by Ashe Barker
The stroke is long, slow and fills me to the hilt. It stuns me, shocks me, takes away my breath. But it does not hurt me.
I tip my head back in wonder, my breasts pressed against his solid chest. I long to wrap my arms around him just as I have my legs, but will not so much as consider defying his instructions. Instead, I gasp his name.
“You are all right? No more pain?” He sounds concerned. I do believe he would stop if I were to ask it of him. But I should sooner die on the spot. Indeed, I might just expire right here and now if he does not continue.
I opt to borrow from the new vocabulary he has shared with me. “Yes, sir. Please fuck me.”
Chapter Five
Gray’s lips are on my temple, my cheeks, my forehead. He trails soft kisses down my neck, nibbling my earlobes, biting the point of my shoulder. I wriggle, desperate for him to do that thing again, that thing that sent ripples of lust coursing through me and caused my inner walls to clench and convulse around his huge bulk.
“Sir? Please—”
“Patience, little Imogen, we have plenty of time. Your coach does not leave until eight.”
“You intend to make me wait all night?” I cannot keep the note of horror from my voice.
He chuckles. “I fear neither of us would survive that.”
“Then—”
“May I offer an observation?”
“I suppose you may.” I cringe—I have no idea what to expect. Is this truly a suitable time to strike up a conversation? What is normal in such circumstances?
“For a virgin, I find you to be somewhat demanding.”
“You would prefer me timid?” I might be, on another occasion, with another man. But here, now, with Gray, I am quite fearless it would seem.
He kisses me again before replying. “No, Imogen, I would not. On reflection, you are quite perfect.”
I am still formulating my response as he withdraws from me again, then thrusts back into me and all thoughts of polite conversation are driven from my mind.
I let out a groan of startled pleasure and release my grip on the bed head. I reach for him, wrapping my arms around his neck and I hang on as he rocks his hips back and forth. Each stroke fills me completely and I wonder at my body’s ability to stretch. I was not permitted to see Gray naked and I have no direct experience of the male anatomy upon which I might draw, but I am convinced the erection filling me can be nothing short of huge. It must be—the contact between us is so tight, so intense.
Gray’s thrusts set up a brisk rhythm, the tempo slow at first, but gaining in speed as my body adjusts. I find myself willing him to speed up, to drive his cock into me faster, harder. I am whimpering my pleas, my inner walls squeezing him as I seek to increase the friction.
“Gray, please, that is… I mean, I need…”
“Say it, Imogen. Tell me what you want me to do to you.” He slows as he murmurs his command.
“Do not stop. Please, sir, do not stop.”
“Tell me, sweetheart.”
“I want you to fuck me.” There, I have said it.
“And so I shall, little Imogen. And after I have fucked you to your absolute satisfaction, I shall spank you for your disobedience in the matter of holding on to the headboard.”
“Ah…” I might have striven to be more eloquent, but he has commenced his relentless thrusting again and I find myself unable to assemble much in the way of coherent thought.
“Ah, indeed. For now though, enjoy.”
I do enjoy. I enjoy exceedingly. He manages to angle his thrusts such that my body quivers with arousal, the pleasure building, blossoming. I am close to losing control as I did just minutes ago, edging toward it, reaching for something I cannot yet name but that my body recognises and yearns to possess.
Gray knows it too and again he slides his hand between us to apply direct, devastating pressure to my most sensitive little nubbin. It is the work of moments. I unravel with a series of short, panting cries, my body spasming around him.
Gray pounds his cock into me harder, just as I want it, offering exactly what my body is demanding from him. He utters something I cannot quite decipher, something guttural, crude, and incredibly erotic. He gives one last, deep thrust and holds still for several seconds. I cry out in alarm at the sudden rush of heat deep inside me but Gray seems content with matters so I remain still, trusting him.
Long moments pass in which I concentrate on drawing in each breath, my head still whirling from what has just happened, what I have done. I would not undo a moment of it… would I?
“No more bruises, Imogen?” Gray speaks first, his tone low.
I shake my head. If there is damage, it is not to my battered limbs. So where has been the harm? What have I hurt?
“Imogen? Are you all right?”
I do not reply. I am still grappling with the dawning enormity of my reckless actions. I did not wish to be left alone in my little room here at this inn, so I struck a deal. An expensive deal. I am starting to think I have paid a heavy price for the dubious company of this enigmatic highwayman.
“We should not have done this.” I attempt to wriggle from beneath him.
“I disagree,” he shifts to let me go, but quickly gathers me to him when I would have scrambled from the bed, “as did you just a few minutes ago.”
“I made a mistake. I became quite—intoxicated. You caused me to, to—”
“I caused you to experience pleasure, as you wished. To become lost in it.”
It is true. I was lost. No more. “I did not realise, I was—not myself.” I reach to remove the blindfold but his hands on mine prevent that.
“No. You may not see me. I have explained the necessity for this.”
I try to wrench my hands from his. I might as well have sought to shift the moon. “You take my virginity and I may not even see your face.”
