by Wendy Leigh
“Now stay that way, and don’t move a muscle,” he says before sauntering into the bedroom suite and leaving me in the middle of the room, where I struggle to remain as motionless as he decreed.
From next door, I hear the sound of CNN.
How long is he going to make me stand here, in the living room, all on my own?
I concentrate hard on not moving, but as the seconds turn into minutes, I find it more and more excruciating, more and more humiliating to stand here like this. Outside the windows of our suite, the stars sparkle over the Pacific, while from the bedroom I can hear a newscaster drone on and on about the economy.
Then nothing.
I hear the shower and know that soon, very soon, he’ll give me his full and undivided attention.
Not in the form of hugs and kisses and tender licking and sucking, not like the way in which he has made love to me since my rescue, but with orders, and rigorous authority.
And I can’t wait.
He stands in front of me now, and I am overpowered by the smell of him, a heady combination of cypress, amber, musk, tobacco, sandalwood, and countless other masculine spices, which all intermingle into the essence of Robert for me.
He is still flushed and warm from his shower, and I know that under his white terry-cloth robe, he is naked.
He towers above me, presses his big, brawny chest, his washboard stomach, and his huge, hard cock against me, and through his robe I catch a glimpse of his long, muscular legs. I’m trembling with lust for him.
He tilts my chin so that I look up and meet his intense, smoldering green eyes.
“Crawl into the bedroom,” he orders.
I immediately drop to the floor and start to crawl, hating how ungainly I must look to him right now.
Only to be rewarded with a sharp slap across my ass from his big, heavy right hand.
“Not like that, Miranda!” he says, and I remember his past instructions and flush.
When I tell you to crawl, I expect you to wag that sexy ass of yours from side to side, as if you are begging me to fuck it for you.
Despite my embarrassment, I take a deep breath and do my best to obey his edict.
At the edge of the bed, he orders me to stop crawling, face him, and rise to my knees.
There, in front of me, he stands stark naked. And I am torn by an overwhelming impulse to either fling my arms around his neck and kiss him or fall to my knees and worship him, as he so richly deserves.
I kneel at his feet and gaze up at him in awe; his muscular legs; his bulging thighs; his oversized balls; his dark, wiry pubic hair; his long, thick, heavy cock are just inches from my face, and I am dazzled by the masculine perfection of his flat, muscled stomach; his six-pack; his chest and arms; and his handsome face.
Right now, the expression on that face is stern, strict, and I palpitate with a combination of terror and delicious anticipation.
“The object of tonight’s exercise, Miranda, is to educate you further on the various elements of your submission to me that I expect you to accept, without question, on a regular basis.
“To begin with, you need to understand that, as far as I’m concerned, punishment falls into three separate categories:
“The first is punishment for misdeeds, wrongdoings that I deem you to have committed during the course of that particular day or night.
“The second is punishment for drill—maintenance punishment; punishment I shall inflict on you as a matter of course, simply to remind you who you are, what you are, and your place.
“The third category of punishment, the punishment I intend to mete out to you tonight, is for my own pleasure. Simply because I can.”
I repress a smile.
Doesn’t he know that his pleasure is my pleasure? And that if he punishes me for his pleasure, he will also be punishing me for mine?
I look up into his green eyes, and they seem darker than ever.
Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, he places three pillows on the bed.
“Facedown, Miranda, support your stomach on the pillows, stretch your forearms out in front of you, and position your ass as high as you can,” he says.
And I obey.
The first blow from the shoehorn comes so hard and so fast that I am almost winded.
I close my eyes and brace myself for the second stroke, and the tongue of the shoehorn slashes across my ass.
By an enormous act of will, I manage to hold myself still and not move, not even a fraction.
Then I open my eyes, look into the mirror opposite me, and savor the erotic image of Robert, his arm raised high above his shoulder poised to slam the shoehorn across my ass again. And each and every time he inflicts the next stroke, his eyes burn like wildfire with passion for me.
After the seventeenth stroke, I brush away the tears starting to form in my eyes and look into the mirror again.
I see that his entire body is covered in beads of sweat from a combination of erotic excitement and the exertion of punishing me as wholeheartedly as he now is.
The eighteenth blow and I collapse into the pillows, limp and vanquished.
He drops the shoehorn, comes around to the other side of the bed, lifts me, and kisses me as if he’ll never let me go.
Then gently, ever so gently, he lays me down on my stomach.
“Don’t move, Miranda,” he says, and I lie there, exhausted, sore and tingling all over my ass.
Then I feel him slowly massage cream over every inch of my ass so tenderly, so lovingly, that I melt with love and adoration for him.
“Arnica. To soothe you and make sure you don’t come up in heavy bruises,” he says.
“The hotel had arnica in the bathroom?”
“No, darling, but the drugstore in town did,” he says.
I struggle not to burst out laughing.
Because for the past few hours or so, I was secretly frantic for him to end our vanilla relationship tonight, when all along he was planning to do just that.
