“String her up!” the first mate ordered. Oh, how those words rang out from her past.
The crew stood on deck in a loose formation—everyone save the cook who was still preparing their evening meal.
Captain Dunleavy stood to the left of Jolie as the first mate led her up the stairs to the deck. She caught his eye with hers, but he failed to acknowledge the look with any feeling. His eyes locked on hers for just a second then stared away.
Her heart shriveled.
Just minutes before she lay helplessly bound on the floor of his cabin gazing up into the steel of his steadfast eyes. She realized the seriousness of her crime and how foolish she’d been. She pleaded her case. “Sir, please, I am sorry. I apologize. I will do anything you say, I swear.”
“I’m sure you will,” he answered, “because you have no choice. If treating you humanely doesn’t instill you with some humility, then there are other measures. I’ve warned you and you did not pay heed.”
“I was wrong, sir. Out of my head,” she pressed him. “The mistake was horrible, I know, but I beg you, don’t punish me before those awful brutes.” She’d overheard his plans and was appalled.
“Those brutes, as awful as they appear, I entrust with my life—and yours. You should be more grateful to them.” He looked down at her sneering coldly, “Besides, I shouldn’t think this would be so difficult for you. After all, you’ve appeased the thirsting masses before. And there are just twenty to satisfy on my ship.” He rarely spoke with mockery in his voice as it was not in his character to gloat or be smug; but he was both now. “I will not be derided, I will not be challenged. You have accomplished both and for that you will pay.”
“But, please, I am begging you,” she jumped back quickly to her aid.
Patrick Dunleavy wouldn’t listen to more; instead, he strode from his cabin as purposefully as he’d entered, leaving her to wonder what the punishment would bring.
Now, as she approached the ship’s deck, she shook with fright and embarrassment. Her cheeks were flushed as she looked briefly toward the surrounding crew and their mocking gazes. Thankfully, Patrick’s was not one of them jeering at her. His scorn for her was now transformed into simple coldness… where had the kind man she’d first met at the dock disappeared to? Odd though, that he should arouse her so when he was being heartless.
Atop the ship’s deck, she was taken to the masthead—the enormous trunk of sturdy oak that jutted toward heaven and was fitted for sails. If only the wind would sweep her up now and fly her out to sea, she would be grateful for the ride to any freedom from this treachery—even the mysterious ocean depths seemed kinder than this horror. She wanted to live, but not like this. For the second time in her young life she’d become the target of abuse and shame and the eyes of chortling buffoons.
Where she’d been kicking and screaming, and ranting like a heedless shrew in Patrick Dunleavy’s cabin, she was now calm as the waters they sailed this day. Even her thick brown skirt didn’t flutter in the breeze. But there was a hot sun beating on her back; the air was sticky with salt, and the taste of it made her thirst for clear, clean water.
“String her up!” the first mate’s order caused two sailors to scramble forward and take her bound hands in theirs. They untied the bonds that held them, but that was only so they could fix them separately to the heavy mast.
Once her hands had been secured, she was wrenched forward, her torso ringed with rope to anchor her firmly against the massive timber. Her legs were then roped and tied widely apart at the base of the column. She was sweating as the blistering sun baked against her shoulders.
“Untie her clothes!” the first mate ordered.
One of the leering crew dashed forward to accomplish the task. He began with the top of her dress where, just as in the front, a series of ties went from the neckline to the hem. The dress had been fashioned for just such an occasion as this one. It took some tugging to open the ties—they’d been pulled tightly into knots, laundered and dried into place. Jolie hoped he’d never get them loose—although that was a foolish wish. If they couldn’t bare her body this way, there were other ways to uncover her ass.
After each tie was undone there was a distinctive chortle coming from the gallery of sailors. Then more sniggling jeers as her dress was opened to her bound waist, and the sides were pulled wide and tied with straps to keep them anchored and her back naked. That deed finished, the man proceeded with the ties along the back of her skirt. One by one, the tiny bows were loosened, until both sides were free and could be pulled away to reveal her bare behind—the two plump cheeks glistening white in the sun.
