12 Naughty Days of Christmas - 2016

by Jenny Plumb

  “If it won’t always hurt, will it always be so nice?” she asked.

  “Nicer,” Rupert promised in a muffled voice, not disposed to raise his head from its happy resting place.

  She was going to inquire further, but there was a knock at the door.

  “Go away!” Rupert shouted.

  “Your Majesty, the sheet—”

  “It’s fine,” he called. Margrethe realized they must want the sheet to make sure her virginity was intact. That particular little detail had caused some of her fright before her marriage. Suppose she did not bleed enough to please the Bohemians, or something was amiss? What if she was sent back as some sort of fraud?

  “We must display—”

  “It’s fine,” the king repeated loudly.

  “We have another one all ready—” the steward ventured.

  “I WILL HAVE YOU KILLED,” Rupert roared at last, raising himself on his knees to face and glare at the closed door. “My bride is tired. Anyone who knocks before morning leaves my service.”

  There was a long period of silence during which Rupert continued to stare at the door, as if daring anyone to make a sound or knock or do anything, but no one was brave enough to follow up on his threat. Apparently a bloody sheet was not worth risking execution. When he saw that they were thoroughly cowed, Rupert looked very smug and flopped onto his back beside Margrethe, grinning. “Worth something to have a king as a husband, isn’t it?” he suggested, gathering her to his chest with one strong arm.

  “If you weren’t a king, people wouldn’t want to come snatch up our bed linens,” Margrethe reminded him. She was happy to play with his dark chest hair, feeling very lazy and sleepy and happy.

  “Hmm, there is that. And we wouldn’t have to eat dinner with other people. Or live with a poisoner. Will you run away with me, Margrethe?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, smiling up into his beautiful dark eyes. “Anywhere, Rupert.”

  Margrethe had always loved Christmas, so it seemed fitting to her that her marriage to Rupert had begun on Christmas and blossomed into beauty during the holiday season. She did not care much about gifts, having never wanted for anything, but she cherished a nightcap embroidered with a map of Denmark that Rupert gave her for a joke.

  Still, there was a fly in the ointment of their blissful happiness, and that was Carlotta. Since Margrethe’s plain happiness had routed the old woman’s first plan to drive a wedge between her son and his bride, she tried to give the young queen more bad advice, then told her strange stories about Rupert’s sexual escapades, tried tempting her with handsome young guardsmen, and in general did her utmost to make trouble for them.

  Margrethe felt sorry for her – to the degree it was possible to feel sorry for a murderess who only wanted everyone around her to be unhappy. Her plan to take the regency of Bohemia had failed due to the quick action of the council, her plan to turn Rupert against Margrethe had failed – all Carlotta’s plans seemed to fail. It was bad to be vicious and deceptive and evil, but worse still to be all those things and never succeed in your aims. But still Margrethe did not want to live with her.

  Rupert had explained, though, that he had not wanted Carlotta to live in Prague Castle, but he could not do anything about it. When he was a boy, his regents had managed a sort of domestic coup – they had sent Carlotta off to live in the country, and since Rupert was not yet of age, the King of Spain could not be offended at him, and it had worked out. But once he was of age, she had come back, and diplomatic relations could not be strained by sending her away again.

  But after some thought, Margrethe had an idea. It came to her on Twelfth Night, when she had to deal with another handsome would-be swain who had tried to woo her during the masquerade. She supposed there had also been a bribed witness ready in case she had succumbed to the gentleman’s charms. It was an exhausting way to live, with spies and people trying to destroy her around every corner.

  And so, as Margrethe finished undressing and climbed into bed wearing only her shift and the peacock feather mask that had been part of her costume, she said, “Rupert, how much does the King of Spain care about your mother?”

  “Only a little. She is his aunt. It was harder before King Ferdinand died – she was his sister, and for some reason he liked her. Well, she did murder a man for him, after all.” Rupert tweaked one of her peacock feathers. “Are things so dull in bed we have to wear masks already?”

  But she didn’t respond to his joke – her mind was working busily. “So he’s only trying to save face then, that’s all?”

  “All? A king trying to save face is one of the most troublesome things possible, my sweet, or didn’t you know?”

  “I do, but you see.” Margrethe bounced with excitement as her idea took hold of her. “It wouldn’t be you doing it, it would be me. If you said I was just the worst, most spoiled little wife, and I was making everything intolerable for you, picking fights with her all the time. And you can’t send me away, because we have to make an heir.”

  “We do,” Rupert agreed, and slid his hand into her shift, cupping her breast and adroitly catching a nipple between two fingers to tweak. But he paused as her words sank in and rested his chin on her shoulder, considering. “Where would she go?”

  “Where she went during the regency. Rupert, I could be so naughty, if you would like?” Margrethe turned her head just a little to look at him.

  “Mmm.” He was still thinking, and didn’t answer, but then he pinched her nipple sharply, making her shriek a little. But before she could really protest, he caught her up in a tight hug. “I’m not sure whether to kiss you, bless you, or spank you until you cry for mercy.”

