by Lee Savino
She winced and he cursed himself silently, realizing that she’d tried to give him a reward, and he’d spurned her. He kept silent the rest of the way, and followed her like a puppy around the market. Townspeople were polite with her, she greeted everyone courteously but without very much warmth. They seemed to respect her but treated her as a lady in a station above them.
It made more sense when they passed a butcher’s shop and went in, and the line cleared for her to go first.
“Señora De La Vega,” the butcher greeted her, mopping sweat from his brow. He looked relieved to see her. “My wife has been asking for you.”
“Of course, señor, how is she?”
“Very big and ready to burst. She is afraid the baby is not well.”
“Can she feel the child?”
“Yes, day and night the babe dances in her belly. Keeps her awake—and she keeps me awake. You will be there?”
“I will. Tell her it’s too early for the babe to come, but when it is time, I will know. I will check on her tomorrow and bring herbs to help.”
“Thank you,” the man said, then hesitated. “I must ask you something. The last baby you delivered—was it born with a devil’s foot?”
Sebastian noted how everyone around them got quiet.
“No, of course not,” Francesca snapped with her usual passion. “Who told you that?”
“It is a rumor my wife heard. She was worried.”
“The baby I delivered last was baptized in the church. His family will tell you.”
“No, there is no need.” The butcher looked a little frightened by her ire.
“Your wife and child will be fine. Send for me if there is any sharp pain or bleeding. The baby will come when it is ready.”
“Thank you, señora.”
“Now tell me who is spreading rumors of a baby with a devil’s foot.”
“Please, señora…”
“I have a right to know.”
“It was Bishop Bernardo. I heard it from a neighbor, but the bishop spoke of signs in the village pointing to an evil witch. Señora, I apologize—”
Francesca waved his plea away, and spun on her heel, muttering under her breath. People parted to let her pass. Sebastian hurried to keep up with her, recognizing her on the warpath.
Her strides brought her straight to a fat, balding man in priest’s robes. The man had a queue of supplicants, but Francesca marched straight past them all.
“Excuse me, Bishop, I need to speak to you.”
“Widow De La Vega.” The priest’s eyes swept over her in a way Sebastian didn’t like. “How are you, my child?”
“I am not your child.” The people around the bishop backed away, sensing a fight. Sebastian noticed that none of them left ear shot.
“I have not seen you at mass,” the man said in a calm tone.
“I worship in my own way. Please do not spread lies about me. These people need my healing arts.”
“Of course.” He inclined his head. “But what use is it to help the body, at the cost of one’s immortal soul?”
“The souls of the babies I deliver are fine. Their feet are fine. They are not devil’s spawn.”
The priest mock gasped. “Who would say such a thing? There is no such evil in our midst.”
“I have heard you preach otherwise.”
“We must be vigilant, always, Señora De La Vega,” the priest said in a silky tone. “Even now I pray for you. We all must repent of our sins, or burn in hell. If you would come to confession, you will find forgiveness.”
“I do not need forgiveness. I need you to leave me alone,” she snapped, and stormed off.
Sebastian took in the shocked faces of the onlooking crowd, and the pleased light in Bishop Bernardo’s smile, and then rushed after his hostess. Even with longer legs, he didn’t catch up with her until well up the road.
“My lady, Francesca, wait.”
“That fool,” she fumed. “Sitting on high above us all.” Flinging out a hand, she indicated the large cathedral rising in the distance. Set on a hill, it dwarfed the little town. “He’s never done a day’s work in his life.”
“He did seem a bit smug, but steady on.” Sebastian caught her arm, and she practically hissed at him. Keeping his face blank, he tucked her close. “You are making a scene. Your farm is already under attack. Wouldn’t it be better to pick your battles?” He let her go before she could wrench away. She kept her distance but from the way she quieted for the rest of the walk home, he knew he had gotten through.
Watching her stride beside him, haughty and confident, he realized how much of her energy went into presenting a strong front. Without her husband or father to take her back, she was fighting all alone. Ana and Juan were allies, but also burdens that she worried about.
By the time they were in sight of the hacienda, Sebastian had realized two things: she needed someone to rely on, and someone to take her in hand.
In both cases, he thought that someone should be him.
“You seem to be well respected in the town,” he observed. “Does this Bishop make trouble for you often?”
She didn’t answer, but he heard her mutter under her breath.
“How many babies do you deliver in a month?” He asked as if she was not ignoring him.
She quickened her pace, crossing the path to speak to two laborers lounging on the side of the road. Surrounded by the two strapping men, she talked and laughed while Sebastian wondered what she was on about. He approached, and she glanced back at him, meeting his stare, she laid a hand on one of the young men’s muscled arms. “You must come to the hacienda and speak to Juan. There is work for such strong men as yourselves.”
Sebastian could practically see their heads swell, along with other parts of their anatomy. As for him, he was shocked by the wave of jealous rage that washed over him.
The laborers continued down the path, and Francesca continued on to her house with a little swagger in her stride.
