by Lucy Wild
He sat back, watching with some satisfaction as her trembling hand slid her shawl off her shoulder, twisting her body to ease its passage to the floor. She bent down to pick it up and he snarled. “Leave it there. I grow impatient with your dallying. Get those clothes off at once.”
The dress she wore looked as if it had been soaked in a bucket of mud, the black fabric barely visible through the filth. She tugged at the strap holding it in place on her left shoulder, sliding the cloth down her arm before pausing again to mutter, “Please.” He ignored her as if she had said nothing at all, watching closely as she looked down at the floor, realising it was useless to expect mercy.
She could leave of course, nothing was stopping her from turning and walking out of the house but somehow he knew she would not go. What was waiting for her out there but more misery and more hunger? Even stripping for him was better than that, unpleasant as it was for her. Wait until she found out what was coming next, he thought as she shrugged the dress down her body. It fell heavily to the floor, the weight of the mud and water soaked into it making a pool at her feet as she stepped out of it. Now clad in faded chemise and sagging stockings, she paused again, leaning down to remove her boots, her shaking fingers struggling with the laces.
He watched in silence as she stood back up when they were off. There was something in her face that wasn’t there before. Even as she reached for the hem of her chemise and slid it up her body, it remained and it was then that he realised what it was. It was defiance. It said that he could tell her what to do and she would obey him but he could not beat her, he could not win her mind even if he was master of her body at that moment.
Let her think that, he mused. As long as she obeyed his command, she would soon obey in thought, not just action, especially once she had been spanked a few times.
His thoughts moved swiftly from that look when she pulled the chemise off over her head. Underneath was nothing at all and he almost gasped at the sight of her body. He had seen many women naked before but no one like her. She was underweight, her skin pale, almost porcelain white. She looked as if she might shatter if she were to trip, so delicate did she appear. His eyes were drawn to her breasts and he caught a glimpse of the soft pink of her nipples before she covered her chest with her right arm, using her left to slide her stockings off.
He looked down her body, staring closely between her legs, intrigued that she had chosen to shield her chest rather than that place down there. Was she dull to its seductive qualities? Or was that part of her defiance? She no longer looked defiant though, standing back up without a stitch on her pale body. Her hips were narrow, her breasts barely there. She looked more than anything as if she needed a few decent meals and some warm clothing. That can wait, he told himself. After she is punished, she will be looked after, not before.
“Arms by your side,” he said again, surprised by the flicker of emotion that appeared in his voice. He coughed, willing it away whilst she did as he asked. He didn’t speak for some time, staring at her in silence, waiting to see if she would complain or plead with him. She did nothing. She just stood as still as a statue, looking back at him without saying a word, her chest heaving, a flush of colour beginning to appear despite the coldness of the air in the study.
He looked at her chest again, wondering what it might be like to touch her nipples. Would she push his hand away if he stood up and tweaked them between his fingers? He shuffled slightly in his seat as his member twitched in his trousers, acting independently of his mind. She is not here for that, he told himself, getting to his feet and looking pointedly past her to the armchair in the corner of the room. He crossed to it and sat once more, not speaking, looking at her back, the slight curve of her posterior, the way her feet were pointed inwards as she awaited his command.
“Bend over the desk and spread your arms out. Press your chest to the wood. Chin up.” He watched as she did what he asked of her, moving her body to the exact position he wanted. “Fingers flat, feet together.” He looked at her posterior again, the sheer whiteness of it drawing his eye, not that it would be white for long. “Do not move,” he said, standing up and moving behind her, stopping a foot back from her hips. He lifted his hand into the air and brought it flashing down onto her bottom, his palm landing in the middle of her left buttock.
The smacking sound was still echoing around him as he pulled his arm back up, looking down at the perfect red hand print on her bottom. At the instant he’d smacked her, she’d let out a cry but it died away almost at once and he was gratified to see that at least she remained in place. “Once I have finished spanking you, you are to remain in that position until I tell you to move. The only thing I want to hear from your mouth is numbers one to six. You will count each blow out loud. That was one. Say it.”
One,” she muttered, her voice barely a whisper.
“Louder!”
“One,” she said, and as she spoke, he brought his hand down again, spanking her right buttock with enough force to make her hips jolt forwards against the desk. “T…two.”
“Good girl,” he replied, bringing his hand down on the same spot, leaving it there for just a moment, his member again twitching as he felt the warmth of her soft skin against the palm of his hand. “The number!”
“Three,” she said, her voice hitching as he smacked her again, harder this time. “Four.”
He didn’t say or do anything for almost a minute. He spent the time looking at her bottom, watching her shift slightly in place, as if seeking comfort or protection from him in motion. The only motion that would protect her was walking out of the door. When he thought she was beginning to relax, he brought his hand down across her bottom, whipping it up and down again before she had time to finish saying the word, “Five.”
He stepped back as she stuttered, “S…s…six.”
