A whip appeared in one man’s hand, replacing the single strap. Continuing his task, this new implement nipped bites in the victim’s reddened skin. Then, it swooshed through the air and landed just short of cutting the skin… She jumped lively with every cut, dancing as if delighted—or when anguished, as if she could run away.
Stopping to appraise his target, the executor sneered bitterly, then cracked the whip through the heated air at full force—the cracker hitting nothing but the steamy emptiness. But the crowd gasped. In turn, the bound beauty jolted defiantly at the sound alone. But realizing that her body had not taken the blow, she eased and held on, gritting her teeth, sure that the next crack would tear her flesh away. Her punishment was just beginning.
While the flogger continued to prime one side of her body, the whip made blade-like cuts to the roughed and tender surface. Their combined method made her mad with fear—at the same time, curiously desirous of more. The pain no longer mattered. Her body had been lifted from the anguish, delivered into another state of feeling where all her senses melded together and each new strike brought more sensate wonder.
She took pride in her ability to contain her cries. And as her breathing deepened, she believed the punishment could last forever in this blessed way.
This was a foul thing for a condemned woman to assume. Her executors understood their power to raise such feeling in some women—and they knew the path beyond that.
The whipmaster, sporting an evil grin, reared back as he’d done before and let the whip fly forward, wrapping the side of Jolie’s hip. The frayed end cut like the blade of a knife.
“Eeeeeeawwww!” she shrieked.
The whip wrapped her other hip.
“Eeeeawwwww, noooooooooooo!” she bellowed from a deeper well of passion.
This pain did not diminish, it didn’t die away, didn’t ease in seconds as the other blows did, but lingered long, biting and cutting, as if there were teeth burrowing into her insides.
The sharp snaps continued to places more used to pain, and her breathing and fear abated for a time. But then the pace picked up with strikes snapping off her back and ass in a frenzied rhythm. Faster, sharper, meaner… more and more so that she was delirious and crying for mercy, wailing for the end.
The crowd quieted as the merciless punishment continued, as if they were so mesmerized by the awesome nature of this spectacle that they could not believe the horror of it, or the beauty of that horror. It struck even the hearts of brave men, and wounded the souls of women unused to witnessing such abject woe. Would it be them next convicted of an inconsequential crime?
Suddenly, without warning, the punishment stopped.
An uneasy quiet reigned. For minutes, not a murmur, not a single cough, or sigh, or whisper issued from the audience. There was not a single sound from the victim—nothing until the executors shuffled off the platform and disappeared with their whips and floggers.
The victim, the beautiful Marie Jolie Gabrielle Antoinette, hung limp, not fainted, but barely conscious. She paid no mind to the flies that buzzed the air or the chill that rippled against her skin. Her flesh was stained with the consequences of her lust, streaked with red, and a few fresh dabs of blood where the whip had broken the skin.
In time these wounds would lessen, the red would fade and the welts diminish. Some would bruise to leave lingering remnants, and feel tender to the touch for many days. Some red splotches would remain as well, and over time fade to the natural creamy pink of the lady’s skin. Her limbs would ache, her shoulders feel tight; and because she’d been so strained in the position, her wrists would bear a few scars until they also recovered.
Whatever be the lingering vestiges of her ordeal, however, the worst of it was over for her body. That would recuperate in time. What was left to scar her more intently was the abrupt change in her lush and cultured life.
The crowd began to murmur and disperse as the bailiff untied the beauty from bondage, and held her upright to keep her from fainting. A robe was thrown over her raw shoulders, which made her grimace—as well as come to life. She stood before the magistrate clutching the sides of the robe in her fist.
“The remainder of your sentence,” the scowling magistrate began, “will be five years of indentured service. I could send you to a more severe work detail, but it has been pointed out that you have some value as a house servant rather than a field or sweatshop laborer. And, as your husband is no longer interested in maintaining your marriage under these conditions, I have signed the papers for your divorce. He is transferring the responsibility for your welfare to Sir Marcus Roger in return for several favors from that honored nobleman. For the next five years, Marie Jolie Gabrielle Antoinette, you will submit to his authority and his every command.”
