The duke’s voice is soft from across the small room that serves as living area and sleeping quarters for Mistress Lars. I lift my gaze to meet his, conscious that I am wringing my hands together. It is a nervous habit. I suspect I will be doing it a lot from now on.
My husband is lying on the narrow bed. He looks at ease, comfortable. Everything that I am not. He smiles at me, and despite my inner tension my stomach flips over. My quim is damp too, disgustingly so. There must be something in the human condition that creates this reaction to wedding nights, I can think of no other explanation for my embarrassing condition. Though neither do I recall any such effect with either of my previous nuptials.To the best of my recollection both those occasions were somewhat stilted, painful, and not especially pleasant.
Based on this morning’s demonstration of the duke’s prowess, and my incredible response to it, I do not expect tonight to follow the same pattern. What I do expect lies somewhat beyond my powers of description.
“I would like you to undress, please. When you are naked, come and lie here beside me.” He delivers his instructions in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, his expression inscrutable.
I do not move.
“Tally, I think you know by now that I prefer not to have to repeat myself.” His tone has hardened, gone is the lover-like lilt. Now his words are tinged with an edge of command, a timbre that demands obedience, expects it. I have no doubt that he will punish anything other.
I should be afraid. Iamafraid, but it is more. Without doubt I am aroused too, my inner muscles clenching at the harsh, uncompromising thread of steel that laces his curt commands. I do not want to be here, I have not chosen to be here, did not wish to be his wife. But regardless, here is where I find myself, Stefan’s duchess, and I have enough experience of the married state to know what is coming next.
I untie the ribbons at my throat and slip the cloak from my shoulders. Mistress Lars has banked up the fire so the room is warm. Still holding my husband’s gaze, I reach behind me for the ties fastening my kirtle. I loosen them and slip that from my shoulders too to pool around my feet. Clad now in just my shift, I break eye contact as I bend to pick up my clothing and drape the garment over the back of a small wooden chair. I do not look back at him as I perch on the chair to unfasten my sturdy leather shoes and remove those too.
I am left in just my heavy cotton shift. It is serviceable, fashioned for warmth not seduction, though I doubt I would need to apply much in the way of effort. His grace seems to know what he is about, he is in control here. My role is to obey.
Despite the unexpected intimacy that occurred between us this morning, nudity does not come easily to me. The duke’s instruction was quite specific though; he told me he wanted me to be naked. I see no viable alternative but to obey him. I am embarrassed, mortified with humiliation as I stand to slip the remaining garment from my body. My every instinct screams at me to cover myself, at the very least to wrap my arms across my chest, but I fight that urge. He would simply instruct me otherwise if I tried such a tactic and I would be compelled to submit yet again to his wishes.
The duke rakes his eyes along my body, from the top of my head to my toes. His expression does not alter. Seemingly satisfied with his perusal, he pats the mattress at his side, a reminder that I have not yet fully complied with his requirements. My heart is in my mouth as I move toward him,concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other until I reach the narrow cot. Taking care not to touch him, I lie down at his side.
At first I lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling. Then it occurs to me that he may expect something less passive from me. Anxious not to attract further censure I roll onto my side to face him.
“My lord, I am not sure what…”
“No matter, Tally. I am sure, sufficient for us both. Lie on your back, please, and put your hands above your head.”
His tone is less harsh now, though could hardly be described as soft. When he spanked me this morning he instructed me to remain still. Perhaps he intends such again. I position myself as I have been told, only to squeal in alarm when he takes my wrists in one of his hands and produces a strip of fabric from somewhere beside him. In moments he has tied my hands together, and secured them both to the bed frame behind my head.
“My lord, release me. Please, there is no need for this. I will not fight you…” Thrown into a sudden panic I am struggling, tugging at my bonds but to no avail.
The duke says nothing to calm or further alarm me. Nor does he make any attempt to prevent my hopeless thrashing around. Instead he lies beside me, waiting until I exhaust my efforts, until I finally accept that there is to be no escape until he unties me. At last I lie still, regarding him with a heady mix of dread, and what I am starting to realise is anticipation. He has shocked me, scared me, but still I am eager to know what he intends to do to me now.
“Are you comfortable, Tally?”
I shake my head slowly. Comfortable would not be the correct description.
“Too tight?” He gestures at my bound wrists.
Again I shake my head.
“Ah, the problem lies here then.” He extends his hand to tap my temple with the tips of two fingers. “You think you should not like this, so you tell yourself that it is awful. You struggle, you fight to be free, when all the while you just want me to touch you. You want to be at my mercy, though perhaps right now you do not know why that should be. Am I right, Tally?”
“I am not certain what I want, my lord…” This much at least is true.
“No? I have some idea, and I intend to show you, my lovely little Natalia. I intend to teach you. Do you intend to be my willing pupil?”
“I cannot. I do not know what you mean.”
“You will. I have tied you to the bed this time. You fought, but you have accepted the restraints, and I consider that to be enough. For now. Soon I will introduce you to a blindfold, or a gag, and you will accept those too. I intend to explore your beautiful body at my leisure. I will touch you, lick you, kiss you. Like this perhaps…” He takes my nipple between his thumb and forefinger and squeezes it.
I gasp at the contact, then squeal as the pressure builds to become painful. At once he releases me. He leans over to plant a kiss on my stomach, then drifts a little lower to circle my navel with the tip of his tongue.
It tickles. I have never liked that feeling, and delivered by his grace with such consummate skill the sensation is unbearable. I arch my back under the featherlike caress in a hopeless attempt to throw him off.
He stops after a few moments and props himself up on one elbow, to peruse my body. He seems especially interested in my breasts. I glance down to see that my nipples are swollen and hard, like deep pink cherries tipping my not especially ample curves.
“Tell me, Tally, which did you like best? I am about to touch you again. Should I torture your nipples, or tickle your tummy? Your choice.”
