by Nina Lane
There’d be the unmistakable rasp of Kruin’s zipper, and then the huge knob of his penis would press against her tender flesh, at first teasing, testing, allowing her to become accustomed to his sheer size once again. Sometimes it was all Lydia could do not to beg him to plunge into her with the full force of his strength, but he always penetrated her slowly, achingly, stretching her beyond what she thought possible.
She gasped, her breath catching in little cries of agonized anticipation, as Kruin worked his shaft into her body. Inch by thick inch, he’d fill her channel, his breath sawing through the air, his big hands gripping her sore bottom. And then his rigid stomach would press against her, and Lydia’s head swam with infinite sensations of discomfort and exquisite, intense pleasure.
And when Kruin dug his fingers into her bruised flesh and began to thrust, Lydia clawed the carpet beneath her and fought to take the force of each deep plunge. Choked screams would spill from her throat, her body jerking and swaying, Kruin’s massive bulk pushing her forward. The slap of his flesh against hers filled the air. Lydia’s arousal would spiral uncontrollably, but in such moments she no longer cared what further punishment might await her, not if she could surrender to her urgency right now.
But still, somehow, sometimes, she was able to quell her arousal, to fight the urge to reach between her legs and finger her aching clit, to bring herself to orgasm with Kruin still pumping deep into her body. Instead she accepted every thrust, reveled in the sounds of his deep, echoing grunts above her, the way he gripped her flaming bottom, the press of his hairy thighs against hers.
He would pull out of her the instant before submitting to his own orgasm, spurting copiously over her reddened flesh and open slit. Then he would put his hand on her lower back, anchoring her to the ground as he pressed one finger against her pulsing clit, and that singular touch would be all Lydia needed to plunge headlong into bliss.
Then Lydia made a mistake.
She had maintained her equilibrium well enough to recognize that she was, in many ways, fortunate. There was no question that she had committed a crime and that she had escaped prosecution only due to the machinations of both Preston Severine and her father. She was sharply aware that her life could just as easily have diverged onto another path, one of gray cell blocks, unbreakable locks, iron bars, harsh orders, and God knew what other kind of bleak, tenuous existence.
So Lydia was constantly aware of the freedom she possessed in her ability to walk about as she pleased, to dine at expensive restaurants, wear designer clothes, and for the most part to go where she wished. She wasn’t so foolish or ungrateful not to appreciate all of that, especially considering the alternative.
And Lydia knew Preston well enough by now to understand what he wanted from her. She didn’t have to think when she was with him. She instinctively arched her body or sucked his erection in the manner he desired, or she begged and pleaded with phrases that excited him. He liked it when she protested, and so she often did, appealing to his ego even as her own arousal spun to the point of no return.
“Oh no,” she groaned when he instructed her to straddle him and ride his stiff cock, for though she didn’t actually mind the position itself, it was particularly difficult to control her orgasm when her clitoris was stimulated to such a degree. “No, Preston, you know I can’t…”
He slapped her bottom, his blue eyes gleaming with the feral light of pure lust. “Do it.”
So she did, moaning the whole time because he liked it when she moaned. She got to her knees and straddled his thighs, reaching down to slide his erection into her already slick channel. At his order, she moved up and down, her skin hot with sweat and her breasts bouncing, her rear end slamming against Preston’s tense thighs. He moved his hand between her legs to her clit, which caused her to emit another groan of protest.
“Preston, I can’t… please let me stop… it’s too much… oh!” She shuddered, clawing her fingers into his lean chest as she lifted her body to allow him access to the swollen knot nestled within her damp folds. “No, Preston… I can’t take it anymore… please…”
Sometimes she surrendered to orgasm simply because she wanted to, a private defiance of Preston’s dictate and a way to maintain some degree of control over her own body. She held on to the faint hope that perhaps Preston would be so immersed in his own pleasure that he’d pretend he didn’t notice her quaking, but inevitably his eyes would narrow with annoyance and he’d exact some horrible punishment that left Lydia protesting and sobbing in earnest.
