12 Naughty Days of Christmas - 2016

by Jenny Plumb

  “And did I not tell you that you should be instructed by me alone?” His voice was still quiet and calm, but firm too, as he came to the point of the matter.

  “Oh.” Margrethe was not stupid. Her eyes widened and her mouth made a little o as she understood what she had done. For his part, Rupert softened the stern look of his face when he saw she understood, but he still waited for her to speak. “I... I am so sorry, Rupert,” she whispered, and tears thickened her voice. “I did not mean to let what she said come between us. Only people say so many things about it and how bad it is. And I was so scared, and very worried that if it did not go well tonight it would ruin everything. And I hoped if I could just get through tonight, then...” She bowed her head, ashamed. “Then I hoped after that, it would be like last night, and you would let me sit on your lap, and we would laugh, and you would kiss me.”

  Rupert tried to keep his frown, but it melted at the sweetness of her little wish, and he hugged her close. “It will not be so bad, my sweet Margrethe. I have had women before, although I hope I shall never want another. It is a little pain, truly, no more. I will make you laugh tonight, I swear it. But I will not be disobeyed, not even by you.”

  “I won’t, I promise,” Margrethe pleaded frantically. “Oh, Rupert, will you not forgive me?” She looked up at him, eyes wild with fear.

  “I shall,” he promised, kissing her forehead. “But I must also correct you, sweetheart. I have promised to instruct you, and when you do wrong, I must discipline you – just as I shall richly reward your goodness, my precious little queen.”

  Margrethe’s breath caught fearfully at the word “correct,” for she wasn’t sure what he meant. He was king here, and his “correction” could be anything from speaking sternly to her to throwing her in the dungeon. Her trembling returned. He couldn’t actually kill her. Neither her father nor the Holy Roman Emperor would approve of that. “My lord?” she whispered.

  “Rupert,” he said patiently. “Rupert, once and for all, for I am lord to many but husband to you alone, and please, my precious Margrethe, chase away all the fear in your eyes. I am no cruel tyrant, not to my people, and not to my sweet wife. I am going to spank your bottom like a naughty little girl so you shall learn to mind me. That is all.”

  Something in that was almost more perverse than throwing her in the dungeon or even whipping her, but perhaps Margrethe was as perverse as her new husband, for the idea of being spanked like a naughty little girl by her handsome husband made her flush with something other than mortification. It felt hot and exciting, like how she had touched her body last night and imagined how he would caress it. “I... Yes, Rupert,” she breathed finally, staring at him, hoping he couldn’t see exactly how excited she was at the way things were turning out.

  “Stand up and take off your shift,” he ordered. “I want to look at you.”

  As shy as she had been a few moments before, now it was surprisingly easy to rise from the enormous bed and strip off her embroidered linen shift, tossing it carelessly aside so that she stood before him in her lacy knit stockings and nothing else. He was a little flushed too, and watched her every slightest movement like a hunter stalking his prey.

  “So beautiful,” he murmured, and he stretched out his hand to her. “Come here.”

  Margrethe went to him; even though he was going to spank her, she didn’t hesitate at all. Smiling shyly, she approached and laid her hand in his. It didn’t matter if he spanked or caressed – Rupert’s hands on her body were all she wanted. She didn’t speak, but her eyes communicated her happy desire well enough, and surprisingly, her nerves were entirely gone. She might be terrified of the wedding bed, but a spanking was a known quantity. It would hurt, yes, but not too much, and she could certainly bear it. And once she had, oh, Rupert’s smiles and kisses, his embraces would be her reward. She would have borne a much harsher punishment for that.

  Rupert held her hand and with his other hand he stroked the curve of her waist, the undersides of her small, high breasts, and the flat of her belly, limning all the geography of this new province he had taken possession of. He leaned forward and kissed the tip of each rosy pink breast gently, then he gave a low groan and sat back. “I had better get you properly spanked, or I shan’t be able to stop this. Over my knee, sweetheart, so you learn your lesson like a good girl.” He tugged her hand to help her into position.

