by Ashe Barker
“Stop that or I shall tie your wrists together. Place your hands underneath you and keep them there.” His tone is harsh, demanding obedience.
“Sir, what is happening? It hurts…”
He leans over me, his hands planted on the mattress on either side of my shoulders. “I know it hurts. It is meant to. Remember, you may be able to reduce the pain if you can manage not to clench your bottom. Can you manage that, do you think, Imogen?”
I am certainly prepared to try. I make a conscious effort to relax the muscles in my posterior and the burning within does alleviate a little. Still, it is supremely uncomfortable and I am gasping under the strain.
“Please, sir, please remove it. I am sorry, I swear I am. I will not do anything to cause you concern again.”
“How glad I am to hear that, Imogen. My tactics might be working then. Time will tell. I shall remove the root but not until it ceases to be effective. The irritation will become worse before it improves, but the entire ordeal should not last more than an hour or so. Are you managing not to clench?”
“An hour! I cannot endure this for an hour.”
“I believe you can. You shall have to because I have no intention of cutting short this punishment. You will learn to obey me, my sweet, especially in the important matter of your safety. So, tell me, are you clenching your bottom?”
I shake my head, grinding my teeth together as I seek to adjust to the awful burning sensation now filling my rear end. It hurts; the pain indescribable. It is not nearly so intense as the bite of a hard spanking, but unrelenting despite my efforts to remain relaxed. And this is deep within me, permeating my inner self. If I move, it worsens. If I remain still, it torments me without mercy. I start to whimper, then sob as the reality of my situation sinks in.
Gray means it. He is pitiless, determined to have his way. No words of mine will sway him so I must remain still and bear my punishment as best I may.
“I promised you that I would deal most severely with you should I ever have cause to take issue with you again in this matter of your safety and welfare. Do you recall that, Imogen?” Gray’s tone is soft, but I am not fooled. He has even more discipline in mind for me.
“Yes, sir,” I manage, between gulping sobs.
“Remember, Imogen, clenching will make everything worse. Since I wish to create a lasting impression I shall contrive to ensure you derive the maximum benefit from this experience.”
I defy anyone not to clench when skilled and determined fingers are at work within their pussy, especially if those digits belong to someone with a touch as deft as Gray’s. I shiver in perverse delight as he strokes my already dripping quim. “Remain in this position and do not even think about stealing a climax from this. Not that I believe you would manage to do so. It is uncomfortable, is it not?”
“Yes, sir,” I whimper, attempting to remain relaxed and soft as he ramps up the pressure by pumping his fingers in and out of my masochistically receptive channel.
“Good. Now, lift your bottom for me, Imogen.”
I do so. My reward is a cruel caress over the tip of my clitoris, then another as I writhe in agonised response.
“You shall endure this for a few minutes, to ensure my point is well made. Then you may relax and enjoy your ginger until the oils dissipate. Are you ready, sweetheart?”
The endearment is all the more tender, given the circumstances. I nod my agreement and loosen my muscles in a doomed attempt to relax.
The next few minutes are the longest I can ever recall. Gray employs every trick he possesses to drive me to the brink of despair. My body betrays me entirely, spasming almost continuously as he strokes, caresses, teases, and torments my quivering slit. He slides his digits in and out of my pussy, he rolls my clit between his fingers, he even takes hold of the protruding length of root to swirl that inside my arse. I writhe and squirm, begging him to let me be.
My pleas fall on deaf ears, though Gray checks often to ensure I am managing. His care of me is perfect, his concern for my safety undiminished. I appreciate this, but it is of little comfort as he flicks my swollen clit with his thumb and my inner muscles contract again to squeeze yet more drops of pungent juice from the root.
At last it is over. Gray allows me to roll onto my side, then lays down beside me on the bed.
“Good girl. That is done now. I have you.”
I reach for him, twisting my fingers in the front of his shirt as the waves of inner fire scorch my tender rear hole.
