by Jaye Peaches
There was no corner to hide in. She chose the dimmest part of the room, where the candles illuminated as little as possible. There, in the shadows, she fumbled with every contraption of binding—laces, hooks, and fastenings. Inelegantly, she hopped out of her stockings, fiddled with the knots of her corset and shoved it around her ankles. Her incompetence at undressing demonstrated how much she relied upon Sara for assistance. Finally, she tackled the plain shift; she opted to wriggle out of it in the hope of salvaging some dignity. She failed, and in her desperation, she tore it along the seams. Cross with herself, she threw it on the floor, stomping on the heap in frustration.
“Oh, dear. There was quite a wretched performance. I would suggest from now on, you treat this unveiling of your flesh as an act to render me speechless with delight and not aghast at your clumsiness.”
She glared at him, covering her breasts with one arm and her privates with the span of her hand. “I am not clumsy. I can dance.”
“I’m sure you can with music. Imagine then the minstrels regaling you with graceful tunes. Perhaps that will assist. Come out of the shadows, lower your arms, and walk toward me with some modicum of enchantment.”
She didn’t move. “I thought you were going to spank me.”
“This will not be a battery of cannons exploding on your bottom, my lady. Try to remember your rank. Naked you might be, but you’re still a noblewoman. Behave like one. Approach. Spread your length over me and the bench and do so with dignity.”
She was tempted to ignore his remarks and stamp across the room, throw herself onto his lap, and kick her heels in the air. However, he’d spoken with an expectation she could not ignore. He might lack poetic words, but his ideals were the same as a romantic poet.
“Oh, very well,” she said. She took a deep breath and emerged from the gloom. She walked with her arms at her sides, her fingers initially clenched, then noting how tense it made her all over, she relaxed and unravelled her fists.
“There,” he said, beaming. “Not so hard.” He patted his knees.
She crawled onto one end of the bench, leaned over his dense thighs and lowered her hips onto his lap. The bench was broad and long enough to accommodate her legs and arms in their entirety. She squashed her thighs together and buried her head in her arms. She nearly shouted, ‘get on with it.’ But thought better of the idea.
He rested his hand on her rump. A cool, confident hand that spread its fingers and measured her, or so it felt. Then it was gone and, in its place, quickly followed a sting as painful as a bee’s. It flourished, heating the flesh of one buttock with apparent ease, and before she could cry out, he struck the other side with an equal amount of force.
Her jaw dropped open. Now she understood what he meant to do. Spank her properly, and not with a giddy laugh of delight and a few flicks of his wrist. He was applying a swing to his smack, and the noise of impact echoed in the tower. Why wonder he chose this location.
She drummed her feet on the bench and pressed herself into his lap in a vain attempt at escaping the next smack. Caught between his firm muscles and the ricochet of his flat palm, she had only made matters worse. She hollered.
“My, my,” he said sombrely. “This isn’t going well, is it.”
A few minutes later, it all seemed to be over. She bolted across the room and away from Gervais as fast as her jelly legs could move her.
The blaze ignited in her bottom refused to calm. She rubbed each buttock, danced on her tiptoes, pacing the room a few times before standing with her back to him and her nose to the wall. There, she sobbed and cupped each hot arse cheek with her trembling hands. Why had she forced him to stop? She’d lost all means to show contrition. A miserly dozen wallops and she had twisted off his lap, calling him a brute.
“I can’t do this, my lord. I’m a harlot, I must be.”
“Why?” he said calmly. He’d not demanded her to return to position, nor left the room in disgust.
“Because, as you said, a lady of steadfast nobility would have accepted punishment and given herself wholly over to the pain of it. I am weak and at fault. I have not the constancy of thought to go through with this. You must think me pathetic and a coward.” She sniffled.
“I think you inexperienced and honest about it.” He sighed. “Turn, Matilda.”
She obeyed, showing him her tear-splattered lashes, and found him to be anything but angry in his deportment. Disappointed, maybe with his lips pursed and eyes lacking a sparkle.
