Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“No, sweeting,” he said, taking her hands away and waiting for her to place them back where they belonged. “I will add more swats if I must, if you feel you are unable to follow my directions and keep the proper stance.”
“No, I’ll do it. But it’s hard. It hurts.”
It was hurting her more now, he knew. He made each spank one degree more intense than the previous. Number six was quite crisp. Number seven had her up on her toes. “Please, may I have a moment?” she begged. “My bottom stings from that paddle. It is so hot.”
“It’s meant to be.” He allowed himself to touch her, finally, placing a hand at the small of her back. He wanted to run his palm across her heated cheeks then part her with his fingers, thrusting deep into her virginal pussy. Would she be wet from the ordeal of being spanked? From the pain, from the exposure? It excited some women. Would it come to excite her?
God, he couldn’t think of that now. He delivered the next blow. She said “eight” in the loudest voice yet, as if to steel herself for the next one. “Nine” was a solid paddle stroke, since they were so near the end. By now her bottom would be throbbing. It was a uniform, deep pink, evenly colored as he’d tried to distribute the blows to the whole of her heart-shaped cheeks. For an experienced spankee it would not have been considered a very severe paddling, but he suspected Rosalind was struggling.
“One more,” he said. Oh, how he wanted to fondle her. He felt her tense as he drew back his arm. Someday he would teach her that tensing only made things worse, and perhaps put a ginger plug in her bottom to let the burning sensation drive his point home. But not yet. He gave her one last solid crack and waited for her to whimper “ten” in relief.
“You took that well,” he said. “No, don’t straighten yet. Stay just as you are.”
“May I replace my skirts, please?”
“Please, sir. And no, you may not.”
He put the paddle back amongst his other implements and replaced the box in his trunk, giving her a meaningful look. Even if you threw it overboard, my love, I would only buy more to keep you in proper discipline…
He returned to her side and let her stand, but kept her skirts gathered above her reddened cheeks. “Take them and hold them aloft, just as they are,” he said. “You will have some corner time with the air on your bottom to think about what you’ve done.”
“Must I?”
“Yes, I think it best. Cheating at cards is a very serious offense.”
“How long must I stand in the corner, sir?”
“As long as I think you need to.”
She accepted this curt answer with a frown, near again to dissolving in tears. His wayward girl could take a stiff paddling, but the shame of corner time apparently undid her.
It undid him too.
“There now,” he said briskly, positioning her in the corner farthest from the bed. Less chance of him throwing her down and ravishing her that way. “Hold your skirts all the way up and keep them that way. Look at the wall in front of you and think about why you were punished. You must feel the ache and throb and remember why you’re suffering. You’re not allowed to rub the smartness away.”
“No, sir,” she said, and he knew she was crying though she hid her face in chagrin. He moved away from her and pretended to occupy himself elsewhere, though he was attuned to every quiet sob, every halting breath. He rolled his sleeves back down and put his coat on, forcing himself to let her be for three full minutes.
Then he asked, “Are you thinking about what you did, as I told you to?”
“Yes, sir.” Sniff, sniff. “I know for certain I shall never cheat at cards again. It was very bad of me.”
He returned to her side. Too close to her side. His adored, offended, ashamed little princess. His wife, eventually. How could he ever love her more?
“May I put my skirts down a moment, to wipe my eyes?” she asked.
“No. Let me take care of it.”
He had her turn toward him, though she wouldn’t meet his gaze. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and brushed away her tears, thinking how different it was to punish her, because he loved her so much. The other women were playthings, sexual vessels, and, usually, enthusiastic participants in their own “punishments,” squealing and shaking their bottoms, begging for more. Rosalind was quietly remorseful.
“Does it still hurt?” he asked, willing her to look at him. When she didn’t, he took her chin and caught her gaze. “Does it still hurt, Rosalind?”
“A little. Yes. More than a little.”