Page 36 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

As I push the fabric back into her mouth, she doesn’t fight me. I yank on the rope, sliding it high up the wood until she’s forced onto her toes. Not quite the setup we have in my dungeon or the Rose and Thorne, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

I nudge her legs open with my foot, forcing her to bend over ever so slightly so her arse sticks out, giving me a perfect target. Her shift dares conceal what I desire to see, but I can’t rip it. Not like this.

She’ll already bear the marks of my visit. I dare not add to the suspicion with a torn shift as well. And so, I drag it up the back of her body and tuck it into the ropes, using them to keep it off her skin.

With an unholy reverence, I skim my lips down her spine, memorizing each jut of her bones as she writhes at my touch. Far too thin. I know she hasn’t been eating. That stops now.

Reaching to the front of her, I curl my fingers around her throat, holding them there as I feel her pulse rush in a maddening frenzy through her veins. “Starving yourself helps no one. I will not always be here to force-feed you. Eat, or you will lose my touch. Are we clear?”

Soft whimpers claw through the cravat as she nods her head.

“That’s my good girl,” I breathe. “I need you safe. I need you well. For that to happen, you must eat.”

Such a silly time to have this conversation, especially when it’s my cum I wish for her to consume. But we only have these few stolen moments. It’s not as if I can drag her across the breakfast table and feed her myself.

“Such a very good girl. Now then, continue to be my perfect obsession. Take the pain I offer. Thank me for it, for I show my gratitude for your sacrifice with every agonizing stroke.”

Her fingers grip the wood as I pull my shirt off and toss it to the floor, leaving just my breeches, stockings and shoes. I run my palm over her arse and smile at the heat emanating from her body. Zounds, but she’s perfect.

The tawse lies heavy in my hand as I walk back and forth, studying her, giving her time to second guess my motives. I watch her body as she braces, waiting for impact. She expects it.

Minutes go by until she finally sags forward, letting go of all the tension in her body.

That is when I strike.

The sound of the leather kissing her flesh makes my balls clench as my cock jerks forward. She seizes up, grabbing the wood as she whimpers through the cravat. Music to my ears.

How simple would it be to throw the tawse to the floor, undo my breeches, and slide into her? How easy would it be to affix my teeth to her shoulder and bite her, making her mine, to claim her for all eternity?

I strike her again, sending all the agony in my very soul into the swing. Slick drips from her body to coat the floor. Her back heaves as she forces air through her nose. It hurts. I know it does.

The bloom of the strike is evident in reddish purple that mars her skin. Two thin lines from the edge of the tawse. My marks.

When I smack her again, she bows up into it, crying out from behind her gag so only I can hear. Tears stream from her face, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I told her I wouldn’t.

I scent the air, looking for any signs of distress and find none. All I can smell is that addicting scent of peony as it blooms mixed with honey that drips so sweetly from the comb. Much like she’s dripping now.

But it’s not enough. I know it’s not. I will not stop until she’s sobbing hard enough to stain the sheets on the bed below in front of her. And so, I strike her again as I palm my erection through my breeches.

I won’t last long. Though she bears the brunt of the pain for sure, my own torment is agony lancing through my very soul. My balls are so incredibly tight, so painful. I need to cum on her, in her, I don’t care which.

Again, I strike her, giving her space to breathe, space to grieve. Deep down, I know she trusts me, that somehow I’ll find a solution to this problem. But tonight, she needs to feel herself shatter. She needs to let go of every burden until no more thoughts swirl through her mind.

Hunching low, I take the tawse and aim it between her thighs, smacking the slick, swollen flesh of her pussy until she cries out in a garbled scream only muffled by the fabric.

Again. Again. And even again until her entire body shakes in erratic motions. Her hips jut back and forth as she rocks, her body trembling as if in the throes of release.

Impossible.

Could it be I have my very own masochist? I knew Cynthia was not averse to pain, but I had no idea the treasure I had in my hand, the treasure I threw away for want of impressing my brother. And where did that get me? Nowhere I ever want to be again.

Growling, I throw the tawse to the side and tug at the ropes. The instant there’s slack, Cynthia collapses into my arms. I hold her there, clutching her closer as she breathes against me in ragged inhales.

“I’m going to remove the cravat, sweet girl,” I whisper against her temple. “Do not scream.”

With each bit of fabric I release from her lips, my cock twitches. Precum soaks into the fabric of my breeches until I’m sure I’ll be just as wet as she by the end of this.

“Now then, you know how we end our sessions?”