by Dinah McLeod
She mustn’t. She could not be forced to give him the satisfaction of knowing how he had hurt her. Yet, as her defenseless hindquarters continued to be struck again and again, she felt her resolve waver despite her best efforts. What was she to do? She was his prisoner, trapped and subject to whatever punishment he deemed necessary. Nothing she did or said would change that.
Yet, as much as Delia knew that to be true as the smacking of his hard, practiced hand continued to befall her poor buttocks, she could not help but begin to writhe over his knee.
“Lie still, or things will go worse for you,” he warned.
Rather than make her rethink her actions, however, his scolding increased her ire. Who did he think he was speaking to? Some servant who had lazed about and earned a whipping? No, indeed! She was Delia McDowe, the only daughter of a powerful man and she would suffer these indignities no longer!
Delia began to thrash about over his lap, kicking her legs as much as she was able in an effort to get out of this horrid position.
Though she could not see his face, when the admiral spoke again his voice was hard and cold as steel—much like the grip that he used to restrain her. “I have had enough. Please recall that I tried to preserve your modesty, that I was very much the gentleman.”
Delia found herself more restrained than ever by his iron-like grip, unable to move as one arm across her back restrained her and her legs were pinned underneath one of his. She struggled and twisted, but in the end she was forced to cede defeat with a frustrated screech, her brow slick with sweat from her efforts.
Only when she had ceased her struggle did the admiral move again. She felt his hand on her pantaloons, and though she tensed in preparation for the next assault on her tender nates, it was far worse than she’d feared. For he pulled her pantaloons down, exposing her sore mounds to the elements. She resumed her fight once more, but the admiral had surely anticipated such a move for his grip had not slackened in the least.
When she was tired out once more, she found that frustrated, humiliated tears were falling down her face. “Please,” she whimpered, her pride shattered.
“I am afraid that you have no one but yourself to blame for this predicament.”
A sob escaped her throat before she could swallow it back. Fine. Let him rejoice in my suffering. But perhaps I might still persuade him to take mercy on me. “Please, sir,” she began in her most chastened voice, “I’ve already been smacked. Please, let me up. I will do whatever you bid me.”
“I suspect you shall henceforth, my lady.” To his credit, there was no amusement in his voice. “But you have earned a sound whipping, and I will deliver on what I promised. In the future, you need to recall that I never say anything I do not mean.” With that, the smacking of her bottom began anew.
Delia, unprepared for this new painful onslaught, gasped. She immediately bit down on her bottom lip, but the damage was done. She had been so certain she was experiencing the worst pain imaginable that it never occurred to her it could be any worse. But as the spanks continued to befall her poor, bare rear, Delia could feel the flame his hand had stoked in her bottom digging into her tender skin. She did not know how much longer she could stand it. His hand came again, harder this time, pushing her forward on her elbows. She grunted despite herself.
Once she had allowed that sound to come out of her mouth, it seemed she could not stop. There were muffled grunts wrenched reluctantly from her lips with every stinging smack. Grunts quickly became groans.
Do not do it, she scolded herself as tears filled her eyes to the point of overflowing. Do not. Remember who you are. You cannot let this man, this barbarian, reduce you to tears.
Delia valiantly tried to fight against it, but as the smacks continued to rain down, each one hard and unrelenting against her tender, vulnerable skin, she could not help but lose the fight. Soon, cries were coming with every smack to her bared bottom and her shoulders were shaking. Once that happened, she collapsed onto the bed, unable to hold back her sobs of distress any longer.
Still, the fearsome admiral did not relent. The smacks fell lower this time, on the sensitive area where bottom and thigh met.
“P-pl-ease,” wailed Delia, who had never felt such pain in all her life.
But the admiral either could not hear her entreaty over the sound of his hand crashing against her burning, naked orbs, or he paid her no mind. His punishing swats continued until she was certain there would be scorch marks when she next looked in the mirror.
“Please, sir!” she yelped. “I beg pardon! Pl-please, I am sorry!”
Another four crisp, smarting smacks fell before he stopped. The smacking completed, he deposited her with tender care atop the bed and stood back at a respectful distance so that she had a bit of privacy as she cried.
Delia did not turn to face him. She couldn’t bear it. She had lost the battle of wills—indeed, she had been so soundly defeated that she did not think she would ever dare speak to him again.
I was such a stupid fool, she thought, feeling utterly sorry for herself as she continued to sob. A young, foolish girl to think I could go out into the world on my own. I ought to have never come here, never left home. I should have accepted my lot, for being a wife and enduring whatever the wizened duke had in mind for me would have been preferable to this.
Her body racked with heart-wrenching sobs, Delia cried until her eyes were sore, until she felt so exhausted she didn’t think she could lift herself from the bed.
Only then did he approach. “May I sit?”
Now you ask? But she knew better than to voice her query aloud. “Y-yes, of c-course.”
He did so, gently pulling her pantaloons up and her skirts down before turning her to face him.
Delia stared at the plain cream bedspread, unable to look him in the eye.
“I take it that was your first time having your bottom smacked?”
