by EM BROWN
“Worry not,” he said, no doubt seeing that she held her breath. “Jonathan is quite skilled with the blade.”
Save for the scratching of the razor, the chamber was silent for a moment. Montague could see her unease, which, when she looked into his eyes, manifested itself as anger. But he was not daunted, having seduced many a woman who first reviled him.
“You will wish to lie down,” he informed her when Jonathan had finished the front.
Her eyelids fluttered but she obeyed. She lay down upon the cold stone ground and spread her legs. She gasped when Jonathan pressed a finger to her labia to stretch the flesh and create a more even plane for the blade, but she remained admirably in her position. Jonathan shaved the stray hairs curling over her quim, then sheared the length of the remaining patch of hair. He washed away the remnants of the cream before collecting everything and stepping away.
Montague went to inspect Jonathan’s work. The pink flesh between her legs glistened from the moisture. He put a hand to her mons and felt the slickness of newly shaved skin. She flinched but made no protest. He slid a finger along the flesh below. Jonathan had done a splendid job cleaning the area, leaving a nice trim triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs.
“Feel how smooth you now are,” he instructed.
She lifted her hand and felt her own silkiness. She felt the shorter hairs. It was not a disagreeable sensation. Provocative even? Her gaze found his. She saw the intensity of his eyes through his mask. He was familiar to her. She knew him – or had at least encountered him before. He held out his hand and assisted her to her feet.
“Now we may begin your training, Baroness.”
He led her out and into the adjoining chamber. She was greeted by a number of apparatuses that she recognized from The Cavern. Some she had experienced, to great enjoyment.
“We shall make use of all of them,” he assured her as he positioned her between two vertical poles of wood. A horizontal bar rested upon the two poles. She saw that the height of the bar could be adjusted. It currently rested at the highest point above her head.
Jonathan wrapped a rope about her left wrist and tied it to the far left end of the bar. He did the same to her other wrist to the other side of the bar, stretching her arms wide. Her ankles were tied to the bottoms of the poles so that her body formed an “X.” She knew from watching the valet entwine the ropes that she was bound securely. The anticipation, roused already by the shave, grew exponentially. She looked at her master. He had a visible bulge between his legs – as did the valet. She knew that oftentimes that the true place of power rested with the submissive. If she pleased him enough, she might be able to exert some influence over him.
He appraised her in her new position. Satisfied, he strode over to her.
“Are you ready, my lovely Baroness?”
“Yes.”
He raised his brows.
“Yes, Sir.”
He shook his head a little sadly and slapped a breast. She cried out in surprise at the sudden strike.
“Come, come, Lady Debarlow. You are no novice.”
“Forgive me, Sir,” she ground out.
He cupped her chin and tilted her face to his. “Such disdain and defiance. No matter. You will submit to me yet.”
He dropped her chin and walked behind her. It distressed her to have him out of sight. Her whole body became alert to what he might do.
“There is the matter of the spanking that you received a reprieve from,” he noted. “I think it time we administer it.”
He patted her derriere, then gave it a resounding slap. His hand did not have the bite of the crop or the sting of the tails, but the force made her jump nonetheless.
“Thank me,” he instructed.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Raise your arse for me.”
She obeyed to the best of her ability given that she was stretched by her bindings. He whacked her other cheek.
“Thank you, Sir,” she grunted.
“Much better.”
He backhanded one buttock on his way to striking the other. She inhaled sharply.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Your arse quivers delightfully, Lady Debarlow. Raise yourself onto your toes.”
His next smack sent her back onto the flat of her feet. Her body strained against her bindings.
“Thank you, Sir,” she said after a momentary lapse.
“Back on your toes.”
Being on her toes made her back arch, pushing her derriere upwards. She wondered how many blows she would have to endure.
He rubbed the curve of her rump, then delivered a few more wallops that had her gasping. If the spankings were an indication of the force he intended to apply, she began to fear for what lay ahead.
“Baroness?”
“Thank you, Sir,” she remembered.
“Tsk. Tsk. And I had thought you experienced in the role of the submissive.”
“Forgive me. I am out of practice, as it were.”
“We must teach your memory better.”
He whacked her twice more on the same cheek. Her legs collapsed beneath her with the strength of the blows, her body held up by her bindings and the poles. She had not thought he could land a fiercer cuff.
“Thank you, Sir,” she gasped after needing to take a conscious breath.
“Ask me if your arse is red enough.”
“Is my arse red enough to please you, Sir?”
“It is the hue of a sunset, but I require the blush of a rose.”
Her bottom felt hot from the spanking and she dreaded how it would feel when she sat down next, but she would not request leniency. She was made of stronger mettle.
He rained a series of blows from differing directions. She attempted to thank him after every one.
“My favorite work of art, Baroness, would be the print of my hand upon your arse, I think.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
He grabbed a buttock and sank his fingers deep into the flesh. “Your arse, Lady Debarlow, belongs to me to do as I will. Do you understand?”
“Aye, Sir.”
“Did your arse enjoy my attentions?”
