Charlotte tugged at her nightgown, a lengthy white linen heap that threatened to trip her at every step. The night was cold and the stone floor in the north wing of Stoneman Vale crept from her bare feet and into the folds of her thin gown.
She used the wall as a guide, her fingers crawling along the rough stone, over the intermittent tapestries, recoiling from the occasional metal or framed art that interrupted the length of the corridor. Her breath was ragged in her throat, and her heart beat wildly with fear—of getting caught—and excitement. The excitement dampened her fear and drove her forward, her lips dry and her pulse clanging in her ears. She was driven by the sweet anticipation of what she was about to see, if she was right about the carriage that had arrived late in the night, long after the gaslights had been dimmed.
Thinking of what she might get to see—and all of the things she had seen before—sent a delicious shudder down the length of her spine. In her belly, and in the part of her body she was sure she should never, ever think about, a fluttering feeling coiled and spread. Even before she reached the chambers of her guardian, she could feel the hot dampness in her undergarments.
She was a very, very naughty girl, and she knew it, but she could not stop herself and return to her quarters.
But Charlotte had been sneaking to the chambers of Sir Browne for some time now, and she had never been caught, even on the nights that she dared to creep into the bedchamber itself and watch from behind the heavy wardrobe all of the events that unfolded. Even then, she had crept away unseen as her guardian rose to his knees and towered over the woman who had come to his chambers, a whip in one hand and all of his body—sinful though it was to see—naked and covered in a sheen of sweat.
She crept along and found the latch to the servant’s stairway, and the labyrinth of passages that led to every room of the vast estate. It was in these passageways that she stood the greatest chance of being caught, for while Sir Browne seemed to have declared that the wing was not to be entered by servants when his ‘guests’ were present, one could never know if some servant, like Charlotte, possessed a strong desire to see what Kane Browne was doing with his mistresses.
But that servant would be in as much trouble as Charlotte herself, and Charlotte planned to make that clear should she meet up with one.
The hallway did have the unfortunate quality of being even colder and even darker than the main hallway, but Charlotte kept her hand on the wall to guide her. Her feet were sure and she was driven forward by the sound that she could hear, the sound that fascinated her so. It was growing louder with each step, and she hoped that she wouldn’t miss it as she hurried along. It was a crack, the wet slap of leather against skin, and then the muffled sound of a female voice after it, mewling like an animal.
She reached the door and unlatched it with a practiced hand—for Charlotte was not one to leave her mischief to chance—and pushed it open inch by inch, her heart cold in her chest and the place between her legs throbbing with an ache that made her faint with desire.
She knelt on the floor and peeked into the room, which the baronet flooded with light when he brought his mistresses to him. Charlotte never knew where they would be: he had once tied a mistress to his bed, her hands wrapped in black leather binds—the memory of which, alone, made Charlotte’s lips tremble with pleasure—and then he had laid into her flesh from her shoulders to her lower legs, leaving a bright red welt with each whipping. The welts had glowed, and Charlotte had wondered if they burned, especially the red skin that streaked across the woman’s bottom. Stripe after stripe, while the woman gasped, and then, curiously and delightfully, thanked the baronet and asked him for another.
That had been the first mistress Charlotte had seen. She had stared, eyes open wide, her mouth slack, scandalized and unable to move herself from the doorway as the mistress thanked the baronet, asked for another whip, and then cried out in the strangest way when she received it. Over and over again, until her backside—a scandalous thing to see, in and of itself—was striped like a candy Charlotte had once seen.
Charlotte had scrambled away when the baronet had come into view, but not before she had seen his… manhood… erect in front of him, a blunt instrument he held in his hand as he walked around his mistress, admiring his handiwork.
Another time, he had been seated in a chair, facing the doorway. Had he not had his head tipped back, as though he had fallen asleep, he would have seen Charlotte, or at least the open door. Charlotte had frozen in terror, just long enough to burn another image in her mind: the mistress had been on her knees in front of her guardian, his hand on the back of her head, pushing and pulling her in a bobbing motion to the center of his legs and away. If she had not also heard the sound—a sticky, wet sucking noise—she might not have figured out what they were doing. But she pondered it in the darkness and realized, as strange as it might seem, that the mistress had her mouth open and her guardian’s stiff manhood must have been inside.