Five years! She was too delirious from stimulation to understand completely what was being said; but she understood time. She understood that five years was an eternity in her mind, beyond the scope of her comprehension. She’d only been married three years. Five was forever.
And Sir Marcus Roger! He was not a man she could love, admire or even serve with any ease at all. The ruthless noble was an egotistical and maniacal brute. While he cut a handsome figure with his tall and robust bearing, his bearded face and handsome eyes, he also had a puffed-up chest, a leering gaze, and a grimace that combined in one man the worst in mockery and scorn found in all who participated in her trial and punishment. She did not like the savage scoundrel; and her abhorrence for the man only increased now that her fate had been disclosed.
The spectacle was over; the scandal and the shame had run their course. Justice had been served, order established, the province could live with itself for a few more months until another public calamity would break out—another for the authorities to squash before a greater rebellion ensued. Public officials considered it a blessing that ignominious women provided them with such an exquisite means of placating the masses with outrageous punishments.
As the gavel sounded its final crack, everyone breathed a sigh of relief, including the accused, convicted and now punished Marie Jolie Gabrielle Antoinette. Shunted off the stage, she was led to the infirmary where the few overt wounds were cleaned. Then she was dressed, collared, manacled at the wrists and handed over to Sir Marcus Roger.
“Why what a pleasant happenstance for me!” Sir Roger declared once he spotted the spent young woman.
“Yes, sir,” Jolie attempted to sound dutiful in the face of his mocking tone.
“I think you’ll survive,” he said.
“I should hope so, sir,” she answered.
He spent some moments appraising her physical appearance. The pale blue dress she’d been given to wear was hardly more than a tattered hand-me-down: soiled, stained with grime and much too big for the small Jolie. It hung on her body like an old sack, so shapeless that it was difficult to tell anything about the voluptuous form of her body.
“I’m afraid the clothes don’t do you justice,” he remarked in the same supercilious manner he’d used before. “But, I am sure I can remedy that situation.”
“That would be a pleasure,” she agreed, gazing down at the appalling garment.
“You’ll be quite an ornament in my house.”
“Ornament?”
“Oh, indeed,” his chestnut eyes lit with lascivious intent. “I plan to use all of your talents, Madam Gilbere.”
“I am no longer Madam Gilbere,” she reminded him.
“Yes, I suppose not. And you have the fabulously long name no one can remember.”
“Call me any of my names, sir. It doesn’t matter to me which one.”
“Your husband called you Antoinette, is that not right?”
“He did, sir.”
“Then I shall call you the same.”
She nodded. Considering the circumstances, she was as compliant as she could be. Knowing this man’s character, she was wise not to rile, to spit out the venom she was feeling in her heart. Truthfully, and despite the man’s
miserable nature, she bore no honest ill-will for him, for he’d done nothing to her in their brief association. Her animosity was almost completely toward her former husband—and the court that had condemned her. Fate did take ugly turns. She’d have to live through this one with her wit and charm. If it was possible to charm Sir Marcus Roger, she’d do it.
Chapter Three
“I must speak with Sir Roger!” Jolie declared as she stood by the entrance to his private quarters. His valet, Milo, stood at attention next to the door as if he were guarding the inner sanctuary of a god.
“And you cannot,” Milo returned.
“I assure you, my fine man, I will see Sir Roger,” she answered back determinedly.
“I’m sure you will, but not today. Sir is indisposed.”
“Indisposed, my foot! He’s fucking some sweet piece of flesh. You think I don’t know the sounds of sexual passion?”
“I’m sure you would, ma’am.”
“Oh, will you stop being so damned polite!” she shouted. She would have beaten his chest if she thought it would end this silly game.
“I do my master’s bidding, I suggest you do that as well.”
