“Is this your first time being spanked, Lydia?” His Lordship’s voice echoes from over me.
“Yes, My Lord,” I gasp, still unable—or unwilling—to grasp the reality of my situation.
“Do you understand why you are being disciplined in this way?”
Just as I thought that no further ignominy was possible from this angle, I feel my face flush at his question. “Yes, I believe so…” I answer, my voice portraying the anxiety ricocheting through me.
“Tell me, please.”
Fleetingly I wonder if this is not the most bizarre way to have a dialogue, but I suppress the thought as I reply. “I was disrespectful to you, My Lord, and told you an untruth.”
As the words leave my lips the gravity of my offences hit me in a very real way. For the first time since I arrived in His Lordship’s study I am truly regretful for my actions.
“You were, Lydia, and it has disappointed me. I deserve respect and obedience in this house. There will be no more petulance and no more lies. Is that clear?”
I sniffle back a small sob, wishing that I could do something to redeem myself. “Yes, My Lord,” I whisper.
“Lydia, I will now punish you with ten clean strikes to your behind. Let this be a lesson to you.”
I listen to the sound of my name, and once again find that I rather like the way it rolls from his lips. Nearly always addressed by my formal title, my name seems almost wayward. The thought hangs in the air as I brace, waiting for my spanking to commence; the nervous energy whipping through my body like cold air against the hearth. The first strike lands abruptly against my gown-covered rump, causing the air to rush from my lips. It is not particularly hard, but I can only imagine the rosy imprint it will leave on my bottom after a few further impacts.
His palm lands a further two strikes in close succession, and by the third a small yelp escapes me. I open my eyes, previously squeezed tight by the initial smacks, and take a breath. In my mind’s eye I imagine myself as my guardian must see me now, stretched out over his riding breeches, finally subservient to his discipline despite my protestations. At this moment I despise myself. How can I have let this happen? How can I have willingly consented to this folly? Whatever I did, whichever untruth I have told, I should not be treated this way. I am a lady. Subservient to men, yes, as King George expects, but I am neither a child nor a servant! What would my father have said, had he known what treatment would await me at Markham Hall? As the fourth impact lands, I want to cry out, but pride prevents me. I cannot allow any passing members of the household to hear me. The thought of any of them knowing of this—let alone seeing me this way—is devastating.
The sound of his voice, ever calm and in control, stirs me from my internal monologue. “Do you feel the sting of my palm against you, Lydia?”
I shiver, the image of how my behind will look after the spanking flashing through my mind again. The sheer humiliation of the whole situation is suddenly more apparent than ever before. “Yes, My Lord.”
“Good, but to ensure that you do, I am going to lift your gown and spank you over only your stays and petticoats. I want you to remember how it feels, Lydia. Remember what it is like to be upturned over my knee; remember the way your bottom feels as I warm it. Know that this is the way I handle ladies who deliberately choose to disrespect me.”
My eyes close again at his words, and I know that he is right. I will remember, but my embarrassment as I feel the protection of my gown slipping away is intolerable. How can he do this? How dare he? And yet for all of my protests, the warmth within me stirs again, pooling into moisture between my legs. I take a sharp intake of breath even before the next impact lands, the feeling within my core beginning to heighten in the most peculiar fashion.
“I hope the memory will help you to behave as I expect, so that I need never spank you again.”
His words jar me from the pleasant warmth now accruing between my thighs.
“It will, My Lord.”
“Then I will now conclude this spanking—it seems the lesson has been learned…”
The final strikes land in a flurry against the back of my thin undergarments. By the tenth I am forced to release another yelp, the speed of the tanning taking me by surprise.
“Your spanking is done, My Lady. Please rise.”
The use of my title reinforces that the dynamic between us has shifted back to the way it was, before this meeting and before my impromptu punishment. Allowing him to guide me, I stand, once again next to the chair in which he is seated, feeling my gown shift back into its proper position. He looks up to my face, meeting my eye. I look away, unwilling to meet the intensity I find there.
“How are you, My Lady?” His voice is coaxing, goading me into relaying feelings which I can barely process myself.
Still flushed from my experience, I try to get a hold of myself. My emotions are freefalling, like an egg from its nest; unable to take flight and certain to end in disaster. I am both ashamed of my treatment and ashamed of the way it has left me feeling. Unable to reconcile the humbling way I had felt over his knee with the bubbling excitement I had experienced between my legs, I am ready to crumble. Fresh tears spring to my eyes, and I feel my legs tremble.
He eyes me intently, sensing the dilemma in me, and then the obvious shaking of my limbs. “My Lady?”
I look around, wanting to flee the room and be alone with my feelings, but I know that he has the key to the lock.
“I think I need to lie down,” I stammer, choking back the sound of the emotion in my throat.
He rises from the chair, taking my left arm and pulling me toward him. I want to complain, but find I have no energy remaining to fight him. Compelled toward his torso, his large palms draw me closer until my face is resting against the edges of his coat. I draw in a breath, taking in the smell of him as I do. It is surprisingly reassuring, and as I feel one of his arms wrap around my waist, I am suddenly subdued.