The image had stayed with her, turning her insides around and around, day and night, until she had done a very, very bad thing and tugged her nightgown up and over her bottom, to slip her fingers into the place where the image made her throb.
No sooner had she found herself sticky and wet in that place than she jerked her hand and rubbed against something that sent a wild, pleasurable shock through her body. She had pulled her hand away and lain on the bed, her breath rapid, her thoughts dirty, feeling guilty and trying to push the images from her mind.
For many days she had wandered the gardens, as she often did, as was her fate to do, it seemed. She tried to keep her mind on her lessons, on the books that she read, on her upcoming coming-out and marriage. But her mind returned, no matter how hard she tried, to the red welts and the bobbing head of the mistress, and then to even more naughty thoughts, like what it would feel like to be the mistress of Sir Browne and swallow his manhood. She imagined herself thanking him for striking her bottom with a whip or a cane, and then asking for another, and another. The humiliating submissiveness of it made her insides pool with a feeling that she knew was sinful but could not avoid.
She had once come and been unable to open the door, because Sir Browne and his mistress were pressed against it. She could only listen through the dense wood, which rattled rhythmically as the mistress squealed and moaned. She heard the woman complaining, and the deep voice of her guardian—whom she hardly ever saw—over the breathless complaints of his mistress:
“You will take it all, and you will thank me for filling your bottom.”
Charlotte was infused with a hunger after that, for she could make no sense of his words, or the squealing that sounded like a tortured animal that followed it, and then the fading of the squeals into moans of pleasure that drowned out the clapping of the door against the frame.
It was now an obsession of hers—and one that she knew was very, very wrong and bad—to creep to her own sitting room and watch for the arrival of a carriage, well into the night. Often, they did not come, and she was sleepy the next day with no reward. But when they did, she crept into the north wing and did her best to catch a glimpse of the terrible, naughty, sinful things that the guardian and his mistresses did. And she only wanted to see more.
That night, from her knees on the floor, Charlotte was treated to the fullest view she had ever had, and by far the most scandalizing. Her undergarments were soaked in seconds as she took in the scene.
The mistress was naked, but for a material wrapped around her head so she couldn’t see, like a blindfold, but made of leather. The mistress’s hands were bound by a black scarf at her lower back, and she was on her knees, the tied hands suspended behind her, lifted into the air by the hand of her guardian.
He was looking down at what she was doing, and this time Charlotte was treated to a clear view of the woman’s mouth enclosed around the length of his manhood, sliding up and down the column of pink-purple meat. Charlotte nearly gasped and slapped a hand to her mouth to stop herself. The slap on her own face might have been heard but for the constant slapping of a riding crop against the bare bottom of the mistress.
“You are performing most exceptionally, Miss White,” her guardian said. “Most exceptionally. Perhaps I can show you some mercy for your earlier transgressions. Show me that you are very, very sorry and you can be a very, very good girl, and perhaps we will not need to punish your bottom so thoroughly tonight.”
The mistress began to move her head more rapidly, and with much more enthusiasm, up and down the swollen male member of Charlotte’s guardian. The sticky, slopping sound she had heard so many nights ago crossed the room to Charlotte’s ears.
Charlotte was at a dangerous angle: the baronet could, at any moment, look over and see the open door. Part of Charlotte longed to stay and watch, to see if the mistress was able to perform as well as he wanted—and if not, if she received more punishment. But she feared being caught and so crept away to her room, where she lay, unable to sleep, thinking over and over again about the baronet’s words. The place in the center of her legs throbbed, but she didn’t dare to touch herself again.
She had already been far too naughty, and her governess had explained that she might break her maidenhood, resigning herself to a life of penury.