He caught up to her easily, wanting to wipe the smirk from her face. Calling on his patience, he gave her a little test as he stepped in front of her to open the gate. “Thinking of hiring more vaqueros?”
When she studiously ignored him, he caught her arm and swung her to the side, back to the wall.
“Señora De La Vega. I am speaking to you.”
“Let me go,” she hissed, but not loud enough for anyone in the hacienda to hear.
“I told you before, I will not tolerate disrespect. I have offered you nothing but my help—”
“Ha!” she spat.
“—but continue in this vein and your bottom will pay the price.”
She jerked at her arm, but he held it fast. “And just what do you mean by that?”
“What I mean is,” he stepped closer, “you are angling for another whipping.” Close enough to feel her breath on his face, he got another shock when he saw heat leap into her eyes. Her eyes burned brighter, and his mouth almost dropped open.
“You want it,” he said hoarsely. “You want another…”
For a second, her lips parted, and her eyes half-lidded with desire. Then she wrenched her arm away.
“You sound like Bishop Bernardo. He once offered to whip me at all the stations of the cross, as penance for my sins. Under the pretext of saving my mortal soul.”
Sebastian felt a surge of anger that the priest would suggest such a thing. If anyone was going to mark her skin, he wanted it to be him. He pretended to consider it. “A good whipping can send you straight to heaven through hell. And you need one, badly.”
“Do I, my lord?” she asked in a throaty whisper. Wanton seductress. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“You are playing with fire.”
She licked her cherry red lips and he could take no more.
“Perhaps Bishop Bernardo is right. You do need to be punished. And I’m just the one to do it.”
Triumph surged in her face.
“You,” she sneered and stepped ba
ck. “You are just a boy, Chivington. Spoiled and bored, playing at farming before he runs off to spend his father’s money. I need a man.”
“You will treat me with respect or I will teach it to you.” Stop, Sebastian, he scolded himself. This was ridiculous. He had to leave before he made a mistake, even if the little temptress begged for it.
For a second he indulged, stepping close enough to smell her sweet scent. In addition to the rose water in her hair, she had rubbed something on her skin and he breathed deep of the intoxicating aroma before deliberately stepping back and starting to walk away.
“You are afraid,” Francesca spat.
That was it.
He whirled and backed her against the wall. Birds chirped in the trees above them, but the peaceful bliss of the orchard didn’t penetrate the heated space between them. Sebastian’s anger pulsed along with his passion. Did Francesca live every moment with that hunger? It was all he could do to keep from throwing her to her hands and knees on the forest floor, pushing up her skirts and taking her from behind, slapping her ass and tugging her hair the whole time.
“I’m man enough to defend your honor. One of us is acting like a responsible adult, and it isn’t you. And you know what naughty little girls get?” He leaned closer. “Punished.”
Her pupils widened, eyes filling with darkness.
He stepped back, willing himself to get control. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t discipline her out here. “Go inside. Tell Ana I am taking a walk. Meet me in the apothecary. Understand?”
“Yes,” she said in a breathy voice. She started to go and he pulled her back roughly.
“Make me wait too long and I will double the strokes.” He released her and she scurried off in the direction of the gardens and kitchen.
Once she was out of sight, he did take a walk, going the long way around the garden wall to the opposite side of the hacienda in order to cool his head.
Francesca was the sort of woman who did what she wanted, with no thought for her own self preservation. No wonder her father had yoked her to an older man. He must have been frightened what would happen to her. Walking into bars and shooting outlaws would only be the beginning, if someone didn’t start keeping her in line.
Maybe that someone would be him.
After a quick detour to his room, Sebastian headed for the apothecary, hoping he knew what he was doing.
*
The door to the apothecary was slightly ajar, a sign Lord Chivington was inside. Francesca had waited as long as she could stand it, frustrated and intrigued by his promise of punishment.
When she pushed inside at first, she didn’t see him, and felt a surge of disappointment. How dare he lead her on. She was about to run home for a good cry when the door slammed shut.
She whirled, startling back a few steps.
“Sebastian.”
The flaxen haired lord towered over her, body menacing, blue eyes ice.
“Is that how you address your lord?”
“My lord…I…you startled me.”
“Take off your drawers.” He motioned.
“Wait…”
“Wait?” He raised a brow. “You kept me waiting. I remember making a point to tell you not to keep me waiting too long, or there would be double the consequences.”
Her mouth was dry; she licked her lips to wet them. “What are the consequences?”
“You’ll find out. You’re due for a long session, my lovely.” There was no joking in his tone now. “Now do as I say.”
Heart beating faster, she bent, reached under her skirts and stripped off her drawers, reassuring herself that she was still wearing many layers.
As her skirts fell back into place, the space filled with her heady musk. She almost closed her eyes when she realized what the scent was. Sebastian snapped his fingers for her attention and held out his hand for her undergarments.
To her extreme embarrassment, when he took the white bundle, he brought it to his face and sniffed. Her knees weakened; she tried to lock them, but all her pride crumbled away. She was aroused and he knew it. His smirk told her he knew the balance of power had shifted.
“Kneel,” he said.
She hesitated.
