“Hush, little one. I didn’t tell you to stop.” It was hardly a scolding, for he was too gentle with her for that. Her resistance wavered and began to melt under the administrations of his eager tongue, and there wasn’t anything Emily could do but obey him anyway. His attention to her was a kindness she didn’t particularly want or deserve, but she was thankful for it as she returned to his cock again, fastening her mouth around it while he kept servicing her in return, bathing her flesh with all sorts of delicious sensations.
It became a contest, a race of sorts between them as their arms locked about one another while mouths, lips and tongues sent sparks shooting through their conjoined bodies, their senses becoming overwhelmed by the liquid heat from their mouths. They were competing now, each trying to outdo the other. Duncan would moan and tremble at her writhing tongue and curled fingers. In response, he probed and caressed more at both of her tender openings, which made her gasp and hum and suckle harder on the shaft in her mouth.
Emily was a stubborn woman and she hated the thought of losing this contest, but her husband had spent years learning about her body, and now he used that knowledge to his advantage. He was soon suckling hard on her clit while one pair of fingers curled and pushed deep into the wet opening between her parted thighs. The bastard — the hot, beautiful, God-forsaken bastard — even started pushing and pressing a fingertip against the puckered opening of her ass, toying with the nerves there as he applied pressure, making her mind spin as she cursed him with every vile thought she had.
But when he penetrated her ass that way, a single, slick finger sliding into her to join the other two and caress her inner walls so intimately, Emily knew she’d been beaten. Her eyes went wide, and she pushed her head down hard against the cock in her mouth in order to stifle her scream with it. Her body froze up, every muscle locking and tightening on top of her husband as pleasure overwhelmed her mind, and she had no more curses to fling at him, nor any conscious thoughts to spare at all. The only thing keeping her from curling into a tight ball from the force of her climax was his body lying under hers. She couldn’t taste his sticky, bitter essence on her tongue, and that meant that he wasn’t finished with her yet.
Duncan had a glow about him as he gently untangled their bodies from one another and laid her head on the pillow. She stared up at him, as gibbering whispers passed from her numb lips. There were days that Emily hated him, cursing his name and this unhappy life he’d cursed her with, but she loved what he could do to her and they both knew it. He was almost tender in how he laid her down and then lowered himself upon her, gathering her up in his arms. She tried whimpering and shaking her head, pleading with him for mercy, for even a moment to recover. Then she saw that cruel glint in his eye again, and it told her that there was no mercy for her tonight.
Emily screamed when he entered her again — not from pain, but from a firestorm of pleasure that flared in her like gunpowder. Her husband knew she was super-sensitive after climax, her entire body strung as tight as a dulcimer string, and he used that against her as he began to take her at last. She clung to him, arms shaking while her fingernails clawed at his back and her legs curled about his thighs for something, anything that was solid and real. The feeling of him driving, pounding within her made her eyes shut tight as unwanted tears glistened at the corners of them. When he kissed them away, more came and she sobbed with anger, with the weakness that he made her feel.
“No need for tears, little one,” Duncan cooed with a husky voice in her ear, arms curled under her shoulders.
“You know … damn well … why the tears are there!” Emily gasped and arched her back at an especially glorious spark that shot through her belly when she felt him pounding against her back walls. Was it really possible to hate and love someone at the same time? She could only hope so, or else she’d be completely lost to his charms forever. “More! God — please, more!”
He was only too happy to give her what she begged for. But before long she was relieved to feel a tightening in his thighs as he gave a last, hard thrust against her, as hot spurts of fluid boiled in her insides and signaled the end for the moment, if not for the night. She dragged her nails up his back and felt him shiver, as chills were left in the wake of the tiny red lines etched into his flesh. It was little consolation for the way he’d made her feel so helpless earlier, but she took what small victories she could find.
It took him a few moments to get his breath back as he lay upon her, his head on her shoulder. Emily had to admit it almost felt pleasant to bask in the glow with him there, though she’d have never admit the truth, certainly not to him.
