by Louisa Trent
Not ready! His sword was buried deep in the leader's throat; in his haste to find Aeschine, he had left his dirk behind in the cave.
No time to yank the sword free, he met the vaulting wolf barehanded. After wrestling him to the ground, he squeezed the massive throat, finishing him off with a firm twist that broke the animal's windpipe. A hard kill, depleting much of Sage's strength, and more wolves bided their turn.
Pulling his bloodied sword from the first animal's carcass, Sage raised it high, a wild man meeting and matching the wildness of the beasts.
“Which of you dogs is next?” he yelled.
The wolves, recognizing a madman when they spotted one, ran off yelping into the trees, leaving him alone with Aeschine.
“Are you hurt?” he rasped, hands clenched at his sides, chest heaving, keeping his distance, not trusting himself to go near.
“Nay,” Aeschine whispered. “But if not for you ... the wolves ... the wolves would have torn me apart."
“Wolves do what is in their nature to do.” He took a step toward her. “As do angered warriors.” Another step and he was well within sword striking range of her.
Aeschine did not retreat. “You told me to stay in the cave and I did not obey you. You might very well have left me to die, but you did not. I deserve your anger, Captor."
“If you run off, someone must follow. I am that someone.” He took a deep breath. He must get himself back in control! “Did you leave the cave thinking to escape me?"
“Nay! I grew restless. I wished only to take a walk.” She hung her head. “I dislike confinement."
He believed her. Of all people, he understood. He too walked the woods, thinking to outdistance The Black Bile; he too disliked confinement.
“I am sorry for causing you trouble,” she said in a hushed voice, staring at the puddle of blood beside her.
Before he knew what she was about, she dropped to her knees and dipped a hand in the crimson wetness.
“Aeschine?” he questioned.
If she heard him, she gave no indication. Staring straight ahead, seemingly dazed, she took a bloodied finger and drew it diagonally across a pale cheek, leaving behind a red slash.
Lads often blooded themselves after a first kill. Never did he think to see a lass do the same. Helplessly, horrified and mesmerized, repulsed and aroused, he watched her push the too-large tunic over her shoulders and down her arms. The undergarment fell around her bent knees.
She smeared her body with wolf blood: face, arms, the up-tilted tips of her breasts. The hand too shy to touch herself earlier in the cave, now boldly went between her legs.
She opened herself and coated the entry to her passage a bright crimson until the outer lips took on the appearance of an animal in heat. Only when she was tattooed front and back did she stop her blooding.
Her words held misery. “These wild animals are dead because of me.” A strangled sob escaped her trembling lips. “I am to blame."
Blame. He understood that concept only too well. And for that reason told her, “You killed to live. To protect yourself."
“Necessary due to my own thoughtless actions."
He sighed. What to say? He had no comfort to offer the headstrong lass. Hers was a painful lesson to learn, but learn it she must.
“How do you bring yourself to look at me?” she asked, emotion turning her voice to a hoarse croak. “I am beneath contempt."
On her knees, she turned from him. “Whip me,” she said, speaking without inflection. “Do it. I accept my need to be punished."
How many times, to how many different men, had Aeschine uttered those sacrilegious words, assumed this same bent pose? For a stepfather, who had not given her the gift of positive discipline? For LaTourne, who only ejaculated to a woman's pain? For other lovers, who substituted the kiss of the strap for foreplay? Had she come to love her punishment?
His captive's back was lovely, the flesh unmarked. Care had been taken not to mar delicate skin.
Sage was sexually circumspect, not unsophisticated. He knew a little pain heightened sexual pleasure; too much killed passion. There were whips designed to inflict hurt, but leave little evidence, other than bruising, behind. Did Aeschine have knowledge of these devices? Is that why her back remained unmarked, though she was obviously well acquainted with punishment? Might Aeschine only receive sexual gratification through pain?