“Breathe, My Lady,” he coos over me. “This was your first punishment, and you are bound to feel vulnerable.”
“I am not vulnerable,” I protest into the expensive fabric at my lips. Raising my palms, I press against his body, noticing how taut the muscles feel beneath his clothing.
“Let me hold you,” he continues. “It helps. It is my role to protect you, as well as punish you.”
A new well of emotion rises in me, and fresh sobs come from my mouth. I have never felt such a demanding mixture of feelings. Lord Markham is right; I am vulnerable, and I deeply resent that he has the power to make me feel this way. I am also concerned by the inexplicable way I am drawn to him, seeking his approval and now needing comfort from him. His arm tightens around me, and I feel his other hand at my bonnet, releasing the drawstring at my chin and pulling the fabric from my head. His fingers are at my face, drawing back my hair against the pins holding the remainder in place at the back of my head. No man has ever touched my hair before. Not even my father had shown me such intimacy.
“Is this the way it will be now?” I ask, almost whimsically. “You will punish and then comfort me?”
I hear a deep chuckle from the gentleman holding me. “Only when required, My Lady. I will punish you when you break a rule regarding your safety, or do not show me the appropriate level of honesty and respect. I am not a cruel man. I consider myself fair and reasonable. But I am master of this household; a fact I think you now understand.”
My head is woolly, and feels as though I have had one too many tipples. “I have never been treated this way, My Lord. I never intended to insult you, and never expected you to discipline me this way. I do not know how I should feel…” The words leave my lips in a rush; a confession of my true state of mind.
He draws me back from his body, holding me a few inches away as he assesses me. His left arm snakes powerfully around my middle, keeping me in place as his head tilts to the right, taking in my tearstained expression.
“You are a beautiful,
spirited lady, Lydia. This new dynamic is a fresh start for us both, and now you understand the rules of my house, I should not need to spank you again.” He brushes the loose strands of hair from the side of my face, tucking them behind my ear. I swallow hard at the unexpected tenderness he shows me in this moment. For no sensible reason I want to embrace him again and feel the heat of his body.
I look up into his face and appraise his full lips. I find I am strangely drawn to them. At this moment the idea that I might never again find myself over Lord Markham’s knee fills me with a deep sense of regret, although I cannot say why. The notion is as disturbing as it surprising. As though he senses the thought, his expression alters and there is some unspoken emotion in those deep green eyes. “Unless of course, you need to be spanked again?”
I blink up at him, staring into his face. Surely I could not have heard him correctly? Did he just infer that I might want him to spank me? Why would anyone choose to be admonished, humiliated, and treated that way? And yet I can still feel the heat in my core, the moisture between my legs, and I know that the spanking inspired those feelings… He inspired them.
I pull away, feigning shock at his words, although he maintains his grip at my waist. “Why would anyone need to be punished like a child?”
There is disgust and outrage laced into my voice, although I know we both hear the undercurrent of something else there… something like desire.
He smiles; all knowing, all seeing, his right hand now at my shoulder. “In my experience I have found some ladies find a type of release in the act.”
I think my heart misses a beat. I feel dizzy, nauseous, and excited all at the same time. Nervous energy flutters in my belly, although yet again I cannot say why.
“Release?” I barely recognise the sound of my own voice.
His eyes leave me momentarily, sweeping across the wall loaded with books behind me. I see his chest expanding as he takes a large breath, before his gaze falls back over my face. “Yes, My Lady.”
“What type of release could you mean, My Lord?” I say.
His eyes sear me with heat as he answers. “There are different kinds of release, Lydia.” His name on my lips again is an agonising torture. The last time he had spoken it I had been subject to his palm on my rear. Instinctively I reach for the back of my gown, rubbing the punished area. “Some seek the physical pain—they need it for emotional release.”
I swallow at his explanation, confused at his words and yet acutely aware of what he means. “Emotional release? Do you mean tears, My Lord?”
The familiarity with my own recent emotional state is apparent as he nods. “Yes, after tears there is often serenity and catharsis.”
Like the clarity I feel now, I wonder. Despite my confusion at the way the last hour has made me feel, I do now feel tranquil. I am talking to this gentleman—virtually a stranger—in a way which I have never been able to speak to anyone before. It is surreal, unnerving, and yet undeniably comforting.
“I think I understand,” I reply thoughtfully. “You mentioned various types of release? Which other kinds could you mean?”
His chin raises a little, and there is just the smallest flicker of emotion as he answers me. “There are other types of physical release, My Lady.” He pauses, clearly considering what he will say next. “I have no wish to embarrass you, and as a lady perhaps you do not know the feelings to which I refer.”
I flush, the heat at my core beginning to bubble inside me. I think I know exactly the type of feelings to which His Lordship refers. Not readily discussed in society, there had been some rumours from my maids in London. One’s belly had become engorged about a year ago, and we eventually discovered that she was in the family way with a gentleman who had stayed with us briefly. I had been rightly offended by her actions, never understanding how a young woman could be so lured by a man, even an earl.
