She tiptoed up the metal staircase, carrying the solitary candle before her. Morrison had been told to make himself scarce, the order repeated to the housekeeper at dinner. Mrs. Collins had scowled a great deal while cook served up the stew. Humphreys talked and talked, muttering away about the first time he’d been on a train. He’d spoken with amazement, as if it had only happened recently. Kelly could speak about many things including modern wonders, but she’d learnt to keep silent. It was easier than she’d thought. She played a game in her head, a guessing game. What did they know about and what did she know. When the two matched, she talked, when they didn’t, she kept quiet. It saved her from many awkward moments.
Outside the door to his room, the only one in the house she’d not entered, she placed the candle on the floor and started to undress.
Her legs shook, as did her fingers, and she fumbled with the laces of her bodice and the drawstring of her underwear.
What if he laughed at her, took it to be a joke. Would that be his way of utterly humiliating her? No, that wasn’t the Henry she’d met. But, would he welcome her with smiles and words of encouragement? She needed something to steady her nerves. She’d bathed in the tub, borrowing it again from Mrs. Collins, who made no comment regarding the request. This time Kelly had washed in the privacy of her room, using a small pot on the fire to heat the water. It took ages, but it felt necessary to prepare herself thoroughly.
Holding her breath, she rapped her knuckles on the door and waited.
The door creaked as it opened, offering her a mellow sound of welcome. Henry waved her in, his eyes widening as she slipped through the gap.
He stepped back to admire her. “Beautiful,” he murmured.
His bedchamber was huge. At some point in the future, the room had been split into two lesser rooms and the decorations changed countless times to reflect the styles in between until it was frozen in the era of the 1930s. Henry’s room remained resolutely Victorian, but without all the extra clutter the Victorians liked to collect—there were no ornaments on the mantel, nor were the walls filled with paintings of Greek landscapes or rustic scenes of English life. There were two small mirrors facing opposite each other. She doubted anyone could step through them and quickly dismissed the idea that there was something magical about them—they afforded Henry a view of the bed from either side.
However, there was something magical about the way the room was furnished—rich colours, flock wallpaper, and a huge four-poster bed with a canopy and drapes.
The bed was prepared for her, the covers cast aside and a tubular bolster placed in the middle ready to raise her hips and bottom high. On the chest by the far wall, he’d laid out things. She spied the familiar loopy cane and smelt a pungent odour in the air. Nothing unpleasant. It seemed familiar and spicy.
He circled her, the long flaps of his robe swooshing around his ankles. Beneath the robe, he wore breeches, the buttons half-undone and a shirt, which was loosened and partly unbuttoned, revealing a light smattering of fuzzy hairs on his chest. She clenched her pussy as he breathed down the back of her neck and her secret wetness magnified, coating her inner thighs as she squished them together. He kissed her nape, lifting up her hair to trail more pecks around her throat and shoulders.
His broad hands, with their clipped nails, cupped her breasts and gently squeezed. She rested her head on his chest, as he rolled her nipples between his fingertips. Pressed against her bottom was his obvious erection, a hardened protrusion that beckoned to her, although still covered and contained. She’d no doubts that Henry was ready for her.
“I’ve all night to punish you, to make you beg and plead,” he rasped in her ear.
For what? Mercy or orgasms. It could be either. He wanted her to think it could be either. Other than the word punishment, which had taken on a whole new meaning, everything Henry said was intended to draw her into his game. He wore the mantle of disciplinarian perfectly, and little did he know that in her world, his future, Henry would be defined as a dominant: a kinky practitioner and a spanking enthusiast. She preferred the concept of a Victorian disciplinarian; it fitted him better, like the tailored clothes he wore. It also fed her fantasies and her appetite for the darkest ones.
The room wasn’t cold. A small fire smouldered in the hearth, sufficient to keep the night-time temperature at bay. In any case, Kelly was overheating as he continued to ramp her up into a frenzy of lust. When he beckoned her over to the bed, she wrongfully assumed it was time to lie on it. Instead, he sat on the edge, patted his knee and when she rolled her eyes in mock horror, he snatched her wrist and she tumbled over his lap.