Charlotte had been sent to the distant relative that was the baronet Kane Browne after the death of her parents. While her elder sister had been old enough to marry off, Charlotte had only been sixteen and thankfully it had been stipulated in the will of her father that she remain a maiden until she was eighteen, at which time she could come out to society properly and marry well, which would certainly be no problem given the sizable dowry left to her after her parents’ death.
The baronet had been willing to take her in, though she had never met him before. She had met him the day of her arrival: a darkly handsome man with fine, aristocratic features and a terrible scowl. He had said nothing to her upon introduction, merely bowed, scowled, and departed in the carriage she had arrived in.
Since that time, she had seen him only in passing, and he appeared not to notice her at all. He was a curious man, and had Charlotte any access to rumor or gossip, she might have discovered that he was thought to be at intermittent times a tyrant, an eccentric, or a madman. Some even believed he disliked women, for he had never taken a wife. The servants and Charlotte, of course, knew this to be untrue—as did the mistresses he made submit to his will in his chambers.
And now Charlotte was eighteen and would soon be married off. She had still never spoken anything more than ‘good day’ to the mysterious, scowling baronet.
But something inside of her stirred with longing when she saw him on the grounds, and something much deeper clawed at her insides when she remembered the things she had seen in his chambers.
Her sister Cynthia arrived at Stoneman Vale some days later, in transit to London. All through the visit, Sir Browne appeared only for dinner and occasionally for tea, the same unreadable expression on his face. He was the height of politeness, and no one could find fault in his conduct. Charlotte found herself unable to stop imagining him the way she had seen him, or to stop imagining the feel of his hand on her bottom.
Her chance came soon enough.
Less than two days after the departure of the last of the guests who had come to see Charlotte in transit to London, a carriage arrived at Stoneman Vale during the night. It could only mean one thing: Sir Browne had summoned a mistress again.
This time Charlotte had planned even further ahead than usual. Inspired by Cynthia’s stories and her own natural curiosity, she had retired to bed early and then stowed herself in the servants’ hallway before the carriage even arrived. When she heard Sir Browne’s footsteps retreat down the hallway, she had been overcome by daring and, without thinking ahead to her escape, she had entered the room and locked herself into a wardrobe, where a slender gap between the doors allowed her to, very uncomfortably, view the interior of the room.
However, the two did not appear for some time after Charlotte locked herself in, and during that time Charlotte was confined in the wardrobe most uncomfortably. Oddly enough, the discomfort gave her the same sorts of feelings she experienced while watching Sir Browne discipline his mistresses: she rather liked the idea of Sir Browne binding her hands and placing her in the confinement of the wardrobe.
It was well worth the wait and the risk that she took, however, because before long Sir Browne came into the room, alone. He removed his linen shirt and Charlotte had plenty of time to catch many glimpses of the solid muscle of his bare chest, as well as his hard, chiseled arms. He walked around the room a great deal, and it took her a few moments to realize that he was taking out the items that he would use with his mistress, and placing them on tables for quick access.
The twisting throb between her legs grew and pulsed as she watched him caress the various instruments: a riding crop; a wooden object that looked like a handle and nothing more; a long leather lead and a collar like those used for dogs; an object similar to a wooden-handled riding crop, though the handle was quite misshapen and thick and seemed useless for its function.
At last, he stood by the window and awaited the arrival of his mistress, and Charlotte tried to breathe quietly as she looked through the crack.
At last, she heard footsteps in the hallway and Sir Browne turned around to face the door. Charlotte had to carefully shift her weight and move her head to get the right angle to see the mistress at the door. She only glimpsed her hands and legs, and the wild red satin bodice of her dress.
“Disrobe,” Sir Browne told her.
Charlotte shivered. His voice was commanding, and the authority of it—its brutal directness—made her stomach quiver, but delightfully. She craned her neck and strained her eyes to see what the mistress was doing, but caught only glimpses of her as she removed her clothing.
She had a better view of Sir Browne, who stood across from her, watching with a stern expression.
“Have you been a naughty girl since I saw you last?” Sir, Browne said, and his voice sent a tingle down Charlotte’s spine. Her own bottom ached to feel Sir Browne’s punishing hand, but if she could not have that, she could at least watch him spank his mistress. She hoped, secretly, that she had.
