by Jenny Plumb
Meanwhile, Margaret, totally oblivious to her impending doom, sat at her small secretaire writing a venomous note of complaint regarding her husband’s highhandedness to her best friend, Lady Rose Mortimer. Once arch rivals, the pair had become firm friends, bonding together after their husbands had punished them together for fighting. Thomas and Margaret were due to spend Christmas at the Mortimer’s countryseat not far from them in Sussex, remaining until the wassail on the sixth of January, a night of revelry that marked the end of Christmas and the beginning of a new year. This year, the Mortimers had invited Benedict’s sister Imogene and her husband Lord Charles Haffenden, plus Charles’s sister, Claudia and her husband Guy, along with all their children.
The four wives had together formed a club, which they called The Spanked Wives Society and together they shared anecdotes about their husband’s marital discipline. They also provoked one another into mischief, which in turn, led to the ladies requiring further intervention from their husbands, generally in the form of soundly spanked bottoms. Life was never dull at house parties when these particular nonpareils of British aristocracy attended.
This year, Rose had written to Margaret explaining that Imogene, Benedict’s sister was bringing with her Oliver, Charles Haffenden’s twin brother, also his wife Harriett who, in turn, requested that she bring along her own sister, Helen Lancaster and her new husband Richard, who were staying with them over Christmastide. Rose had happily agreed to the extra guests. Rose went on to explain further, that her husband Benedict knew nothing of her invitation. He had banned Oliver from his house a few years back for marrying his sister Imogene duplicitously. Oliver had impersonated his brother Charles, a deception that caused no end of upset between the families.
Margaret had shaken her head when she read this, knowing that Rose’s behind would bear the brunt of her husband’s furious displeasure. Still, that was Rose’s decision. Margaret was keenly looking forward to the visit and catching up with all the gossip. Rose had also divulged that she, too, had received an invitation to this Ladies’ Ball, an event that was to be thrown on New Year’s Day when their husbands would be out all day on horseback at the hunt. It was a huge disappointment to Margaret that Thomas had naysayed her, but despite his negative response, Margaret determined that she should attend the dance if all her friends were inclined to go.
It was at this point that Thomas stuck his head around the door of the morning room. His wife sat at her escritoire, holding a quill in her right hand, whilst leaning on her left elbow, sucking her thumbnail. She appeared to be so deep in thought that she hadn’t heard his approach. The sight of his wife’s pretty moue wrapped about her digit had his pego lengthening and his stones tightening. Thomas realised it had been a few days since he had enjoyed marital congress and he looked forward to soundly disciplining Margaret and availing himself of her wifely assets.
“I should like to see you in my study shortly, Margaret. You may finish your letter but do not keep me waiting over long,” he told her before withdrawing to his inner sanctum.
Margaret jolted out of her reverie just in time to see the back of her husband’s unpowdered head as he disappeared out into the hallway. Thoughtfully, she realised it had been some time since Thomas had used that tone of voice. The one she had come to recognise over the last five years of marriage boded ill for her posterior. It had been quite a while since she had received any punishment. She counted backward. In fact, her last chastisement had been about six or seven months after the birth of Lavonia, now a plump baby of eighteen months. Nearly a whole year!
Almost eagerly, she flung down her quill and headed for her husband’s study, only stopping briefly to peruse her reflection in the looking glass hanging above the fire. She pinched her pale cheeks to make them pink and patted her hair into place before hurrying from the room.
Thomas looked up, startled, as Margaret entered his study moments after he had left her; goodness, she had been uncommon swift. He studied her face; he saw no dread there, only shining eyes, a sign of her inner excitement. Well, well, he must not to fail her.
“Come, stand before me.” He deepened his tone to indicate he was serious and watched with satisfaction as she swept before his desk, eyes cast down, her hands clasped demurely at her front, his lip twitched at her deceptively docile ploy.
“Margaret, it has come to my attention that a level of peevishness has crept into your recent demeanour. I cannot allow this to continue and so, I fear, it is my bounden duty as your husband to bring this unpleasant characteristic to your attention and ensure that you change your song to a sweeter note. Please assume the position ready for a birching.”