She was reddened where he had spanked her, marked by what he had done. The thought made him smile as he sat back in the armchair and looked at her again. “Move your feet six inches apart,” he said, watching as she did so. From his position, he could see between her legs. He leaned forwards, looking closely. She had the most beautiful core he had ever seen, a softness to her flesh that made his member twitch and stiffen. He couldn’t remain in the room any longer without risking doing something that would ruin his chances of winning the wager. Even the most submissive of women would not accept what his body wanted to do, given a chance.
He stood up and walked over to the door, looking in at her as he pulled it closed. “Do not move until you are given permission.”
Chapter 11
Lizzie woke up to the sound of his voice. It took some time for her to remember where she was, his words coming to her from a great distance away. “You may stand up.”
It came back to her to slowly. She had been so sure when he’d left the study that she would be unable to sleep but somehow she had. Somehow she had done it, she had remained in place all night, her arms outstretched, her body bent over his desk, her mind in the utter turmoil of someone whose entire world has been swept away and replaced with something entirely new. No, it wasn’t quite like that. It was more as if what she thought the world was had changed, as if she were in a room that she could have sworn contained everything she could ever need and then curtains were pulled back to show she had instead been in a tiny dark space and the real room was so much larger and fuller, so much brighter than anything she’d known.
His anger when she had entered the house had been enough to start the process. The barely disguised fury when he remonstrated with her over her behaviour, the look in his eyes as he’d dragged her into his study, it had stayed with her all night, as had everything else that had happened.
When he had told her to strip, she had been so shocked, she had not known how to react. But his face told her that if she did not do it, she would remain his guest for no more than the time it took to throw her out of the house. That was not the thought that made her decision for her, it was the thought of disappo
inting him. There was an eagerness in his eyes, an expectation, even a flicker of doubt that he possessed the power to will her into doing his bidding. The way he had spoken had taken away her self control and she had melted inside, wanting to do whatever he asked, though the mores and etiquette of the world told her she was no better than one of those women in the brothel if she did so.
No, you’re not, she told herself as she began to undress. You are doing this to please one man, the only man you will ever obey. What is the worst he can do to you after all? He has already made clear he has no intention of doing those things that married couples do, the only time such things are permitted if you don’t want to go to hell.
Thoughts of hell vanished with her clothes, leaving her feeling his gaze burning into her skin. She was glad when he moved behind her, feeling less on display though still shame coursed through her. All the rules of society said she should not be naked in front of a strange man yet there she was, bent over his desk as he moved behind her.
The spanking was the first one she had undergone since she was little. With the first blow, she was taken back, as if the smack of his hand had sent her back in time. She was tiny, the looming giant that was her father bending her over his knee, her mother begging him not to. She felt the fear she had at the time, the pain as he’d slapped her poor bare bottom again and again, the smell of alcohol mingling with his sweat as he discarded her and headed out to the pub again, warning her there would be more to come when he returned. He never did return, neither she nor her mother ever saw him again. She had sometimes wondered what happened to him but as time went by, she thought of him less until, by her teenage years, she had almost forgotten she ever had a father. But Sir Doyle’s first blow to her rear brought him right back into her mind.
This was a different kind of punishment, of course. For one thing, she was an adult now. She could turn around and demand that he stop. She could walk away and leave his hand hanging uselessly in the air. But she didn’t. She consented to the spanking just as she had consented to being naked in front of him. Something about the way he had looked at her had done it, had made her want to submit to him. She couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was, but she wanted to know more and she could only find out if she remained in his house.
There was more to it, she thought as his hand landed a second time, sending a stinging blow through her that woke her up as if she had been asleep for years. Being spanked was waking her up, making her feel something she had never felt when her father had beaten her. It made her feel as if she had a purpose in life, as if submitting to him was something she was supposed to do. She knew it was a ridiculous thought but it remained nonetheless. Counting the blows made her dizzy, concentrating so hard on not screaming that tears fell freely down her cheeks as the final smack burned into her. Then he was done.
She was left alone in the study. The candles above the fireplace began to splutter as the fire started to die. The first ten minutes of remaining in that position were the hardest. She wanted to stand up, wanted to know if he really had left or if it was just a test of some kind. But she dared not stand, she did not want to disappoint him by disobeying him. So she remained in place, the light and heat in the room slowly fading as her muscles began to ache.
Soon, the room was cold and so was she, her pale skin covered in goose bumps, a draught blowing in from under the door, catching her legs and making her shiver. She thought she might catch a chill if he did not return soon but something told her he would not leave her for long. He would not be so cruel as to leave her in that position for much longer. She had no idea what time it was when the candles died. She only knew that the light was gone and she was alone in the darkness.
Time passed, and in the darkness, she again went back in her mind, recalling some of the long hidden memories of the times she’d been locked away, trapped in the cupboard in their tiny little room, the door not even locked, the threats of her father enough to keep her in there, breathing in the damp and the mould, listening to the quiet sobs of her mother as he did whatever it was he did to her whenever she was locked away. Closing her eyes, she was tiny again, waiting to be released, waiting to be told she could emerge from her prison.