Duncan was the first to speak. “Now … that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
He’d asked her the same questions hundreds of times, or maybe even thousands, and she always answered in the same way: “My Lord Husband is pleased, then?” It was the game they played, and one couldn’t play a game without following a few rules.
“I am,” he admitted.
“Then so am I,” she answered.
It wasn’t the sort of life she would have picked or wanted for herself, but — through fate or good fortune, for better or worse — it was her life now. Knowing Duncan’s appetite, it wouldn’t be long before he was ready to go a second time, so she closed her eyes and enjoyed the quiet and calm for a few more moments.
When he was ready to begin again, she would be too.
Corporal Punishment
by A.T. Quinn
Generally, Mary Ormond found it easy to maintain her composure in Lord Winchester's army. She had to, if she wanted to keep her sex a secret. Today, however, Tim Burton had been going out of his way to vex her. Mary scrambled to her feet for the third time that day. For the third time, the little weasel smirked at her, trotting backwards away from her.
"Difficult to stay upright, eh, Ormond? Too much ale?"
Mary bit her tongue and fell into a trot again, behind Burton this time. If he shoved her one more time... Then what? She could do nothing. Mary couldn't risk exposure. The violence that would befall her at the hands of her stepfather ensured that she'd never go back.
Burton and his friends picked on her -- him -- because she was smaller, because she was quiet, because she would not play cards and drink with them. Otherwise, army life suited her; she'd become stronger, quicker and smarter since joining the Marquis of Winchester's legion. The only drawback was her permanent disguise, the permanent feeling of being alert, on edge. It was a small price to pay. She'd never been large-chested, not like some women were. Binding her breasts was easy, though finding enough privacy to do it less so.
This new situation would not last forever, merely until Winchester's army was required abroad and she could desert. Nobody would find her overseas. Nobody would even know she was there. There were already rumors of an impending battle. Mary could not wait.
Mary focused ahead and let herself be lulled into a trance by the dull thud-thud-thud of the soldiers' feet. The marquisate was a lovely area with sloping green hills used for grueling marches and with dense forests for camp training. The marquis himself rarely showed his face, leaving the day to day command of his legion to his adjutant, Sir John Mortimer, the man currently shouting orders at them from his perch atop a fine black horse. Mary reminded herself that it would be unwise to pull a face at him, as it had earned her a day of lock-up before. Sir John had intimated via Mary's direct superior that he would be less kind next time.
The wet grass drenched her boots and blisters chafed on her heels with every step. One foot in front of the other, again and again. She must run and not fall behind. Mary's lungs burned and her legs felt the consistency of pudding. Today's run had been brutal. She was one of the lucky ones that recovered from exertion quickly. She was light on her feet and agile, attributes that came in handy in every army. The intensity of training had picked up, leading Mary to believe that a battle abroad was indeed imminent.
This time when she lost her balance, a rabbit hole was the culprit
. That did not stop Tim Burton and his chums from laughing at her. She gritted her teeth and trudged onward, the knees of her hose muddy and torn.
"Keep up, Ormond," the sergeant yelled. "You run like a tavern wench."
"Yes, sir." Mary concentrated on her breaths and calculated the distance ahead. Only a few more minutes until they arrived back in the courtyard. "Sorry, sir."
Sir John's horse danced underneath him, impatient to run. He spurred his horse into a gallop and rode around to the front of the legion. Mary stuck out her tongue at his back. She'd heard tales of beatings, of random floggings, of food deprivation, but never originating from the marquis's army. Her new life wasn't comfortable, not like her old one had been, but at least it was a roof over her head, steady food, and a chance of escape. That didn't mean, however, that she had to like Lord Winchester's nasty adjutant.
Upon entering the dusty, partly paved courtyard, Mary lowered her guard. This was a fatal mistake. Burton and one of his mates grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her forward into another soldier, who turned to take a swing at Mary. Instinctively she ducked and kicked her knee up to connect with her attacker's groin. She spun around to a laughing Burton, to the sound of Sir John roaring at her to cease fighting. She was already in trouble, so the little weasel would pay now.
