| |
MONTAGUE STARED DOWN at the woman lying upon the straw palette. Asleep, the Baroness appeared at peace and no longer en garde. He noted her lashes resting upon the curve of her cheek and the slight part of her lips. With her defenses down, she looked quite the innocent. Angelic. He had a strange desire to wrap her protectively in his arms. He hoped that she would not prove too resistant or obstinate to the program he intended for her as he would rather not force her to spend all her nights upon the straw bed.
His night spent upon the settee of the drawing room had not been considerably better. He could not in good conscience sleep upon a bed of feathers whilst she spent the night upon the floor. As a result, he had a crick in his neck despite having slept only three hours. Shortly after dawn, he had roused himself and downed a cup of coffee that Jonathan had brewed. After cleansing his body and receiving a shave, he felt much refreshed. He donned a pair of breeches, had his hair powdered, and replaced his mask. He was ready for the Baroness.
Her eyelashes flickered. She opened her eyes to find him standing above her.
“Good morning, Baroness,” he greeted.
She quickly sat up. The blanket that he had had Jonathan place over her in the middle of the night fell from her shoulders. Her attire was rumpled and her hair disheveled, but she looked no less compelling.
He gestured to Jonathan, who stood behind him with a tray. “Will you partake of breakfast, Baroness?”
Her stomach grumbled in response. Jonathan set down before her the tray with a pot of coffee, stewed fruit, porridge, and eggs. She eyed the food keenly. He wondered if she was expecting water and stale bread.
“Eat well,” he encouraged, “for you will require sustenance to bolster your endurance.”
Requiring no further encouragement, she dove her fork into the eggs, bypassing any salt or pepper in her hunger. He watched as she then turned to the porridge. At one point she flicked her tongue over the corner of her mouth to catch a drop of milk. He felt his cock stir. He once knew a woman who used the consumption of strawberries as part of her seduction, but he had never thought to find porridge quite so alluring.
When the Baroness had finished her breakfast, having cleared everything including the last drop of coffee, she appeared much more content.
“What will you have me do, Sir?” she inquired. “Your submissive is eager to please.”
He doubted the sincerity of her statement but at least she was making an attempt.
“You will undress yourself,” he answered.” Jonathan will assist in your toilette if you desire.”
She inhaled sharply, clearly displeased, but she knew it was fruitless to object.
“Do you intend to watch, Sir?” she asked with raised brows.
“But of course,” he answered somberly, though he wondered at the wisdom of doing so. The mere thought of her naked made his blood pound.
Grudgingly, she unbuttoned her caraco, but instead of lashes lowered modestly, she held his gaze as if daring him to look away. He knew some dominants trained their submissives to keep their heads lowered in deference, but he much preferred seeing the flash in her eyes and even enjoyed her defiance. She wrapped her finger and thumb about the last button and slowly pushed it through the button hole. She slid the jacket down her arms and allowed it to fall to the floor.
He swallowed hard. Damnation. And she had but removed one article of clothing.
Next she withdrew the pins from her skirts. With a quiet rustle, they crumpled to the ground. His cock had hardened when she stepped out of her petticoats. From the periphery of his eye, he saw that Jonathan was also unsettled.
“I will require assistance with my stays, Sir,” she informed.
Jonathan stepped around her back – rather eagerly, Montague observed wryly. Unaccustomed to untying a woman’s stays, Jonathan’s large hands fumbled about for a while. He finally managed to unlace the ribbons. The Baroness stood in only her chemise, stockings, and garters. Montague admired her bare arms and the shape of her calves. He would have made quick work of what remained of her clothing, but he had never witnessed so enjoyable a demonstration as the undressing of Lady Debarlow.
“Am I sufficiently undressed, Sir?” she inquired.
“Not at all,” he replied. “You are the strip to the buff.”
Again her mouth turned down in displeasure, but she made no protest. She undid her garters first, then rolled down her stockings. There were few things lovelier than the shape of a woman’s leg, Montague observed and recalled how he had massaged her feet. His hands wanted to caress what he saw. His desire lengthened against him. When she bared her shoulders, he groaned inwardly. He saw that he would have to constantly stiffen his resolve when it came to her. She saw the effect she was having upon and languidly slipped the chemise down past her breasts.
Dear bodkins. The two orbs accented with large rosy areolas stared at him in all their glory. They were magnificent. The perfect shape for her body. The perfect ripeness. Full and sufficiently heavy. They did not slump but protruded from her chest proudly.
