by Mason, Nina
Triumph surged through her, a heady opiate. She cracked the crop across his buttocks a second time to emphasize her authority.
“What was that for?”
“Good measure.”
Tucking the whip into her armpit, she returned to the cabinet and opened the next drawer. Inside was a blown-glass Godemiché with long blue silk ribbons tied through a pair of holes in its base.
She touched the delicate streamers, bewildered. “What are the ribbons for?”
“You’ve found the glass dildol, I trust?”
“Dildol?” Tearing her gaze away from the fascinating object, she glanced at him over her shoulder.
“The English word for a Godemiché,” he explained.
“I see.” She filed the word away for the future. “And the ribbons?”
“They make it possible to attach the device to your person.”
She picked up and examined the object as she contemplated his inference. “You mean I can wear this as if I were a man?”
“Aye. More or less.”
The picture of herself taking him from behind whilst wearing the glass phallus set her pulse to racing. Yes. Oh, yes. Better still, she would make him wear a mask whilst she beat and buggered him. Mistress Margaret would have her pound of flesh.
At the very least.
Setting the dildol back in its drawer, she rounded on her husband. “Where is the mask you had me wear after you won our bet?”
The day after they’d married, they’d challenged each other to a self-pleasuring contest in the garden. The prize was making the loser do whatever the winner wished that night. After winning, he’d tied her to the bed and covered her eyes to heighten her other senses. The pursuant pleasures had been glorious.
“In my bedchamber,” he answered.
“Do you have another blindfold anywhere hereabouts?”
“Sadly, I do not.”
Discouraged but not defeated, she crossed to the pile of clothing they’d left on the floor after disrobing and rifled through the pieces until she found his fine linen handkerchief. At the cross, she rolled her pelvis against his buttocks as she covered his eyes with the folded triangle of cloth. ’Twas not as pretty as the Venetian mask, but should do as well.
After tying the ends securely at the back of his head, she sank her teeth into the flesh of his shoulder—hard enough to hurt, but not to break the skin. At the same time, she slapped his ass with her open palm. The crack sent a quiver of satisfaction through her body.
Returning to the cupboard, she set the whip on top and untied the drawstring on the neckline of her shift. The laundry-softened linen slid down her body before pooling at her feet. Stepping free of the fabric, she picked up the Godemiché.
“How do I tie it on?”
“Set the base against your mound of Venus, pull the ribbons around your hips—snugly—and then tie them together at the base of your spine.”
She did as he instructed, thrilled to the brink of giddiness by the result. She had a phallus! A lovely glass one which shimmered in the candlelight like a fairy’s wand. Stroking the dildol’s cold, hard surface appreciatively, she moved to the wall of whips, selected a flogger, and returned to the cross.
“Spread your legs, you faithless cur.”
As she issued the order, she dragged the soft tails of the flogger across his buttocks. God, but the man had a gorgeous behind. How she would enjoy exploiting its every virtue.
She moved against him and eased her phallus into the crevice separating his cheeks.
He tensed and emitted a gasp. “Use the pomade or olive oil, eh?”
Defiance swelled inside her, hot and thick. “Why should I?”
“Because, if you fail to lubricate the device, ’twill hurt like the devil.”
“Do you not enjoy pain?”
“Not the pain of torn tissue in that particular region.”
With a tsk of disappointment, she withdrew, returned to the cabinet, and poured a puddle of hair oil into the center of her cupped palm. As she applied the lubricant to her lovely yet insensate phallus, she returned to the cross. Parking her well-greased phallus betwixt his cheeks, proceeded to squeeze, pet, and pinch the surrounding flesh to her heart’s content.
He bore her abuse with infuriating stoicism.
Determined to get a rise out of him, she brought her free hand down hard on one clenched flank.
Crack.
“That is for kissing Lord Hardwick.”
When he made no response, she struck the opposite buttock with the flogger.
“And what was that for?”
“Letting the earl suck you off.”
“Strictly speaking, he did not suck me off. He merely teased me into a state of acute arousal.”