“Yes, I will, as soon as we have a few things straightened out.”
“Madam, that is not the way things work in this household, and, I’d suggest that you lower the volume of your voice.”
“Only if you’ll grant me entrance,” her voice rose another few decibels.
“I cannot do that.” Milo was calm, though it was clear that his patience for the woman was wearing thin.
“Then I will enter myself!” she declared. She pounced on the door rattling the hefty iron handle, but not accomplishing her mission.
A moment later, she was shoved back by the door opening from the inside.
“What the hell his going on!” Marcus Roger blared.
“At last,” Jolie was poised and confident. “I have matters to discuss with you.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed.”
He almost seemed amused. “And you believe you have a right to storm my room and demand my attention?”
“It has been three days. That is long enough to wait for an audience with you.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is.” They were squaring off, eye to eye, her flashing green eyes meeting his bewildered brown ones.
“Well, let me suggest to you, that your thoughts, your assumptions, your will in this world—my world—matters for nothing. If I never spend another moment in your company, if I never pay attention to your shrewish demands, if I refuse to listen to a word you say, that is my prerogative. I don’t care what you want to say to me, I’m not interested.” He turned to Milo. “See that she returns to her cubicle.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, you will not turn your back on me that way,” she charged after Marcus Roger as the door was closing.
Instantly enraged, he whisked around.
“What was that!”
“I said you will not turn your back on me.”
“Have you lost your mind?” he blared.
She remained calm. “No. I will have an audience with you.”
“Never!” he charged. “But you will have my belt!” His powerful left arm grabbed her about the waist and pulled her ass first into his quarters, where two trollops were peeking out from under the covers of his broad mahogany bed. Reaching for his leather belt, he had it firmly in his hand before the furious Jolie could fight her way free. Doubling the leather in his fist, he drew her skirt up over her ass, and sighting only naked flesh, he began to pelt her with a hard rain of thwacks.
“Why won’t you listen to me!” she spat impatiently as she sought to struggle free.
He didn’t answer. The belt thundered across her ass cheeks so quickly that her bottom was instantly aflame and turning red faster than a summer sunset.
“Ouch! goddammit!” she roared.
The belt thundered on and so her master’s anger.
She writhed. She wiggled. She spit and spewed and kicked. Nothing worked to get him to stop.
“I-I c-can’t ssss-stand it!” she finally gasped in broken stammers, between smacks of leather and her frenetic attempts to get away.
“But you will!” he finally roared his reply. “You’ve taken a whole lot more, you vile harpy!”
Smack, smack, smack! The belt hit everywhere from the plump center of her ass almost to her knees. Marcus Roger had her backside covered with red, looking so hot one would think that any second it would burst into flames. Before he stopped, she was sobbing, thrashing like a fury—though the strength of the man was too much for her; and all her efforts produced no result. Finally, a wrecked mass of red flesh and tears, she wilted where she lay, giving herself up to the inordinate pain.
Seeing her finally relent, Marcus ended the attack and threw the belt to the floor.
“Now, Antoinette, get the hell out of my sight!” He shoved her off, Jolie landing in an awkward heap on the floor, from where she half-crawled, half scrambled to her feet and clambered out the door, fast retreating to her tiny room.
There were few comforts in Jolie’s new world. Her room in Marcus Roger’s house was minimally furnished—as were all the rooms in the fellow’s small mansion. He was a Spartan man, thrifty, simple and curt. The only adornments in his world were the female servants he collected to meet his sexual needs. His newest acquisition believed she’d have some place of honor in his world. After all, she was a noblewoman by birth. Her husband had been a powerful man. And she herself had once wielded some power in the financial circles of the province. Obviously, she was stripped of her influence now. But that was no reason for Marcus Roger to cast off her knowledge and denigrate her as nothing but a piece of flesh.