  She helped him, clambering over his knee meekly, and he took his time to settle her comfortably so her weight was resting correctly, hips over his left thigh, face pressed into the soft feather mattress. Margrethe turned her head so she could look up at him a little, and Rupert reached down to tuck her long golden hair behind one ear and smile reassuringly. “Who do you belong to, sweetheart? Your father, or your waiting women?”

  “No, Rupert,” Margrethe answered immediately. “I am yours. I am yours always. I was always yours, even before we met. I was only waiting till I could come to you.” She gave him a smile of extraordinary sweetness, for even though he was going to punish her, his gentleness seemed to take away all her fear. She was with him, and she somehow could not be afraid of anything he would do to her, not now.

  He seemed struck by her answer, for he leaned down to kiss her cheek and rub his nose against her face very tenderly. “That’s right,” he whispered. Then he straightened up again. “But we must be sure, you know. A husband must correct his wife too, when she errs. That is part of his duty. Be a good girl for me, and it will be over very soon.” Then, holding her steady with one hand at the small of her back, Rupert rubbed her smooth, round white bottom for a moment and then gave it a firm smack.

  Margrethe’s breath came out in a cross between a gasp and a moan, and she jumped, then relaxed. It hadn’t hurt badly, it was more the shock of the thing. A pink handprint blossomed on her fair skin, and Rupert said, “Who instructs you, Margrethe?”

  “My husband,” she whispered. “My husband alone. I want no other instructor...” Her voice was breathy and sensual, even though she tried to sound very meek as she showed him she understood the lesson.

  He spanked again, a little harder, and Margrethe moaned properly this time – there was more sting to it as he spanked lower, just where her bottom touched her upper thigh. “Oh...” Without meaning to, she spread her legs just a little as she settled better against his lap.

  “My little wanton,” Rupert whispered huskily, pausing in his stern catechism to appreciate her sensuous movements. He spanked again, twice in quick succession, watching the way she jumped and squirmed. “Is my naughty little girl learning her lesson?”

  “Lesson, yes, oh, please, yours...” Margrethe mumbled. This wasn’t at all the way a naughty girl ought to talk to show she was repentant and would do better, yet Margrethe couldn’t marshal the words in any kind of order to help her give a better impression. All she could feel was the heat of Rupert’s body against hers – his hands, his thigh under her hips, his prick against her leg... She was his naughty, wanton little girl and would be punished to his pleasure, and then still more delights lay ahead.

  “You’re hardly convincing me you’re sorry for your naughtiness,” he chuckled. He was beginning to spank her properly now, having gathered that Margrethe was less frightened by the ordeal than he had feared. Indeed, she was writhing on his lap, and when her hips thrust, it was toward his hand, not away. “Have I been tricked with a little brat to wife instead of a sweet little girl?” he asked, and gave her an extra hard spank on each upper thigh, hard enough to make Margrethe squeak in pain, just to make her pay attention.

  “Owww. Oh, no, Rupert, please… I’m not— Ow!” She gasped and jerked again when he followed the spanks up with four more hard ones in quick succession so that she was well reddened just where she would feel them when she sat tomorrow. It was hardly a harsh spanking – although likely a bit harsher than she would have gotten before she displayed her excitement at the rough handling. “Your good wife, please... please...” she begged, and tears involuntaril
y sprang to her eyes as he continued spanking hard and fast for about fifteen seconds. “Not... n-not a brat. Obey... s-sorry...”

  He did not continue any further. Having called forth tears and her apology, Rupert immediately stopped the spanking. “There...” he crooned softly, rubbing her sore bottom. “All done, all done now, my sweetheart. You have learned now, haven’t you?” Once he had rubbed the sting out, he gathered Margrethe up into his arms and let her sit on his lap, her head resting against his chest.

  She nestled there delightedly. It had hurt, at the end, but not too badly, and the pain had faded once he stopped and began those delicious caresses. “Yes, Rupert,” she sighed happily. “I have learned.” She rubbed her cheek against his dressing gown like a contented kitten, so glad to be in his arms, to have his soft words and caresses. Any fear of him was entirely gone now. In her wildest dreams, Margrethe could never have imagined that she would get on so well with Rupert, and yet she was entirely entranced by him. He was a little aloof, a little grave, yes, but only in public, really. When they were alone, he was as sweet and tender and funny as she could wish, and Margrethe wished she could stop time right there, so that the cold Christmas night would last forever, she wrapped in her husband’s arms, feeling his kisses on her hair and temple, enjoying his warmth and the male smell of him.