“I took nothing you did not wish to give up to me. And you understood the terms of our arrangement perfectly well.” His tone has hardened; it is clear he does not find my remarks to be to his liking. And I find I do not care.
“Sir, you are not a gentleman. Not in the least. You took advantage of me in a weak moment.” I pause, considering my situation. “I wish I had not met you.”
“Had you not met me, Miss Bennett, you would likely be dead now. And I must beg your forgiveness if my memory fails, but I do not recollect ever giving you cause to suspect I may be a gentleman.” His tone has hardened yet more. Gone is the warmth and humour of just moments ago.
“Mr. Graham, you are quite lacking in any semblance of a moral compass. And furthermore, I—”
“Thank you, Imogen. My character is somewhat flawed, I must agree. I had thought this to be quite obvious given my choice of profession, so your apparent disappointment in me is perhaps a little unwarranted. No matter. We have other issues to deal with, not least your punishment for disobedience. And for your dishonesty. And for your less than perfect powers of recall. You will remember, I hope, that not more than a few minutes ago I explained that I would reward honesty. Indeed, I did so. The reverse is also true—dishonesty will attract punishment.”
“What are you talking about? I am not dishonest. May I remind you, sir, that it is you who takes a living from robbing innocent travellers, not I.”
“I might dispute the claim that all those I encounter on his majesty’s highways are innocent, but as to your general point, I accept your view of that. However, it is your dishonesty at issue here, not mine. I am referring to your seeking to deny your desires and to the fact you seem to have conveniently forgotten the enthusiasm with which you embraced our lovemaking. I find I must insist upon absolute veracity in such a matter and I made that known to you from the outset.”
“Mr. Graham, I—”
“Did I coerce you just now?”
“That is not the point, sir.”
“But it is. It is exactly the point, Imogen. I gave you a choice. I made it clear to you
that my assistance was not contingent upon you agreeing to my wishes, that I would help you to escape your stepbrother in any case. You choose to give me your virginity and may I say I am most appreciative of the gesture. You have proven to be quite excellent in the matter of bed sport, despite your lack of experience or finesse. I expect you will improve further with practice and I will be delighted to aid you in that endeavour during the short time we are to be together. First though, I would be grateful if you would be so good as to arrange yourself across my lap. Face down.”
“What? Why?” I splutter, reaching again for the blindfold.
He puts a stop to that by capturing both my wrists in one of his hands and tugs me over his body, my stomach landing across his thighs. I am kicking, wriggling, screeching my protests at this treatment. A hard slap across my naked bottom brings my din to an abrupt halt.
I hold my breath, stunned, then whisper my protest. “You hit me! Stop! Let me go!” I am terrified. Despite my accusations and ferocious demolition of his character, Gray has offered me nothing but kindness and gentle treatment up to this point. That has changed and now it is becoming clear he intends to subject me to the same violence I had thought to escape. I lie still, shocked, trembling, dreading what this man might do next.
“I did not hit you. I spanked you. I intend to spank you a lot more, Imogen. But first, tell me why you deserve this.”
“I do not deserve it. Please, let me up.” I am desperate not to cry, not to afford him the satisfaction, but he must hear the catch in my voice.
He drops another sharp slap onto my buttock. I whimper, more from fear than real pain—yet.
“Allow me to clarify then. You let go of the headboard, despite my express instructions. You went on to deny your willingness to share my bed, though not until after the event. Prior to your deflowering you were most enthusiastic. Had you given me the least reason to suspect you were reluctant, I would not have fucked you and you know that, do you not?”
“I did not. I mean… I never intended—”
“Did you let go of the headboard?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear my instruction that you should not? Did you understand it?”
“Yes.”
“Prior to removing your clothes, did I not ask if you were unwilling to comply with my specific requirements?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was your answer, Imogen?”
“I, I—Aagh!” Another hard spank focuses my thoughts. “I said I was willing, sir.”
“Did you not beg me to fuck you?”
I am weeping now, bitter tears of contrition and humiliation. He is correct. I did do and say all those things and I meant them. I loved what we did, the things he did to me. At the time. Now, afterwards, I regret my impetuous and uncharacteristic behaviour and in my confused state I tried to shift the blame to Gray. In the deeper recesses of my mind I cling to the belief that whatever the real state of affairs, a true gentleman would accept responsibility, but, as Gray has pointed out, he could not be so described. So I am to be punished for my duplicity—and perhaps for my ridiculously poor judgement in finding myself in this situation at all.
“Imogen, do you understand now why I will spank you?”
I swallow, try to compose myself, then, “Yes, Gray, I do.”
“At last we are getting somewhere.”
He proceeds to drop sharp, stinging slaps across my unprotected buttocks, not too hard at first, but fast gaining in intensity. I squeal, try to reach back with my hands to cover my smarting bottom but he just captures my wrists again and holds them in the small of my back. My kicks and squirming are dealt with in short order as he lifts one solid, muscled leg to cover both of mine and holds me pinned in place, defenceless as he spanks my bottom thoroughly.