  “No spanks,” Margrethe said. “I’m making your mother go away.”

  “You are, but if you’re stealing my soul, I’m not sure that’s worse.”

  She was a little hurt, worried that he might really believe that. “Rupert...”

  Seeing that she was taking him seriously, Rupert kissed her nose. “How naughty are you going to be tomorrow, little peacock? Shall you pull my mother’s nose at the breakfast table?”

  “As naughty as my lord and husband wishes,” she answered meekly, giving a happy sigh when she understood he didn’t mean it. She knew Carlotta had controlled Ladislaus, and she knew some part of Rupert might fear love, and the power loving might give someone else. She hoped he understood that she loved him so much she could never even imagine hurting him – but if he didn’t she would simply have to prove it to him, every day from then until they died.

  The End.

  About the Author

  Bryony Kildare

  Bryony Kildare was voted “Most Likely to Become a Cult Leader” in high school, and we may all be grateful that she has turned her talents for fantasy towards delight rather than world domination. Today she is the author of vibrant erotic romances featuring discipline and power exchange in loving relationships. She lives in the American Southwest and is the humble servant of two extraordinarily demanding gray cats.

  Visit her website here:

  http://bryonykildare.blogspot.com/

  Don’t miss these exciting titles from Bryony Kildare and Blushing Books!

  Fae Surrender series:

  Instincts Awaken, book 1

  Her Sister’s Keeper, book 2

  The Protector’s Heart, book 3

  Fae Surrender, 3-book set

  Single Titles:

  Late Blooming Lily

  Becoming the Sugarplum Fairy

  Blackmail for Christmas

  Amy’s Education

  Chapter 1

  Martin was dead to begin with. There can be no doubt that he was deceased. Carol Christmas had signed the register of his burial in the presence of the clergyman and the undertaker, there being no other mourners to bid Martin farewell or to bear the burden of the funeral costs. It bears repeating for emphasis. Martin was as dead as a doornail.

  Carol knew he was dead. Of course she did. How could she not? They h
ad been business partners for who knows how many years. The mills of Marley and Christmas were known across the county, as were their suits. Martin Marley was even buried in a suit made by his own workers, although none of them attended the funeral. The machines stopped for no one’s death. Carol attended, as his sole executor, sole mourner and sole friend. Even so, she was not so cut up by his death as to prevent herself conducting the business of hiring two new carders on the day of the funeral, solemnising it by returning to the mill to hand the new employees to the overseer.

  The mention of Martin’s funeral brings up a point worth repeating; it cannot be in doubt that he was dead. This must be understood or this story is not worth telling. If Hamlet’s lover were not dead before the erotic parody of his greatest work began, there would be nothing remarkable in her licking his ramparts in the dead of night.

  Carol never removed Martin’s name from their counting house. Marley and Christmas, the legend ran. Some people new to the business would call Carol Marley and sometimes Christmas but she answered to both names, it was all the same to her.

  Oh, but what a tight and cold woman was Carol, a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, clutching piece of work. Hard as flint was her mind, no matter who begged her for a kiss on a summer’s day. The prude within her had twisted her features, her breasts bound to prevent her voluptuousness making itself known. She hid herself in her bitterness, the delights of the flesh that others knew, she knew not. She spoke in a grating voice to turn off any suitors, she carried icicles everywhere on her body, icicles that did not thaw a single degree, even at Christmas, forsaking her name as a pointless affectation. Christmas she may have been but Christmas itself held no temptations for her. She cared not for festive fun, nor for the relaxing of morals that came with the holidays.

  Sights of people kissing or hand holding had no influence on her ardour. No member would ever warm her, no hand on her rear would ever bring a smile to her face. The world had long since given up trying to tempt her into a relationship. But what did she care? This was the way she liked things, to edge her way along the crowded walks of life, scowling and glaring at all who might enjoy themselves in a sinful way.

  Once upon a time, on Christmas Eve itself, Carol sat in the counting house of the biggest mill she owned. It was cold and bleak outside. The city clocks had sounded three and it was already dark. Candles flared in neighbouring offices, hardly visible through the thick fog that poured in at every keyhole, the buildings opposite appeared as mere atmospheric phantoms.

  The door to the counting house was open that she might keep her eye on her clerk who in a dismal cell beyond was writing letters to send into Boobs and Bonnets magazine for a ha’penny a word, payable to C Christmas if you please. It must be said that although Carol herself was more prudish than any on God’s earth, she was not so morally bound as to refuse the opportunity to raise additional funds to add to her coffers. Having discovered a year before, that letters of an erotic nature were sought by the editors of several bawdy publications, she had set her clerk to work producing the missives they required. She did not read the letters herself, it was enough for her to receive the payments whilst he did the work.

  Carol had a small fire but the clerk’s was so much smaller, it looked like a single coal was alight and an undersized one at that. He could not replenish it, for Carol kept the coal by her side and if he were to enter with the shovel he would leave with it shoved into him a moment later. So the clerk sat trying to warm himself by the light of his candle, and not being of strong enough imagination for it to work, he remained chilled to the bone.