Clearly, she needed release. Tears. Orgasm. She needed something to let go of the knot of tension inside her woman's body.
Once again, he understood: A tight knot in his gut needed release too.
Removing his belt, he slapped it across his palm. Once. Twice. Thrice across the line of calluses below his warrior-hard fingers. The flaying leather strap stung even his toughened hand. What would it do to her?
“Disrobe,” he said, gesturing to the coarse linen tunic still wrapped around her knees, his man's tension almost strangling him. The male garment offended his eyes and he would have it gone.
With a nod, she pushed the tunic off over her ankles and feet. Nude, she crossed her arms over her huge, blood-coated nipples. To protect them against a misplaced stroke?
He never erred with the whip; his aim was true.
She looked over at him again, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I am ready."
Cry, darling. You need to...
Earlier she had cried for others, but she refused to cry for herself. She turned back, lifted her hips, elevating her buttocks to him, for him. She was beautiful in her submission. A golden, fantasy woman made for a man's unspeakable pleasure.
He stepped behind her.
As warlord, he had lashed many a man's back. Never had he taken a whip to a female. It would require a great deal of control to cause pain without inflicting permanent injury on such a narrow back as hers. That left him her round bottom. He could whip her there, lay his leather belt over the round buttocks, and perhaps not leave permanent scars.
He raised his arm. Experimentally, he let the belt unfurl and fly.
Small particles of dirt flew up in the air as the whip lashed the ground beside where she knelt, steady and calm, with no hint of fear.
He had the control to administer the punishment. A few flicks of his wrist, and she would have her release. The tears would come with climax, and the terror of this night would dissolve. Merciful to give her what she needed...
He had the control, but lacked the mercy.
“ ‘Tis not my way to whip a female,” he said softly, apologetically.
He went to where she knelt, brought her to her feet. “But your running has left me no choice but to tether you."
She gasped. “Oh, please, Captor! Anything but that! I must have my freedom."
Her pleas would not persuade him from this course of action. Tethering suited the transgression. The discipline was necessary. The punishment was just. Her safety must come first!
“This is for your own good,” he told her.
From the gear he always kept on his belt loop, he extracted an additional leather strap, used for the training of animals. He swiftly attached it to pliable length already held in his hand.
Sage stepped forward. “Raise your arms out to your sides."
Chin dipped, she did.
Carefully avoiding Aeschine's small pointed breasts, and touching her skin as little as possible—for this was not about his pleasure, but about his prisoner's safety—he drew the leather around her narrow waist.
He buckled her in back, tethering her as he would any young bitch in need of training. Kinder by far for her to learn to follow her master's directions this way than it was to whip her. Also, the goodly length would give her slack to roam when the strap was staked to the ground.
Here on out, he intended to keep her staked at all times. To avoid undesirable mating, he kept all his female dogs staked. So too would he keep Aeschine. She had admitted to promiscuity, after all. Giving this high-spirited lass free run was not advisable.
He ferreted into t
he tool sac around his waist and came out with another devise, a chastity belt of sorts. Designed to go between a bitch's legs, connecting front to back, the thick leather covered the female pudendum. The installation would mean touching Aeschine intimately as he made the adjustments.
He paused, questioned whether or not he should attach it.
Perspiration broke out on his forehead.
He had no choice! He said he would do this if she disobeyed him, and he always kept his word. That he regretted tethering Aeschine was irrelevant; consistency was the key to success when training a dog or a woman!
“Open your legs,” he said gruffly. When she did, he knelt in the dirt before her, at eye level with her pelvis.
“Wider,” he ordered; the installation of the harness required ample space between the female's thighs.
She widened, and his eyes focused on the narrow slit. On the pretty pink folds. Never before had he scrutinized the female passage at such close proximity; even whores balked at attentive regard of their private regions. Not Aeschine. She offered him no demur.