Margaret listened to Thomas’s lecture with mixed feelings. When he mentioned a birching, her breath hitched and she paled. Margaret was not a fan of all things tree related when it came to her tender derrière. Her favoured method of correction was delivered whilst tightly held over her husband’s lap, with his hand teaching her bottom cheeks the lesson he wished to impart, while the evidence of his enjoyment at the sight of her unclothed body, swelled firmly against her hip.
“Dearest, perhaps I should place myself over your knee for this instruction?” she suggested hopefully.
Thomas shook his head. “No, we are beyond that point, Margaret, and I apologise. I should have spanked you when you first became disgruntled. I need this lesson to tide you over whilst we are staying with the Mortimers. I have no wish to deal with a disruptive wife over Christmastide. A good thrashing now and we will deal very well together until after New Year. Now then, no more prevarication, over the chair with you, madam.”
Margaret sighed. She understood her husband well, as well as he understood her, in fact. She knew that once his mind was made up there was no turning him. She also knew that he was right; he was always right when it came to understanding her needs. Thomas was uncannily knowledgeable about her character and Margaret had come to trust his instinct. She went without rancor to the low backed, padded chair, lifted her skirts to reveal her naked bottom and bent over the chair back, her head supported upon the chair seat within her folded arms.
Thomas made a husky growl of approval as he moved to adjust his wife’s dress and petticoats. He rucked them up about her hips, prettily framing her pale buttock cheeks. His cock appreciated the picture and lengthened, swelling at such a delectable sight. Thomas took a moment to rub his insatiable limb, assuaging the ache. He picked up his birch, so fine and whippy, now that the saplings had warmed in the temperate atmosphere of the room. Thomas whipped the birch through the air, it made a satisfying whistle. Margaret gave a low moan.
“Fifteen, I think, but first a warm up of twenty or so lighter smacks.” He stepped to his wife’s side and stroked his index finger up and over the crown of her soft buttock cheeks. Goose bumps appeared in his digit’s wake, sprinkled across her naked flesh. Thomas tapped her left bottom lightly with his palm; raising his arm, he landed a stinging slap. He repeated the exercise, rapidly spanking her bottom to a rosy glow. Apart from her low moans, the gentle churning of her hips, Thomas was pleased at how well his wife accepted her medicine. For that is what his brand of discipline was for his wife, a medicine to keep her sweet and amenable. If left too long between doses his Margaret reverted to type, becoming a venomous wasp.
Enough, she was ready for the main dish. Thomas picked up the birch and landed it across the centre of his wife’s pink globes. Three thin lines of darker pink decorated her flesh and she wailed. Another strike and she wagged her bottom up and down. At the next blow she cussed and was rewarded with five rapid blows, each added to her tally. She dissolved into noisy sobs and Thomas knew that his medicine was working well. He stopped to check his wife’s skin and to fondle her heated rump, allowing his hand to skim her sleek buttock and soft thigh, dipping into her shadowed cleft, which was slick with her natural arousal oils. “That’s it, my honey Bee, give up your nectar,” he encouraged as she drew in a ragged breath. He swirled his fingers around her labia
lips, rubbing her stiff clitty with his thumb. More fluid flooded his hand and aided his pleasant ministration. He picked up the birch and continued her birching until the fifteen were delivered in full.
Margaret lay comatose; she savoured the feel of Thomas’s hand as he soothed the sting of her punished buttock cheeks. Her tears dried as his fingers dipped into her wet divide; he deftly petted her quim and fingered her silken channel. She no longer felt the embarrassment she used to feel when this slickness occurred during chastisement. Now she knew the pleasure Thomas derived from her body’s reaction to his caresses, she simply lay there and enjoyed his gentle, knowing touch. She felt the rasp of his tongue as it ran down her peachy bottom divide, then the wonderful swirl of pleasure flowed through her as he laved at the sensitive nub of nerves tucked away under the shelter of a peaked tender cap. Thomas worried and nibbled, driving Margaret insane with lust. As her level of arousal grew to ultimate culmination, her husband withdrew from her nether regions and moved slightly away from her. Margaret could feel him close; she could hear the rustle of his clothing. She held her breath, hoping that he would hurry and enter her womanhood. There was a feeling of warmth as he pressed against her chastened rear, then she felt the familiar prod of his blunt pego pushing against the rose of her tight little bottom. She tried to pull forward, she didn’t want him there – she needed him to fill her yearning intimate conduit. A light, but sharp, smack to one of her tender orbs made her start.