She had the satisfaction of seeing Burton's eyes widen in fear when she lunged at him. Mary got a few good punches in before soldiers pulled her off him. Laughing and hooting erupted around her until the sharp snap of a whip rent the air. Her fellow soldiers leapt back, leaving her alone in a wide circle with the sergeant. Mary raised her face defiantly. This had earned her a lock-up, to be sure. But she'd be damned before she pleaded for mercy.
The sergeant's face split open in a nasty grin. "That's the whip for you, Ormond."
Mary's insides went cold. She could not risk a flogging. Baring her back would give her away. The only solution was to make it worse, to deserve a worse punishment. She spat on the ground at his feet like she'd seen her stepfather do. Tiny specks of spittle landed on his boots. "Bugger you and your whip."
The sergeant's eyes bugged out and he sputtered. Around her, she heard soft laughter. Nobody dared laugh out loud. The sound of hoofbeats behind her made her look up.
"That was a mistake, boy." Sir John sat looking down at her with a nasty grin. "Grab him." Sir John nodded at the sergeant, then dismounted, giving the reins of his horse to a waiting stable boy. "We'll let his lordship decide what to do with this one."
The sergeant grabbed Mary's upper arm painfully and hauled her along, following Sir John to the castle. Mary fought to stay on her feet. If she fell, her arm would break.
The castle's interior was dark and cool. Compared to Sir John's heavy stomps and the sergeant's shuffling, Mary's feet barely made a sound. Neither of the men spoke and Mary didn't mind. Finally, after some twists and turns and a long, broad hallway, Sir John opened a door. At Sir John's signal, the sergeant shoved Mary into the pitch dark space beyond.
"Latch it. I'll talk to Lord Winchester."
Over the sound of a latch slid into place, she heard a door open and close. Faint voices echoed through the castle, but Mary couldn't make out any words. Was that Lord Winchester's voice? Mary hadn't seen him often, only once or twice had he deigned to honor his legion with his presence. Mary didn't particularly dislike the man; he seemed nicer than the cruel and petty Sir John and a whole lot more distant. If she wanted to escape this situation with her secret intact, Lord Winchester was her best option.
Mary lowered herself to the stone floor and waited, cross-legged. When her eyes became used to the darkness, she could make out a cot and a bucket. This was lock-up. She'd escaped the flogging. With any luck, they'd leave her in here. Lock-up wasn't pleasant, but it had its perks compared to the barracks.
She was just about to get up and lie on the cot when the latch turned and the door opened with a creak. Sir John appeared in the doorway, a dark shadow framed by the light of the torches. "Lord Winchester orders you inside to hear your punishment."
Unexpected, but not necessarily bad. Mary swallowed down the nervous flutters in her throat as she rose. Sir John dismissed the sergeant and drew his sword to escort her to the Marquis's quarters. "You'll only speak when spoken to," Sir John barked. "You'll treat the Marquis with the deference his station commands."
"Yes, Sir." No need to aggravate him more. "I will, Sir."
Sir John pushed an already ajar door further open and jerked his head at her to enter. Mary stepped into the Marquis's study with wide eyes. She'd never seen such luxury. An expensive rug covered the stone floor. Paintings lined the walls and thick oaken furniture, some covered with the finest velvet, filled the space. The Marquis of Winchester himself sat behind an enormous oaken desk littered with sheaves of paper, books and maps. He looked up and held Mary with an intelligent, dark gaze.
Alexander Townshend, Marquis of Winchester was a handsome man, Mary supposed. The premature death of his father had provided him with a castle, a large fief and a legion at a young age some years before. Today, his youth had been replaced by strength. Closely cropped dark hair, a defined jawline, a noble nose and clever brown eyes all added to the picture. His doublet was dark green and spanned around his shoulders as if they were too broad to contain.
She snapped out of her reverie when Lord Winchester raised an inquisitive eyebrow. In this room she was Mark Ormond, an eighteen-year-old boy in his lordship's legion. It wouldn't do for her to stare at the man. She stood in front of his desk, eyes cast downward while Lord Winchester meticulously folded his map.