As this was not about pleasure, but duty, he limited the time spent looking, and attached the chastity belt, his knuckles skimming her silky belly as he drew it down, down, down to cover her mons. His fingers brushed her soft pubic curls as he reached between her spread legs. His palm cupped her opening, while his fingers, all of them, glazed her pudendum, while his thumb stroked, by necessity, the bloodied folds. Not deep. His was a shallow stroke.
“Does this chafe?” he asked solicitously.
“Nay,” she said in a small, shivery voice.
“Here?” He touched her a bit more. Slowly. Carefully. Even so, his fingers slipped and he would have to begin all again from the very beginning, at the top of the notch. This was delicate female flesh, after all; pink silky flesh that might easily bruise. He had no choice but to ensure the best possible fit. The proper adjustment of an animal to the harness was of critical importance. He was no negligent bitch master!
The site of her womanly pleasure was unusually large. And sensitive. Aeschine trembled from head to foot when the pad of his index finger slid across the plump nub.
He swallowed. “Shall I ... perhaps ... loosen it ... here?” he asked, moving his finger in a circular motion over her pleasure bud until the hood opened.
Her breathing quickened; her small, red-tipped breasts rose and fell rapidly. “'Tis as you wish, Captor."
“This is not as I wish,” he reprimanded her. “A correct fit is essential. I would be remiss not to see to your care."
“Of course,” she purred, and not at all contritely.
He adjusted the belt several times more, until he was certain the leather would not bruise tender folds.
“Turn now,” he said.
When she did, he drew the narrow strap from front to back.
“Captor?” she questioned, when he opened her buttocks.
“The leather goes between. Like so.” Permitting her no ladylike squeamishness, he ran a finger over the back portal, a fetching dimple the tether would traverse. The seductive hole drew him. He came to within a fool's range of drawing his tongue down the crevice and spearing that forbidden entrance.
Refusing to give into the urge, he dutifully attached the end of the leather strap to the buckle at the small of her back.
Done, he came to a reluctant stand.
But then, trapped in a web of his own making, he made the mistake of bringing a lock of her unbound hair to his nose. Undone by the fragrance of lavender, his jaw went rigid. The sweet-smelling strand felt so warm! Aeschine's hair seemed to collect the new daylight in its strands.
“Does my hair please you, Captor?” she asked, keeping her eyes forward. “Does keeping me on a leash please you?"
His hand shot back as if burned.
Was he pleased?
Had she recognized a weakness in him before he had recognized it in himself? Did he enjoy keeping a female in bondage? Mayhap, in his own predilections, he differed not so greatly from LaTourne, after all.
Aeschine now stood before him, head down, silently shaking. Her stoicism broke him. “Come you here to me,” he said, and held open his arms.
“So sorry,” she whispered against his chest. “I know I disobeyed, Captor. I know I deserve to be punished. I was so afraid of the wolves. So frightened I would die this day."
“Cry,” he soothed. “Let go of the fear,” he crooned and wrapped himself around her bloodied body. “You are safe with me."
Headstrong. Passionate. Full of life. Adventuresome. Even tethered, she would make for a handful.
A delicious handful, he conceded. How might he temper her without breaking her?
He started with a compliment: Aeschine was a lass much in need of kind words. “You are a brave female..."
“Nay, I..."
“Hush. You are brave. Strong too.” He cupped her stubborn jaw, his thumb wiping at a smudge of blood on her high cheekbone.
At his boots, the carcasses of two dead animals lay crumbled, testimony that he had killed to keep Aeschine safe. Be she endangered again, he would kill again. Animals. Men. To his mind, there was no difference. Killing was killing. And safe was safe, regardless of how the outcome was arranged.
He arranged Aeschine's tall strong female body to fit his tall strong male body, her softness aligned to his hardness, her hollows aligned to where he bulged—his tightly wrapped loincloth did naught to dissuade the swell of his erection.
To keep his arousal a secret, he put her away from him. “We return to the cave now."