“Aye, Sir.”
“Then you shall beg for a spanking whenever you err.”
“Aye, Sir.”
He slipped his hand between her legs and stroked her quim – a touch so gentle compared to what she had sustained just prior that she inadvertently moaned. He softly brushed his fingers over her nether lips, then inserted a forefinger into her quim. She clenched her muscles about the uncomfortable intrusion, but when he withdrew, she was aware that she was a bit moist there. The heat from her buttocks had warmed the rest of her body.
“Jonathan, the salve.”
The valet approached her and applied an oily substance to her derriere. At first, it felt like ice applied to fire but then settled into a relieving warmth. He spread it past her rump, down her legs, coating the entire limb. Next he applied the salve to her arms and back. Finally he attended the treatment to her chest, her breasts, her stomach, and loins until every inch of her body was buttered by the balm.
“And now,” her abductor said, “the cat o’nine tails.”
Chapter Fourteen
HER BODY GLEAMED WITH the salve, which would offer her skin an amount of protection from the welts produced by the whip. Montague felt a stab of jealousy, having liked to apply the salve himself to the Baroness, but it had been scintillating in a different form watching Jonathan. His valet handed him the whip with its nine leather belts. He took the instrument and slapped it into the palm of his other hand.
“What do you like best about the tails, Baroness?” he inquired.
“Its breadth, Sir. The strike covers a larger area.”
“Do you favor it over the crop?”
“I do, Sir.”
“Do you revere it?”
“Aye, Sir.”
He stepped up to her.
“Kiss it for me.”
He held th
e whip to her lips. She pressed her mouth to it, then looked expectantly at him. He detected a touch of fear still in her eyes and decided upon a different approach before applying the nine-tails.
“Close your eyes,” he directed softly.
Her eyes fluttered but she did as he bid.
“Recall the most exquisite touch upon your body. How it felt upon your body. Was it the tails kissing your skin?”
“No, Sir.”
“The crop?”
“A man’s hand, Sir.”
“Where did he touch?”
“My cunnie, Sir.”
He pushed away the rising jealousy he felt and continued. “Did he bring you to climax?”
“Aye, Sir.”
“Imagine what else you would have him do to your body.”
He observed the flare of her nostrils.
“What acts of lust would you engage with him? Would you venture into the wicked and depraved?”
She purred. He slipped the tails between her thighs and brushed it against her clitoris.
“Do you enjoy spending, Baroness?”
“Who does not?”
He moved the whip back and forth against her.
“Would you wish to spend over and over?”
“Indeed, Sir.”
“You will spend – often – here if I am pleased with your performance. Your deepest, darkest desires will find their fulfillment here.”
He removed the whip and saw with satisfaction that it glistened with her wetness. Now she was ready.
“First you must earn the right to spend,” he informed her.
He stepped back and landed the lash across her side. She grunted. He laid it across her thigh. The straps glided over her slick skin.
“Thank you, Sir.”
He rewarded her with a blow to her breasts. She cried out as one of the belts struck her across the nipple. He put the whip to her other breast. She strained against her bindings. Over and over he showered her body with the tails. A person witnessing the spectacle and hearing her cries might conclude it was pure torture. But when he cupped her quim, he found her even more wet. He circled his thumb over her clitoris. She shivered.
“Do you believe you deserve to spend?” he inquired.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then beg for it.”
“Please, Sir, allow me to spend.”
“I said beg, not state.”
She groaned. “I beg of you, Sir, allow me to spend. I would be most grateful.”
He flicked at her clitoris with his forefinger.
“What would you do to earn such an opportunity?”
“Anything you wish, Sir.”
He agitated the nub of flesh with quicker ministrations. Her eyes rolled towards the back of her hand and she moaned.
“Anything?”
“What do you please, Sir?”
He removed his hand, and it was as if the air was taken from her. She looked at him in astonishment.
“It would not be proper for the submissive to come before her masters, would it?”
Realizing the truth of what he said, she hung her head briefly. “It would not, Sir.”
“I think my valet must need relief.”
She sucked in her breath and glanced at Jonathan.
“I shall release your bonds, and you will apply yourself to him.”
He untied her wrists and ankles, then pushed her down to her knees. God help him. He had never invited Jonathan into his liaisons before, but this was no ordinary situation.
“Take him into your mouth,” he instructed.
Jonathan eagerly unbuttoned his breeches. His cock sprang out without ceremony. Lady Debarlow regarded his length. She did not appear repulsed by it. Without word, she took his length between her supple lips.
Montague nearly let out an oath. Oddly the feelings of jealousy fueled his arousal. The blood rushed to his groin. He looked to his valet. The man had better be loyal unto death after this.
The Baroness moved her mouth up and down Jonathan’s shaft with a comfort that indicated she was no neophyte when it came to fellatio. Jonathan grabbed the back of her head and pushed her further onto his cock. She gagged a little but relaxed and was able to accommodate his length. Fisting his hand in her hair, Jonathan bucked his hips at her face. With each thrust, Montague felt his own cock tightening.