It was in the aftermath of one such incident, when Preston punished her pale body with a leather crop, that Lydia uttered the words that would instigate her downfall.
“Kruin never used a crop,” she whispered, turning her tear-streaked face into the pillow, her body flaming with the heat of pain, sobs still heaving through her.
She was so immersed in her own discomfort that she was unaware of the impact of her remark until Preston grabbed her face and forced her to look at him. Lydia stared at him through blurry eyes, shock penetrating her at the sight of the rage simmering in his expression, the clenched set of his jaw.
“Kruin?” he repeated, the name sounding like a curse.
Lydia swallowed hard, her stomach suddenly twisting. She was not so stupid or defiant as to ever mention Gabriel’s name, not even to provoke Preston—for that would lead to a punishment that she did not want to bear. As a result, she tried not to think of Gabriel while she was with Preston, simply as a matter of self-preservation and to avoid any accidental reference to him.
But Kruin… Lydia thought of Kruin often, even in Preston’s company, for it was somehow comforting to compare the way the two men treated her. For all his impassivity and demands, even his punishments, Kruin still somehow made her feel safe. She was afraid of him, of his physical power, but not because she thought he would ever direct it toward her in a haphazard, careless manner.
Just the opposite—Kruin was always focused, mindful, his expectations of her made clear simply by the way he looked at her. There was no confusion or disorientation surrounding Kruin’s stoic presence. In many ways he was so enigmatic, and yet Lydia had ached for his approval.
Now she stared into Preston’s eyes and realized her mistake. It was true that after one time with his leather belt, Kruin had never used an instrument to punish her—the repeated slap of his hard palm against her naked bottom was always more than enough to make her regret her transgression and resolve to do better the next time.
And while she dreaded Preston’s cruel punishments with the crop or the cane, hated the pain he inflicted, Lydia had learned to crave Kruin’s spankings in equal measure. He didn’t need assistance to both punish and arouse her and make her want to please him. He did all of that by virtue of his authoritative presence and the protectiveness that radiated from him like the rays of the sun. Lydia simply knew he wouldn’t hurt her, not in an untoward manner and not only because he enjoyed it.
Not like Preston, who took great delight in flicking her with the whip or forcing her to divulge all her erotic secrets just so he could shame her with the memories.
“You’re thinking about Kruin?” Preston hissed, a vein throbbing in his temple as he stared into her fearful eyes. “Now?”
She couldn’t respond, couldn’t deny it. Preston shook her.
“How often do you think of him?” he snapped. “And what was that comment about, Lydia? Do you compare him to me? Do you think about him when you’re with me, when I’m punishing you or fucking you? Is that it? Do you dare allow another man to cross your mind when you know you are bound to focus only on me?”
She just stared at him. A new realization crossed her mind that while Preston could wield control over her body, he would never have complete control over her mind and her thoughts. She could even fantasize about Gabriel while Preston was thrusting inside her, and he would never know about it.
If, that was, she could manage to curb her treacherous remarks.
&nb
sp; Preston released her and climbed off the bed, his body rigid with anger, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
Lydia shifted slowly to a sitting position, wincing as her bruised flesh made contact with the mattress. Preston hadn’t lashed her to the bed this time, and she cautiously eased the bed sheet over her naked legs. Though the room was hot and muggy as always, a sudden chill raced over Lydia’s skin.
He would punish her again, of course. Perhaps not now—for not even Preston was so cruel as to administer a second punishment right after the first—but soon. And it would be one of the punishments Lydia dreaded the most.
He might force her to stand by the window, on display for anyone who might glance up from the street, as he lashed her with a multi-tailed whip. Or he would instruct her to bend over the arm of a chair and cane her until her bottom flamed, after which he’d press his erection into the taut ring of her anus and thrust in and out without preliminaries or care.