Resentment surged through her. Reaching up, she grabbed a hank of his hair and pulled hard enough to jerk back his head. Taking his earlobe betwixt her teeth, she said in a near-growl, “You will not correct me. Is that understood?”
“You are pulling my hair,” he complained, “which hurts rather fiercely.”
“’Tis but a trifling compared to what else I have planned for you, you adulterous swine.”
She bit down on his ear until he squealed like a piglet. With delight pulsating through her, she reached around him, groping for his penis. To her surprise and consternation, he was limp. Hoping to remedy the deficit, she petted and pulled his malleable flesh with oil-slick fingers until his withered member telescoped.
“Pray, what is the matter, dear heart? Does the prospect of being buggered by your wife not excite you?”
“I confess, it does not.” His voice was as tense as his gluteal muscles.
“Yet, you will allow me this liberty?”
“Aye, within reason.”
“That reminds me.” She kissed and nipped his shoulder blade. “You never did confess how many men you’d buggered in your wilder days.”
He laughed, nervously. “And I never shall.”
She pulled his hair and moved her hips to drive the glass cock back and forth along the cleft of his buttocks. “Under the circumstances, do you think defiance a wise course?”
He made a choked sound, half chuckle, half cough. “Aye, well. Probably not.”
“I told you I meant to bring you to heel.” Woozy with omnipotence, she took a breath and drew back, preparing to implement her punishment. “Did you believe it an idle threat?”
“Upon my soul, I did not.”
“Good. Because, rest assured, I meant every word.”
Releasing his hair, she took the glass phallus in hand and docked the rounded tip against his anal rosette. Indignation flared in her chest as images flashed of his role in the ménage a trois. After Lord Hardwick finished with him, he’d played with the courtesan’s cunny before sticking his cock in her mouth.
Yes, he’d refrained from penetrating his partners—allegedly for her benefit—and claimed to love her, but she did not see how a man in love could be so faithless. Not in a million years would she dream of being so disloyal to him.
She’d given him her innocence—and her heart—and he’d repaid her devotion with treachery. He’d also concealed from her the possibility the king might dissolve their marriage. Had the monarch seen fit to annul their vows, she might have found herself on the streets, damaged, penniless, and unprotected.
As her outrage erupted into a blaze, she thrust her hips, driving the tip of the phallus through the taut ring of his sphincter. He stiffened and groaned—with pleasure or pain? Determined to make him pay for his misdeeds, she pushed deeper.
“Does it hurt you?”
“Nay,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
Though she knew his denial to be false, she said, “What a pity.”
“You desire to give me pain?” He sounded surprised, the cur.
“Indeed.” She pushed still deeper, marveling as his tight rosette swallowed the glistening Godemiché. “Measure for measure.”
His body clenched in protest, but did not expel
the invader. “I was under the impression you were aroused by what you witnessed.”
“My physical reaction is beside the point.”
“Is it?” His voice was as tight as his rectum. “How so?”
“’Tis the heart, not the body, from which vengeance springs.”
Gripping his narrow hips with both hands, Maggie pumped the dildol until she tired of the activity. Apart from the fleeting exhilaration of gaining the upper hand, the act itself afforded little pleasure.
“I envy you your penis, you know.”
“Do you? How so?”
“Because, had I a real one, all this exhausting thrusting would lead to a reward.”
“Are you not enjoying yourself?”
“Are you?”
“Not especially.”
She heaved a sigh. “Nor am I. Truth be known, the idea of buggering you in revenge was much more inspiring than the actual deed.”
“Then desist and try something new,” he suggested, sounding nonplussed.
“I believe I shall.”
Withdrawing from him, she returned to the cabinet, untying the Godemiché as she went. She set the device atop the cabinet beside the crop and looked through the last of the drawers. Finding naught tempting, she strode to the wall of whips. A selection of floggers of varying lengths and several riding crops, some with rabbit-fur tongues, met her inventorying gaze. Curious, she removed one and petted the soft tip as she imagined its uses. Yes, this might do for later. For now, however, she wanted something to both punish and pleasure.