She ducked her head even lower. “Yes.”
The admiral cleared his throat.
“Yes, sir!” she burst out at once.
“Very good. I would say you learned your lesson well, my lady.”
Though she refused to look at him, she could have sworn she heard amusement in his voice and she hated him for it. No gentleman should take any pleasure in a lady’s discomfort. He was not only taking pleasure but was the one who had caused it. It was simply intolerable knowing she had allowed him to punish her, that he had reduced her to a weeping mess.
“I am sorry that I had to spank you,” he said, as though he could read her very thoughts. “But perhaps now that you understand the hierarchy here, we will not find it necessary again.”
It was all she could do not to snap up her head and glare at him. Why, if he so much as tried...!
“My lady, please do me the honor of looking at me.”
Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to his face. She forced herself to clear her face of all emotions the best she could.
He seemed to know how she was feeling, however, because he reached toward her and laid a hand over hers. She stiffened for the span of a moment before she relaxed, enjoying the warmth of his large hand covering her smaller one despite herself. “Might I ask your name, my lady?”
Because she was still angry, and sore, she thought of denying his request. But only for a moment. “It is Delia, sir.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Delia. That is quite pretty.”
“I did not choose it.”
His smile bloomed and he chuckled. “You are an irrepressible imp, aren’t you, my lady?”
She bristled at the question and snatched her hand away. “I am no such thing!”
“Oh, I think you are. But do not worry, for I like a bit of impishness from time to time, but I will brook no disrespect. Understand?”
Delia nodded. Then, a bit petulantly, added, “I understand, sir.”
“Very good.” He stood to his feet. “And my name is James. You may call me by it, if we are alone.”
The offer s
urprised her—as did the fact that even as she fumed at him she could not help noticing how long his legs were, or how he carried himself so regally. Despite herself, she felt the blossoming of warmth in the pit of her belly.
“I will leave the mop and bucket here and collect it at first light when I bring your food for you to break your fast. Make certain the floor is as it was before you dumped your stew on it.”
Delia rose to her feet. “Yes, sir.” She bobbed an ironic curtsey.
The admiral raised an eyebrow. “Careful now, lest you go too far.”
She could think of nothing to say to that, so she merely watched as he departed from the room. She waited, breathing hard, feeling the pain in her rear anew now that she did not have to school her features to hide how much it hurt. After a few moments, she began to wonder what her freshly spanked bottom looked like.
What a silly notion, Delia scolded herself. Yet, she could not help wondering all the same. Her breath hitched at the idea of lowering her pantaloons, lifting her skirt, and looking at her reflection in the looking glass. Once it had occurred to her, she could not get it out of her head.
After she had waited a few more moments, trying to ignore her heart pounding excitedly in her breast, Delia got up and walked over to the looking glass. She glanced once more at the closed door and silently prayed that the admiral would not surprise her with another visit. What would he think if he happened upon her, studying herself?
She saw her pink cheeks reflected in the looking glass and wasn’t sure if the idea embarrassed or excited her more. Carefully, she hitched up her skirts in one hand and lowered her pantaloons with the other. Once the cool room air grazed her skin, she felt her bottom tingle with pain even as her lady parts ached with something else. Something that was entirely foreign to her, yet felt naughty and delicious just the same.
Once her pantaloons were at her thighs, she used both hands to hold up her skirts and she turned, craning her neck to get a good look. What she saw made her gasp. Her plump backside, usually the color of pale milk to match the rest of her, was the shade of a red rose. Those roses had been her mother’s favorite, and she’d had them in vases around the house often.
Thinking of her mother made her blush deepen. Truthfully, she had not considered her once since arriving on the ship. Her only thoughts of her family had been anger toward her father and his unreasonable demands. But now, standing here, she couldn’t help but wonder what the countess would think if she could see her only child. Would she think Delia had been justly punished? Would she wish that she and the earl had employed such measures themselves?
She gave a little shiver and lowered her skirts, trying to put the sight out of her mind. Suddenly she felt very tired. All that crying had sapped her of her usual spirited strength. Delia retired to bed, but found sleeping to be difficult. She could not lie on her back, because it made her cheeks ache, she could not sleep with a sheet brushing against her bottom and trapping in the heat the admiral had stoked in her nates.
And there was something more: a throbbing in her sex that only seemed to intensify the more she saw her reddened bottom in her mind’s eye.
Chapter Four
Delia tossed and turned fitfully for most of the night before finally admitting defeat. She had slept some, but not nearly long or deeply enough. She had been half asleep when she had awoken with a start, realizing that if the admiral happened upon her room before the floor was cleaned that he would be quite cross with her. Cross enough to give her bottom another smacking, she bet.
How dreadfully demanding that man is. But even as she thought it, her sex pulsed.
She had no idea why that kept happening only that it did whenever she thought of the admiral. Which also made no sense, because though there was no denying that he was handsome, there was little else to recommend him. The gentlemen in Miss Ashley’s stories were every bit as dashing as the admiral, but they were kind, considerate, and adventurous as well. None of those things sounded one bit like her captor.