Lydia shuddered, dragging the sheet up to her breasts. Sensing the anger spinning through him, she watched him pace, his face hot and sweaty. He bent to grab a rope from the black bag resting beside the door.
With a panicked cry, Lydia tried to scramble backward to evade him, but he had her facedown on the bed again before she could move. Her heart slammed up into her throat, for while Preston had punished her in anger before, he had never done so while they were completely alone.
And though she knew her protests would only incite him, she couldn’t help begging him for mercy. “Preston, please, no…”
He responded by slapping her behind. He lashed her wrists to the headboard, then took a multi-tailed leather whip from his bag and began to land a series of hard blows against her crop-reddened skin.
Lydia sensed his rage, his desire to inflict the maximum degree of punishment, and outright horror spread from the very center of her being. Preston lashed the tender skin of her buttocks, her legs, even her lower back, each bite of the whip wrenching a scream from Lydia’s throat.
Pain coated her skin, sank into her bones, until her whole body became focused on resisting it. She twisted on the bed, gripping the ropes binding her to the headboard as dizziness overcame her and tears streamed down her face to dampen the pillow. She felt her skin break, heard the rasp of Preston’s breath sawing through the air. She twisted, writhed, screamed… all to no avail.
Then, just when she thought she would surely faint, the whip clattered to the floor. Lydia groaned, pulling at the ropes, certain that at least now he would release her. Then, even more horrifying than the whip itself, Lydia heard the door open.
And close with a hard slam.
Silence filled the thick, muggy air. A ringing noise buzzed in her ears. Her body was on fire.
Surely he hadn’t…
She managed to twist and look over her shoulder.
He had. He’d left her alone.
Terror clawed at her chest. She pressed her face into the pillow and sobbed, unable to believe that even Preston would leave her alone in such a state. She tried to tell herself that perhaps he’d just gone to use the restroom, that he’d be back any moment, but at least an hour passed before he finally returned.
Anger still laced his muscles as he untied her from the bed, and relief temporarily diluted Lydia’s dismay. She dragged herself to a sitting position, wincing as circulation flooded back into her arms and legs, her whole body prickling with sharp pains.
Preston spun on his heel, grabbed her discarded clothes, and threw them at her.
“Get dressed,” he snapped.
Lydia struggled to obey, pulling the sundress over her head and slipping her feet into the strapped sandals. She ached everywhere, the welts on her back and buttocks stinging against the flimsy cotton, her thigh muscles sore from the amount of time she spent with her legs spread.
Preston turned to push a few buttons on his phone.
“Go,” he ordered, jerking his head toward the door. “The car is waiting.”
She didn’t hesitate. Lydia picked up her bag and went, relieved to escape his presence for now. She knew he wasn’t finished with her, that he’d concoct another elaborate scheme to punish her for allowing thoughts of Kruin to cross her mind, but for now he would grant her a reprieve. He’d always enjoyed letting her wait and wonder, keeping her in a state of suspended fear over his impending punishment.
She went down the narrow staircase to where the black town car waited at the curb. Preston always had a car and driver waiting to whisk her back to her parents’ house after their little interludes were finished. He usually sent her away just before dawn to ensure she’d be home before anyone else in the house awoke.
Though her whole body ached and flared with pain, Lydia hurried into the house. In some ways, returning furtively to her parents’ house, tiptoeing up the stairs to her room, reminded Lydia of her teenage days when she would sneak out to meet her boyfriends at dive bars and clubs that shouldn’t have allowed her entry.
Pushing thoughts of Preston and her own foolish remark out of her mind, Lydia showered, tended to the welts lacing her body as best she could, and dressed in a black skirt and silk blouse before joining her parents at the breakfast table.
For the next week, she would have a small break from her parents’ many activities and meetings, as they were making a trip to Baton Rouge to meet with the governor. Rebecca was going with them, which meant Lydia didn’t have to.