  She looked up at him gravely. “If you and you alone will instruct me, Rupert, then you will not be cross if I ask a question?”

  He shook his head. “I will not be cross,” he promised, and gave her another kiss.

  “Do you think love is very silly?” she asked shyly.

  He laughed, but it was a kind laugh. “In general?” he asked, turning her so she was straddling his lap, “or do you have a specific application for the ideal?”

  Like this, Margrethe could feel his rod pressed right against her damp nest of golden curls, and she blushed and could not answer him for a moment. “Very specific,” she answered finally. “I am afraid I am falling in love with you.” She touched his face, running her fingers over his lips, then dared to give him a light kiss before she sat back to regard him. “And I do not mind very much if you think me silly – perhaps you even think it charming to have a silly wife. Only you probably do not like to be silly yourself.” She did not dare to make it a question, but her eyes asked it anyway.

  He leaned forward and, to Margrethe’s surprise, rested his head on her shoulder in a gesture of such sudden sweetness it took her breath away. “It may be silly,” he said softly. “But no one has been silly with me in a very long time, Margrethe. And that being the case, I am afraid I am likely to be very silly indeed about you.” His arms held her so tightly it hurt.

  If Margrethe had, cautiously and uncertainly, thought before that she might love her new husband, then the stab of pity, love, and delight that visited her upon hearing those words quite confirmed it. No one loved him. How could they, how dared they not love her Rupert? “Oh, Rupert,” she whispered, hugging him fiercely. “I shall be so silly, so terribly silly.” A tear fell onto his dark head, and she kissed it.

  They held the embrace, drunk with new love, for some time, but eventually they ended up lying on the bed together, face to face on their sides. “I still haven’t unwrapped my present,” Margrethe whispered, running her finger over the embroidery on his dressing gown.

  “I know. And you pretended to be so eager,” he teased.

  “You were the one—” Margrethe flared, all her uneasy deference gone, and the playful argument quickly became a tickle fight. Very soon, both Rupert’s dressing gown and his nightshirt were on the floor, and he had his young bride pinned on her back while he tickled the crook of her neck and she wailed for mercy.

  He finally relented. “What will they think I am doing to you in here?” He laughed, and leaned in to kiss her tenderly. He withdrew only a little bit, so that they were only inches apart, gazing at one another.

  “Being silly,” Margrethe said primly, and arched up to nuzzle him demandingly for another kiss.

  “My silly little wife,” he husked at her and kissed her again, longer. The playful mood began to warm into something more passionate, and Margrethe marveled at how perfectly they fit together in each different mood when they were alone. She loved him stern, and merry, and loving, and she thought she would love him no matter what. They were not yet quite practiced enough to work well together in public, as queen and king, but she knew it would be all right. This was more fundamental; if they were happy together as man and wife, then surely king and queen would follow in time. Love would show them the way. She lifted one hand to press against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart – her heart. Hers now.

  Rupert held the kiss, but allowed his hands to explore her, weighing her soft bosoms, teasing her nipples into soft peaks, and stroking her smooth white thighs until finally, as Margrethe had on her exploratory journey the night before, he found the ultimate destination. She was very warm and wet, and he paused to spread the moisture around her quim in circles, making her mewl and buck up under him. “I knew you liked that spanking,” he growled.

  “I didn’t... exactly,” Margrethe protested weakly.

  “You didn’t exactly not like it either. I see I needn’t worry about how to get you wet enough.” But seeing she looked genuinely worried that she had done something wrong, he kissed her again. “It’s good. The wetter you are, the less it hurts. It’s like... like greasing a tight ring to make it fit on your finger. I’m glad you liked it. I’m glad you’re wet,” he said, kissing her again. “You’re not scared?”

  Margrethe shook her head and said, a little dreamily, “I don’t think I’ll ever be afraid of anything as long as I’m with you. As long as you are by my side, why would I be afraid?”