“Relax now, if you are able. Breathe in, sweetheart, then out. Slowly, let the pain wash through and away. Feel it, learn from it, then let it go.”
His tone is soft and low, that beguiling timbre that somehow speaks to my very soul, despite the punishment I have just endured at his hands—the punishment I am still enduring. Mercifully though, the discomfort is lessening. It is still hateful, but I can bear it.
Long minutes pass and the inner scorching calms. The fire becomes a glow, before eventually cooling to a mere tingle once more. Throughout, I lay shivering in Gray’s arms, revelling in the feeling of safety he manages to impart.
* * *
“I wish that had not been necessary.” Gray murmurs his comment into my hair.
Me too. I think better of voicing my agreement and settle for snuggling closer to Gray’s side. The used root of ginger lies discarded on the rug, soon to be tossed onto the fire when Gray gets up to leave. I do not want him to go and I do opt to share that sentiment with him.
“I must go. At least one of us should present ourselves at Beatrice’s dinner table or she will likely send up a search party. I doubt we would want that.”
“No, sir,” I agree. “I, I believe that I might be able to come down too—unless you prefer that I do not…?”
“Of course you should, if you feel up to it.”
I do. More important, I am determined to move on from this and it seems imperative to resume the trappings of normality. First though, I have something I wish to say. Need to say.
“I love you, Gray.”
He kisses my tangled hair. “And I love you, my sweet Imogen.”
“Then, do you think we might…? I mean, I realise it is difficult and that your previous profession might come back to haunt us, but even so—surely we could live quietly, here at Kirkleven.”
“My past could catch up with me at any time, you know that as well as I do. I will not embroil you in my misdeeds.”
“It is a chance I would be willing to take.”
“But I would not.” He rolls me onto my back and pins me to the bed, his face inches from mine. “Be under no illusions, my darling. I adore you. I always will, there shall be no one else for me and I will do all I can to ensure your future comfort and security, you and the bairn. But I will not risk dragging you onto the gibbet alongside me.”
“But why should that happen? I would not be punished just for being your wife.”
“No, not just for that. But there are many who would say you must have been aware of my crimes, as indeed you were, that you have been complicit and benefited from my misdeeds, if not actively participated.”
“But—those are not hanging offences.”
“Perhaps not, though I suspect that is a matter of opinion. It depends what judge you face and the mood you find him in. I will not risk involving you. At the very least, you would be ostracised, socially ruined. That is not what I want for you.”
“But—”
“Enough. I will not be swayed on this. Do not push it, Imogen.” His tone has taken on that warning note I have come to recognise and I know better than to press the matter. My bottom could not take the consequences. I manage a smile for him as he gets up and tidies the evidence of my punishment away. He opts to leave by the same route he arrived.
“I will see you downstairs, sweetheart.” He blows me a kiss and the panel creaks back into place behind him.
Chapter Eighteen
“You
r birthday is but two days away, Imogen and you shall soon be in possession of your inheritance. Do you have plans for what you would like to do once you become a wealthy woman?” Beatrice smiles at me over her embroidery frame, reaching for a length of bright crimson silk.
“I believe I shall be comfortable, not wealthy. But no, I have not made any plans beyond the birth of my child. I suppose I must start to think of my future. Our future.” A future that I have now accepted will not be played out as the wife of Francis, younger son of the Kirkleven clan. Gray has reiterated his objections on every occasion I have broached the subject and I see no alternative but to devise a new range of options for myself.
“You know there will always be a welcome for you here, at Kirkleven? Despite our—differences.”
I put down the coverlet I am managing to butcher quite nicely with my less than stellar needlework and I return her smile.
“I do know that and I thank you for your generosity. And I am pleased we are friends once more.”
Her brow furrows and she casts a stern look my way. “I do not approve of your continuing liaison with my brother-in-law, but my husband has seen fit to exercise tolerance, therefore I shall follow his lead. So, will you remain here? With us?”