Yet, she could not turn her mind from him as she mopped the floor. Having never done a chore in her life, except when her governess scolded her about her dresses on the floor, it took her some time to figure out what she was doing. Eventually, she got the hang of it and was pleased with her effort, though not so much with the sweat on her brow.
Just then, she heard the sound of the door opening. She was still holding the mop, but looked defiantly at the admiral as he entered, daring him to say something.
He looked at the floor, then back to her. He gave a crisp nod. “A job well done. I imagine after that work you must be hungry.”
Delia hadn’t even been aware of her hunger until she saw the plate he held. She could smell the bacon from where she stood and her eyes widened eagerly at the fluffy, golden brown croissants. Still, she tried to appear indifferent as she leaned the mop against the wall and walked over to him, accepting the tray.
Thankfully, she managed more restraint than she showed when they had met at the market, and took her time eating, pretending not to feel his eyes on her.
“How are you feeling this morning, my lady?”
She gave him a sweet smile. “Fine, thank you. Why ever do you ask?”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Wonderfully,” she lied, taking a bite of the croissant with relish.
“I could not be more pleased to hear it.” Perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed to her that he was hiding a smile.
Delia ate her fill—indeed, she consumed the whole tray and the coffee as well, wishing for another croissant—before daintily wiping her mouth with the napkin he’d included on the tray.
“I brought you something.”
Her head snapped up. If it was another croissant, she would forgive him everything.
But what he held in his outstretched hand turned out to be even better and made her forget about her stomach entirely. It was a book, its cover ruby red. Forgetting herself and the ploy of indifference toward him, she leapt up and hurried toward him, taking it eagerly.
“Thank you,” she breathed as she gazed down at the tome reverently. “The Three Musketeers,” she read aloud.
“Have you read it before, Delia?”
Surprised at his familiar use of her given name, she looked up for a moment. But she did not reproach him. Despite herself, she found that she enjoyed the sound of her name from his lips. “No. I have not read much at all, truth be told.”
“Truly?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “My father is not a fan of books and though I pleaded, he thought it unseemly for women to ‘fill their heads with tales’ as he said. My mother used to ask on my behalf, but he did not oblige her either.”
“It must have been horrible to lose her.”
For a moment gazing down with longing at the book in her hands, Delia nearly forgot herself. “I hope one day to—” She stopped speaking abruptly, her cheeks flushing as she realized what she had been about to say.
“To see her again,” he finished her thought, his voice gentle. “Do not feel badly, for I like to think we see our loved ones again, too. In another life.” He smiled softly, and she wondered who it was he was thinking of, whom had he lost?
“Yes. Well. My governess used to make up stories for me, but still...” She brushed her hand over the cover, enjoying the hard surface, the gilded raised letters under her fingers.
“Well, I must say I am very pleased to know you will enjoy my surprise.”
“Oh, yes.” Impulsively, she moved toward him, throwing her arms about his neck. The moment she did it, she knew it had been wrong. She was a proper lady, after all, and she knew all the rules about touching men—there was but one: you didn’t. Not until you were intended.
She expected the admiral to rebuff her for her lack of decorum, but he did not. Instead, he put his arms around her for a brief moment and squeezed. She sank into the warmth of his embrace, feeling things stir within her that she had never felt before. All too soon, h
e was pulling away.
“I am glad to not have to worry about what mischief you’re up to today.” He grinned as she clutched the book to her chest.
She wished she were clutching him once more, for the tome was a cold companion. Still, it was better than none.
“I shall drop in again with your lunch.”
I cannot wait. The thought came to her unbidden, startling her with its presence. After all, this was the same man who had spanked her so cruelly the night before. Delia nodded and watched him leave. Then she walked back to her bed, happy to have something else to take her mind off the confusing thoughts inside her.
* * *
Delia was at once swept away into a world of friendship and adventure. She was spellbound as her eyes devoured page after page. She felt herself transported, out of this dull room that held a single looking glass into the beautiful, vibrant city of Paris. She followed D’Artagnan on his quest, nearly breathless with anticipation to see whether he would succeed.
So captivated was she, Delia did not even hear the door open. She thought herself quite alone—though she was hardly aware of her own existence as she turned the pages, eager to stay in the story—until the sound of a throat clearing alerted her to a presence. She looked up, her gaze distracted and saw the admiral standing just behind the closed door, watching her.
“What is the matter?”
He tilted his head to the side quizzically. “I am afraid I do not know what you mean.”
“Why have you come? Is something wrong?”
“No, madam. I have only brought your lunch, as I promised.”
Delia rubbed a hand across her eyes and sat up—flushing slightly at the realization that he had caught her sprawled across the bed as she read, her skirts in a state. As her vision cleared, she realized he indeed held another tray. “Is this some sort of trick?” she asked as she sat up.
“Whatever do you mean, my lady?”
“Why, it cannot be time for the noon meal already!”
The admiral chuckled. “It is, actually. In fact, I am a few minutes late coming to you. I have business on the lower deck to tend to.”