He smacked her bottom, immediately searing it with hot stings and she hollered, revelling in the strange pain. Goosebumps rippled across her shoulders and arms as she shivered with delight at her predicament.
“Keep still,” he barked, before raining down a storm of smacks on her upended bum.
She held one of his ankles and used it to support her body.
“Mrs. Collins has presented me with a list of things—”
“What!” she shrieked. “Why, the old—”
The blow landed with a crack right where her buttocks met as she clenched the cheeks tight together.
“Do. Not. Disrespect. Her. She is a good servant. She does not tarry in bed.” Henry spoke crisply, appending each word with a spank.
Kelly opened her mouth to protest, to point out that Henry had kept her up late last night.
“I do try,” she snivelled, opting for the pity route.
He slowed, circling his palm around each cheek as if to calm the rising heat. Her bottom glowed with warmth but with little discomfort. He’d spanked her using pace, not force, as his weapon of punishment.
“There,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Nice and warmed. You will thank me later for doing this. I believe you, Kelly. Maybe Mrs. Collins finds your attitude somewhat… unorthodox. I, however, believe you have come a long way in a short distance of time.” He stroked down her leg, then up between her thighs, parting them sufficiently for him to dip his fingertips into her slit.
She rippled with more prickling bumps. If only he knew she’d actually come a long way in time.
Relaxing over his lap, letting him tease her opening, she didn’t want to argue about reasons or appropriate behaviour. She’d no issue with his demands or expectations. It was much easier to go with the flow, let her body fly and her mind empty itself of worries—the mirror, her future, her eventual departure.
He tapped her back, waking her from the mini reverie. “Lie on the bed belly down. Perch your hips on the pillow and part your legs.”
Spread-eagled, she was open and ready for his inspection and touch. Fingering every fold of her sex, feeling underneath, he sought out her clitoral hood and pushed it aside to judge her swelling. He oiled her too with some kind of balm, covering her in a coat of lubricant. He smeared it over her bottom and down into her furrow. When he circled her anus, she rippled with delight as he poked and prodded the puckered entrance.
Would it hurt when he fucked her? How much would she endure for him?
“The night is young in age. We’ll teach this bottom of yours to open up for me. You’ll be caned and when I am satisfied, you’ll be positioned for penetration and a hard fuck with my cock.”
Another rush of adrenaline fluttered in her belly and it stoked her pussy into action, causing it to tingle with wicked pulses. She must be leaking—what would he think of her inability to control herself?
She sniffed. The potent aroma still hung in the air.
“What can I smell?”
“Peeled ginger root. A good figging while I cane your bottom is part of your punishment.”
What on earth would that do to her poor behind? It sounded like torture, and yet as she humped the pillow, rolling her hips back and forth against it, the idea of him tormenting her was deliciously tantalising.
“I’m going to prepare the ginger. You will lie still and reflect on your behaviour.”
“I’ve been good, sir,” she squawked, appropriately pathetic.
He chuckled. “I think not, little maid. Or why are you here? Are you not the wickedest creature?”
“Yes, sir,” she panted, rubbing her clitoris harder on the fabric of the bolster. “I’m truly wicked.” His little maid! How delightful it was being both coy and willing for him.
“If you come, Kelly, without my permission, then I will add two strokes to your count.”
Two! It wasn’t much. It was worth it. She wanted to be naughty, wicked, just one last time before she submitted to Henry. A last fling of disobedience before she surrendered completely.
She made sure he knew she’d come. She thumped the bed with her fists, stiffening her legs and trembling all over with heightened exaggeration.
Peering over her shoulder, she watched the tiny grin form on his face. Disciplinarian or not, he’d enjoyed the wanton display of lust. He snorted and immediately puckered his lips, hiding the smile. Reaching out, he picked up the ginger root.
“That makes the tally eight,” Henry informed her as he dipped the root into a small bowl of water.
Her eyes widened as he lifted the dripping ginger and held it aloft, presenting it to her. The root wasn’t small and it was bent toward the end forming a natural plug. Would it fit easily? She whimpered loudly, knowing it would please him to hear her resist in some small fashion.