“I would like to, at least for a while.” I sit back, remembering the dreams of my younger days. “At one time I had it in mind to travel, perhaps journey abroad, the continent maybe or even the New World. How exciting that would be, to forge a new life in a place I am not known. Perhaps I might purchase passage on a ship and hopefully I would have enough left over to buy a small patch of land. I understand property is inexpensive in the Americas.”
“You would be a farmer? You have not expressed any such interest before.”
“No, but I am only just beginning to formulate my ideas. Perhaps not farming, for now that you mention, it I cannot really imagine myself planting turnips or the like. Perhaps I could purchase a house and take in paying guests—like a tavern or inn.”
“Do they have such establishments in the colonies?”
“I have no idea. I shall ask Francis. First though, I must get my hands on my money.”
“Very true, we should look to the matter of your inheritance. What must you do in order to claim what is yours?”
I consider that question for a few moments. “My stepfather’s man of affairs has an office in York. I believe that would be the place to start. I shall present myself there and seek his advice.”
“Yes, that does sound to be the correct way to proceed. I shall ask my husband to accompany you. Or perhaps Francis might agree to do so.”
“No!” Beatrice looks up at me, clearly surprised at my vehement refusal. I had not meant to be so emphatic, but there is nothing I would like less than to give Gray reason to return to Yorkshire. He is safe here in the borders, or so I fervently hope. “No, Francis is much too busy. Sir Phillip too. I can manage alone, I do assure you.”
“Rubbish, we would not hear of it. Apart from anything else, you cannot travel unescorted in your condition. I shall talk to Phillip this evening.”
I do not protest further. In truth, I would welcome the assistance of Sir Phillip in asserting my rights. I am about to murmur my thanks when a knock at the door disturbs our conversation.
“Enter,” Beatrice calls.
An agitated Masterson opens the door and steps into the room. “My lady, a visitor.”
“Oh?” Beatrice sets her work aside. “Who is it, Masterson?”
“He is here to see Miss Bennett. A relative of hers, he says.” From his expression of distaste, I surmise the new arrival has not found favour with the loyal retainer. My heart sinks. Apart from the inhabitants of Kirkleven, there is but one other I can think of who might claim kinship to me.
Beatrice is equally quick to arrive at the obvious conclusion. “I do not believe my cousin is expecting a guest. Are you, Imogen?”
“No. No, I am not.”
“We are busy and this intrusion is not convenient. Please convey our apologies and ask this—relative—to make an appointment with the earl of Kirkleven. My husband will attend to anything he may wish to raise with us.”
Masterson’s acquiescent bow is interrupted as the door behind him bursts open and the squat figure of my stepbrother barges into the parlour. In his haste to make his entrance Sidney barrels into the footman, sending Masterson stumbling across the room. Beatrice is on her feet in a moment.
“How dare you? Get out this instant!”
Sidney gives the pair of us a mock bow and curls his lip in a familiar sneer. “Mr. Sidney Smethurst, at your service. I shall be doing no such thing, your ladyship, at least not alone. I’ve come a long way to see my sweet little sister who has been absent from our family home these many months and I shall not be leaving here without her.”
“I believe you shall.” Beatrice’s expression is incensed. “And you shall do so at once. Imogen will be remaining here and unless you vacate my house immediately, I shall summon the constable to see you out.” She turns to Masterson who has managed to regain his footing. “Are you quite all right, Masterson?”
“Aye, my lady. There’s another out in the hallway.”
“Another?” Beatrice lifts one elegant eyebrow.
Sidney nods and shows not the slightest inclination to take his leave. “My lawyer is with me. I am come here to have what is mine by rights.”
“Ah, yes,” I snap. “So that explains the convenient timing of this visit. You still think you might contrive to get your hands on my inheritance before my birthday. Unfortunately, you are already too late. I shall not be leaving with you nor do I intend to have anything more to do with you in any way, shape, or form. Go back to Yorkshire, Sidney and be content with what is yours. Leave me alone.”
