“Your bottom is clenched. I want it soft, relaxed. Accept what is happening, do not try to resist. This will continue until you submit to your punishment.”
I groan, mortified, and allow my body to go limp across his knees. I can do nothing to help myself. I have to bear this and hope it soon ends.
“Good girl. Stay soft now and this will soon be over.”
I do not entirely take his meaning, but my brief surge of pleasure at his apparent approval is soon dispelled as he resumes the spanking, dropping the hard slaps all over my unprotected buttocks and thighs. I am still sobbing, though no longer screaming. The pain is harsh, severe, my body feels to be aflame. But it is bearable, as he said it would be. I hate this, I am in agony, but I have ceased any resistance and I will survive it.
“Natalia? Are you still with me?”
“I… what did you say, my lord?” My head is swimming, I am confused, uncertain. My backside is stinging, but the onslaught seems to have stopped, at least for now. Is he finished?
“We’re done. You may get up if you like, but I would prefer you to remain where you are.”
“What? Why?”
“Part your thighs for me, my lady.” His tone has softened now, his voice almost velvety.
“Your grace, I do not think…”
“I prefer not to ask you again, Natalia.” He has laid his palm on my smarting rear and is caressing my buttock. I wince, but the hurt soon recedes,to be replaced by—what? He is generating an unaccustomed sensation of warmth, but not the painful smarting heat of the spanking just moments ago. This is more a soft, seductive assault on my heightened senses, insistent yet tender too.
I part my legs, and hold my breath.
“Good girl. Let me make this feel good for you.” His fingers slip into the crease between my buttocks, questing, exploring. I gasp as his fingertip finds the private pucker of my anus, circling the tight opening before delving lower, between my delicate folds.
My late husband used to touch me in a similar way, but it never felt like this. There is no similarity. The duke’s touch is assured, skilled, he seems to know exactly how to arouse me, and despite my recent degradation at his hands, my response now is swift. And powerful. Irresistible.
“Your grace, you should not…”
“No? Should I stop then?” He punctuates his words with another gentle caress across the lips of my quim, then sinks two fingers deep inside me.
“Oh, my lord! Sweet Jesu’…” I let out a low moan and fail to resist the impulse to squeeze my inner muscles around his thrusting fingers.
“I am not to stop then?” His tone is light, but I detect the serious edge to it. He requires me to answer.
“No, your grace. Please do not stop. Not quite yet.”
He chuckles, and delivers a couple of deep, driving thrusts into my soaking quim. “Not quite yet, then. On one condition.”
His fingers inside me go still, though his palm continues to massage my tender buttocks. The pain radiating across my rear now feels sensuous, heightening my enjoyment of what else he is doing to me. The contrast between almost-pain and pure pleasure is delicious, exquisite. I need him to continue.
“Condition, my lord? What condition?” I think I would have agreed to sell my soul to Lucifer if such were required to convince him to resume his delightful stroking.
“It does seem to me, as a general rule, that if a man should find occasion to place any part of his anatomy inside the body of a woman, she should be able to bring herself to use his given name. I would have you call me by mine. It is Stefan.”
“Stefan. Yes, please…”
He chuckles again. “Better. Now, let us see what happens when I…” He shifts his position, twisting his hand just a little.
I let out a startled shriek as my body starts to convulse around his fingers. He rubs, and something seems to ignite within me, a clenching heat radiating through my shuddering body. The duke—Stefan—continues his ministrations, and the pleasure builds, threatening to overwhelm me.
On occasions, rare occasions, I experienced something similar during mysecond marriage, but nothing so intense. My late husband’s touch was pleasurable, but never so—compelling. If Stefan stops whatever it is he is doing to me, I suspect I might attempt to do him some injury. I writhe on Stefan’s lap, panting, squeezing, gasping as his fingers continue to pleasure me. I want more, but I could not possibly articulate what I desire more of.
Stefan seems to know, and his skilled touch works me to near frenzy before he suddenly stops. I let out a groan of frustration when he withdraws his fingers, then clutch his neck when he turns me in his arms and lifts me. He carries me to the bed with two long strides and lays me upon it on my back. He settles alongside me and slides his hand between my thighs again. This time I do not wait to be instructed, I spread my legs as wide as I am able. Modesty is for now forgotten. I simply need.
Stefan plunges two, or perhaps three fingers into me again, but at this different angle he manages to rub the heel of his hand against that most sensitive piece of flesh at the opening. I squirm, and my body is clenching again. I bend my knees, thrusting upwards in an attempt to increase the friction.
“Be still, Natalia, Allow me to do this for you.” His fingers continue their relentless, driving motion as he leans over to brush his lips across mine. His kiss is gentle, undemanding, though I know he could, would take command entirely if he chose.