Jolie should have taken comfort having her breasts and belly still clothed. In the marketplace where she was tried her entire body had been on display. Yet, before the eyes of these unseemly men—who she’d see daily long after the punishment was over—intimate exposure was difficult to endure. She ducked her head into her arm to avert their crude stares, letting the fabric of her dress absorb her tears.
The sun beat more ungraciously against her naked back; and she could feel her skin burn, becoming charred like the last embers in a fire.
The men were hushed now, only a few tittering chuckles. Perhaps their captain had arrested the jovial game. He was the author of these proceedings and would remain in charge; both his victim and the crew of twenty sailors were his to control. And though she was being publicly punished, Patrick Dunleavy would not let the festivities descend into raucous anarchy.
Waiting was as vile a torture as being beaten. Her flesh quivered, while her legs ached and trembled uncontrollably. She tried to right herself in the uncomfortable bondage, but there was no position that didn’t meanly cut at her wrists, her ankles and her waist. The thick hemp that held her prisoner dug into the flesh—to tug against it would only pull it tighter.
Any moment she expected the first lash to strike her back. Every second became a moment of living hell.
Her tears burned hot and the muscles in her jaw tightened as she gritted her teeth. Jolie struggled to disguise her fear. She must keep her wits about her if she ever hoped to hold her head high again. She must remain at peace—no more the gnashing, kicking, screaming ninny that had caused this misery in the first place.
Waiting in this thorny silence, Jolie wondered if the day and this lingering moment of apprehension would never end…
She heard the sound of boots behind her, and felt a body closing in, and then the feel of a man’s chest pressed to her back with the warmth of his hot breath on her neck.
“You are a senseless woman, a fool,” Patrick whispered. “For what I offered you, you spit in my face, kicked my shins and railed on me as if I’d been the devil. I can take a good deal of insult from women because most often it is petty and unimportant; but I won’t take it from the likes of you again, fair lady. No more. I gave you leeway because I knew this was a difficult journey—I gave you my affections and my solace. But that has ended now. You will regret this day, long after the wounds to your back have healed and you are out of my sight. What I envision for you is a catastrophe to rival all the horrors you have been through so far.” He grabbed her neck, loose hair and all, and pulled them back so he could see her face. “Even your tears do not move me,” he scowled darkly. He thrust her head back to the mast; then turning on the heel of his boot he strode to his position on deck.
“Whip her!” he gave the order in a strong, proud voice.
The first mate took the lash in hand and addressed the woman from behind. Hers was a far fairer canvas of flesh than he’d ever seen. Women were not whipped on sailing ships; at least not since he’d been a mate aboard Patrick Dunleavy’s vessel.
The cruel sun beat down, making her back side look as white as the sails above. Drawing back his lash, he let the leather sing as he brought the punishing tool forward and laid it on her ass.
She jumped but did not sound off.
He laid on another strike and then another until her body was jumping mad
ly and she threatened to cry. Her mouth was wide open, but there was no voice behind her woe.
Grady continued on, moving adroitly over the flesh with his repeated strikes, reddening the woman’s skin as his vigor for the task increased. When he moved to her shoulders, the rash of blows drew color from that place, too.
For at time, the sky darkened. Clouds were building on the horizon and there was some relief from the sun for this agonized woman. Though as soon as her body would ease, the sun appeared again with its intense and blistering heat adding to her misery.
Her ass looked raw, her shoulders flushed; and as the pain increased so did her need to cry. Yet, when she finally offered up her first suffering wails, they were strangely less infused with pain than the audience of voyeuring seaman would have expected from the lashed young woman. There was a curious frenzy in the sounds, moans that came from a deep source, and something lush and erotic about the way she began to twist and grind her gut into the massive timbre.
Her shrieks ended with lavish whimpers while she heaved in great waves. She seemed one splendid, libidinous creature. Could it be that she’d found heaven in the blows?
