Time of Her Life

by Josephine Scott

  "My Lord?"

  He appeared to come to a decision, turned towards the bedroom door. "It is the boldness, I think. I can deal with that and I will. Page!"

  The door sprang open as if by magic and a small boy stood there, blinking sleep from his eyes.

  "Sire?"

  "Fetch me a birch."

  The boy looked scared but said "Sire!" and the door closed again.

  "A... birch?" Abigail stammered, pushing herself up the bed, getting away from the gleam of pure malice which had replaced the one of lust.

  "A birch, my lady, a birch - for the pretty cheeks which were so keen to be dealt with in one way must be dealt with in another." He leaned across the bed and caught hold of her wrists, his hands as hard as iron, dragging her towards the bedpost. He pulled her to her feet, held both hands together on one side of the post while she stood shivering with post-orgasmic pleasure and a touch of fear on the other. Events were taking a turn she had anticipated, and it was (still) a bit scary. Lord Danverson grinned as he slid the girdle from his robe and bound her wrists together tightly with the silken length. Around and around her wrists, pulling her veins close together, so close she could feel her pulse racing through them. Abigail bit her lips, looked at Lord Danverson with pleading eyes, saying "let me go" without uttering the words, remembering the last time, almost smiling with pleasure.

  "I do not know from where you came, or why you are here with me, but those who offer their bodies are wanton hussies and are dealt with in the time-honoured way, madam." The last word was said with sarcasm and malice. The gleam of lust was back again - this man did indeed have a taste for hurting women. And it was what she wanted.

  Abigail was cold. His come trickled down her thigh, cool and sticky, and she became aware of the building excitement.

  One thing was sure, she could not twist this man around her finger as she had done with others, oh so many others. Nor would she want to.

  The door opened again and the small boy's voice said, "The birch, sire."

  The door closed. Lord Danverson had not spoken. Abigail stared at the rich hangings of the four-poster bed, stared at the carved headboard with its cornucopia of fruit and birds, felt rather than saw him walk around her, eyeing her carefully.

  "Now, madam, we will deal with wanton hussies who offer themselves to their Lord." A thousand bees stung her at once as the birch connected with her bare bottom. She cried out, gasping in pain and shock when it landed again and again. As always, she hadn't remembered how much it hurt.

  "In my territory, women are taught to obey their men in all things, and that, madam, includes the question of who he is to take to his bed." Again and again the many twigs found her, the tiny buds causing their own pain, the sharp wet twigs flexible enough to bend on impact, to send fire through her. Tears flowed, but she made no sound.

  "My sentence is always the same for those who commit misdemeanours here, madam." A pause in the agony, just his relentless voice lecturing her on the wilful nature of her crime. Lord Danverson was not a man to be crossed at any time!

  "My sentence for wayward hussies, women who should know better, is 50 strokes of the birch. Madam, you have had 25. There are 25 to go."

  She was hurting, surely he had drawn blood! No one could hurt this much and not bleed! But she had thought that last time, and was all right. He knew what he was doing, trust the expert!

  "Stand and wait." She had no choice, hands bound around the post as they were. Tears continued to pour down her face and she longed to wipe them away.

  "Sire-"

  "Be silent! It is not done for a woman to entice a man in such a way - no respectable woman! You came with no one, I asked them all! You belong to no one! Did you come with the intention of finding my room? Be warned, wench, I do not consort with wanton women, but it is midsummer and you intrigued me. Now you will pay the price of that intrigue, whoever you are."

  Abigail bit her lip, afraid of spilling the truth. Not that Lord Danverson would believe that she had come from hundreds of years in the future anyway.

  He began to birch her again, this time the birch found her thighs and legs. The pain was intense. Abigail struggled as hard as she could, crying out her despair and fear. Suddenly, against all the odds, the girdle gave way and she was free. She looked at Lord Danverson, and fell at his feet.

  "Sire, forgive me. I had to find a way to be with you!"

  Was he listening? The birch was dropped to the bedroom floor and he stared at her, open-mouthed in shock.

  "If I did not know better I would have said you enjoyed that, wench."

  She looked up at him, all her love and devotion shining clear in her eyes.

  "Oh yes, I would take that and more from my Lord Danverson."

  He moved over to her, raised her up with strong hands under her armpits, held her close, buried his hands and then his face in her mass of black curls, then kissed her deeply. She melted under his lips and elegant curled beard. "This is not a dream," he murmured.

  "No dream, my Lord, but reality. I have come and if you wish it, sire, I shall stay."

  "Oh yes, you shall stay. I have long wanted..." His hands found her burning cheeks, held and squeezed and then slapped her hard. She cried out, muffled against his chest, but did not attempt to pull away.

  "Take me again," she whispered. He scooped her up in his arms and laid her back on the goose-feather mattress. No foreplay this time, just her open arms, and his cock as hard and as thick and as strong as before. He slid into her, riding the residue of his own juices and hers, mingled irrevocably and eternally in her waiting willing body. He crushed her into the mattress, filled every part of her body and her mind.

  Abigail mused.

  "In the morning I'll burn the dress - when he finds me something else to wear - and find me a wise woman to curse the site of our castle so nothing is ever built but a castle or a theatre. And sweep up the pieces of mirror which, miracle of miracles, he hasn't noticed."

  Over her lord's shoulder Abigail glanced at the mirror and saw with shock it hung unbroken in its frame, reflecting the room, not the future. It had become a normal mirror, fit for looking in. She smiled with pure happiness.

  "What amuses you, my lady?" He traced a finger down her face, looking deep into her eyes, wondering yet assured.

  "Nothing, my Lord. Only the pleasure of being in your bed."

  To hell with the 20th century, she thought, tensing her muscles against the man so full within her. She was too busy here.

  Having the time of her life.