Her complaint this day concerned her attire. He’d given her the bawdiest dress to wear as though she was nothing but a harlot. Yes, the garment was well made, but its features were outrageous. No decent woman would ever wear anything so vulgar. The tight bodice of the dress laced in back, and pushed her full breasts into a cleavage so tenuous that any second a nipple might pop free. As it was, the soft brown aureoles around her buds could not be hidden. Even that was not enough humiliation in her master’s eye. He wanted more, having the skirt of the dress designed with the diaphanous material cut to the waist both front and back. In the front, the two sides were drawn apart and tied off with ribbons so that the delectable ‘V’ at her groin was plainly exposed. He’d not seen the catastrophe this dress made of her dignity. She may be a convicted adulterous, but she was not a whore!
Obviously, Sir Marcus Roger didn’t see things the way she did.
Returning to her room, Jolie threw herself on the bed and balled. A bucket of tears rained from her eyes, dampening her pillow and the sleeves of the awful dress. All the fear and panic from the last several days poured forth in one hellacious moment of unrestrained emotion.
I shall die here, if this is all I have! she spoke to her heart through her angry tears.
She beat her hands against the pillow, railing at the world that put her in this miserable state—at her husband, Prince Tasio, the arresting officers, the magistrate, the bailiff with his fingers bruising her arms, at the executors of the punishment—the gawking women, the filthy brats who threw rotten food into the cage, and the crowd, the ruthless bystanders who feasted on her misfortune—and finally at Sir Marcus Roger.
Once her gulping sobs were spent, she lay exhausted on the bed, trying not to wonder over her future. That was exactly what caused her problems in the first place.
She was too limp to care now what happened to her. When Milo entered her room, she even ignored the cuffs he placed around her wrists. When he chained her to the wall, arms reaching above her head, she said nothing. She didn’t even look the man in the eye. She was too despondent to care about any comfort or discomfort.
“The master suggests that you spend a few days bound to your bed. He reminds you to remember your positio
n in this house. You have no status, no say, no opinion. Once you have that clear, he will give you audience—and then instruct you in proper decorum.”
She was given a chamber pot should that be required. Then, on leaving, Milo closed the door and left her in the semi-darkness of the dim room. It had been a grey day outside with no sun to cheer the sky or Jolie’s tiny room. She’d cried enough, thinking of her bad luck, so she blanked her mind and let the minutes tick by until someone came to feed her.
It was much later that day, after the sun was down and her bedroom was bereft of any light that her minimal world took another turn. Perhaps she’d been asleep, or perhaps just half-awake when the door to her room opened wide and the light from outside shattered her peace.
Ah! Food! Her weary mind hoped. She could smell chicken and dumplings—or was that just her empty stomach and her imagination tricking her?
She turned to the shadow in the doorway, seeing the silhouette of a generously sized man staring at her through the black night. Sir Marcus Roger, no doubt.
“Should you make a sound, woman, I will gag you,” he stated dispassionately.
She was sure he would, so she said nothing.
Moving inside the room, Sir Roger began unbuckling the belt at his waist. Another spanking, she thought to herself. But no. Instead, of preparing to thrash her again, he threw the belt down, and began undoing the flap of his pants. Then moving forward, he closed the door behind him, having communicated all he needed to the waiting woman.
She shuddered knowing that he’d rape her and she had no power to object. She’d been raped before—or at least mauled by her husband, when the man was drunk and he could find no other woman to screw a cum from his hungry loins.
She expected it rough, for Sir Roger’s cock to impale her with a swiftness of purpose necessary only to get his need quickly met. To her surprise, however, he took time to rouse her flesh first before he made the first thrust of his engorged organ. She could see little, just the shadows of his face and his form. But she sensed a great deal, and felt a fiery power coming from his hands. He pushed the sides of her skirt aside and ran his hand along her thighs. Massaging them with an ardor she had not expected, his ministrations brought her physical body to a quick and expected peak. Desire bounded through her like jackrabbits through a thicket. Though she sought to hold back, this was just another of many emotional moments due her after the long drought of passion.
The Saga of a Naughty Lady Page 3