Benedict's Commands

by Golden Angel

  “It’s because I’m a horrible, hypocritical harridan!”

  If she wasn’t sobbing like her heart was broken, Benedict would have been amused at her alliteration. As it was, he was starting to worry she was working her way towards hysteria. While he appreciated her remorse, he certainly hadn’t meant to make her hysterical.

  Although, he wasn’t entirely sure it was anything he had done either.

  She’d definitely endured harsher punishments from him. This seemed to have more to do with her own miseries than anything else.

  Protectiveness rushed through him, urging him to help her, to bring her back to an even keel. Usually a spanking did that, but today it didn’t seem to have done enough.

  Perhaps the activities which usually followed a spanking would achieve a happier effect. Benedict did the first thing which came to mind, given their positions; he started kissing her neck.

  Christina hiccupped, seeming to be slightly shocked out of her sobbing, although she was certainly still crying.

  “Benedict? What are you doing?”

  “If you have to ask, I must not be doing it correctly,” he murmured, palming her bottom through her skirt, kneading the already tenderized flesh hard enough to make her squeak as he continued to move his lips over her sensitive skin. She hiccupped again, but her tears were definitely slowing, encouraging him as his cock came back to attention.

  He’d been hard while he’d been spanking her - he was always hard when her skirts and bottom were up - but his arousal had ebbed when she’d started pitiably sobbing. Now it came roaring back in full force as she squirmed on his lap, her body obviously responding to him.

  “How can you still want me?” she asked in wonderment, sniffling. “I’m a mess… I treated you horribly… I’m a terrible hypocrite…”

  “You’re an adorable mess,” he said, his hand sliding away from her bottom to massage her thigh, tipping her back slightly so he could start to inch her skirts up her legs as his fingers moved. “I wasn’t pleased that you avoided me or went off with Hartford, but you’ve been punished and you’re forgiven. I suppose it’s only natural you feel inclined to test me, to test us, now that I’ve made my intentions clear, but whenever you do I will have this same response - I will spank you and keep you.”

  She was fully tipped back now, leaning against the carriage as his lips brushed down her collarbone towards her breasts. Her soft pants were from arousal rather than tears, and she let out a little moan as he pulled her skirts all the way up, whimpering as he slid away from underneath her and her sore bottom landed against the seat cushion.

  When he kissed her, she kissed him back almost frantically, her mouth pressing against his, lips opening, tongue sliding into his mouth to dance with his. The small space of the carriage made him fumble with his breeches, and he felt more like a novice than a rake as his hands searched for her body through volumes of skirts.

  His hands finally found her pussy, wet and hot, and she moaned against his mouth as his thumb slid over her clit, making her jerk.

  A bump in the road jolted them both and Benedict nearly fell off from atop her. Growling as she giggled, he pulled them away from his side of the coach, landing so he was sitting on the opposite seat with her atop him, straddling him. His cock out and stiff as steel, ready to delve between her thighs.

  “Ride me, love,” he said hoarsely, using his hands to lift her skirts up and away.

  They were both mostly fully clothed, but it didn’t matter as she sank down onto his waiting cock, her skirts spilling over his arms, his hands cupping the hot cheeks of her ass. He groaned as her wet heat slid around his cock, quivering and squeezing the length of his rod. Christina whimpered as his fingers dug into the seared skin of her bottom, her body arching, hands on his shoulders to help keep her balance.

  The rocking of the carriage only intensified their pleasure as she rode him, her pace almost frantic, as if she was racing headlong to her climax. Benedict didn’t even attempt to slow her, he was feeling as needy as she was, as desperate for the closeness and intimacy which their pleasure brought.

  She cried out, grinding herself down atop him, her pussy spasming around his cock. Shouting his own cry, Benedict squeezed her chastened bottom hard, his hips surging upwards as his cock pulsed… throbbed… and exploded inside of her for the first time. Her orgasmic shudders milked him, giving him the most intense orgasm of his life… the pleasure went on far after he’d been emptied of his seed as her movements slowed, her body beginning to slump on his lap.

  Taking deep, shuddering breaths, Benedict wrapped his arms around her, helping her to resettle on his lap in a comfortable position with her head on his shoulder. Her sleepy murmurs indicated she’d been completely drained of energy - a condition he felt as well.

  Holding her tightly, he leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. John would alert him when they arrived at a suitable inn.

  For now, he would just enjoy holding his soft, warm woman in his arms. He had little doubt she’d stop being so peaceable once she awoke and thought about the significance of the culmination of their coupling… and noticed they were no longer in London.

  Chapter 11

  The bed was unfamiliar.

  Harder than her bed. The sheets not quite as soft. And it smelled wrong.

  The only thing which felt right was the hard male body pressed up against hers from behind. Christina frowned, wrinkling her brow as she opened her eyes, blinking. She vaguely remembered being carried out of the carriage last night, but she’d been mostly asleep and hadn’t bothered to look where Benedict had taken her. In the back of her mind she’d assumed they were at her house or, more likely, the house on Jermyn Street.

  Instead it looked like they were at an inn.