He cast aside his robe and strolled toward the bed, holding the ginger in one hand, the cane in the other.
She gulped down air, trying not to panic or lose courage. Just as he approached, she snapped her legs together—this wasn’t an act, she really wanted a moment to prepare herself. If he didn’t look so suave and calm, she’d baulk louder and edge herself off the bed.
“Now, now,” he reprimanded. “Open up, or there will be ten strokes.”
“I don’t want it in my bottom,” she whined. God, it was glorious being this pathetic and hopelessly aroused at the same time. Why had nobody told her kink was this much fun? Well, not just fun, it was also mortifying and bordering on the perverted.
However, deep down, she trusted Henry. He applied his moral code without deviation and it didn’t include harming her, at least not permanently.
She slid her legs apart inch by inch.
He knelt beside her raised arse and prised apart her rigid cheeks. Cold water dripped down her oiled furrow. She flinched and tensed, knotting the muscles in her arse into a hardness she could sense.
“Relax yourself, young lady, or it will hurt,” he said.
She buried her face in her hands, slumped down onto the bed and focused on getting her bottom to stop quivering. It was tough. She was so excited and nervous, not quite wanting the pain, but somehow expecting it, almost welcoming it.
He nudged once, twice, then the tip of the root stretched her open and pushed past her unintended resistance and filled her entrance. Henry stroked her back, soothing her while his other hand maintained its course, refusing to withdraw the root when she squeezed it.
The ginger inched into her bottom and she bleated, “Oh, it’s so big.”
He disagreed. “It’s a small size. I chose it out of kindness. Of course, if you continue to protest, I could cut a larger one.”
“No,” she shrilled. “No, please, sir.”
He laughed. “I thought not. There, it is in. Do you feel the heat yet?”
There was a little soreness, a sense of bulging around her tight anus, but otherwise, it didn’t hurt or burn. She shrugged. “Nothing, sir.”
“We’ll give it a few minutes to work.” He stood and picked up the cane. She peered over her shoulder again and in response, he narrowed his eyes and her heart skipped a beat.
“Then,” he growled. “I will thrash your arse.”
She snatched a breath at the implication. Coming from the mouth of any other man, such a word would have induced terror in Kelly. Thrashed was a term he liked to use. It should mean harshness, an inconsiderate use of force and an unrelenting pace. Henry, although masterful with his tone of voice, wasn’t going to do what he implied. However, that didn’t mean he would use her lightly or hold back from a measured approach.
Demanding, controlling, unswerving, and consistent—all those attributes she wanted were manifest in Henry and if he wanted to thrash her, he could. Bring it on. She would howl, beg, plead for mercy, do whatever to make it a worthy thrashing for him.
If, and only if she was feeling faint, would she say the one word that should stop him. She’d try damn hard not to use it.
From between her buttocks, a flame was ignited. It burnt, radiating outward, until it reached her belly and sex.
“Oh, my God,” she blasphemed. The spice of the ginger had dissolved into her body, right into her bloodstream and the energy it unleashed affected every element of her sexual being. She was drugged with some kind of aphrodisiac.
She opened her eyes and saw the cane lift above the bed, a straight stick ready to descend across her cheeks. Her instinct was to clench, to tense up but when she did, the action made things worse—a fire raged within her bottom.
The cane cracked to one side of the ginger, avoiding a collision. The root plug jolted a little, then emitted more of its potent extract. The two—cane stripe and essence—joined to assault her senses with pain and pleasure.
She cried out, unable to prevent it. “No, no,” she screamed and snapped her ankles together.
Henry, unperturbed, dragged them apart. “The next time you do that, I shall tie them to the posts.”
Oh, yes, tie me up!
The next strike of the cane was below the ginger and targeted the very spot she sat upon. Her bottom should absorb the cane’s swipe and the ginger should remind her not to clench. She failed on both counts.
Her knees knocked together and she wriggled her backside. The intensity went up a notch.
“Very well, you will be bound.” He lay down the cane and fetched from the chest two lengths of rope.