“I have, Sir Browne, sir,” the mistress replied.
“And do you need to be punished?” Sir Browne asked her, his mouth moving slightly, an expression of cruel desire on his lips, but only barely.
The mistress paused. “I do, sir.”
“Come here, my pet, and perhaps you can please me in order to attenuate your punishment. I would so prefer to avoid last week’s cruel punishment.”
Charlotte’s breath was getting ragged as she imagined all that was going to unfold before her eyes. She had to close them to steady the pace of her breathing. A sinking feeling, but a delightful one, twisted inside her chest.
When she opened her eyes, the mistress had crossed the room and was standing before Sir Browne. The baronet was unthreading his belt, and the leather pants loosened and slipped slightly from his hips.
Charlotte’s eyes went wide as she looked upon his thick member for the first time in such proximity. Before, she had only seen glimpses of it, and imagined the rest: now she had a full, uninterrupted view, and so close. She had to cover her mouth to avoid gasping.
It was so thick she felt certain she could not wrap her whole hand around it, and it was erect in front of him, long and firm.
The mistress looked at his prick, as Charlotte had heard him call it before, and then she looked around. “May I have a pillow?” she asked.
“You may not. Get on your knees and show me that you are quite sorry for your bad behavior, and perhaps I shall take pity on you when it is time to discipline you.”
The mistress fell to her knees before the baronet.
“Before you start to beg me with your mouth,” Sir Browne told her, “I have a surprise.” He turned and walked to the left of the room, out of Charlotte’s view, though she strained to watch him.
“This item was made especially for me and brought a great distance, and so it will give me immense pleasure.”
He returned to where the mistress was kneeling, with a long rod, from which several thick straps of leather dangled. Charlotte narrowed her eyes, attempting to discern what the item was, and what it might be used for.
It was soon made clear as Sir Browne suspended it horizontally and then rested it on the mistress’s shoulders. One of the leather straps fitted around her neck like a collar, which he fastened as she waited patiently on her knees, which were bare on the cold and hard wooden floor.
“Place your arms up, around the back of the rod and then draped over the end. You should feel some pressure and discomfort on your shoulders, which is what I desire. There you are.”
Charlotte looked on, her lady parts gushing, as he fastened the straps around the mistress’s wrists, and then stepped back to admire his work. The woman’s arms were now immobilized on the rod, spread out and hanging over the length of it, which balanced on her shoulders like a yoke on an ox.
Sir Browne smiled, enjoying his handiwork, and Charlotte noticed that his prick pulsed, indicating, she supposed, his own excitement. He took a step back toward the mistress, lining his prick up with her mouth. He took his manhood in one hand, and the mistress’s head in the other. Then he fed his member to her, pulling her toward him. “Suck on my prick and show me how sorry you are for being such a naughty little girl. If you are very good then perhaps we will not need to punish you so severely.”
The mistress took Sir Browne’s member in her mouth, and Charlotte again had to restrain herself to keep from gasping, as the whole length of it disappeared into her lips and then her throat. With her arms on the rod across her shoulders, utterly submissive to Sir Browne’s whims, she began to bow and sway, moving her head back and forth to service Sir Browne.
“That’s very good,” Sir Browne coaxed after she had sucked on him for a few minutes, the sticky sounds of her throat filling the otherwise silent room. “That’s very nice but I think you can do better. Can you do better? Get your tongue out and give your master a proper licking on my balls. I want to feel your tongue caressing me. Show me how very sorry you are.”
Charlotte’s own thighs ached almost impossibly as the mistress complied with his request, taking him deep in her throat until her lips were against the hairy front of his pelvis. The pink of her tongue emerged between the shaft of his manhood and her lower lip, and she swept the sacks of skin beneath Sir Browne’s prick. The task was obviously hard for her, and her nostrils flared as she struggled to manage breathing while straining to satisfy his command with her tongue.