The thin material dropped past her belly button, revealing another favorite part of the woman’s body for him. The curves about the hips. The subtle swell of the abdomen and the flare of the hips were distinctive of the female sex – at least those who had passed puberty. The final revelation would be her thighs and mons. Montague felt as if he had feasted upon more courses than he dared hope, and here was a second course of dessert set before him.
Her chemise joined the other articles of clothing about her feet. The Baroness stood before him completely naked. He could hardly believe his eyes. She had offered no resistance. He drank in the beauty before him, noting that Jonathan stood rooted to his spot.
“Are you pleased, Sir?” she asked brazenly.
He stared at the suppleness of her thighs. “Quite pleased, Baroness.”
He walked around her and surveyed her gloriously naked body. She had the curves of a grown woman but the firmness of a woman who had not yet born children. Her arse was a particular delight. He had suspected it might be despite the layers of petticoats that had disguised her form. After staring at her backside in the carriage, he had speculated as to how her rump might strike him, and he was not disappointed. His hand longed to caress the arch of her arse, but he refrained. There would be opportunity enough in due time. Although the Baroness had complied with his orders, somehow she had acquired some of the balance of power in her undressing. He intended to shift authority back to him. He fixed his gaze at the patch of curls atop her mons, the blood in his veins throbbing at the delicious sight, and gestured to Jonathan.
The valet stepped outside and returned with a large bowl of water, razor, and cream. Abbey glanced at the items, then the two men, both of whom were clean shaven. She looked over her abductor and the smooth planes of his pectoral. She had been convinced that he was a gentleman, and yet the muscles about his abdomen were more like those of the laboring class. His body reminded her of a Grecian Olympian. She rather hoped that he would continue to be in a state of half-dress during the duration – especially if she herself were to be naked.
To be on such display, exposed before two complete strangers, engendered the most awkward sensations: a mingling of indignation, embarrassment, distress, and excitement. She attempted a nonchalance that belied her true agitation. Having been naked before at Madame Botreaux’s, she possessed more confidence in her nudity than most women might, but she had never been an exhibition, her most intimate parts bared for others to gape at. She was tempted to cover herself with her hands a la a chastened Eve. The air felt cool upon her skin despite the fire in the fireplace. She wondered what strange inclination her abductor had in making her watch one of them undergo a shave.
As if reading her mind, he informed her that the shaving accoutrements were for her benefit.
“Mine, Sir?” she echoed, balking at the thought of becoming bald. Did he truly intend to take all her hair? What sort of man became titillated by baldness?
“A mere trim,” he said.
She followed his gaze to her mons. Although relieved that he did not mean the hair upon her head, the thought of a stranger touching a blade to her nether parts was nonetheless unsettling.
“Must we...?”
“Aye,” he answered, crossing his arms.
Jonathan set the articles before her and went down upon one knee. His face was mere centimeters from her most private area. Her pulse quickened.
“I can shave myself, Sir,” she stated.
He shook his head. “You will keep your arms behind you.”
Her breath became uneven.
“Behind you,” he reiterated.
Concluding that there was little she could do to dissuade him, she complied. Jonathan took a cloth and wiped the area above her thighs, then applied the shaving cream to her body. She closed her eyes at the coldness of the cream.
“Spread your legs.”
Her eyes opened. Why should he require—?
“Now,” he commanded grimly.
With a hard swallow, she shifted her feet apart. Jonathan brushed the cream over her labia. Next he took up the razor and gently scraped the blade along her lower pelvis.
“Worry not,” he said, no doubt seeing that she held her breath. “Jonathan is quite skilled with the blade.”
Save for the scratching of the razor, the chamber was silent for a moment. Montague could see her unease, which, when she looked into his eyes, manifested itself as anger. But he was not daunted, having seduced many a woman who first reviled him.
“You will wish to lie down,” he informed her when Jonathan had finished the front.
Her eyelids fluttered but she obeyed. She lay down upon the cold stone ground and spread her legs. She gasped when Jonathan pressed a finger to her labia to stretch the flesh and create a more even plane for the blade, but she remained admirably in her position. Jonathan shaved the stray hairs curling over her quim, then sheared the length of the remaining patch of hair. He washed away the remnants of the cream before collecting everything and stepping away.
Montague went to inspect Jonathan’s work. The pink flesh between her legs glistened from the moisture. He put a hand to her mons and felt the slickness of newly shaved skin. She flinched but made no protest. He slid a finger along the flesh below. Jonathan had done a splendid job cleaning the area, leaving a nice trim triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs.
“Feel how smooth you now are,” he instructed.
She lifted her hand and felt her own silkiness. She felt the shorter hairs. It was not a disagreeable sensation. Provocative even? Her gaze found his. She saw the intensity of his eyes through his mask. He was familiar to her. She knew him – or had at least encountered him before. He held out his hand and assisted her to her feet.