“Oh, please, sir. I’ll be good. Don’t do this,” she mewled.
He ignored her again. “Stop kicking.”
It was her nerves that made her flail her limbs. She wasn’t capable of being submissive when her bottom blazed with two stripes and a finger of ginger was stuffed up her arse. She’d underestimated the courage needed to submit.
The rope drew her legs straight and splayed, opening up her slit, spreading her wide. The burning diminished. Perhaps he was helping her, preventing her from squeezing the juice out of the ginger.
“Breathe, Kelly, and be a good girl. I do not intend to stop until all eight strokes are laid across your bottom.” He picked up the cane, flexed it and whooshed a practise stroke through the air.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. He was right. It was what they agreed and she’d lost sight of his faith in her abilities. He believed she could do this, and so should she. She’d called his need to experiment, to study the art of spanking, a game. A game was a competition and resulted in one side winning. Here, in Henry’s bedroom, there was nobody to compete against. Henry wanted both of them to win and wouldn’t allow her to fail him. It wasn’t a game, not when it meant digging down deep in her psyche and unearthing long-suppressed emotions.
She inhaled from the pit of her belly, lay still, took the warmth of the ginger, the spicy tingle it created in her sex and used it to her advantage. The next swish of the cane stung, then another. She winced and grunted, but didn’t scream or howl.
“Good girl, that’s better. I’m impressed,” he encouraged. “You take your punishments well, little maid.”
She quivered with delight. This was so much better, even if her arse throbbed with searing pain.
He counted, pausing between each kiss of the cane to allow her to gather herself, and let the effect of the ginger ripple throughout her body.
“Now, Kelly, I want you to ask for the last two. When I bring the final blow down, you’ll come. I can wait for you to be ready. However, if you don’t obey my command to come, you’ll be caned until you do.”
Hell’s bells, she groaned. Such a demand on her poor bottom and the idea of countless more strokes filled her with both trepidation and excitement. Now, she had to seek out those repressed emotions and deliver them to Henry. She could do this.
She wanted to do this. Something was stirring inside her heart and neither the ginger nor the cane had triggered the feeling.
“Please, sir,” Kelly said, almost too quietly to be heard, “please, can I have the next one.”
Henry adjusted the height of the cane and with a flick of his wrist brought it down with a swipe. A thin red line instantly formed on her bottom. The lines were parallel, no criss-crossing or double strikes. She wriggled her hips from side to side, rubbing her pelvis into the coarse fabric of the bolster. It was chosen for that purpose—to excite her swollen bud.
He reached between her legs and slid his hands along her soaked slit.
Henry smiled. She was so wet, he could swim with his fingers. Feeling generous, and aware that his request was especially demanding to a novice, he agitated her little clit. Kelly clutched a feather pillow in her arms and gnawed on the cotton casing.
“Closer, I believe.”
She nodded, gasping.
“Say it,” he ordered, straightening up.
“Please, sir,” she stuttered. “Please, can I have…”
She had barely finished the sentence when she began to shake involuntarily. Henry swiftly applied the cane, a mere caress of its length on her tender behind, just to help nudge her to completion.
Astounding! She impressed him. He had not expected her to come so easily. A small part of him was happy to continue with the caning. However, it would be presumptive of him to push her so hard. As she twisted and writhed, the ginger popped out of her bottom with the force of her contractions.
“Sorry, sorry,” she panted.
Henry released her ankles from the ropes and she shuffled her knees up and curled into a ball, her bottom still raised high and her knees tucked underneath. Then she went quiet and still. For a few seconds, he wondered if she’d fainted. He touched her shoulder and she sighed.
The sight of her quiet form with her striped behind was delightful. He had enacted his need for discipline and she had responded with a reasonably demure attitude. However, hidden beneath the austere outer shell he wore, other feelings swelled—caring, protective, even dare he believe it, affectionate. These enlightening emotions were not so familiar to his regimental heart—but, he welcomed them.