“Pleasure yourself,” he ordered her, “but do not spend till you have been granted permission to do so.”
She reached a hand between her legs and fondled herself. Montague stroked the swell at his crotch. What a magnificent woman. To take the cock of a man while tending to herself.
Jonathan grunted, then became red in the face. Body twitching, he let out a howl as he bucked his climax into her mouth. Montague watched her swallow the seed of his valet. Jonathan stumbled backwards, his cock pulling out of her mouth. Drops of his seed fell from the corner of her lips. She coughed a little but recovered quickly.
“Surely that merits a reward, Sir?” she asserted. “I would wager a common strumpet could not have done much better.”
“It were an impressive performance,” Montague conceded.
“I wish to spend then, Sir.”
“Not quite yet.”
Her brows rose. “Was that not pleasurable, Sir? How many can claim to witness a woman of title performing fellatio upon a servant.”
“There is more, Baroness.”
Her eyes flashed. “I have never before degraded myself in such a manner.”
“Never? That would be disappointing given your reputation.”
She pressed her lips together tightly. He had spoken too hastily.
“What know you of my reputation, Sir?”
“I know your family to be of bourgeois origins, but do not misunderstand me. I render no judgment. That you landed yourself a Baron is quite commendable.”
“You think I made myself a whore to gain his hand in matrimony.”
“A man such as the Baron Debarlow has access to whores enough without having to marry one, but given your station, I doubt the marriage to have been an agreement to solidify fiduciary interests. And I am not such a romantic to believe that the two of you had fallen in love.”
“Because you do not believe in love, Sir?”
“I believe it exists, but it is a rare species, especially in matrimony. Do you profess that you loved the Baron or he you?”
“I am less a romantic than you,” she returned, surprised at their topic of discussion and that she had an interest in speaking with him about it. “What I had with the Baron might approximate love, but Love between a man and a woman, in its truest form, is but a flight of fancy. It does not exist.”
“You have never been in love? Even as a young woman?”
“I have lusted after men. Baron Debarlow was a friend and a lover. But no, I have never felt that which might be dubbed Love.”
Her response, as well as her dispassionate tone, stunned and impressed him. Most of the women he knew harbored some sentimentality when it came to Love. They may have disdained Love, quite often because they had had their hearts broken at Her hand, but none had denied its very existence. He believed her when she said that Debarlow was a friend. The Debarlow maidservants had told Jonathan that they observed affection between the two. Perhaps the Baron had been in love with her.
“You are an extraordinary woman, Lady Debarlow,” he thought aloud.
Her expression softened at his surprising statement.
“But I will not grant you permission to spend – yet.”
Recalling her earlier anger, she blurted, “Why? Sir.”
“It will prove more powerful after a period of forestalling. I know you to be quite aware of this as you have employed the art of deprivation on others.”
“Have you been sent to avenge my actions? Sir.”
“I recommend a less combative posture, Baroness, if you are to enjoy your time here. But if you will persist in being at loggerheads with me, I fear you will not avail
yourself of the bounty of pleasure that awaits you.”
She lowered her lashes and considered the merit of his statement.
“I will do as you say, Sir,” she said when she looked up.
“Much better.”
He looked over at Jonathan, who had recovered and stood at attention for the next command. He walked over to a large wooden board fixed at an incline.
“Mount her upon it,” he instructed Jonathan.
The Baroness had her wrists tied above head and secured to the iron ring attached to the plank. Her legs were bent at the knee and tied apart, exposing her quim. Montague walked up to her. Her cunnie was at the perfect height for his cock. He rubbed his thumb along the length of her clitoris. She moaned her pleasure. He took some of the salve into his hand and rubbed it upon her, then quickened his motions. She squealed in delight. He sank a finger into the warm, wet folds of her womanhood. The sound of her grunting and groaning renewed his ardor. It took all of him not to tear off his breeches and fuck her then and there.
Jonathan approached him with a bowl of clothespins. She saw them and took an audible breath, knowing what was to come. But Penelope had told him that a woman could tolerate an exceptional level of pain, perhaps more so then men. Montague did not doubt the possibility as women had to be made strong enough for the pains of labor. And the Baroness was no weakling.
He pinched the side of her breast and affixed a pin.
“Thank you, Sir,” she grunted.
He clipped more below the breast and had three in a row along her rib. He laced all the pins together with rope, then did the same on her other side. She took in her breaths carefully, her eyes moist with possible tears. Penelope had fastened such pins to him to provide him an appreciation of how it felt. He remembered how forcefully the pins had dug into his flesh. Stepping back, he examined his work. If he were a painter, he might seek to capture the vision of the Baroness bound and splayed before him, her sides decorated with the pins.
After giving the ends of the ropes to Jonathan, he returned to stroking the nub of flesh protruding impishly from her folds. He teased it until he had her panting and writhing.
“Please, Sir, may I spend?” she whispered.
“Before your master has spent himself?”
“How may I please you then, Sir?”