“Now we may begin your training, Baroness.”
He led her out and into the adjoining chamber. She was greeted by a number of apparatuses that she recognized from The Cavern. Some she had experienced, to great enjoyment.
“We shall make use of all of them,” he assured her as he positioned her between two vertical poles of wood. A horizontal bar rested upon the two poles. She saw that the height of the bar could be adjusted. It currently rested at the highest point above her head.
Jonathan wrapped a rope about her left wrist and tied it to the far left end of the bar. He did the same to her other wrist to the other side of the bar, stretching her arms wide. Her ankles were tied to the bottoms of the poles so that her body formed an “X.” She knew from watching the valet entwine the ropes that she was bound securely. The anticipation, roused already by the shave, grew exponentially. She looked at her master. He had a visible bulge between his legs – as did the valet. She knew that oftentimes that the true place of power rested with the submissive. If she pleased him enough, she might be able to exert some influence over him.
He appraised her in her new position. Satisfied, he strode over to her.
“Are you ready, my lovely Baroness?”
“Yes.”
He raised his brows.
“Yes, Sir.”
He shook his head a little sadly and slapped a breast. She cried out in surprise at the sudden strike.
“Come, come, Lady Debarlow. You are no novice.”
“Forgive me, Sir,” she ground out.
He cupped her chin and tilted her face to his. “Such disdain and defiance. No matter. You will submit to me yet.”
He dropped her chin and walked behind her. It distressed her to have him out of sight. Her whole body became alert to what he might do.
“There is the matter of the spanking that you received a reprieve from,” he noted. “I think it time we administer it.”
He patted her derriere, then gave it a resounding slap. His hand did not have the bite of the crop or the sting of the tails, but the force made her jump nonetheless.
“Thank me,” he instructed.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Raise your arse for me.”
She obeyed to the best of her ability given that she was stretched by her bindings. He whacked her other cheek.
“Thank you, Sir,” she grunted.
“Much better.”
He backhanded one buttock on his way to striking the other. She inhaled sharply.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Your arse quivers delightfully, Lady Debarlow. Raise yourself onto your toes.”
His next smack sent her back onto the flat of her feet. Her body strained against her bindings.
“Thank you, Sir,” she said after a momentary lapse.
“Back on your toes.”
Being on her toes made her back arch, pushing her derriere upwards. She wondered how many blows she would have to endure.
He rubbed the curve of her rump, then delivered a few more wallops that had her gasping. If the spankings were an indication of the force he intended to apply, she began to fear for what lay ahead.
“Baroness?”
“Thank you, Sir,” she remembered.
“Tsk. Tsk. And I had thought you experienced in the role of the submissive.”
“Forgive me. I am out of practice, as it were.”
“We must teach your memory better.”
He whacked her twice more on the same cheek. Her legs collapsed beneath her with the strength of the blows, her body held up by her bindings and the poles. She had not thought he could land a fiercer cuff.
“Thank you, Sir,” she gasped after needing to take a conscious breath.
“Ask me if your arse is red enough.”
“Is my arse red enough to please you, Sir?”
“It is the hue of a sunset, but I require the blush of a rose.”
Her bottom felt hot from the spanking and she dreaded how it would feel when she sat down next, but she would not request leniency. She was made of stronger mettle.
He rained a series of blows from differing directions. She attempted to thank him after every one.
“My favorite work of art, Baroness, would be the print of my hand upon your arse, I think.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
He grabbed a buttock and sank his fingers deep into the flesh. “Your arse, Lady Debarlow, belongs to me to do as I will. Do you understand?”
“Aye, Sir.”
“Did your arse enjoy my attentions?”
“Aye, Sir.”
“Then you shall beg for a spanking whenever you err.”
“Aye, Sir.”
He slipped his hand between her legs and stroked her quim – a touch so gentle compared to what she had sustained just prior that she inadvertently moaned. He softly brushed his fingers over her nether lips, then inserted a forefinger into her quim. She clenched her muscles about the uncomfortable intrusion, but when he withdrew, she was aware that she was a bit moist there. The heat from her buttocks had warmed the rest of her body.
“Jonathan, the salve.”
The valet approached her and applied an oily substance to her derriere. At first, it felt like ice applied to fire but then settled into a relieving warmth. He spread it past her rump, down her legs, coating the entire limb. Next he applied the salve to her arms and back. Finally he attended the treatment to her chest, her breasts, her stomach, and loins until every inch of her body was buttered by the balm.
“And now,” her abductor said, “the cat o’nine tails.”