“Remember, dearest, this is supposed to be about trust,” he called out from the cross.
“Is it?” Dark delight skittered through her anew as she returned the crop to its peg. “Well, I trusted you to protect me and look where it got me.”
A collection of young birch branches in a ceramic container caught her notice. Each switch consisted of two or three twigs tied together with leather thongs. Striding over, she selected the stoutest from among them and pulled the branch through her hand, feeling scratchy bristles and smooth wood.
Naught works so well as a good birching to warm the blood and revive the flesh.
Icy wind gusted through her as the memories rose of the frequent beatings she’d been subjected to at the hands of the sisters of St. Teresa’s. When applied to bare flesh, birch switches stung like hornets and burned like tinder.
Her husband deserved no less. If he could not behave of his own volition, she would put the fear of God in him—by the same method the sisters had instilled divine awe in her.
To test the litheness, she lashed the air, delighting in the fearsome hiss the switch made. Shuddering with anticipation, she rounded on her crucified husband. Moving toward him, she licked her lips and cut the air once more.
Oh, yes. This would serve her purposes perfectly.
Stepping closer, she ran her free hand over his posterior, savoring the firm, fleshy composition of his magnificent hindquarters. With breathless reverence, she traced their rise from the small of his back to the tops of his columnar thighs. Beneath the fine dark hair flocking his cheeks was a clean canvas upon which to paint her stripes. From caressing, she progressed to patting, squeezing, and pinching, softly at first, then hard enough to cause pain. Though he bore her mistreatment steadfastly, his every muscle remained clenched.
He heaved an impatient sigh. “Pray, do get on with it, Rosebud, or I shall run mad from the waiting.”
Very well. If he preferred the sting of the birch to the touch of her hand, she would not deny him. She drew back her arm and snapped the switch across his gorgeous globes.
He flinched and gritted his teeth, but did not cry out.
Yet.
But he would before she was through, damn his black soul. The first strike had raised an angry red stripe across his immaculate mounds. She struck him again, slightly lower, drawing another scarlet line.
“You shall address me as Mistress Margaret, you impudent mongrel,” she said, fuming, “and I shall decide when and how you are to be punished. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye, Mistress Margaret,” he answered dutifully. “Clear as a church bell on Christmas morn.”
Chapter Three
Sweet tongues of fire licked Robert’s cods as he awaited the next searing kiss of the birch. He could almost feel the ecstatic sting of the impact and the sweet, lingering burn of the stripe left behind. A swifter and vastly more satisfying expiation than owning up to his misdeeds in a dark confessional. The first few blows might hurt like the devil, but the pain was only a dissonant prelude to the exquisite rhapsody to follow.
“How many blows do you intend to deliver?”
“As many as it takes to bring you to heel.”
The switch hissed before stinging his rump. He bit his lower lip as feverish warmth flooded the region. The birch struck again—a sizzling fuse across the opposite cheek. He pictured her back there in naught but her stockings, dripping wet from exertion and need. Oh, aye. Did she ache to be fucked as much as he ached to fuck her? He hoped so, for he fully intended to bang her clever brains out the moment she untied him.
For now, however, he was content to enjoy his penance. The birch swished a moment before the branches bit his backside. The shock of the blow shot a fiery arrow through his genitals. God Almighty. If she kept this up much longer, he’d surely shoot his load. He groaned, partly from pain, partly from pleasure.
She cupped and caressed the injured flesh, escalating his enjoyment. After a moment, she moved away. The birch stung again, delivering equal doses of agony and ecstasy. His cods drew up and his cock throbbed with the need for sweet release. He gritted his teeth against the urge. He must not come upon the cross. Not for any sacrosanct reason, but because he wanted to come all over her. He’d promised her a pearl necklace in the coach and meant to keep his word.