“Keep going,” Sir Browne insisted. “I am somewhat disappointed in your performance, Miss St. Claire. I may need to punish you soundly after all.”
Miss St. Claire began to work harder on Sir Browne’s prick, and her eyes watered up as she did. Her tongue swept furiously over his scrotum and her face turned pink as she sought to take more of him into her mouth. Her cheeks puffed out and Charlotte could hear her breathe through her nose as she fought to satisfy Sir Browne.
At last Sir Browne reached down and pushed her head back, taking her arms with him because of the contraption. His prick left the mistress’s mouth with a wet slurp.
He looked down at her, and his face was not very readable. Charlotte squirmed as though she were the one awaiting his appraisal. Her own heart fell through her torso as his face turned into a scowl and he stepped away, clearly unsatisfied with her performance.
Sir Browne crossed the room and the mistress waited on her knees. Charlotte could tell that she was uncomfortable as she tried to shift minutely on the floor.
Sir Browne returned to stand behind her, and he lifted her to standing with one finger under the rod, pulling her up. He used the same gentle pressure to turn her toward the bed and push her forward. She fell, because she could not stop herself with her restrained hands, face-down onto the mattress.
“Miss St. Claire, you have disappointed me, and so you shall be punished.”
Charlotte’s core tingled at the sound of the word. When Sir Browne moved to stand behind the bent-over mistress, she saw that he held in his hand a paddle, covered in leather and studded with minute, smooth metal studs. Locked away as she was, and not daring to shift her weight too much lest she be discovered, Charlotte was unable to see much besides the flexing of Sir Browne’s back as he raised his hand, and the ripple of his muscles as he brought his hand down. This was followed by a delicious series of sounds: a slap; a light gasp, and then the voice of his mistress. “Thank you, Sir Browne. Please give me another.”
Charlotte’s thighs grew sticky and wet as the slap of the leather against the mistress’s bottom went on and on, and she imagined her own bottom in the air for Sir Browne to spank, and what it would feel like.
The spanking stopped, finally—by then the mistress’s gratitude had become more forced and Charlotte could tell that her eyes were watering. Charlotte could still only see the back of Sir Browne, and a few snippets of his flesh as he climbed onto his knees on the bed.
The slaps of the paddle were replaced by the slap of Sir Browne’s flesh against the thighs of his mistress, who squealed loudly as he began but eventually disintegrated into a series of mewls as Sir Browne sawed in and out of her.
When he was finished, the mistress was unlocked from her bondage, and the two of them disappeared into another chamber, where they stayed for a long time. Charlotte could hear their muffled voices, and even a peal of laughter from the mistress. She was too afraid to creep out of the wardrobe, lest they return, a fear that only increased the longer they remained in the other room.
But at last the sound of their voices died down, and Charlotte could take no more. She moved around a bit, searching with her fingers for the latch.
By now Charlotte’s legs were asleep, and she sensed as much, though she could not feel them. She knew that if she tried to walk she would fall flat on her face, but it scarcely mattered because she found that as she reached for the latch on the wardrobe door, it was of the sort that locked from the outside and did not have a mechanism that allowed her to exit.
The full breadth of the trouble she had gotten herself into began to sink in, and Charlotte shivered. While it had been fun and games to watch Sir Browne with his mistress, it was extraordinarily improper, and she could imagine the fury if he found out. Much more, she feared the reaction of the servants when they opened the door and found her there, supposing that Sir Browne did not do so himself.
How long would she wait to be discovered? She was now incredibly uncomfortable, and the night would only go on and on without her being able to sleep. She thought quickly, trying to concoct a story in which there was a legitimate excuse for her having been in the wardrobe, but she naturally found none as there was no earthly reason for her to have been in the forbidden north wing anyway.
The footsteps of Sir Browne made her body turn to ice. It felt as though her heart stopped in her chest.
She watched, trying to calm her ragged breathing, which seemed very loud to her, as Sir Browne entered the room. He had donned a shirt and leather pants, and he was alone now. His footsteps moved about the room slowly, as though he were stopping at each shelf to contemplate an object deeply, before moving on to the next.