“Do not deny me entrance, Bee, your naughty backside shall pay penance and give me pleasure. I have no intention of allowing you to fall with child so soon after Lavonia’s birth. If you are a good girl, I shall make sure that you spend satisfactorily in due course.”
Margaret relaxed as her husband commanded and groaned, growing accustomed to the sensation of her husband’s thick shaft slowly filling her backside. Her empty channel wept liquid desire and clenched with vacant need. She moaned aloud and felt Thomas’s deep groan in response.
“Your arse is delicious tight, m’dear,” he breathed into her ear and she felt him move, pulling back only to thrust hard into the forbidden depth of her bottom.
“Please me, Thomas, I beg of you, please me-e,” she entreated, rubbing her thighs together, her need for stimulation becoming overwhelming. She felt her husband shift, then his hand cupped her mons; she sighed with delight as his long middle finger found her pleasure bud and pressed against it hard. He began to pound both the inside and outside of her chastened bottom. The wickedly depraved sensation of taking her husband into that taboo canal coupled with the pressure of his finger massaging her hardened clitty sent her into the spasm of freefall, her culmination simultaneous with Thomas’s own cry of lustful completion.
Chapter 3
Herstmonceaux House, Surrey, England.
Lord and Lady Haffenden...
Imogene held her small son as he wailed, complaining at the injustice of a nanny who wouldn’t allow him stay outside playing in the snow any longer.
“Hush, my darling, you have been out in the cold for nearly two hours now and it is time for your luncheon. I am sure that Nanny will take you outside to play on the morrow, but only if you are a good little boy now, eat up your luncheon and take your afternoon nap.” She kissed his cross, flushed forehead and smoothed his tussled hair before lifting him gently from her lap, whereupon Nanny took his hand and led him away toward the stairs up to his cosy, bright nursery, where a warm fire and luncheon awaited the child. As he reached the first step, Imogene noticed the huge yawn her small son gave and she smiled to herself, he was exhausted, bless him. Alfred was very like his papa, fighting his fatigue.
She turned her attention back to her letter from Rose. She reread it, astonished that Oliver and Harriett had been included in the invitation to stay at Merriton for the New Year. There was the sound of skittering of paws, heralding the return of spaniels Jinx and Jacks, which meant her husband Charles was following close behind. Deftly she concealed a note underneath her thigh, one that she had barely time to scan, an invitation given solely to her, and one she felt certain that Charles would strongly disapprove. She spread her skirts wide hiding the card and not a moment too soon, for just as she supposed, two liver and white spaniels burst into the morning room. Jumping up at her, they deposited tiny crystallised lumps of snow, bespattering not only her beautiful brocade gown but also the surrounding carpet with small melting clods of packed ice.
“You are bad dogs!” she cried, brushing off her skirts. “Charles! Charles!” she called to her husband. “Come fetch your hounds at once, for they are ruining yet another of my gowns!”
Thankfully, her husband strode into the room calling his dogs to heel. As always, Charles Haffenden looked the picture of rude health as he rounded up the dogs, ordering them both to stay beside the roaring fire. Not quite what Imogene was hoping for, but at least they were both calm; they soon settled, enjoying the fireside warmth.
“I think there will be another snowfall before eventide. I have been playing outside with Alfred, he adores the snow, he is a chip off the old block, even though I do say so myself!” Charles kissed his wife’s cheek and she shivered, his skin was freezing.
“Darling, you are so cold! Do sit awhile and we will take tea together before luncheon is served,” she urged, but Charles shook his head.
