Taming Lady Lydia

by Felicity Brandon

  “Good girl,” he says, using his right hand to draw the unruly tendrils of hair from my face. “Then you may seek your pleasure. I want to feel you explode, right here at my hand.”

  My hips push back even as he speaks, bucking against his hand, searching for the friction I know can be found there. He holds his hand still, and I soon find a rhythm, sliding past the finger at my wetness and grinding against the palm beneath me. The sensations are thrilling, and unknowingly my eyelids flit closed.

  “Lydia.” His tone is a warning, and my eyes fly open at once, seeking him immediately.

  I swallow as I understand my error. “I’m sorry,” I stammer, consumed with the decadence of the feelings.

  “Keep. Them. Open,” he says, punctuating each word, as he allows his right hand to leave my back and trail a line down my right side. His fingers reach underneath me, finding my breast pushed against the bedding.

  “Give me this sweet bud,” he orders carnally, and I obey out of instinct, raising my right side a fraction to allow him access.

  He seizes it between his fingertips at once, pulling and pinching the nipple as my hips roll relentlessly at his left hand. The combined stimulus is effective, and all of a sudden he has me right there again, at the very precipice of pleasure.

  “Thomas!” I call, the urgency in my voice making it almost unrecognisable.

  “You may climax,” he says sensuously, “but keep your eyes on me.”

  I feel my muscles contracting around the finger at my opening even as he speaks, the wave of pleasure ripping through me like a powerful force of nature. A guttural sound leaves my lips, every fibre of my being focused only on one thing—the pursuit and maintenance of this feeling. So consumed am I by the sensations that I quite forget his instructions, my eyelids squeezing shut as my body convulses around him. It is only when his voice slices through my euphoria that I recall what I had been told.

  “Oh, Lydia…”

  My eyes are open in a flash, immediately repentant. “Oh, My Lord, I am so sorry,” I say, but the dark look in his eyes tells me my apology is not going to be sufficient.

  “You had but one instruction.” he replies threateningly, as he removes his left hand from my still shuddering pelvis.

  Filled with remorse, I try to reason with him. “But, Thomas, the pleasure was too intense! I did not mean to disobey.”

  His lips form into a smirk, and I wonder if he had not known all along that I could never hope to do as he had asked. “Even so, Lydia,” he begins. “You had but one condition for your pleasure, and you did not meet it. What am I to do with you?”

  He runs his hand over my reddened bottom, and I shiver reflexively. “Will you punish me?” I ask, my voice trembling.

  “Do you deserve to be punished?” he answers, his eyes knowing.

  I swallow, trying to decide upon the response. “Yes, but no…” I say, my own voice portraying my confusion.

  He chuckles, raising his right knee and urging me up onto my knees next to him. “Then perhaps just a small penalty?” he says calmly. “A little reminder of what happens if you disobey me? What say you, My Lady?”

  I flex my toes, nervous energy whipping through me once again. I do not want to be punished again—not severely—particularly after such a satisfying experience, but what can I say? I did fail in the small endeavour he had asked of me. “What will you have me do?” I say in a small voice.

  He is smiling as he shifts his weight, helping me to take a step backward as he swings his legs from the bed. “I will have you right here,” he says, coming to stand behind me. “Put your palms flat on the bed, and keep your legs spread.”

  He moves my body into position as he speaks, arranging my limbs as though I am a rag doll. I find myself in my most ungainly pose, bent over at the hips, my shins against the bed. Satisfied at last, he moves away to his travelling bag, just right of the doorway. I breathe hard and deeply as I watch him, my mind reeling at what he may have in store next. By the time he turns back to face me, I feel downright afraid. “My Lord?” I ask, my voice trembling.

  He moves back through the darkness to reveal something long and thin in his right hand. He passes it to his other palm, showcasing it to me as he comes to stand by my left side. All at once the object comes into view. My belly lurches as I recognise his riding crop, and my eyes fly to him at once. “Thomas!” I exclaim, “you cannot mean to punish me with this thing!”