He settled on the bed next to her, dragged her off the bolster, and bundled her into his arms. There she lay, exhausted and spent. When she roused, he would feed her a little something. For now, he was content to stroke her hair and flushed cheeks. Such a silly creature. She had no understanding of the potency of a ginger root or how a figging worked upon the body. A true lover of a figging would have been bent over, bound tight, and given at least two or three dozen strokes. Marianne had suffered for him beautifully. But the memory of his lover was unwelcome. Kelly and she were different spirits, unrelated in any way.
Gradually, she woke from her dreamless stupor and smiled weakly at him.
“That was wicked,” she said.
He furrowed his brow. “It was supposed to be cleansing. A salve for your soul. A purging of your immoral fibre.”
She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand, until the laughter ceased. “I’m sorry. You sound terribly melodramatic. I do feel purged, I agree, but it was sexy as hell.”
“I would hope it was heaven you aspired to reach.” He struggled to make sense of Kelly when she was overcome with the giggles.
“Heavenly, too, yeah.” She stretched out her limbs and wriggled off his lap onto the bed. “Naughty. I feel so naughty still.” Her bright eyes shone as she gazed up at him. His father had a lapdog that could gaze adoringly like that.
Henry stirred from his meanderings. Best not think of his father—Papa would have been livid with his choice: a low-born maid. Marianne had been well-bred.
He brought her a glass of weak wine and an apple.
Kelly bit into it and grinned. “Healthy fruit, nice and sweet.” She merrily fluttered her eyelids as she crunched. With her cunt unavailable, and knowing he was hardened into a column, Kelly deliberately ate the apple in a provocative manner. She was incorrigible with her sauciness. A minor infraction perhaps, yet she committed it knowing he would seek to punish her. She conjured up a revolt just to both please and provoke him into action. In reply, he merely rebuked her for her poor manners.
“Do not speak while you are eating.” He greedily drained his own glass of wine.
She circled her lips with the tip of her tongue. He nearly snapped the stem of the wineglass with his fingers.
His balls hung tight and heavy in his trousers. How long could he keep at bay his lust? Her dainty little bottom hole beckoned to be filled. Dare he succumb to ravishing her fully in the hope he might withdraw at the apex of his pleasure? Probably unwise. And what if she detested it? What would he do to sate his lust for her?
He made up his mind. He would punish her for being so wanton and brazen in her habits. It would be entirely appropriate of him to do so, and she would be utterly ashamed by her need for it.
Kelly slurped on the trickle of apple juice running down the back of her hand. She licked it off, keeping her eyes on Henry throughout. His cock was twitching like crazy. What kept the man so in control was a mystery to her. She was ready to go again. Even her bum had settled into a fuzz of glowing warmth, the effects of the ginger quickly alleviated and the caning less dramatic than she’d thought.
She chewed slowly, wishing it was a banana, not an apple. She could have had such fun teasing him with a banana. Were there bananas available?
By the time she’d reached the apple core, he had dragged off his shirt and started to unbutton his trousers. It was the first opportunity to see him naked. It was worth the wait. He packed muscles into his lithe frame that would look good in a gym. She dropped the apple core on the bedside table and sat up. With busy fingers, she helped him undress, dragging off his clothes and undoing the laces of his boots. By then, she was kneeling by his feet having scattered his clothes to one side.
Her nose was level with his erection. The head of his cock gleamed with leakage and the veins rose out, pumping with engorging blood.
“Fuck,” she muttered. “You’re big.”
She gaped. That was going in her arsehole? It wasn’t going to fit.
She’d little time to think before her open mouth was stuffed. Henry rocked forward and slid his shaft along the groove of her tongue. She spluttered. With the rhythm established by him, she managed to breathe and suck in a duet with his movements.
She massaged his warm balls, cupping them in her palms.
Henry withdrew, staggering backwards, his cock bouncing up.
“Yes,” he said breathlessly. “You are wicked.”
Kelly licked her lips. “Yes, I am.”
A simple affirmation and it was all he needed to spring into action. He drew her up, pressed her back down on the bed, and plied his hands, using them to grope and clutch her to his broad chest. They rolled and twisted, entwining into a mass of limbs and searching hands. She raked her nails down his back while he nipped her neck, burrowing his nose in her hair. The raw heat between was electrifying.