For the tormented beauty, the beating was harsh. She felt driven to the worst of all her woes—not because it was more painful than her thrashing in the marketplace—this was no worse than that miserable hour—but because she was reliving an event she swore would never happen again. Her emotions struck like daggers in her gut. This mental agony was more noxious than the physical… her anguish bloomed.
As her cries continued, her body swooned with the pain taking on another quality—unexpected and curiously wonderful. Just as she experienced in that grand hour of her trial, new hungers issued from her body’s deep recesses. She welcomed more abuse. When a cloud shrouded the sun and for a moment a draft of cool air brushed by her wounds, she shuddered deeply, feeling as if she was about to catch a wave of orgasmic bliss. Her crotch wriggled impatiently against the mast bringing her inner crescendo to a peak.
She was screaming frantically to the ears of her audience, while she was realizing the most amazing moments of blissful joy. If the lash hit harder, her body only grappled to a higher plane of ecstasy. Could this go on forever?
The men about her chuckled seeing such abject pain. Their groins were hot with blood rushing to their turgid cocks. A few surreptitiously rubbed their genitals as they fed off the picture of the woman’s agony. They understood little—that what they felt was as much a product of this woman’s pleasure as it was her misery. And what misery she had experienced was fleeing fast. Only Patrick Dunleavy watching with his critical eye and a fierce erection throbbing in his pants could discern the truth about his punished wench. He suspected it would happen, knowing how she responded to the measures he took with her sexually. She was driven by enormous lust that took shapes and forms different from most women. She relished tenderness, but with the same delightful glee, she relished punishment. How fine a woman she’d become! He considered himself lucky to have stumbled on this rare beauty, and understood her for who she was.
As Patrick stood solemnly watching the proceedings, Jolie took the last of the lash with such a mirthful enjoyment that even the dullards around her could tell that she was not a ruined wench.
As Grady finally ended the whipping, sweat dripped from his brow. The sun was bright again and he sighed heavily and exhausted.
“She’s yours, sir,” he told his Captain and the Captain nodded to the man.
Swaggering forward, Patrick Dunleavy was at the woman’s back. This time, when he pressed his body to hers he felt a generous rush of erotic warmth move into his groin. If she’d not climaxed, he would be surprised. It seemed she was still languishing in the feelings of relief. He felt her panting breath, listened to her whimpering sighs; and then said his piece. “There are other ways to punish harlots that are not as pleasant as this, milady. Think not that I am finished with you and your shrewish behavior. You will be contained.”
There were no words on her lips—little thought in her mind. Her exhaustion was sweet and sensuous. Even Patrick Dunleavy’s voice added to the pleasant drifting feeling.
If this was all that the man could do to punish her, she had nothing to fear. Even if she should fear him, now was not the time.
The pirate captain had his kidnapped chattel released just long enough to strip her entirely of her clothes. Then, she was bound to the mast again where her beautiful body was exposed to the crew for the rest of the afternoon and evening. As the ship moved, the thick mast scraped against the wounds at her back, so that her pain lingered on with each creak and dip and roll along the open sea. To add to her torture the proud beauty was forced to endure more jeers, and more scruffy faces assaulting hers with their hot sour breath and snarling laughs.
Though this added torment might have been nauseous to a once noble woman, the punished Jolie was nearly oblivious to the taunts and even the physical discomfort the crude bondage brought her. Through all their ridicule and sneers, her body undulated before their eyes as if she were dancing for them and she deriding them in return. It no longer bothered her to be abused this way… even bound, she had power over theses brutes, though that was something they would never understand.
Perhaps this unexpected exhilaration was merely a reaction to the beating, and the way those glorious moments tossed aside her anger and contempt. She remained contentedly bound until the sky grew dark, and the chill in the air brought tiny bumps to the surface of her skin and she was at last released and removed to the Captain’s cabin where she quickly fell asleep atop her mangy blanket.