She looked at the tunic on the ground; one hand covered her breasts, the other hand hid her genitals. “May I have the return of your garment, Captor? I am not accustomed to going about ungarbed outside. This is not a question of punishment, as I agree my punishment is warranted, but of modesty."
He said sternly, unequivocally, “You will stay as you are."
“But if I promise not to escape..."
“I need no useless promise. The tether will prevent any escape attempt,” he reminded her curtly. Then, his voice softened. “You will soon grow used to the absence of a covering. Female animals wear no covering, and they suffer the lack of modesty not at all. I consider you much the same. And please to remember, there is nothing personal here. Now go,” he said, giving her leash a little shake as one would with a pretty but prankish pet.
As Aeschine walked ahead of him on the tether, her hands fell to her sides, modesty forgotten. She held her back proud and straight. Unclothed, he thought her bearing more regal than a queen garbed in the richest of satins and silks. He thought the leather tether encircling her waist more alluring than the finest bejeweled girdle...
He would not think of her small, red-tipped breasts or her red-painted slit or her red-smeared muscled buttocks. Nay, he would not! She was his prisoner. And he was her celibate judge.
A tether leashed them together, but their fates were irrevocably linked, inseparable, one from the other, even without the leather.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Aeschine wiped at the moisture trickling down her face.
Useless tears. Useless, useless, tears. What good did they do? And how is it that once again willfulness had overtaken commonsense?
Her disobedience had almost ended her life today, and her captor's life, as well. An apology was little compensation for the damage done. Nor would words—any words, no matter how finely put—adequately express her contrition. But what else might she do or say to make amends?
She had not meant for any of this to happen! Regardless of how it looked, she had not run off, had not tried to escape. Restless as usual, she had gone for a walk. Just a walk! Upon realizing the length of her absence, she had started back to the cave through the grove of alders that grew on the riverbank. That's where the wolves had first sighted her and given chase. Lunging at her, their yellow fangs had tried to rip and tear at her flesh.
A shudder overtook her as she paced the floor, as far as the te
ther staked to the floor of the cave permitted.
“Cold?” a voice asked from the shadows.
Startled, she jumped. Turning in a wobbly fashion, she faced the echo. “A little."
Her shaky weakness put her to shame, and she bowed her head. “You walk like a ghost. I listened for your footsteps but heard nothing. When did you return?"
“Not long ago,” he said, revealing naught as he crossed the cave's dirt-packed floor.
“I feared someone else had discovered the cave."
He lifted her face, smoothed his knuckles gently along her jaw. “No man or animal will get to you whilst you are in my care. And that includes LaTourne."
His stroking fingers fell away. “I know the pervert must have had you before the vows were spoke...” A slight pause, then, “And I also know you liked not the man. But I do sense you enjoyed the things he did to you."
She looked away.
“ ‘Tis nothing to feel shame over.” He shrugged. “You tasted passion's dark side, and you came to crave it."
She kept her silence, but tilted her jaw back to him.
“No need to speak,” whispered the man who had saved her twice now: unknowingly, from her betrothed, knowingly from the wolves. “Your eyes say it all."
“Would you like to know what your eyes tell me?"
“Nay,” her rescuer shouted.
She raised a brow; her captor rarely raised his voice. “Well, well, well. This becomes interesting. You may not wish to hear what I have to say but I shall tell you anyway. Your eyes tell me you wish to end your celibacy and take me. Perhaps in the very fashion of LaTourne. So, have me, Captor. Take me. And in any manner you so desire."
“I feel no desire. I feel only duty toward you."
“Duty,” she scoffed. “You want me. And I want you. There is a bond between us, a bond of the spirit..."
“Romantic lass! In the dark, all women are the same between the legs. If there is a bond between us, ‘tis a bond of lust.” He plucked at the leather rein that fell from her waist in back. “And this tether. Do you think love sonnets will fall from my lips if I breach you?"