“No Immy, I shall take a glass of brandy instead and change before we eat. Oh, by the by, I met with Claudia. She was out riding that white beast of hers, in this damnable weather, if you please! Luckily, I passed by Guy shortly afterward, so I was able to tell him that I had seen my sister. He looked displeased. I should like to be a fly on the wall when he catches up with the little minx. Mark my words, she’ll end up breaking her fool neck if she’s not careful! Right then, I shall retire and dress for luncheon, see you anon.” Charles took his wife’s hand and kissed her palm perfunctorily, before exiting the room. The dogs immediately scrambled to their feet to chase after their master.
Imogene gazed after him thoughtfully. Charles had been less demanding of her within the bedchamber since the arrival of their latest son Harry, still only three months old. She was at a loss to know why, something to discuss with her friends within the Spanked Wives Society perhaps? She and her friends had begun this club some four years previous. It provided a safe place in which to discuss and aid one another within their marriages; it also assisted them in attempting to understand their husbands. The frank and open discussions that the women shared were a most unusual thing within society of the day.
Imogene leaned to the side and withdrew the intriguing correspondence from under her thigh. She read the card again. It was writ using elegant calligraphy and was an invitation to a ladies only ball. The invitation included all her lady houseguests. It was to be held on New Year’s Day; how utterly enthralling...
Old Heath Farm, Surrey, England.
The Colonel and Mrs. French...
Claudia led Sir Gwain across the icy farmyard into the barn to his stall. She was in a positively festive mood. She and Guy were to spend Christmas at Herstmonceaux House, both her twin brothers would be there and the icing on the cake for Claudia was knowing that Oliver and his wife had actually been invited, along with the rest of the family, to Merriton Hall for the New Year until the twelfth night wassail.
Humming softly, she fetched a blanket, throwing it across her horse’s back before going to fill a bucket of warm mash for him. She had just slid the bolt home on his door, when she was pulled backward into a warm embrace. She gasped in surprise, but instinctively leaned back against the wall of muscle surrounding her, certain, without needing to look, that it was her husband. She would recognise his masculine scent anywhere. His hands came up and cupped her breasts through the thick woollen material of her riding habit. Her nipples immediately pebbled, reacting to his bold touch.
“Fie Claudia, I told you last night not to ride in this icy weather.” He growled into her ear, his breath vaporising, clouding in the freezing air. C
laudia shivered, more with anticipation than with cold, but Guy was not to know that, for she had successfully kept her craving for his discipline hidden from him.
“It is fortunate that you are in the right place to receive a punishment that will fit your crime. Go into the tack room.”
Claudia twisted her head to glance at her husband’s stern profile. He did, in fact, look severe of countenance and she realised that he was in earnest. Her breath hitched, it had been over a month since he had last had cause to spank her and that had been for exactly the same disobedience, however on that occasion, she had been forbidden to ride due to thick fog. Last night Guy warned her not to ride out today due to the danger of ice.
A slap to her skirted posterior had her moving briskly toward the tack room situated at the end of the stables. Claudia kept quiet, she had no defence and since excitement bubbled in her tummy, she was not about to sway her husband from his task. It was rare for Colonel Guy French to punish his wife, but when he did, it was to keep her safe from her own impetuous folly. Guy frowned, a simple spanking would not do for a second offence, but, as always, he baulked at using an instrument to chastise her.
Claudia understood her husband’s hesitation. She had once been severely whipped by a mad count and scared. She forestalled him by going over to where the riding crops hung upon the wall. She lifted her own lightweight leather crop down and presented it to her husband. He took it from her, then twirled his finger, indicating that she should turn her back to him. Claudia nodded and did as she was bid.
“Bend over the oat barrel and grip the far edge,” he instructed tersely. When she was in position, Guy rucked up her riding habit and petticoats, baring her bottom. He noticed her pale flesh dimple over with goosebumps due to the chill air. It was well below zero outside. He smoothed his palm over her cold buttocks and squeezed her plump flesh; instantly, his shaft lengthened. He withdrew his hand, for it bothered him that on the odd occasions he spanked his wife, he became hard. It was not seemly to be aroused by her punishment and he felt that his bodily reaction shamed him as an officer and a gentleman.