Chapter Seven
Patrick Dunleavy owned the hills, the rocks, the cliffs, but not the entire island. He owned the great castle atop the peak as well. Below his fortress, life teamed in a way that recalled the bustling fairs and marketplaces of Jolie’s homeland, the villages and towns. Into this new landscape Jolie walked on a leash through a wide thoroughfare teaming with brown-skinned natives, finely dressed white men and fancily arrayed ladies of all colors and sizes. The natives stared in wonder and the white men in judgment as the redheaded beauty passed through their lives, for just a second taking their attention from their tasks. This was not the first time the man with the fortress had brought a new servant through their streets, led on a leash as though she was a recently purchased slave. He was known to house a dozen beautiful women within the walls of his estate. They worked the small gardens, tended his animals, cleaned the house and cooked his meals. At night, it was assumed that Patrick Dunleavy bedded one, if not more, of his handsome beauties. Although the real facts about the man’s life were scant and rumors abounded, he was renowned for his sexual prowess. Occasionally, one of his housemaids or servants slipped away from the fortress into the village where new rumors would breed. As often, these errant maids were picked up by one of Patrick Dunleavy’s aides and returned to the hill.
Dunleavy’s newest acquisition was as lovely as the others. Her face had been scrubbed cleaned, her dress—though quite ugly in style—was freshly washed, and her hair had been combed into a beautiful plait of color many on the island had never seen. No one missed the spark in her green eyes and the way she looked at her witnesses in fearful wonder.
What was more remarkable about this lovely woman was the way she carried herself—especially considering her dazzling physical exposure. Whoever designed the unbecoming dress was inspired to include the perfect means for displaying a woman’s finest sexual assets. In a move that should not have been a surprise to her, that she should have anticipated considering the ways she’d been previously exposed, Jolie’s ass, breasts and Venus mound were in clear sight of every eye. Regardless of the others times she’d been exhibited, she shuddered with embarrassment to find so many eyes focused on the pale glories of her lovely body. Though she’d been well whipped just days before, the signs of that whipping had faded. The skin on her behind was smooth and creamy; her breasts shimmied in perfect form, nipples blushed with pink;
the petal soft pink of her pubic hair cloaked the fair flower of her nether regions. Her feminine mound of curls barely covered the cleft where her clitoris beat with passion, and the opening of her vagina was damp with her sexual juices.
Listening to the murmuring voices of this gallery of onlookers, Jolie wondered at their foreign tongue and what they were saying about her. What kind of place was this where women were led on leashes through the streets as easily as dogs or donkeys. Was this common? Or, like the town where she was born, married, accused and convicted of adultery, was this a spectacle that happened only rarely?
Patrick Dunleavy led his captive up a twisted path, though a lushly tangled jungle. The steep slopes of the hillsides had been terraced into gardens where laborers worked the soil, and few bothered to look at the young woman passing by. Perhaps such a sight was not uncommon in the country.
Reaching the thick walls that surrounded Patrick Dunleavy’s fortress, the wide gate swung open. Someone had been clued to their arrival. Once inside the stronghold, the gate banged closed with a resonant sound that filled Jolie with a sense of dread. Would she ever leave this place? She looked upwards seeing tall spires reaching into the sky above a substantial house made of stucco and Spanish tiles. Patrick didn’t lie. There was a tower, a magnificent column that poked into the heavens with an enormous round turret caged in iron bars. It was the most forbidding sight to greet her eyes since coming to the island, which otherwise had the look of paradise.
“Yes, that’s where you’ll live until you become a civil lady once again,” Patrick informed her in a cool monotone.
Though it was a warm day, Jolie shivered from his chilling words. She was tired of iron bars and sinister sights—especially when the feel of this new place was otherwise so wonderfully delightful. She was tired of being trapped, of being owned, abused and ridiculed. She was tired of long days in the service of men whose greatest passion was to contain her lively spirit with rules and ropes and the threat of punishment.
The Saga of a Naughty Lady Page 10