  My voice is etched with the fear and the disdain I feel about the idea. Crops are for animals, horses—not for me! When he does not reply at once I shift my weight, meaning to stand and face him, but he halts me with one word.

  “Stay,” he says, and something about the authority in his voice makes me comply. I hang my head shamefully, and see him raise the crop by the left side of me.

  I tense and want to cry out, but as I watch I see him lower it slowly over my back. I feel its touch grazing my side and sliding round to tickle my belly. I draw in my stomach reflexively, unprepared for its soft and unusual sensation.

  “I am not cruel, Lydia,” he says from next to me. “And I have already told you that I mean never to cause you real harm.”

  “But, Thomas,” I say shakily. “The crop?”

  He sees the worry in my eyes, and smiles. “The crop looks severe, but it need not be,” he answers. “Take this instance for example, as it trails down your belly to your thighs—does it hurt you?”

  “No,” I reply honestly.

  He twists the crop at my left thigh, moving to slide it over my inside leg. It is tantalisingly close to my moist lips, and unbelievably I feel the warm tingle at the summit of my thighs again.

  “The crop can be quite the tease, Lydia,” he says, chuckling warmly. He draws the implement back, bringing it to rest against my exposed bare behind. “But it can also deliver a message.”

  I gasp, tensing at his change of tack.

  “I think five light strikes will be sufficient to send this message now,” he says, delivering his verdict to the room.

  “Are you ready, Lydia?” His tone has hardened, and I try to steel myself, but feel far from prepared.

  “No, My Lord,” I reply, a low sob catching in my throat.

  My plea is ignored, and I feel the crop leave my flesh. I eye the space behind me wildly, making out the crop’s length in the air, just a few inches from my bottom, before he brings it back down upon me with a gentle swish. In all honestly the pain is not all that intense, but the sound is downright mortifying, and I jump from my place at that alone.

  “One,” he muses out loud, running a line across the point of impact.

  I wince, wanting this whole thing to be done already. “Please, Thomas,” I plead. “I will obey next time!”

  He is seemingly uninterested in my defence, and the crop is already in the air again as my appeal concludes. This time Thomas lands it with a little more force. The crack it makes as it strikes against my sitting spot seems to fill the air around us, and then the pain of the impact registers and I cry out. He removes it again, leaving the punished area burning as though it were scalded.

  “Two, Lydia,” he says, but before I can respond the next strike is upon me.

  Despite the fact that I now know what is coming, I seem unable to process the pain, and the new swat is just as punishing as the one before.

  “Oww, Thomas!” I cry, straightening up a little, as my right hand moves automatically to console the inflamed area.

  He moves behind me in an instant, pressing his clothed body against my punished bottom. “Do you want me to add another five licks with the crop?” he asks me menacingly.

  I twist my head left to see his face right there. I know my eyes are filled with tears as I reply. “No, please…” I sob.

  “Then get back into position, and stay there!” he hisses into my ear.

  I scan his eyes quickly, and I see he means it, so I comply with his demand, hanging my head in front of me mi
serably.

  “That was three, Lydia,” comes his voice from behind me again. “This is a punishment; it is supposed to hurt. Now steel yourself.”

  I nod, squeezing my eyes shut as I hear the tell-tale sounds of the crop moving through the air. It lands against me once again, searing a line of soreness into my already reddened bottom. I absorb it as best I can, choking back on the sobs which catch in my throat.

  “Good,” he says, clearly more impressed with this most recent effort. “Now, just one more, my sweet.”

  The pain lashes across my bare bottom again immediately, taking my breath away. My eyes fly open just in time to see him drop the crop onto the floor at his feet. He moves toward me, holding his arms open. “Come here, Lydia.”

  I freeze for the longest moment, desperate on the one hand for the love and reassurance that he offers, and yet horrified that he has seen fit to use his riding crop on me in this way. I stand slowly, my hands reaching for my punished bottom as I turn to face him.