Charlotte tried to breathe through her nose, in order to keep from making a sound, but found that her breath was too quick and too deep. She let her mouth fall slack and inhaled as shallowly as she could, fearing that she sounded like a winded horse in the depths of the wardrobe.
Sir Browne spoke suddenly, surprising Charlotte so much that she nearly gasped. She covered her mouth and listened. At first she thought he was mad, and speaking to himself, for he did it as naturally as one might muse aloud. But as he spoke, the realization that the words were meant for her poured over her like a slow, cold tar.
“I wonder,” Sir Browne mused, “if now that you’ve been in there so long, would your punishment even reach your senses? Or would it be best to make your punishment the very predicament you are in? I do sometimes enjoy using confinement as a punishment.”
He turned to face the wardrobe, and Charlotte’s heart pattered irregularly in her chest as he moved toward her. He was wearing the black leather pants he had donned for his mistress, and a white linen shirt, which he removed by grabbing it from the back and pulling it over his head.
The word ‘confinement’ wormed around in Charlotte’s head, and suddenly the confinement of the wardrobe enclosed her more tightly. This stirred up sensations very similar to those she had experienced while watching Sir Browne with his mistress, which was quite shocking to her.
Sir Browne leaned sideways and picked up a riding crop in his right hand. He played with the straps and slapped them against his palm, creating a benign swishing sound. “I shall let you decide, fair Charlotte. Do you want a punishment…” he slapped the crop against his own thigh and the thwack made Charlotte jump and bump against the wardrobe, “…or do you want to do your penance confined in the wardrobe until dawn?”
He stepped closer to the wardrobe.
Charlotte sucked in her breath. She hesitated only a moment before she found herself saying:
“The crop,” in a weak voice.
Sir Browne leaned to the wardrobe and peered into the interior through the gap. “I can’t quite hear you, Charlotte. What do you want your punishment to be?”
“The… the… the crop,” Charlotte said, leaning toward the space between the doors, her lips trembling as she spoke.
Sir Browne slapped the crop against his thigh again. “I demand that you say the words: beg me to whip you soundly, as you have been a very naughty little girl who requires such discipline as I see fit.”
Charlotte was stunned into silence, even as a thrill traveled through her body. Her mouth moved in an attempt to form the words as Sir Browne had requested, but she found herself tripping on the syllables of the pronouncement and instead gushed incoherently.
Sir Browne unfastened the wardrobe door after a bit of Charlotte’s gushing, and she fell to the floor on her hands and knees, where she remained for a bit, stunned by the unexpected fall. When she began to gather herself up, she heard the slap of the riding crop again, and Sir Browne’s stern voice. “Remain as you are,” he said, each word a strict pronouncement that sent shivers through her body. “Remain just as you are and say the words as I have instructed you.”
Charlotte turned her head to look up at Sir Browne, whose fearsome expression made her turn quickly back to face the floor even before he cracked the riding crop again.
“I… I… I… I want… I… I’ve forgotten the words,” Charlotte murmured.
“You desire to be punished with a whip, because you are a very naughty girl who sneaks into wardrobes, and you deserve such punishment as I see fit,” Sir Browne said, crouching down to slip a finger, most unexpectedly, into Charlotte’s hair, and tuck a loose strand behind her ear. The touch of his finger was unexpected and frighteningly delightful; Charlotte shivered again and chewed on her lower lip.
“I… I… wish to be punished…” Charlotte stammered and lost her train of thought as Sir Browne’s hand wandered down the length of her body until it reached her lower back. She was keenly aware of the most undignified position into which she had fallen, with her shift bunched up and her calves disgracefully displayed for Sir Browne. Distracted by the touch of his hand, she said nothing as he applied a gentle pressure to her lower back, pushing her chest to the floor.
Charlotte again sensed the welling of her lady parts—the word Cynthia had used sprang into her mind and its inherent naughtiness aroused her even more—as she was moved by Sir Browne into the very sexual, very sinful, very submissive position on the floor. He pushed her until her forehead was pressed to the wood floor between her hands, her bottom in the air, the shift creeping even further up her body, revealing more of her flesh for her guardian.
