene. She moaned in exquisite shame as she lowered her forehead to the cannon. The barrel seemed warmer now and its hard surface pressed into her exposed sex.

  She gave a little cry of surprise when she felt Trevelyan’s hand against her bottom. His fingers traced the marks left by the cane and she shuddered at his touch.

  ‘A commendable job,’ he pronounced. ‘Our Mr Harmwell has a strong arm.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Emily gulped.

  The lieutenant continued to examine the marks – slowly, thoroughly. He cupped her cheeks in his hands and squeezed firmly, making her gasp. The blood pounded in her head and again she felt faint. Then his fingers did the unthinkable. They slipped down along her crease and in between her legs.

  Instinctively, Emily cried out and reached behind to shield herself, rising up out of her position.

  ‘Oh, no,’ chided the lieutenant, smacking her smartly on her tender backside. ‘Stay where you are.’

  Mortified, she obeyed.

  ‘Perhaps you need restraining,’ he suggested.

  Her ears burned at those words. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him reach for a coil of rope. Her breathing grew shallow as he crouched beside her and tied her wrists beneath the barrel, so that she embraced the cannon. Then he resumed his examination.

  His skilful hands explored her sex, probing and fondling the slick folds. Emily stiffened and made a little whimper. But she didn’t protest; she didn’t dare risk breaking the spell.

  The ropes let her imagine that this was just another part of her punishment. She pulled at them to reassure herself that she was truly at his mercy.

  His finger
s described careful little circles over and around the bud of her sex and she gasped at his expert stimulation. She hadn’t known such ecstasy was possible. Her mouth opened in a soundless moan as the attentive fingers slipped inside her. The pain in her bottom had subsided to a dull pulse that mirrored the throbbing in her sex. She writhed wantonly as his fingers worked in and out of her, making her body jerk with pleasure.

  Emily imagined that she was being caned again, this time bound naked to the grating up on deck. The entire crew stood watching as the lieutenant painted stripes across her disobedient bottom, counting dispassionately while she yelped and writhed in delirious torment.

  When he withdrew his fingers, she squeezed her legs tightly around the gun, protesting with a petulant whimper.

  But he wasn’t finished with her. Again his fingers slid inside where she was warm and hungry. And this time his other hand caressed her as well, spreading her open and tweaking her little nub, hard. His attentions elicited gasps of alternating pleasure and pain and Emily threw her head back, arching against him, urging his fingers deeper inside her.

  She was climbing fast, straining violently at the ropes, drowning in the liberation of total surrender. All at once the climax overtook her and the blood pounding in her ears sounded like the firing of the ship’s guns.

  For a long time neither of them said a word. Emily hung limply over the cannon, exhausted and panting. Trevelyan untied her hands. She stood on unsteady legs as she put her breeches back on and replaced her cocked hat.

  ‘I hope you don’t think that’s the end of the matter,’ he said gravely.

  Misunderstanding, Emily’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, sir, you wouldn’t tell the captain …’

  Trevelyan gave her a conspiratorial smile. ‘Probably not. I expect we can come to some arrangement. We can discuss it tonight. Report to my cabin at two bells in the first watch.’