  “How are you?” he whispers.

  I baulk at the question. “How should I be?” I sneer, my eyes streaming with raw emotion. “I cannot believe that you have used that thing on me!” As I speak I kick the crop, now lying on the floor, with my left foot.

  “Only five light swats, Lydia,” he says, calmly, taking a tiny step toward me. “Did you not deserve them?”

  “No!” I blurt the word out with vengeance, my emotions seem to be rising to an unexpected crescendo, and all of them are directed at Thomas. He takes one more step and is right next to me again, his arms folding around my naked form. “No!” I cry out again, raising my right hand and beating it hard against his chest. “How dare you do this! You have no right!”

  He looks down at me, concern and exasperation etched into his face at my maddened response to his crop. “You consented to the punishment, Lydia,” he says softly, nuzzling into my hair. “In fact as I remember, it was you who asked me to spank you?”

  I blink at him, indignation filling me. “Spank me, yes!” I say. “But not beat me!”

  “You are hardly beaten, my sweet,” he replies. His eyes drill into me as he continues. “You received a measured punishment for your failure to comply with the terms I had set for your pleasure.”

  “Measured!” I snort, trying to pull away from him.

  He catches me and holds me firm. “Yes, measured,” he answers simply. “And watch your tone, My Lady, or you will find yourself the recipient of yet more punishment.”

  I still, searching his eyes. “You wouldn’t?” I hiss, but even I do not sound sure of this bold assertion.

  He looks upon me, his brow cocked as my response. “Do you want to try me, and find out?” he asks quietly.

  I shake my head, feeling the strange mixture of emotions wrestling inside of me. I am outraged, and yet I am sated. I am indignant at his treatment of me, and yet even now, I yearn for his approval and protection. Finally, the threatening tears win out again, and I bury my head into his chest as they escape. He responds just as I had hoped he would, scooping me up into his arms gently and placing me on the bed. He sits, leaning against the post, and pulls me soothingly into his lap. I go there gladly, too shamed to show my face as the well of emotion empties. He says nothing, instead just holding me, before pulling the top blanket from his bed and wrapping it around my cooling skin.

  “Hush, Lydia,” he says tenderly.

  I sob against him, seeking his heat and strength. “I am sorry,” I whimper. “I do not usually act this way…”

  He chuckles lightly, caressing the exposed side of my face with his thumb. “I suppose you are not usually punished with a crop for your behaviour?” he offers by means of an explanation.

  I raise my head to see him, thinking what an awful state I must seem to be in now. “True,” I reply throatily. “But until you, no gentleman had ever corrected my behaviour at all.”

  He presses his forehead into my own. “That is my responsibility now,” he whispers, “and one that I take seriously. But please know—I will never punish you in malice or anger.”

  I nod my head to show my understanding.

  “I was not being unkind earlier,” he goes on. “I love bringing you pleasure, and I did so want to see you come apart. Your sapphire eyes are beautiful, Lydia, and they unlock a great many of your secrets.”

  I sigh, recalling how sweet that pleasure had been. The memory feels almost distant now. “I did my best to keep my eyes open,” I murmur. “I think it is impossible though, to do so? Did you trick me, My Lord?”

  He smiles. “Perhaps,” he admits. “Perhaps I just wanted a reason to play with my crop?” He pauses, looking down upon me with intense eyes. “I am not usually so whimsical. I fear it is the effect that you have on me, Lydia…”

  “Whimsical?” A soft laugh leaves my lips for the first time in a while. “Thomas, you are the least impulsive person I have ever met!”

  “Really?” he asks playfully. “Do you mean that I am cosseted and wilful like yourself, My Lady?”

  I want to scowl at him, but the tender warmth we are sharing is simply too good to taint. “Perhaps,” I agree, smiling.

  We stay this way for some time. He holds me, soothing me and slowly bringing me back from the brink. At some point, my lids become so heavy that I fade into dreams against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat lulling me into sleep.