Sir Browne’s hand was still on her lower back, and his fingers began to move in crab-like motion. It took a few breathless gasps with her face to the floor for Charlotte to realize that he was bunching up her shift, tugging it upward, over her thighs, up to her undergarments. The cool air of the bedchamber breathed on the back of her legs, and the shift slipped down her tilted back once Sir Browne released it. Cool air caressed her lower back, and her thighs trembled in humiliation and excitement.
“You were saying something, Charlotte, and I expect you shall complete your supplication, else you shall be punished for not one, but two transgressions. Say the words and beg me for your due.”
Charlotte closed her eyes as a sinking feeling, both terrifying and pleasurable, drowned her from the inside out. Her insides were raw, and her lady parts throbbed, but the fear of Sir Browne’s riding crop stubbornly mangled the words she attempted to repeat.
“Please, Sir Browne, sir,” she struggled to say. “I—I—I’ve forgotten again.”
As she was telling Sir Browne that she had forgotten, his warm, dry hand made slow circles on the bare flesh above her undergarments and distracted her even further. She was completely unsure what Sir Browne’s plan was for her; to be intimate and tender, or to punish her with a whip. Her eyes welled up with tears of confusion.
Sir Browne’s fingers slipped beneath the waist of her undergarments and she felt the fabric slide over her hips, down to her thighs, and the cool air of the chamber breathed now on her most intimate parts. The coolness revealed to her—and indeed, Sir Browne—that her lady parts had become quite wet. She chewed her lip again, unsure of how to proceed.
There was a long and dreadful silence, as Sir Browne’s hands moved over her bottom. He rubbed her lightly, almost gingerly, and the tickle was almost enough to make her giggle.
The crack of the whip against her skin was so sudden and unexpected that the air in her lungs punched out of her mouth in a sharp gasp, and it seemed to her as though her entire body became a wave. The pain was sharp and radiated through her, turning to heat, a line of burning flesh that felt as though it was swelling and throbbing, right across the middle of her backside.
“Oh!” she cried out, when she managed to suck in some air.
“You are,” Sir Browne said, punctuating his statement with another swift smack of the riding crop, “to beg me for your punishment.” He delivered three more whips, which Charlotte would recognize soon enough as quite gentle manifestations of the punishment, each emphasizing the breaks in the sentence.
Charlotte gasped again, and rather liking the sensation of the riding crop (much to her own surprise), she stuttered again, “I—I—desire for you to punish me as you see fit. Please. Sir. Sir Browne, sir.”
Her bottom was throbbing, a wave of heat on her bare skin that traveled directly to her lady parts, which she could feel dripping on her inner thighs. She was grateful for the undergarments between her legs, at mid-thigh, which hopefully hid the sight from Sir Browne. How humiliating it was for him to know that she was the sort of naughty girl who became… as she was… when she was punished.
“And,” Sir Browne said, cracking the riding crop on her bottom again, though this time with greater force, eliciting a sharp squeal from Charlotte. “You have been very naughty, and you should thank me for my strict guidance.”
Charlotte’s bottom burned, and tears stung her eyes, but the words left her mouth with pleasure:
“I have been very naughty, and I should be thankful for your strict guidance.”
“That’s very good, Charlotte. But you have still been a very, very naughty little girl and I shall punish you accordingly with five lashes, and they will be much more serious in nature than those you have already received. I shall expect that you count each one and thank me for my discipline, before you beg me for another. Do you understand, you very disobedient child?”
Charlotte was not a child, but a deep pleasure swelled in her at the sound of Sir Browne calling her one. “I understand, Sir Browne, sir,” she said.
“Raise your bottom up so that I might better deliver your punishment,” he said.
Charlotte’s fingers drummed nervously as she lifted her bottom uncertainly. The position was one so undignified and humiliating that she had not even imagined such a thing in all her years.