Flipping her over onto her front, he jumped to his feet to fetch something. She stared wide-eyed, as he smothered his cock in a layer of oil. Pushing her down, he poured the same liquid between her arse cheeks. She shivered as the cold splashed into her slit.
With the necessary interval over, he leapt back on the bed and continued to assault her senses, driving her crazy with his mouth, hands, and the hard bulb of his cock.
The kisses were hot and plentiful; he dotted them across her back, between her shoulder blades until he arrived at her flamed arse. Long licks of his tongue across the stripes stung a little, and tickled too. She squirmed and giggled as he kneaded her breasts. Henry played with her while never letting his mouth disengage.
He shifted back up, sliding his penis between her buttocks as he moved. The smooth head prised apart her cheeks and nudged at her hole.
“Oh, please,” she cried. How real did she want it to become—her cries of protest, the bucking and wriggling—would it scare him off or drive him to discipline her?
“Sh,” he said in her ear. “Calm down and keep still. You will do as you are told. You teased me, provoked me with your little performance, I shall insist on taking something back.”
The anticipation was almost unbearable. He turned her again, this time on to her side, drawing her knees up and he spooned his body around hers, cradling her tight to his form.
His cock was poised at her opening. He pushed, then with a long groan, entered her virgin hole and claimed it. She held her breath, willing herself to accept the full length of his shaft and she stretched to accommodate his girth, feeling every inch of it move inside her.
He kept a hand on her hip, keeping her locked in place. When she arched her back away from him, his other arm hooked itself under her breasts and captured her against his chest. With a long exhale, he rocked his hips against her bottom.
The burning dissipated. The sensation of fullness grew. He was still swelling inside of her, forcing his occupation onward without respite.
Her sex was neglected. She wished it otherwise. What crept over her was the growing awareness that each time he tightened his grip on her and spread his fingers around her body, she juddered with excitement—an odd burst of anxiety-driven lust.
Dare she? He was so much stronger than her. She’d not realised how small she became under his muscular body. He’d a slender bone structure. However, fitted around it were lean sinews, which stiffened whenever she pushed away from him.
Fight and flight? Wasn’t that what adrenaline did? It wasn’t her intention to do either, but the rush of blood lust was driving her to feel the urge.
Henry wanted her submission.
He could have it.
On her terms.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
She’d rolled away from him, pushing aside his hands and adopted a position on all fours.
“Please, please, take my pussy, sir. Use it hard,” she begged.
He rose to his knees and rubbed the bristles of his chin with his fingers. His cheeks were flushed and eyes confused by her abrupt behaviour.
“No,” he said slowly. “You will not tempt me, young lady. You will submit to my demands or not at all,” he said sternly.
She noted his cock swept upwards to his navel when he told her what to do. He slapped his hand across her arse and she shivered, her nipples pinching the rings as her breasts swayed.
“Remember, little maid, you are to be punished for the whole duration of the night. I promised to fuck your arse and you will be fucked long and hard for your impertinent demands.” He moved behind her, grasped her waist and angled her bottom.
Leaning over her, his erection mounted between her cheeks, he drove it into her hole, thrusting forward until he’d entirely consumed her.
Not a sound came out of her mouth.
There were no words to describe the intense combination of pain and pleasure. It was beyond her to ruin the moment with cries, screams, or words.
Henry fucked her with an urgency surpassing any of her previous lovers. He slid his oiled cock in and out, slapped his hips into her bottom, while at the same time she impaled herself onto his cock. He grasped her tapered waist, holding her steady and preventing her from collapsing beneath him.
When she did manage to hold her ground, he cupped her breasts with his hands and squeezed them in time to his relentless thrusts. All she could think about was what it would feel like if his cock was in her dripping pussy and how many times she would come.
At last, he slowed, savouring her with lengthy swings and gyrating swirls of his pelvis. His demands on her lifted, and her own needs shifted. She no longer required the rough handling or his display of dominance. Kelly had submitted to Henry and with that submission came a strange sense of calm and peace.
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