The birch bit his backside. Caught off guard, he cried out in pain. His ass was a blacksmith’s forge and his cock the red-hot rod in need of a good pounding. She was doing everything right. Taking her time, striping his flesh, and pausing betwixt blows to salve the welts.
This time, her hands clasped his hips as her tongue stroked the fresh wound she’d inflicted. The moist caresses felt exquisite on the searing skin. She had to be down on her knees. In naught but her stockings. Pleasure gushed up his shaft. He bore down, stopping the surge just shy of explosion.
“Please release me so I can fuck you.”
She withdrew her touch. “You forget yourself, husband.”
The breeze of movement accompanied the whistle of the birch cutting the air. He held his breath, waiting for the strike.
Snap.
“Who is in charge here?”
“You are.”
“That’s better,” she said. “Now do try to remember your place. We will fuck when I am ready and not a moment before. Do I make myself clear?”
As he opened his mouth to answer, the birch struck again with a blistering snap. He grimaced against the assault even as pleasurable heat flooded his pelvis. She reached to stroke and squeeze his cods. As his orgasm charged forward, he forced its retreat with every ounce of willpower he could muster.
“Have a care, Mistress Margaret, or you shall make me come off.”
“I’m afraid I cannot allow that.” She retreated and cracked the switch across his smoldering haunches. “You’ve been exceedingly naughty. And naughty husbands must pay for their transgressions. Thus, you are not to achieve orgasm until I grant you leave to do so. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye.” He felt deflated, but also curious how she might punish him for ejaculating. By some deliciously cruel means, no doubt. The wee minx was becoming quite the accomplished Mistress of the Chamber. “Do your worst, but forget not the cardinal rule of our erotic exchanges.”
“I recall no particular rule.” Worry stained her tone. “Of what do you speak?”
“Whatever you do to me I shall be free to reciprocate.”
“But�
��that is unfair. You are being punished and I have done nothing wrong.”
“Have you not?” He fought a smile, lest she detect his amusement at her expense. “Was spying on me not a punishable transgression?”
“Not when ’twas unintentional.”
“Was it? Then why, pray tell, did you not make your presence known when I returned to my bedchamber? Or at any time throughout what transpired thereafter?”
“I was hiding from the king,” she said. “And it seemed improper to intrude.”
“More improper than watching what you could have prevented?”
She was silent for several moments whilst she considered his accusations. Then, she said, “Fine. Have it your way. I concede your rule—with the proviso you never birch me.”
“Agreed.”
He knew the nuns had beaten her savagely in the hopes of breaking her spirit. His tutor had done no less to him. Every Friday, whether he’d misbehaved or not, that cantankerous old bastard birched his bare arse until he could not sit down. At first, he’d dreaded the beatings, but, by and by, he grew to enjoy them immensely.
The branches clattered as she set them back in the umbrella stand. A brush of cool air announced her return to him. Then, to his surprise and delight, she untied the leather bands binding his wrists to the cross. When he was free, he lowered his aching arms with a sigh of relief.
When she removed the blindfold, he blinked several times before turning to face her. The light in the chamber was dim, but still an adjustment. His arms ached and his ass burned as though he’d been branded as well as buggered, but he forgot his pains as he beheld her bewitching form, naked but for her stockings and slippers.
What a vision of loveliness was his wife. As he awaited her next command, he drank in her assets. Her willowy frame; the firm, pouting breasts with their dusky pink areolas; the gentle inward curve of her trim waistline; the becoming swell of her slender hips; the tempting triangle of golden fleece where her thighs came together. Lord, how he wanted to swive her every bulge and orifice. Mouth, cunt, arse, and breasts. He’d even fuck her armpits if she’d give him license to do so.
His gaze jumped to her face. Now that he knew she belonged to the Royal Stuart line, the resemblance was obvious, especially around the eyes. Her complexion was fair, like her father’s, rather than swarthy like the king’s, and her mouth had the sensual fullness common to that family. Her eye color, however, was something of an anomaly. Maggie’s were blue, not dark brown like her father and uncle’s, and her nose, the opposite of theirs, was small and well-shaped.