“Do you think twelve is sufficient punishment?” he asked.
She hung her head. “No, my lord.”
“No,” he said agreeably. “I think not either. Not for fornicating with a man of the church. I suspect your heart is in the right place, but your mind is not. What can we do to bring this to a worthy conclusion?”
She kept her eyes down. “I don’t know. I can’t do this. You gave me the choice, and it has hampered me.”
He rose to his feet and approached her. “You would prefer not to have a choice? That I decide the nature and length of this punishment?”
She paused. What a strange sensation was building in between the apex of her thighs. A tightness that rose up inside her, right into her belly, and her heart was beating faster, hammering against her breastbone. Her nipples filled out, turning purple like ripe plums, and all because he suggested she should forgo her right to end the punishment and yield to his decision.
“Yes, sir. You decide.”
The movement in his breeches was not subtle. Something leapt to attention, and the bulge was right where his manhood lay waiting for her to open up and greet him.
“Very well,” he said sternly. He tipped up her chin and she caught the brilliant blue of his eyes. Now they sparkled. “I shall determine the number of spanks, not you, and you shall be restrained if necessary. No more rolling off and away. This will teach you fortitude, Matilda, and an inner strength, something you’ll require if you are to withstand the stamina of my fucking you.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes, my lord.”
Chapter Nine
Her wavering courage and fraught submission had troubled him, and upon seeing her pale skin, he had questioned whether he’d misjudged her abilities, but now it seemed she had undergone a fortuitous change of heart. He had to be certain, though. He had given his cock a treat seeing her naked and stretched across the bench, her smooth globes teasing him with their purity of shape and colour. He’d not expected her to yield to him in such a lusty manner. Her breasts, pert and firm, radiated a glow of pink, a clear indication of her readiness. He ventured if he spanked her well with a show of strength and unswerving determination, she would submit to his ardour right here, in the room he set aside for serious fucking. Bedrooms were ideal for passionate lovemaking, but there was nothing to compete with rigid furniture and stark surroundings to centre the mind on the needs of a body. His body, and hers.
Kisses would come later, and caresses. He knew they were of paramount importance to a woman’s soul. But to ensure she was not fearful of their neglect, he lowered his mouth upon hers and gifted her the kind of gentle kiss he reserved for tender moments. She melted beneath him, and he had to snatch hold of her arms to prevent her from crumbling. Her little tongue flitted about, uncertain whether to intrude into his mouth or not. She was not innocent; she’d kissed before. Probably not the priest, who had been hell-bent on squandering her pussy. No, this needy kiss was likely due to Geoffrey or one of his competitors. Releasing his lips from her plump ones, he eased back.
“Now, Matilda, do you understand, I shall not hold back from exacting a suitable amount of discomfort from you, and if you will not hold still, this time I shall hold you down and remind you of your commission.”
She swallowed with an audible gulp. “My commission, yes, I understand. Do as you see fit, sir. I guess I must expect elegance will be forfeited and roughness necessary if I do once again sally forth and attempt to break free.”
He grinned at her ch
arming nuance of warlike behaviour. “I shall regain your honour by metering out a salvo of spanks, although, as I said earlier, I’m not going to batter you,” he added as she blanched a little.
He returned to the bench, seated himself in the middle of it and stared at her. Instructions were not necessary, she knew what to do. The dozen spanks were visible on her arse as pink handprints. This time, he’d start with firm pats and build up from there. He’d been too hasty and she lacked experience of her predecessors.
He rested one hand between her shoulders and lifted the other, then allowed it to drop like a stone upon one of those neat cheeks. She flinched but said nothing. The pink deepened a fraction. He repeated the action back and forth, added more weight and height in waves of spanks, letting her adjust to each new level of pain. Slowly, she lost her decorum. She cried out, squirmed, and hammered the bench with the flat of her hand. He in turn scorched her backside with his palm.
“Do not twist so,” he warned her. “This is still insufficient discipline by my standards. A priest, remember.”