The first of Sir Browne’s punishing cracks stung bitterly and made Charlotte gasp. Her eyes grew wet as the sting spread hotly across her bottom. Her legs trembled again, and she quickly added, “Thank you, Sir Browne. Please, may I have another?”
Charlotte hesitated, her eyes moving quickly over the wood floor. She struggled to understand his request, and her bottom burned.
“Count each whipping, my child, or you shall never be finished. Now we must start again. Count, thank me, and request another.”
The riding crop came down again on Charlotte’s skin, splaying out at impact into a wide spray of stinging pain that diffused into a hot wave over her entire backside. “One!” Charlotte cried. “Thank you, Sir Browne, may I have another?”
The next whippings proceeded as the first two, and Charlotte squeaked out her request for another and her gratitude to Sir Browne for disciplining her, though by the fifth—which was actually the sixth—whip, her voice had gone wobbly and weak and her bottom burned almost unpleasantly. She was certainly grateful to be at the final punishment.
“Get up and gather your shift about you,” Sir Browne said sternly.
Charlotte scrambled to her feet, pulling her undergarments up as she did. The rough material made her bottom very sore, and she had to tug at it awkwardly, her cheeks burning as Sir, Browne looked upon the nakedness of her legs.
She stood before him, her heart racing, her chest cool with a delighted and frightening feeling, and her cheeks ablaze—both those of her face and the others. She stared at the floor.
“Did I ask you to put on your undergarments?” Sir Browne asked her.
Charlotte lifted her gaze and looked at Sir Browne, whose brown eyes burned into her and whose stern expression made her look away. “I… I don’t… I…” she mumbled.
“I did not,” Sir Browne said.
Charlotte dared to look at him again. His expression was much the same. He didn’t mean that she should…?
“Remove them,” Sir Browne said calmly. “And leave them here. Tomorrow I expect that you will not wear them beneath your clothing.”
Charlotte’s mouth fell open. The request was preposterous, and as she imagined the scandalous act of walking about the house without undergarments, she shivered. It was much, much too shameful.
Sir Browne looked back at her plainly.
“Sir, I… I cannot—”
Sir Browne stepped toward her, until the heat of his body caressed her skin, and she had to fight to keep her eyes from wandering to the muscles carved across his chest. A surge of excitement traveled through her again, wetting her undergarments, making her blush. Such impropriety! She was now on the very far side of sinful and reckless behavior, and Sir Browne seemed to have even more in mind.
“You can,” he whispered, though the tone of his voice was far from gentle. “And you shall. Now remove the undergarments as I have requested, or I shall be forced to make your bottom most unpleasantly sore and you will be unable to sit upon it.”
Charlotte shivered as Sir Browne, moving even closer to her, put his hands on either side of her body at mid-thigh and began to pull on the shift again, on both sides, bunching it up in his hands at her hips.
Charlotte blushed deeply again, and as Sir Browne stared wordlessly at her, she put her hands to the undergarments and slid them down her legs, where they caught on her thighs. She moved her body, shimmying side to side, to send them sliding to the floor. When they reached the floor and the sound of them revealed that they were heavy with the liquid that so persistently welled up in her lady parts, Sir Browne’s mouth flickered in a smile.
He let go of her shift, and it fell to the floor. “Retrieve them from the floor and place them in my hand.”
Charlotte did so, blushing even more deeply as she did. She placed the undergarments in Sir Browne’s open palm, her hands trembling.
“Now. Return to your room and think upon your punishment.”
This was the last thing Sir Browne said to her, before turning his back, lifting her undergarments to his face and inhaling them.
Charlotte gave him a weak curtsy, not knowing what else to do, and then scurried into the servants’ hallway and back to her own chambers.
She lay in her bed, awake almost the whole night, her lady parts screaming for a release of some kind, and her pulse too high to sleep. She lay on her stomach to keep her shift from rubbing the raw skin of her bottom, where, if she dared to reach and touch it, the very lightest of welts crisscrossed her skin, and burned wildly at her own touch.
She did it often throughout the night, biting her pillow in pleasure and imagining that Sir Browne not only whipped her but did such things to her as he did to his mistress.