"I find this matter exceedingly distasteful," Lord Winchester finally said. "What's your name, boy?"
"Mark," Mary said. "Mark Ormond."
"Take a seat, Ormond." Lord Winchester indicated a rigid-backed chair facing his desk. "Mortimer, you may go."
Sir John hesitated, then bowed stiffly at the waist. The door fell to behind him with a thud that gave Mary chills. The full extent of her insubordination crashed down on her. Lord Winchester stood well within his rights to do much worse to her than lock her up for a week or however long. She'd spat at her superior. She'd cussed him out. She'd fought. She'd heard tales of soldiers being hanged for less.
"This is a grave matter." Lord Winchester put his elbows on his desk and made a triangle with his long, strong fingers under his chin. "Do you have something to say for yourself?"
Mary made sure to lower her voice and add a hoarseness. Lord Winchester's eyes were too clever for her to deceive him long. "No, milord."
"Do you understand that I cannot let you go unpunished?"
"Yes, milord."
Mary sent up a quick prayer that Lord Winchester would settle on lock-up. Termination of her employment or execution threw an enormous wrench in her plans. Lord Winchester made an impatient gesture and sighed, more frustrated than resigned. Unhappy lines marked his handsome face.
"We ship for Ireland at the end of the month," Lord Winchester said to Mary's eternal relief. "I need every man I have."
Nodding, Mary released her death grip on her tunic sleeve. "Yes, milord."
"Twenty lashes and two weeks of lock-up," he decided. "On the understanding that if this type of behavior persists, you'll be dismissed without preamble." Lord Winchester rose, sliding his chair back with a scraping sound. "I'll have to do it myself. Go stand by the wall. Face the window."
Mary did as he said, her mind in turmoil. Could she convince Lord Winchester to flog her through her clothes? Would the fabric survive it? Could she convince him to forgo the floggings? "Milord--"
"Now," Lord Winchester barked. She looked over her shoulder. He took a cat-o'-nine-tails out of a chest, then turned to Mary. "Remove your tunic."
"Milord--"
"You test my patience, boy." Lord Winchester's voice became low with anger. "You'd protest your punishment now? Though it barely fits your offenses?"
He was right, but she couldn't undress. He'd know her secre
t in a heartbeat. What would he do if she refused? She kept silent.
"One less man will not lose us the war," Lord Winchester said. Mary heard him pace behind her and wished she could read his face. "I warned you. Off my grounds within the hour, or I'll have Sir John execute you."
She had nothing to lose. Slowly, Mary pulled the hem of her much too wide tunic over her head and let it fall to the floor.
"A girl?" Lord Winchester said in a strange, low tone. "I should have known."
There was a rustle of fabric as Lord Winchester shifted. Footsteps almost inaudible in the thick rug approached. Mary fixed her gaze on the wall, unsure of what to do. Truthfully, it left her little choice. He'd cast her out of his army now. Women had no place there. Perhaps he'd now have some mercy on her and send her off with a few coins or some food.
With a shock, she felt his warm presence behind her. He ran a finger over where thick strips of cloth binding her breasts covered her spine.
"Why?"
Mary shrugged. "An army seemed as wise as anything. I could not remain home."
"Why not?"
She chose to remain silent. No need to divulge anything more.
"I'm determining what to do with you, child." An undercurrent of iron in his tone made Mary shiver. Lord Winchester's breath was warm on her shoulder. "Do you think it's wise to defy me now?"
He raised his hands to her hair and nimbly undid the strap gathering her hair in a ponytail. Like many soldiers, Mary wore her hair long. "I should have known," Lord Winchester muttered again, combing his fingers through her brown locks. "How did you manage to keep this from everybody?"
That, she could answer. "I've been here for only a month, milord."
Lord Winchester fell silent and took a strip of cloth in his hand. He slowly tugged at it, leaving it in a heap on the soft rug. There were several more to go before her breasts were fully bare, but Mary covered herself with her arms crossed over her chest.
A Spank in Time Page 2