  Frowning, Christina sat up, looking around the unfamiliar surrounds, wincing slightly as her weight rested fully on her bottom, which was still a bit sore from last night’s spanking. It certainly looked like a room at an inn. Sounds from below stairs drifted up, muffled but… there were definitely other people down there.

  A clatter of horseshoes in the courtyard confirmed it.

  The arm across her lap tightened, pulling her into Benedict’s hard, warm, naked chest as he rolled onto his side, smiling up at her.

  “Good morning,” he said, looking adorably mussed with his hair completely rumpled, his dark eyes half lidded. His eyes dropped down to her breasts, which she realized were completely bare as well. With a slight hiss, she grabbed the sheets and pulled them up to cover herself. Not because she minded him seeing her nakedness, but because she was feeling completely off balance and vulnerable, and being naked on top of that was just too much for her to bear.

  “Where are we?!“ Her voice came out as a hiss, nearly a whisper. She didn’t know whether to panic, or be furious, or…. or…

  “About two hours outside London on the Great North Road, in a small but comfortable inn called The Purple Rose. I took its name to be a sign.”

  Benedict grinned.

  Christina stared.

  He reached for her.

  She scooted away with such haste she nearly tumbled off the bed.

  Dragging the sheets with her, draping them around her, she managed to stand, her head swinging around wildly as if the room might suddenly dissolve, like a dream.

  But the room went nowhere. Benedict sat up on the bed, naked as the day he was born and his expression was one of determination tinged with regret. The floor was solid beneath her feet, the furniture all hard, unfamiliar lines, and the whole room stood out with stark clarity and no fuzzy edges.

  This was real.

  “Why are we here?” she whispered, her voice a mere husk.

  The thought bubbling up in the back of her mind couldn’t possibly be correct. It was too insane. Too infuriating. Too unbelievable.

  “It’s our first stop on the way to Gretna Green,” Benedict said, finally getting to his feet on the other side of the bed, his voice flat. While his cock was
partially hardened, he made no move to come towards her, just watched her from across the bed, waiting to see what she would do.

  Christina’s knees almost buckled.

  He was insane.

  But hard on the heels of that thought, the strangest bubble of happiness rose in her chest, filling her almost to bursting. Then fear slid in, reminding her of past mistakes and quelling any excitement she felt about his admission… followed by furious indignation.

  He’d kidnapped her! Actually kidnapped her!

  “You kidnapped me!”

  Benedict grimaced as he came around the bed, heading for the chair where his clothing was neatly folded. Christina’s ball gown hung from a nearby screen, next to a small wash pan of water, and her underthings were neatly folded and piled on another chair next to the screen. Turning, watching him, Christina just stared as he began to pull on his breeches.

  “You didn’t bring a change of clothing?”

  “I didn’t exactly plan this out,” he admitted, almost ruefully, turning on the boyish charm he occasionally employed. “Perhaps the innkeeper’s wife can help, or we can find a store with some ready-made pieces on the way.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Traveling that distance in a ball gown is going to be dashed uncomfortable.”

  “I’m sure it would be,” she said icily. “But we’re only a few hours away from London and that’s where I’m going.”

  ******

  Despite the heat from Christina’s glare, Benedict was actually feeling rather cheerful. They were back in the carriage, sitting across from each other, physically much more comfortably than they might have been if they hadn’t been quite lucky in Benedict’s choice of inn. The innkeeper’s wife had actually had a small selection of clothes he’d been able to choose from, left by previous travelers, and he’d paid her for two dresses for Christina and pants and a shirt for himself. His evening jacket looked ludicrously formal atop his new outfit, but he was much more comfortable, and so was Christina.

  Even if she was infuriated.

  Benedict had locked her in the room while he’d gone to ask Mrs. Mastaery about clothing. He’d returned to a pacing Christina, who had tried to tell him his plan was ludicrous, predicted they’d both be miserably unhappy if he followed through with it, and called him a bloody idiot.

  What she hadn’t done was give him a firm refusal.

  She hadn’t fought when he’d dressed her in the pale green day dress he’d purchased from Mrs. Mastaery.

  She hadn’t called out for help when he’d escorted her downstairs.

  She hadn’t tried to run when they reached the courtyard.

  She hadn’t resisted getting into the carriage.

  In fact, other than glaring at him and insisting they return to London rather than continue on to Gretna Green - a completely verbal insistence - she didn’t make any move to change her situation whatsoever.

  As far as Benedict was concerned, he was doing very well indeed.

  Four hours later they stopped to change the horses and have a quick luncheon at the Turtle and Dove. Christina hadn’t stopped glaring at him, and she wasn’t exactly speaking to him either. Every time he attempted to start a conversation, he received the same response -

  “I have no interest in attempting to speak with someone who belongs in Bedlam.” She would state firmly, and follow her declaration with a sniff as she turned up her nose.

  He’d been tempted to put her over his knee again, but he decided his time was better spent sitting back and letting her come to grips with their upcoming nuptials.

  Descending from the carriage, Christina looked around. The courtyard was swept clean, the bushes tidy, and the building a rather attractive place with pretty blue shutters on the windows and a brightly painted sign. Benedict had stopped at the inn before and knew their food to be excellent.