Sidney’s attention settles fully on me for the first time. His eyes widen as he takes in my heavily pregnant form.
“You… You are…”
“I see your powers of observation remain as acute as they ever were, Sidney. Not much escapes you, does it? Apart from me.” I tilt my chin at him and hope my show of defiance will be sufficiently off-putting to give him pause.
He glares at me, his eyes narrowing as he assesses the implications of this new turn of events. Beatrice and I remain silent as Masterson scuttles out of the room, presumably to deal with the other gentleman still awaiting us in the hallway.
Sidney’s face assumes a gloating expression. “Well, you shall have no option but to marry me now, will you? You see,” he turns to address Beatrice, “the brat is mine.”
“What!” both Beatrice and I exclaim at once. I manage to get to my feet and take a step toward the ridiculous little man. “Do not be so absurd. You might have attempted to coerce me into marriage, but you never came even close to accomplishing such a thing. My child has nothing to do with you.”
“No? Who is to say that? It is my word against yours, little sister. Everyone knows we were to be married and what couple does not try out a little—experimentation—in anticipation of the great day? I am here to claim what is mine—my bride and my child.”
“Mr. Smethurst, you are a thug, a liar, and a cheat, and quite deluded to boot.” Beatrice has collected her wits and is now standing at my side. “Leave now, whilst you still can. My husband will return soon and he will deal far less gently with you than I might.”
“Your husband has nothing to do with this, my lady. Miss Bennett is my sister. I am the head of her family and I insist that she returns to York in my care. There is not a court in the land would gainsay me in this.”
“Oh, you think not?” The low, mocking tone of Sir Phillip reaches us as he enters from the hallway, still clad in his overcoat and riding boots. He pauses to survey the scene before him, removing his gloves as he does so. “Are you quite all right, my darling?” he enquires of Beatrice, moving to her side. “You appear flushed. You too, Imogen.”
Beatrice links her arm with his. �
�Yes, we are perfectly fine, my dear. I was just explaining to Mr. Smethurst that he really should leave us in peace and that Imogen will not be accompanying him back to England.”
“I see. Yet, you appear to be still here, Mr. Smethurst. Why is that, since my wife has made it plain you are unwelcome?”
Sidney’s complexion takes on a distinctly reddish hue as he splutters to assert his claim. “Imogen is my… my ward. And she is to be my bride, so I must insist—”
“Head of the household, I believe I heard you say?” Sir Phillip casts his gaze around the parlour. “Yet, this is my house, is it not? And Imogen is kinswoman to my wife. They are related by blood, not merely by marriage. And I think you will find that I am head of this particular household, not you, sir, should such credentials be called upon.”
“Now, if you think—” Sidney blusters, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“We want you out of here. Now. Please be so good as to oblige me in this matter or I shall have no alternative but to force the issue. I shall count to five and if you have not left of your own accord by then, I shall have you ejected from the house. Further, if you continue to harass my family, I shall see to it that you are arrested and escorted back to the English border. Do I make myself plain?” Sir Phillip assists me back into my seat, then fixes a hard glare on my hapless stepbrother.
“You cannot do this. I am the father of her child. I have rights.”
I grab Sir Phillip’s wrist. “He is not, I swear.”
“Of course he is not. The very notion is preposterous. How dare you, sir?” He shakes his head, then seemingly abandons any remaining claim to polite manners. “Bugger a count of five—I believe I might just sling you out on your arse anyway.” Sir Phillip takes a pace toward Sidney and I do believe he intends to see to throwing him out personally.
Sidney wisely backs up a step, glaring from one to the other of us, his mouth working in a pathetic caricature of a nobleman backed into a corner. “Well, if the brat is not mine, it must be the whelp of that thieving bastard you took off with. ‘Tis the highwayman’s get and you, sweet sister, are the highwayman’s whore.”