As Diamond Head recedes from view beneath us, and the Pacific glitters in the morning light, I am finding it horrendously difficult to settle back in my armchair and enjoy the flight.
Even though I’ve had a wonderful time with Robert in Honolulu, and my mother and Alex were utterly bowled over by him, as I knew they would be, despite the arnica, my ass is so bruised and blistered that I can’t sit still without wincing in pain.
I’d like nothing better than to run my hands over my ass, to soothe it, but the seat belt is still on, so instead I writhe in my seat and suffer.
“Feeling the effects of last night, sweetheart?” Robert says, and raises an eyebrow.
At that same moment, the plane hits a small air pocket and the resultant jolt makes me yell out in agony, but when I’ve recovered, I nod.
“Really hurts?” he says.
I nod again.
“Good,” is his only reaction, and it makes me almost as hot as my bruised and blistered ass is at the moment.
“A movie to take your mind off your discomfort, darling?” he says.
“Anything, Robert, anything.”
He presses a button, and the cabin wall in front of us morphs into a movie screen.
And together, we watch Secretary.
During the scene when the heroine, Lee, bends over the desk and takes a spanking from her boss, I flinch in sympathy.
Until Robert whispers to me, “The punishment I gave you last night was three times harder . . .” and I feel a flash of pride and pleasure.
Once the movie is over, he pulls me into the bedroom and onto the heart-shaped bed with the mirrors on the ceiling.
He tears his shirt off, rips my dress off, and looms over me, his eyes glowing.
“Undress me,” he orders.
I hadn’t noticed till now that he’s wearing the bel
t I bought for him during our department store spree, and when I undo it, my fingers tremble.
Is he going to use it on my bruised, blistered ass?
Part of me hopes that he will.
Part of me hopes that he won’t.
Either way, it’s his call.
I revel in his power over me.
Besides, I have no choice.
This is the first time he’s ever allowed me to undress him, and I love how hard the muscles of his chest are, and how his taut biceps are so brown in contrast to his white shirt. And that when I take off his trousers, and he is stark naked, and his cock is iron hard, I have stripped him of his civilized veneer and only the magnificent animal male is on display.
He grips me by the forearms so hard that I know I’ll have bruises there tomorrow.
But I don’t care.
The bruises on my ass, though, are another matter.
My ass feels ablaze with welts and bruises, and I don’t know if it can take any more punishment. But I’m not about to admit that to Robert.
In one way, I’m longing for him to put me on my knees and fuck me from behind, my favorite position. But I know that if he does, he is bound to slap my ass as well. Hard. And that I’ll find it extremely difficult to bear.
I can feel my pupils dilating at the prospect.
Without a word, he lifts me up effortlessly and places me on the bed, on my back.
And fucks me that way, in the missionary position, like any conventional lover might fuck his wife or girlfriend.
But with one difference.
As he fucks me so hard and so fast that I grow hoarse from screaming with pleasure, he grinds my sore ass into the bed, and with each thrust makes it sorer and sorer.
The combination of pleasure and pain intoxicates me.
Afterward, when we’re showered and back in our armchairs again, he catches me squirming in my seat.
“Normally a punishable offense, Miranda,” he says.
“I’m sorry, Master.”
“You should be. Apart from anything else, you are making a big deal about absolutely nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I could make it hurt much, much worse,” he says, and I get wet again.
“More punishment, Robert?”
He shakes his head.
“Not the kind you are thinking of,” he says.
I stare at him with bated breath.
“Imagine spending the next ten hours of the flight forced to wear rubber panties under your dress, the inside of which I’ve spread with a liberal amount of Tiger Balm. After a short while, the pressure inside the panties would build and build, and it would feel as if you were sitting in a vat of boiling water. Not just for a moment, but for hours and hours,” he says, and I go white with fear and sexual arousal.
He gives me a sidelong glance, kisses me passionately, and presses a buzzer, and one of the butlers serves us supper.
Before I expect it, we land at JFK.
I’m happy to be coming home to Hartwell Castle and to start my life there with Robert, but the moment we set foot on New York ground, my first thought is of her, and I feel nauseous.
My nausea increases when I remember that I’ll soon be confronted by the sight of Hartwell Lake and the ruins of Hartwell Island, so at first I don’t notice that instead of leaving the airport, Robert is guiding me toward the heliport.
So that rather than traveling to Hartwell Castle in a limo, and driving up the driveway, from where Hartwell Lake and Hartwell Island will both be in full view, he flies us there himself by helicopter, approaches the castle from the side opposite the lake, and lands the helicopter in the castle forecourt with the expertise of a professional pilot.
Consequently, just as he intended, I am not immediately faced with the view of Hartwell Lake, the island, and the ruins of the mausoleum.
But kind and thoughtful though his gesture is, there is no way he can erase the horrific memories from my mind. And not the guilt. Definitely not the guilt.