  “This seems like a good place to eat before we turn back for London,” she said in her haughtiest voice, her nose still up in the air.

  Chuckling, Benedict escorted her to the front door of the inn. “My love, at some point you’ll need to resign yourself to returning to London as the Marchesse of Dearborn, not Stanhope.”

  “I still live in hope you’ll regain your sanity before this farce reaches that point,” Christina said, a little darkly.

  Despite the plainness of the dress she was wearing and her simply done hair, it was impossible not to recognize her aristocratic bearing, and the innkeeper came hurrying forward as soon as they stepped through the door. Mr. Turner was quite pleased to welcome them to his inn, happy to assist them with whatever they might desire. Benedict requested a private room for them to dine while they waited for the horses to be changed out, and they were immediately whisked into a small room off to the side, prettily decorated in blue and white with painted porcelain figurines on a shelf above the unlit fireplace.

  Wandering around the room, Christina examined the small figures, obviously taking the opportunity to stretch and look at something other than the passing countryside.

  “Is there anything in particular you’d like to eat?” he asked, casually leaning against the door frame.

  “Nothing too heavy,” she said, almost absent-mindedly, picking up the figure of a goose girl, complete with a fat, happy goose standing beside her. “A collation and some bread perhaps.”

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll return momentarily.”

  The startled expression on her face as her head came up in surprise made him grin, which he hid by quickly turning away and exiting the room. Waving Mr. Turner over, he requested a light repast for the lady, as well as some wine, and a bowl of warm water to refresh themselves. The innkeeper was happy to do as asked, hurrying away immediately to see it done.

  Ambling along, Benedict made use of the privy, checked on the horses being harnessed to his carriage, and asked some of the men in the courtyard about road conditions ahead.

  He wanted to give Christina ample time to try and escape or secure some help if that was her desire. By the time they reached Gretna Green, he wanted there to be no question that she could have been rid of him along the way if that’s what she truly wanted. A tiny quiver of doubt niggled at him, but… that was the risk he had to take.

  While he might technically be kidnapping her, he had no wish for an unwilling bride. His Christina might be submissive, but she was also a firebrand. It was likely she’d give him a bit more of a fight, but as long she didn’t run, didn’t try to escape, they’d be married by tomorrow evening. And if she did, then he’d follow along behind her and find some other way to prove to her that he wasn’t going to change his mind about marrying her.

  ******

  When Benedict left her in the small, private dining room, Christina immediately rushed to the door and pressed her ear against it. The sound of his footsteps moving away was clear enough, but it made her frown.

  He was just going to leave her here? With the door unlocked?

  Nibbling on a fingernail, she moved away from the door and over to the window overlooking the courtyard. There were quite a few people coming into the inn’s yard and even more passing by on the road. Quite respectable people too; merchants, traveling families, a coach. People who would certainly help her if she were to raise a hue and cry.

  But then what would happen to Benedict?

  What would happen to them?

  Perhaps it made little sense to worry about her relationship with a man who had just kidnapped her, but just because she was unsure about marrying him didn’t mean she wanted their affair now – she’d already decided she wanted to see out the Season with him. Returning to London, running from him… surely he would spurn her if she flew back to the capital without him. But he refused to listen to reason and return with her.

  Part of her was thrilled. Relieved even. She wanted him to take her to Gretna Green, to marry her… to force the issue. Another part of her was furious he would be so high-handed. Yet, here
they were in the inn and he’d just removed his watch on her.

  She could leave at any time.

  As if to punctuate that point, there was a knock at the door and she’d barely responded before a young woman was pushing her way through the door, balancing a tray between her hands.

  “Pardon, my lady, the lord ordered a luncheon for ye both,” the maid said, bobbing a quick curtsy before making her way to the table.

  There was a large plate of fruit, fresh baked bread and butter, some cold chicken, and a tureen of soup. Perfect traveler’s fare. A pitcher of wine and two glasses finished off the tray.

  “Thank you,” Christina said as the young woman began to lay out the meal and silverware, barely glancing at Christina. She certainly didn’t look as though she’d been sent to check on Christina or watch her. As soon as she was finished, the young woman smiled, bobbed another curtsy, and hurried back out the door. She closed it behind her, but it remained unlocked.

  Sighing, Christina made her way over to sit down, her stomach grumbling with hunger. It had been a while since breakfast.

  Why hadn’t she asked the young woman for help?

  Why was she sitting here eating instead of going to the courtyard and finding a conveyance back to London?

  Was she really going to marry Benedict?

  The questions, the uncertainties, whirled around her head. Firming her lips, she buttered her bread. She could decide what she was going to do after she ate. Maybe even later today. After all, turning back to London was irrevocable. She didn’t have to make any decisions until they actually reached Scotland.

  As she tried not to think about how flimsy an excuse that was, the door opened and Benedict came striding in. The smile which spread across his face when he saw her sitting there made her feel a little smug. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as sure of himself as he seemed.

  His gaze dropped down to the table, noting the meal they’d been provided.