“Yes,” she screeched. “A fucking priest.”
He nearly laughed at her uncouth, but accurate, acknowledgement. He punished her quivering and dimpled behind with a few rapid smacks. The colouration was not close to crimson, yet the heat of her skin was magnificently endowed with a fiery presence. And a further blessing; she moved voluntarily, her legs apart and gave him a perfect view of her swollen folds. They shone with that glorious nectar, signalling her desires were beyond her control.
“From now on, young lady, debauchery will come at my behest. You are my betrothed, my future wife and you will not mention Geoffrey.”
“Oh, my lord. I shall not say a word about him.” She reached behind and tried to soothe her arse with a brisk rub. He knocked her arm away, and seeing she was struggling to keep still, looped his arm around her waist and pinned her tight to his lap. Her legs slipped off the bench, and he grabbed the opportunity to trap her thighs beneath one of his legs. Now her arse was raised, the skin stretched taut and her arsehole visible.
He continued to spank, undeterred by her squealing and protestations.
“This is too much, is it not,” she pleaded. “Have I not been punished enough?”
He examined the marks left on her behind. A few spots were purple, especially at the apex of each cheek. It wasn’t necessary to slap hard now, only to maintain an unrelenting momentum. This stage was for him the most satisfying. If done well, a spanked wench would surrender her body to him, and heed his every word. Matilda was fighting that endpoint with all of her resilience.
“I shall keep going if you do not stay still,” he said, applying a deep growl to his tone.
She responded with a bitter retort. “I cannot. What do you expect from me? I am punished, downtrodden, humiliated.”
He delved his thumb between her arse cheeks and pressed it against her puckered hole. “Did the priest take this?”
“I... He... no,” she said limply.
He aimed a few smacks below the crease of her thigh. “We shall move on to spank these tender spots now. I do not think you are fully contrite. I ask again, did you allow him access to your back nether? You were bent, your bare bottom exposed, and he did not think it worth a poke?”
She tensed, and he had his answer. Now he needed to hear the truth. She was no angel, and try as she may to forget the incidents at the convent, she had been complicit. There was more to the tale than she was admitting.
“Tell me, Matilda, or else I shall administer a spanking that you’ll never forget to the ends of your days.” He paused, inhaled deeply, emphasising his commitment.
“Please, don’t. Let me be. I am punished, and sorry, so sorry. I will tell you the whole truth and then you will know why I am both brazen with my lust and mortified by it. I do freely admit, I enjoyed the ruin of my body, and know that it was just the beginning of what I might submit to... if in the hands of the right man.”
He released his grip on her waist and freed her trapped legs. She relaxed into a slump. With her mind freed, ready to confess, he toyed with her hot arse, soothing it with gentle strokes interspersed with a few pats. He continued to savour her surrender and when she was ready, she spoke, hesitantly at first, then in a flat tone, one without passion or deceit. Gervais was jealous of the priest, that this man had taken his beautiful Matilda and started the act of shaping her into a sexual woman. This should have been entirely his task, but he also had to accept the groundwork was excellent. His cock ached to continue it.
“He paid special attention to my arse,” she said, all polite discourse lost. There was little point in pretending. “He never used his cock, and rarely his hands. He preferred tools. Things that I never saw. Some soft, some hard. All shaped as if to mimic a man’s member.”
“Why didn’t you see them?” He circled a spot on her poor arse until the heat dispersed.
“I was hooded by my wimple. So my eyes would not see the work of salvation, as he put it. I think, looking back and knowing how bewitched I was, that he was mad. For why would he not touch me with his flesh? He acted precisely. Like a machine.”
“Tis strange for a man to be so. Our passions drive us to be firm and controlling, but also sensual and physical. Did it hurt, what he did?”
“I felt pressure, an element of discomfort, but he insisted I was not a functioning woman if I could not dispel the need for my arse to be entered. Which he determined was wantonly needy, not I. Stupidly, it had not crossed my mind that a man might seek it out for his own pleasure. He rubbed that spot frequently with something that stung sometimes, and it left me fiery and hot for more, then he’d leave me, and tell me that was how I should be left.”