Chapter Thirteen
Back at the castle, we have drinks by the roaring fire in the library. I’m feeling drowsy from the long flight (and afterward, when I replay the conversation in my mind, I wonder whether that’s why Robert picked this moment to have it) when he leans close to my face as if he were committing it to memory.
Then he takes my hands in his and holds them tight.
“I didn’t want to ask you this till more time had passed since your ordeal, my darling, but I’m tormented by not knowing what really happened to you during those terrible three days in the mausoleum . . .”
I’m cornered, captured, on the rack with no hope of a reprieve.
I look down at my engagement ring—I’ve chosen the pink diamond for tonight—as if I’ll find inspiration or salvation in it.
But there isn’t any.
So do I tell him the truth at last?
But how can I, after keeping my silence for so long?
And if I do tell him, how will he ever forgive me for my deception?
I take a deep breath. “What exactly do you want to know?” I say.
He gets up, pours himself a brandy, offers me one, and because my heart is thumping as if it will burst, because I need something, anything to calm me down before the sky falls down on me, I take it.
“But if it’s still too painful for you to remember, sweetheart, let’s just forget it. Only, when you were in hospital and delirious . . .”
Delirious! I was delirious! Did I give it away? Does he know already?
“I don’t remember,” I say truthfully.
“Then let’s not talk about it anymore,” he says.
Better to regret discovering the worst about something than not discovering it at all
“Please, Robert, tell me what I said. A lot of what happened to me is still a blur, so maybe you telling me will help me remember.”
“Would you like me to hypnotize you? That might bring everything back,” he offers, and my stomach turns over.
I shake my head.
“If you tell me, I might remember,” I say.
“Nothing definitive, darling, just ravings about Tammy, Mrs. Hatch, her poodle, and then Georgiana, always Georgiana. Clearly she dominated your thoughts because you were imprisoned in the mausoleum alongside her casket,” he says.
I nod, transfixed by horror.
“But you never have to think about her or the mausoleum again, as the mausoleum is now burned to the ground, and not even a trace of her DNA exists anywhere.”
He is silent for a terrible moment.
“Given her past, and her true and evil nature, did Tamara . . .” He hesitates, “Did she do anything to you?” he says.
“She was hardly ever there,” is all I can think of saying.
“Probably spent most of her time at Le Château, instead. A real cash cow, even after Murray left it to her,” he says thoughtfully.
I take a big gulp of brandy.
“We need to put all this behind us, my darling,” he says. “Tamara was obsessed with Georgiana, became riddled with jealousy of you and me, and was obviously planning to kill you. But she’s dead and you are completely safe now. Soon the kidnapping will just be a distant memory, like an old nightmare you’ve long forgotten. I promise.” He gives me a smile so warm and loving that my heart almost splinters with guilt.
We sleep the night in each other’s arms, but although he kisses me, he makes no attempt to have sex with me, and throughout the night and into the morning treats me as if I were a piece of priceless Ming china.
I understand exactly why he is being so kind, but if he carries on being a vanilla gentleman for longer, I think I’ll go crazy. As far as I’m concerned, the only thing that will erase the specter of Georgiana from my mind is to escape into another world, to our
secret world where dominance and submission, eroticism and sexual pleasure are paramount and next to that everything else is rendered meaningless.
In the morning, Robert tells me he has meetings for most of the day, and not for the first time I wish Lindy weren’t in Honolulu visiting mom right now.
“Robert, I’d love to go back to the dungeons,” I finally blurt out, when we are having supper together in the evening.
He stares at me openmouthed, as if I had suddenly announced that I wanted to become an astronaut.
“Not Dungeon Five,” he says. It is a statement, not a question, and I love that he is so sensitive, and so aware of my feelings and understands that I’m still shell-shocked over what Tamara subjected me to in there.
“You’re right, Robert. Not Dungeon Five,” I say, then add, “But definitely all the rest.”
He squares his shoulders.
“Very well, Miranda, in this particular case, it’s your choice to go back down into the dungeons again, or not. But it’s mine regarding what I do to you once we get there,” he says, and his words thrill through me.
Much later, I struggle to keep up with him as he strides toward Dungeon 3, the mirrored dungeon where he tested my capacity for obedience. I am eager to be in the dungeon with him again, not to be tested but purely for his pleasure—and, I hope, mine.
Robert’s pleasure, of course, is paramount to me. And I know that my pain is his pleasure, and his pleasure is mine, as well. A strange conundrum, but one that makes me happy, no matter how strongly my shameful secret burns within me.
On his instructions, I enter the dungeon dressed in a white corset with white stockings and white patent heels, very clichéd for a submissive, but I still feel extremely sexy dressed like that.
He orders me to the middle of the dungeon, and I stand there, eyes down.
“Remind me of the significance of this particular dungeon?” he demands, in a low rumble.
“This is one of the dungeons in which you tested me, Master, and I hope very much that now that I’ve passed all your tests, you will take your pleasure with me here anyway,” I say, although I am so aroused by the thought of what he might do to me that I don’t find the words easy to articulate.