I know I am blushing profusely, and yet I cannot control the words at my lips. “Please, My Lord. I look to you as my guardian—explain the release you mean?”
He never breaks his stare, perhaps musing about why I am pushing the matter, but within a few moments, he answers me. “My Lady, this is a highly unusual conversation between a gentleman and a lady.” He smiles, almost in spite of himself. “But you are correct; I am your guardian and you should be able to look to me for leadership and guidance. I refer to the sort of release that a man and wife might share—a consummation of a marriage.” His eyes flash as he speaks, and for just the briefest second he is a tall, brooding, and intimidating figure beside me. “Do you understand the type of release I mean?”
My mind is a blur, and I am just aware of my own laboured breaths as I look to him. “Yes, My Lord. I understand.”
Chapter Eleven: Lurid Dreaming
The rest of the day is a blur. There are meetings with new members of the household staff, afternoon tea in the drawing room, and ultimately a supper with His Lordship. It is as though I am unable to concentrate on any one of these events, all of them eclipsed by the heart-stopping conversation I have shared with Thomas Markham. And not just the conversation. The man has been the first to ever command me and make me accountable for my actions. He punished me in the most base and ignominious way, and yet he also comforted me, nurturing my vulnerable feelings after the spanking, and ultimately casting light on not only why he chooses to spank, but also why people might even desire it.
A day ago I had not even laid eyes on Lord Markham, and now it seems he is the only thing I can think about. He is persuasive, charismatic, clearly well-educated, and very obviously handsome. He is also my legal guardian; the man who now has power over my future well-being.
By the evening I am exhausted, my head inexplicably heavy and clouded with thoughts of the earlier liaison. I replay the exchanges of looks, the dialogue, and even the smell of my guardian. Weary with the memory of it, I retire immediately after supper, the presence of Lucy only igniting my thoughts.
I watch her slim frame as she shimmies from my room, eyeing her behind as it dances away. Involuntarily I find myself imagining it without her uniform, wondering how rosy it is after the sound spanking she received the night before. I still, horrified at the thoughts which now occupy my mind. I am a Regency lady—my mind is engaged by thoughts of dances, dresses, and potential good marriages. Never before have I even contemplated the naked form of another lady, least of all a servant!
She turns before she departs the room, her eyes querying what is no doubt the curious expression on my face. “Will there be anything else, My Lady?”
I pause, considering the possibility of a tonic to help me sleep, but decide that what I really need is a night of natural rest. “No—thank you, Lucy. I hope you have a good evening.”
The final remark is entirely improvised. She hesitates, clearly surprised at my sentiment. “Well, thank you, My Lady. I will see you in the morning.”
I manage a smile as I nod my assent, watching her finally exit the room and into the long corridor beyond it.
* * *
The night is long and punctuated by the most potent and vivid dreams I have ever experienced. Twice I am awoken by the intensity of them, finding myself in a tangle of sheets and perspiration. I roll over, feeling the coolness of the spare pillow and slipping back into a fitful slumber.
I am in the sunlight. I feel the warmth of it against my skin, and looking down I notice my arms are unusually bared. My hair laps around my shoulders, and I wonder fleetingly where my bonnet is—I never leave the house unless I am properly attired. I move forward, my soft satin slippers pressing into the blades of grass below my feet. It’s then that I look around me, establishing where I am. The lawns of Markham Hall are laid out around me, the grounds stretching far beyond what I can see.
A noise to the left draws my attention. It is a small cry, from a woman, and I am inexplicably drawn toward the sound. As I make my way onward the light begins to fade. Some type of mysterious mist is invading from
the right, pushing me ever further left, and toward the now increasing volume of the lady’s cries. I pause, straining to listen as she calls out again. The sound is raspy and desperate. Whoever is making it must be in great distress, or… I shiver as the alternative rushes through my mind. What if the noise which has roused me is not the sound of pain, but rather the sound of pleasure? I raise my head as I contemplate the source of the disturbance, feeling my feet moving forward of their own accord.
The mist clears as quickly as it had encroached, the sunlight revealing the new scene in front of me. A large blanket is laid out on the lawn, the edges frayed by design. In the middle of the rug sits my guardian on some type of low-level stool. His dress shirt is gaping at the front, revealing a toned chest covered with soft-looking dark hair. He is looking down, and does not see my approach, but I know it’s him. His dark, ruffled hair is more dishevelled than I have seen it before. Lord Markham’s long legs are stretched out in front of him, the left knee bent to accommodate the second person in the scene.
I pause, eyeing them. It is a woman, nude and pliant over his lap, the way Lucy had been. The look of it quite takes my breath away. I have never seen a lady without her clothes before, and I do not know whether to feel offended or excited. In fact, I am fascinated; not just by her, but by him, and the appearance of the whole thing. He raises his right palm, leaving it hanging in the air for a moment before slapping it down against the bare behind over his lap. The impact is not hard—I believe that he had spanked me with more vigour—yet the effect on the woman is instant. That small yelp leaves her lips, and she writhes uncontrollably like a small animal over him.
Taming Lady Lydia Page 7