Her legs ached as the hours went by and though she was sure she would not sleep, she must have done. She dreamed of the past. In the dream she was small, though she could not tell how old she was in years. It was as if the adult her had shrunk to the size she was when her father was still around. He was calling her across to him, making her walk over whilst her mother stood watching in terrified silence, afraid to intervene. She was made to drape herself over her father’s lap and when the blows began, she screamed, the stinging pain in her rear too much for her body to bear. It was then that the dream changed from simple memory to something more. The door to the room burst open and there was a silhouette of a man standing there, his cane pointing towards her father. “Unhand that girl,” he said, and she recognised the voice; it was Sir Doyle. “She is coming with me.”
“She is not!” her father replied, slurring his words. “Who the devil are you to interfere with the disciplining of a child?”
“That is not discipline. That is sadism.” Then his cane became a sword and he was slicing it through the air.
Her father let her go and she ran to Sir Doyle, letting him lift her into his arms. He turned from the room without another word to her parents, carrying her down the stairs and out into his carriage, smiling lovingly down at her all the while. “I shall look after you now,” he said, cuddling her up on his lap as the carriage began to move. “He cannot hurt you anymore.”
She put her thumb in her mouth and snuggled up to him and then he was speaking again. “You may stand up.” She frowned. Why would she want to stand up when she was happy in his lap? Then he faded away and she was back in the study, her limbs screaming from such a prolonged period in one position. She tried to stand but as she moved, her strength left her and she collapsed into his arms. He caught her just before she hit the floor. “Hold on,” he said, taking hold of her and helping her to stand. “It will take some time for the circulation to return. Do not attempt to rush things.”
He moved her to one side, placing one hand under her hips and lifting her into his arms, smiling down at her as he did so. “You did well to last the entire night. Did you not move from that spot at all?”
“You told me not to,” she replied, blinking up at him.
“I am proud of you, my Little Beth.”
She grinned. He called her his little Beth. She’d never been called that before but somehow it felt just perfect. She was barely aware of her surroundings as he carried her through the house and into a room she did not recognise. Looking about her, she realised it was a nursery just as he laid her down on a towel. She was almost asleep when he knelt between her legs holding a square of cloth.
“What’s that?” she whispered, pointing weakly up at it.
“Just lay still,” he replied, moving her knees apart. She felt the cloth sliding under her hips, her buttocks resting on it as the front portion was pulled up between her legs and knotted in place. It was the strangest thing having the makeshift towelling knickers covering her most intimate area. “I should apply powder or cream,” he said as he fiddled with the cloth. “But you are so tired, this will do for now. Hopefully, you will not get a rash.”
She thought she should feel ashamed of what felt like a nappy being tied around her hips, but instead she was just glad that part of her was covered at last. She shivered in the cold air and Sir Doyle frowned. “You must be frozen,” he said, pushing a dummy between her lips. “Let’s get you tucked in and then you can rest.”
Lifting her in his arms again, she looked at his concerned face and felt a warmth spreading through her. He cared about her. He was the first person since her mother had died to actually care about her. It was a wonderful feeling that did much to ease the chill in her bones as he laid her down in an oversized cot, tucking blankets around her as her eye
s began to close again. This is a dream, she told herself, sucking on the dummy as she felt his lips brush across her forehead. No one could be this nice in reality. With a sigh, she drifted off to sleep, picturing that look of compassion on his face for as long as she could before her world faded to black and she drifted into the deepest, most restful slumber she had ever known.
Chapter 12
Charles sat eating breakfast whilst marvelling at Little Beth’s willingness to submit to him. To think, she had remained in that position all night just because he had told her to. It wasn’t what he’d planned, but it seemed to have worked out perfectly.
That morning had been the brightest in days, unlike Charles when he first awoke. The sun shone, the rain and wind had finally died away and the stonework was given a chance to begin drying. When he climbed out of bed, he realised two things at once. The first was that he had fallen asleep and the night had passed, the second was that it had gone nine in the morning. He had planned to leave Little Beth for an hour in his study and to that end he had retired to his room, to better pass the time whilst he waited, desperate as he was to return to her at once.
The warmth of his room and the softness of his blankets had called to him, like sirens to a sailor, and before he knew it, he was tucked up in bed, still dressed, telling himself he would read one article from the pile of journals on the table beside him. The next thing he knew, the sun was up and so was he. The fire had died and the room was cold, despite the sun streaming in. From the looks of it, James had been in and opened the curtains, leaving the newspaper on the corner of the bed before withdrawing.
Charles yawned as he changed into fresh clothes, choosing a bright red jacket in the hope the vivid colour might waken him more quickly. He descended the stairs with a growing sense of dread. He felt absolutely certain that Lizzie had left in the night, tiptoed out of the house while he slept so heavily he would not have heard a stampede of horses passing by his bed. So it was that when he pushed open the study door and saw her slumped over the desk, he gasped out loud.