“You want this? We do it my way. Obey me, or leave, but do it now, for I am losing patience.” He pointed to the floor.
Cheeks red with humiliation, she lowered herself before him. The casual degradation made her whole body burn and juices trickle down her thigh.
“Now, pay attention. These are the rules.” He set her drawers aside and paced in front of her, as if he was master of this space, and not her. “I’m going to punish you. At any point you can stand, say ‘We’re done’ and I’ll stop. Understand? But other than that, you will obey me. The longer you hesitate, the worse it’ll be for you.”
On her knees, she couldn’t bear to look at him. In less than a minute, he’d stripped all her dignity. What would become of her if she stayed?
To her surprise, he crouched down in front of her. “Francesca, I’ve been watching you these past few days, and I know you’re under a lot of strain. You need this.” His blue gaze was calm, reassuring, as if he’d stepped out of character to calm her nerves. “This game we play, it’s harmless. You need an outlet. I can provide it.” He bent close to her, enough she could smell the soap he used to shave, see the light freckles on his pale skin. His hand cupped her chin suddenly, as if he had to touch her, and his thumb traced her lips. “What we do here won’t mean anything. Anything that occurs between these walls, is only between us. No one will ever know.”
She nodded, pushing forward to feel his hand on her skin.
“You need someone to take you in hand. I’m happy to oblige. Don’t think; just let go. You trust me, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Remember, at any point you can tell me ‘we’re done’ and we’ll end. Until then, obey and address me as ‘sir.’”
She nodded.
“What’s that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.” He rose and she felt the power flow into him. He stood taller, stronger, more serious than she’d ever seen him before, as if a woman at his feet brought out his best self. “Now we begin. Rise and lift your skirts and lean over the table.”
*
Sebastian watched his little lady obey his commands. She moved stiffly, as if she was fighting her own limbs. He waited, he could be patient with her, though he couldn’t help her more than he had. She had to decide to submit to him on her own.
Part of him wanted to coddle her, hold her in his arms and tell her it would be all right. But that would offend her. Francesca needed the kiss of the lash, a touch of the belt, and then she would know she was loved.
When she bent over and raised her dress to present herself, he nearly spent himself at the mouthwatering sight. She wore her favorite striped skirt, now bunched around her hips. Her black stockings encased slim brown legs ending in the blissful curve of her bottom. A feast for the eyes, quivering and ready for him to turn it ripe red.
All his.
His sentimental thoughts gave him pause. She wasn’t his. She was a woman he was helping, probably would idealize until she began to bore him, and then he could ride off into the sunset and move on, Francesca a happy memory.
The thought was painful. He’d never considered he’d miss her.
The sound of Francesca’s harsh breathing brought him back. He had to attend to the matter at hand: her pert bottom thrust out.
He listened to the little catches in her breath, the whimpers that escaped, the way her weight shifted. For a minute, he amused himself by catching her off guard; when she shifted right, he smacked her right cheek, then straight on, then caught her sit spots with the flat of his hand, driving her up on her toes. He rained a torrent of blows, sharp and unrelenting, then slowed and smacked her in rhythm—top quadrant right, top left, then bottom right and left.
Her bottom took on a nice pink glow, and he pinched it. She squ
ealed and almost let her skirts fall.
“None of that now.” He took a moment to tuck up her layers and study her. She’d scrunched up her face but hadn’t started to cry. He felt he was going rather easy on her, given the state of his cock and the frustration he had to work out.
“This is for disrespecting me in the market,” he told her, and smacked one sit spot over and over, ten, twenty times, until she was breathing hard, clenching her cheeks and pressing into the table.
“And now the other,” he said cheerfully, and repeated the torture until pleased with the result: two hot spots on her bottom. She’d think twice before sassing him when she was sitting down for dinner.
He wanted her good and warm before he applied the belt.
After a few minutes, he took a break to give her some water.
“Had enough?” he asked, knowing his mocking would make her grit her teeth.
She shook her head, and he went behind her, squeezing her cheeks. He knew the massage would dull the pain. But it would make her drip, and, for a woman like Francesca, fighting for control, her arousal at his hands was punishment in and of itself.
Her sweet musk filled the apothecary.
“A few more minutes should do. Then we move on to stage two.” He almost laughed at her sharp intake of breath.
She didn’t say anything, though. She still had her pride. And he hadn’t brought her to the brink, not by a long shot. The longer he drew the punishment out, though, the less she’d feel it—the pain would float away, leaving her warm and sated and malleable. He couldn’t wait to see her like that again. The last time, she’d cried and confessed her deepest feelings, and let him help her all the way home.
After soothing her bottom, it was time to smack it again, he enjoyed the way the fleshy globes bounced under his palm. She made little noises, but seemed to be taking the pain well, whereas it was pure torture for him. He took out his sexual frustration on her bum, spanking it until it was flushed and warm.
“How does it feel, Francesca?”
“It hurts.”
She wasn’t crying though, not yet.
She would need that release.
He spent a few happy minutes squeezing her bottom, taking the sting away. The massage would torment her more than the harshest beating.