  He paused and gave her a long, searching look. Finally he said, “My advisers are right not to like you.”

  She was startled by that non sequitur. “Why? What do you mean? I—”

  “You only got here yesterday,” Rupert whispered hotly, “and already I am like to be your slave.” He kissed her long and deep. “You need never fear again, sweetheart. I swear it. So long as I draw breath.”

  “I love you,” she whispered, done with their joking and euphemisms. She did. It was strange and new and sudden, but perhaps not. They had been betrothed since birth, and she had been talking to his portrait since childhood. And then she had had the good luck to find the man better than she could have dreamed – she had found him a man who could inspire her heart to love.

  “I love you,” he answered, brushing back a few strands of hair from her face, and kissing her again. Then he said, “You trust me? It will only hurt a little.”

  “I trust you, heart’s beloved,” Margrethe said, sweetly and earnestly. And it was true. All her fear was gone. She believed him that it would only hurt a little, but even if that wasn’t true, even if he had proposed to grill her alive on a spit, she wouldn’t have minded much.

  Rupert pressed his cock against the wetness of her hungry quim, then began to push inside. There was resistance, and it did hurt, but it was nothing worth all the fear and worry Margrethe had endured, and certainly nothing worth all the warnings she had received about crying and being brave. It felt tight, and Margrethe felt tremendously full. But the pain did not last very long, and the intensity of it was more pleasure than pain very quickly. He was taking care to be gentle, and moving slowly, but as her breathing calmed a little, and she began to move into his body, Rupert smiled and kissed her. “Not so bad, sweetheart?”

  Margrethe gave a hungry moan. The overriding sensation was one of tremendous heat, as if a great fire were being stoked within her. “Please...” Her fingers gripped and kneaded at his shoulder and she lifted her head from the pillow again and again, seeking his delicious mouth for more kisses each time he took it away to catch his breath.

  Rupert shifted so he was braced on his elbow, his face scant inches from hers, and able to thrust harder, though not so deeply. Margreth
e rewarded his efforts with excited, keening cries and thrusts of her hips up into his body. She had forgotten there had ever been pain at all. The only thing that mattered was the inferno where their bodies joined, and the wild magic that cycled between them at the hot, hard lovemaking. For though Rupert was not truly ungentle or careless with Margrethe, her eagerness made him rougher than he would otherwise have been. He was soon gripping her hip with his other hand to hold her in place as he pounded into her, and their lips met in a tangle of tongues and teeth. They tasted blood, and neither knew whose it was.

  “Please,” she said again, hoarsely, with no idea at all what she might be asking for. She only knew that there was something more, that Rupert must let her have it all, that there was a sweet fulfillment to all this hard, hungry labor. “Rupert, husband, oh, please...”

  “Yes... yes, Margrethe, my sweetheart,” he groaned. “Let it come, good girl, my girl, yes...”

  Her answer was entirely wordless as pure heat and pleasure consumed Margrethe. She spasmed and bucked under him, her toes curling into the featherbed and hands clutching Rupert’s shoulders so tightly that in the morning they would laugh over the deep bruises there, as though the two of them had been wrestling all night. “Oh, oh, ohhh...” And when finally the waves of sensual delight crashing over her ebbed, leaving her exhausted; she slumped down while Rupert continued to thrust hard and fast into her spasming, clutching quim until he spilled himself inside her and fell, half sprawled across her, trying and only partially succeeding in his efforts to spare her from his weight.

  For a while they panted and caught their breath while Rupert rested his head on his wife’s soft breasts, and she absently stroked his dark head. When she had energy enough to open her eyes, she noted that the sweat made his curls more pronounced and smiled a little to herself, but said nothing. The sight of him, tired and vulnerable, resting there, was very sweet, and made her feel an entirely new kind of love. It was strange, not that she loved him – although Margrethe had lost her mother very young, still she and her sisters had grown up almost with a surfeit of love from their father, and so she loved easily – but how many different kinds of love Rupert taught her, so quickly. At first she loved him because he made her laugh. Then she loved him because he needed her love, and that was very new and strange and delightful. Then she loved him because he made her forget all her troubles because his love made her feel so safe, and now it was something strange and wordless and protective.