  Sometime later, I am roused by the sensation of being lifted. I open one eye sleepily, aware of Thomas carrying my soporific body across the corridor and into my own room. His deep, tender voice whispers into my ear. “Come, my sweet Lydia. It will not do for Lucy to find you in my room tomorrow morning.”

  He guides me into my own bed, pulling the soft covers over my body, and the last thing I remember is the warmth of the kiss he places against my half-open lips.

  Chapter Twenty-Five: A New Letter

  Dim sunshine floods into my room, and I open my eyes. I find Lucy at the large window ahead of me, drawing back the drapes and smiling.

  “Good morning, My Lady,” she says cordially.

  I smile in response, moving tentatively in the bed, and aware suddenly of my nudity. All at once my thoughts fly back to the previous night. I recall our supper, and how I had played for the Pembrokes after a glass of wine. Then of course, I remember my liaison with Thomas; how he had granted my wish and spanked me for pleasure. My hand flies to my behind gingerly as I then recall the riding crop, and all of my costly emotion. What a state I was in! What must he think of me? I resolve to explain my behaviour as best I can as soon as I can speak to him in private this morning.

  “My Lady?”

  I twist to the left, seeing Lucy moving toward me.

  “My Lady, where is your nightgown?” Her concern is written all over her young face.

  I shift into a seated position, pulling the covers with me to protect what little remains of my modesty. I wince as my behind makes contact with the bed, the punished area not wanting to be pressed this way. “I was too warm,” I lie, gesturing dismissively with my free hand. “It is of no concern.”

  She looks shocked, but says nothing further on the subject as she arranges clothes for the day.

  “Have you seen Lord Markham?” I enquire, as innocuously as I know how. “I do not know what the plans for today are.”

  “I have not, My Lady,” she answers from within the wardrobe. “But I have received word from Buckton that he and His Lordship have had to make an urgent return to Markham Hall.”

  I freeze at her words, my belly lurching at the unexpected news. “Return?” I ask. “But how can they have returned, without us?”

  My voice is laden with panic, and she turns to face me. “Worry not, My Lady,” she says with a smile. “Lord Markham would not have done anything without making provision for you. And look, I have a note from His Lordship here.”

  She walks toward me, producing a small piece of paper from her apron. I snatch it fr
om her eagerly, feeling shock and excitement course through me all at once.

  “From His Lordship?” I demand. “Why did you not give me this immediately?” My tone is rather more harsh than I had intended, and I regret it at once.

  She turns, flushed by my response. “I am sorry, My Lady. I did not want to worry you.”

  I say nothing, looking down to the expensive paper in my fingers. It is sealed with Pembroke’s wax seal, suggesting that he wrote the note here, sometime between putting me to bed and leaving. Anxiety clutches my insides, as I pull the edge of the seal, opening its secrets for the first time.

  I scan the letter quickly, my eyes digesting the handwritten words:

  Dearest Lydia,

  I received word in the early hours that Mama is unwell, and requires my urgent attention. I am loath to leave you, but have chosen to travel back to Markham Hall at once to assess her condition. Lord William has promised to be a gentleman and look after you until we can be reunited. Be a good girl, and do as you are told. I will send Buckton with news as soon as I can.

  Rest assured I will be thinking only of you,

  Yours,

  Thomas.

  I read the note three times before finally turning to Lucy, who despite the pretence of being busy, is clearly assessing my own response. “Is all well, My Lady?” she asks, clearly intrigued.

  “I am not certain,” I admit, pressing the paper into my left palm. “It seems that the countess is unwell, and His Lordship has returned to Markham Hall to be with her.”

  She stills at the news. “I am sad to hear it,” she says. “And what of us, My Lady? Are we to remain here at Cranningford?”

  I swallow hard, frustrated and a little nervous that I am unable to clarify things further for either of us. “In truth I do not know,” I reply, sounding rather dazed.

  There is silence as we both reflect on the new reality.

  “I shall dress and see Lord Pembroke,” I say finally. “Perhaps he will have some further information?”