“How cruel of him leaving you needy and vacant.” Gervais allowed her to stretch out, her head resting on the crook of one of her arms, her ankles splayed. She was offering him a fine vista and the wetness of her pussy had spread down her thighs.
“I suppose,” she said meekly.
“And now, you are purged of that terrible man. No more shall we speak of him.” Not in her presence, thought Gervais. He would make his own enquiries as to the nature and identity of Father Mark. Where had he gone next, and what had he done to keep his appetite quenched? The man was not fit to be left with virgins, especially those with a poor moral compass. Correctly brought up, and with a mother present instead of imprisoned, Matilda would never have allowed that man near her. The Abbess seemed capable of dealing with the matter once uncovered. It was therefore unfortunate she had not spied on her charges with more diligence.
“Would you like to know what if feels like to have a firm member in your bottom?” he asked, lacing his voice with charm and sophistication.
“I don’t know,” she stuttered. Her legs squirmed, the liquid of her sex trickling forth.
He coated his forefinger in it, then smeared it up and into her furrow. She gasped.
“Yes? I think so too. Tell me you do by using your fingers to spread apart your cheeks. It is your choice again, my angel. Otherwise, I shall assist you to stand and dress.”
He waited, allowing her time to think of her needs. His cock would dearly love to penetrate her tight hole, fuck it hard and long, but he could not risk her hating it and he’d prefer to fuck her cunt before her arse. Her pretty mouth too. If he played his hand well, by the end of the night, he’d have all three to enjoy. A long night. So long, he might stretch it into tomorrow. Once he’d finished playing with her bottom hole, and as the fire was dying anyway, he would wrap her in his long cloak—to save on dressing and re-dressing—carry her to his chamber, and cement their arrangement.
“Well? Matilda, my girl, tell me.”
Her arms moved. She took in her hands her buttocks and prised them apart, offering him the puckered entrance. “Please, my lord.”
Chapter Ten
Oh, the shame of it. And the joy. This endeavour was more than anything she’d imagined with the ridiculous priest and his prissy m
anners. He’d called her a fallen angel. The poking had been brief, and often accompanied by muttering, as if he had been battling some inner hatred of himself. Now, it was so obvious, he had not been capable of doing the full deed, and that his wishes had been nothing to do with carnal pleasure, and everything to do with ruining a young woman’s prospects. Thank heavens she’d met somebody as worldly as Gervais. Geoffrey would never understand why she’d done those things.
Gervais pressed his finger against that tight doorway and applied sufficient pressure for it to flex and open. What responded more strongly was not the hole he touched, but the other neglected one. It clenched and tingled, as did the nub that he had stimulated that morning. She spread her cheeks wider, inviting him to play harder. And he did. He nudged the tip of his finger inside.
She moaned. The size of his finger felt immense but there was no pain or stinging. She relaxed the ring of muscles and pushed back, until his knuckle passed through. He wriggled and pumped his digit in and out, and when she was groaning so frantically that she thought her sex might explode, he penetrated her with two fingers.
“Yes, yes,” she squawked, her sore bottom forgotten. “More, please. My lord, I beg you.”
He had a spare hand, and its purpose was now apparent. He reached beneath her hips and sought out her swollen nub. While his penetrating fingers agitated, he rubbed her excited clitoris, ensuring it was bursting to come.
“Now,” he said, with a deep voice.
The command was delicious, and she responded instantly. She clamped her tight muscles around his trapped fingers and achieved a remarkable climax, far greater than the morning’s. For she had lied to herself about that too. She knew what an orgasm was, its purpose during coupling, and how it was extracted. The biggest disappointment of the past was she had to eke them out with her own hand.
The ripples spread, the contractions peaked, and too soon, the pleasure waned into nothingness. She slumped. Gervais withdrew his energetic hands and patted her bottom.