Her plate was already served—a scrambled egg white, half a grapefruit, a slice of dry wheat toast, and a cup of black coffee. Lydia felt her mother’s gaze as she gingerly sat down and sipped the coffee. Thanks to Preston’s excessive meals, she wasn’t remotely hungry, but she took a bite of the egg white for appearance’s sake.
“Where were you last night?” Carol asked, her voice cool.
Lydia was so startled that she dropped her fork with a clatter. She swung her gaze to her mother, her heart pounding. She felt both of her parents awaiting her answer.
“Er… excuse me?”
“Last night.” Carol’s lips pursed. She studied her daughter from across the table. “I woke early and went to the kitchen to start the coffee when I heard a car pull into the drive. I hurried to the parlor window because, of course, one cannot be too cautious about people approaching the house, and I saw you getting out of a town car.”
Lydia’s mind raced with plausible excuses and denials. “I… I didn’t know you were even awake.”
“That is not an answer,” Edward Worthington stated. He looked imposing and steel-like in a gray suit and striped tie, his features set like granite.
“I went to tell your father first, in the event that he knew something I didn’t,” Carol continued, reaching for her coffee. “But he knew nothing about it.”
“So where were you?” Edward asked, his hard gaze like a weight.
“I…” What could she say? Where would the daughter of a senate candidate have gone overnight?
“I couldn’t sleep,” she finally said. “I just went out to get some air.”
“Whose car was that?”
“A… a friend’s.”
Her parents exchanged glances before resuming their breakfast. Lydia’s heart pounded. Just like with Preston, she knew they would not let the matter drop, and heaven only knew what would happen if they were to discover the truth.
Lydia hurried back to her room to hide for the rest of the morning, emerging only after she heard her parents’ car leave. Fear and anxiety simmered in her belly, the horrible sense that both of her tightly bound worlds were beginning to fray at the edges and she could do nothing to stop them from unraveling completely.
She walked around the empty house in a state of restrained energy, wanting to take some sort of action and yet not knowing how. When she found herself in front of the closed door of her father’s study, the seed of a thought broke open in her mind. Her hand shook as she went inside, assailed by the scents of leather and coffee, the dark-paneled study and heavy furni
ture sparking the reminder of her father’s authority.
Lydia’s breathing grew shallow as she moved around behind the massive mahogany desk that was strewn with papers and envelopes. She studied a few letters, taking care to put the papers back in the exact position she found them. She sat in the big leather chair, trying to ignore the pain of her wounds, and flipped through the Rolodex. The computer was on, but password-protected. Lydia tried a few possible passwords and was denied access.
She opened the top drawer. Pens, paper clips, tape, a silver letter opener. She opened another drawer to reveal a stack of printer paper, along with a few notebooks. More rummaging and searching yielded nothing more than desk supplies and a filing cabinet filled with bills, proposals, paperwork.
With a sigh, Lydia closed the bottom drawer and looked at the top of the desk again. A family photograph sat framed beside the computer. There was an antique bronze desk set with an ink blotter, pen holders, a letter rack, and an inkwell. The desk set had been there for as long as Lydia could remember, though she’d never thought to question where her father had gotten it.
She leafed through the envelopes in the letter rack, then picked up the inkwell. There was something terribly romantic about an inkwell, conjuring images of a man writing a love letter, his feather quill skimming across a piece of thick parchment.
Lydia lifted the lid of the inkwell, wondering when it had last been used. There was a small piece of paper stuck inside, almost folded into a ball. She plucked it out curiously and unfolded it.
She stared at the hand-drawn map and name scrawled in her father’s strong hand. Her heart stuttered.
La Nouvelle Vie.
CHAPTER NINE
LYDIA STEPPED FROM the taxi at the end of the long drive leading up to the plantation. She handed the driver a few bills through the window, then picked up her valise and began walking. Something inside her settled, like the surface of a pond calming after enduring the ever-expanding waves from a thrown rock.