  “A spanking merry Christmas for my aunt Christmas!” cried a cheerful voice. The voice belonged to Carol’s step-nephew.

  “Bah!” said Carol as he approached and bid her to rise. “Humbug to you!”

  “Get up and allow me to bring that rear of yours to life, I shall teach you a lesson about being grim when you have much to be thankful for.” He was all aglow as he attempted to land a blow on Carol’s rear, which stubbornly refused to leave the seat to which it was attached.

  “Humbug I say! I have no interest in spanking or in you.”

  “But it is a festive tradition begun by our beloved Prince Albert. I have heard that Queen Vic loves to bend over the throne whilst he seeks out her crown jewels.”

  “Albert may keep his tradition as may you. My crown jewels are my own. What right have you to come in here and attempt to spank a woman who does not desire it? You get enough of that with your wife, do you not?”

  “Come, come,” replied the step-nephew. “What right have you to refuse the attention of one who has your best interest at heart? You deserve a spanking, you need a spanking and a spanking would do you the world of good. It might even bring a smile to your face and some colour to your cheeks, both pairs, ho ho!”

  Having no better answer on the spur of the moment, Carol said, “Bah,” again.

  “Oh do not be so cross with me. I want only to bring a little excitement into your life. You should try spanking; it is more pleasant than you seem to think.”

  “What else can I be but cross? You think that it is possible to derive pleasure from pain? The concept is madness, sir. I seem to live in a world of lust filled fools who will not leave me nor my posterior alone. I am not for turning. What is Christmas to the world but a time for spanking whores without the money to pay for them? If I could work my will, every idiot that attempts anything like that would be confined to Bedlam.”

  “But Aunty?”

  “Step-aunty, remember. I say this for your benefit, you keep Christmas in your way and I’ll keep it in mine.”

  “Keep it? But you don’t keep it.”

  “Let me leave it alone then. Much good may it do you. Mark my words, your wife will leave you if you continue to assault her posterior in the way you mention. It is a repugnant thing to do.”

  “There are many things in this world that you seem to think repugnant. Loving another, that disgusts you. Holding hands, kissing, cuddling, all fill you with anger. Is there anything you would accept in a relationship? Looking at each other through a window, perhaps?”

  “I wish you were the other side of that window out there.”

  “Christmas is a time for forgiving and I forgive you your anger. It is a time for being charitable and pleasant, of helping those less fortunate than yourself, of enjoying yourself and letting go of your inhibitions for just a day. Therefore, though it adds not a single penny to my income, I will do this anyway.”

  He grabbed Carol by the arms and lifted her from her seat. Ignoring her protests, he reached behind her and landed a single spank on her rear, the sound echoing round the counting house.

  The clerk, at the sight, involuntarily cheered. The ripples of sound did for the fire, the single coal taking affront at the noise and dying forever.

  “Let me hear you cheer again,” said Carol, “and your Christmas will consist of you finding a new position.” She turned to her step-nephew who was grinning back at her. “As for you, do that again and I shall have you arrested.”

  “Come now, don’t you feel better for it? Don’t you feel warmed by the touch of another?”

  “You think yourself better than me, don’t you? You think you know what makes one happy. I tell you, you do not. I was happy before you entered and I shall be happy when you leave.”

  “Oh, don’t be angry with me. Come to mine tomorrow and we shall dine together. You can watch me spank my wife, you might learn something from it.”

  Carol replied that she would see him in hell before she saw him do anything of the sort.

  “But why?”

  “Why did you spank her last time?”

  “Because I was in love with her.”

  “Love? The only thing more ridiculous than a spanking at Christmas. Good day, sir!”

  “But love is what makes me want to spank her, it is what makes her want to be spanked. It is what puts her in bunches and a short frock, it is what buys her a dolly to c
arry around, it is what makes her call me Papa and her my Little Love. It is simply what makes us who we are. Love is too good a thing not to share with another.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  “I want nothing from you. I only want to bring a smile to your face and a redness to your rear.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  “I am sorry to find you so resolute. Clerk, if I were you, I would stop that scowl of hers and end those tantrums by taking a firm hand to her. Get her in a nappy and take the pressure of adulthood from her. As for you, Aunty, you will not take away my desire to bring cheer with a spanking so I will leave you with one.” As he spoke, he swatter her behind again, landing a second strike on her as she turned away to reach for her ledger.

  “Good day, sir,” Carol said, sitting at her stool and not looking up at him.

  “A spankingly merry Christmas to you!”

  “Good day, sir!”

  He left without an angry word, stopping to greet the clerk, a conversation beginning about the benefits of age play in a loving relationship.

  “There’s another fellow,” Carol muttered, overhearing her clerk mention his desire to try it out on her, “fifteen shillings a week to provide for his family, talking about spending ten on half a dozen nappies. I might as well retire myself to Bedlam.”

  The lunatic, in letting Carol’s step-nephew out, let two other gentlemen in. They were a portly pair, pleasant to behold, and they stood with a trunk held between them, looking in at Carol.