He switches from one cheek to the other, covering the entire area until my buttocks feel to be aflame. It hurts. It hurts so much that I am screaming, sobbing, pleading with him to stop. He ignores my frantic begging, his palm connecting with my bottom again and again. Each slap increases the fire in my tender, abused skin, but there is nothing I can do, nothing I might say or promise or threaten that will diminish his resolve.
He has me. He is bigger, stronger, and he is angry with me. With a lucidity sharpened by the pain he is inflicting, I acknowledge that he has reason to be angry. It is with a sick fatalism that I realise he will continue to punish me until he decides to stop.
Defeated, forlorn, hurting but no longer fighting or resisting, I droop across his lap and absorb the spanking. I cannot change anything, can only endure and hope he does nothing to exacerbate my existing injuries.
His hand connects with my quivering, stinging bottom again, but not in a slap. He caresses my scorched flesh, stroking me in large, circular movements. He is not gentle, not really, his touch is painful, as though he seeks to rub the agony deep into my body. But there is a tenderness in the gesture, a caring I had not expected.
Nor had I anticipated my response to it. He slips his fingers between the cheeks of my bottom and even though I am weeping, trembling, still shaken to my core at the punishment I have endured, I spread my thighs. I hear the wetness as he thrusts his fingers inside me again and cannot help but clench around him.
Lord preserve me, I want him again. If anything, my lust for him is stronger now than before, my desperation spiking to near fever pitch as he works his fingers inside my body.
“Imogen, if you still say no, I will stop.” His tone is soft again—gentle, warm, utterly seductive. I am baffled by his words.
“What? No, I don’t want…”
His fingers slow. He is stroking in and out of my drenched quim with aching tenderness, extending one finger to caress my sensitive nub with each pass. He hurt me but now he is pleasuring me. As long as he continues to evoke these intense sensations that threaten to sweep me away, I can accept all else from him.
“Imogen, shall I continue?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice a cracked mix of entreaty and defeat.
“I shall fuck you again.”
Oh, sweet Jesus, yes! “I know. Please, I need…” I squirm across his lap, thrusting my hips backwards against his hand. A thought occurs to me. “Sir, will it hurt this time?”
“No, love. Though if you should feel a need to scream I shall not stop you.”
He rolls from beneath me and arranges me on my stomach, bending each of my legs in turn to lift my bottom into the air. The coolness of the room is soothing, the air wafting across my naked and still flaming buttocks. He presses his palm into my flesh again and I flinch though I hold my position.
“You will be sore for a while, little one. Let us hope I do not have cause to chastise you again before we part on the morrow.”
“I am sorry. Truly, I did not mean—”
“I know you are sorry and it is done. We will not speak of it again. Is this nice?”
I moan as he uses his fingers to open my dripping entrance, tracing the shape of my quim before taking my swollen nub between his finger and thumb.
“Give me your hand, Imogen. Reach back, between your legs.”
I am bewildered but have learnt the folly of disobedience. I do as I am bid. Gray takes my hand in his and guides me to my own moist flesh. He replaces his fingers on my nubbin with my own.
“Rub just there, sweetheart. It will feel so good while I fuck you.”
I clench, outraged at the suggestion, yet drawn inexorably into his decadent web. This is all about pleasure, my pleasure and his. My actions are wanton, his demands positively indecent. I do it anyway. Proper behaviour is for somewhere else, another time. Here, now, I am a strumpet. And I am his.
I draw my fingers over the tip of that hot, greedy little bud and let out a groan of pure satisfaction as he enters me again, his cock filling me with one deep, swift stroke. It is tight but not painful. I make a conscious effort to squeeze around him, a signal of sorts that all is well with me
.
“Ah, little Imogen, you delight me,” he murmurs as he leans forward to drape his body around mine. His chest presses against my back, his hips against my bottom. It still hurts from the spanking but I am no longer concerned with that. I rub against him, gyrating my hips as I ramp up the pressure on my sweet pleasure nub.
Gray withdraws, then plunges back inside. He is deep. I am stretched, so much I am sure I will split in two, but I cannot bring myself to care. I want this. I want it now. I want all of it. All of him.
Despite my untutored thrusting and desperate rolling of my hips, Gray remains unhurried. He fucks me slowly, with exquisite finesse and maddening care. My fingers are quick and I soon discover the action that pleases me most. I bring myself to an explosive climax, once, then again, as he rocks his cock in and out of my slick quim. I am clenching and spasming around him, squeezing his thick rod, muttering my desperate pleas that he fuck me harder, faster, deeper. At last he rams his cock into me and holds still, twitching inside my convulsing flesh. He lurches forward to kiss the back of my neck, then with a hoarse shout of triumph, delivers several powerful thrusts. My climax seizes me. I am lost, spinning, weightless as he fills me with his hot seed once more.
* * *
The next morning Gray wakens me to insist I take some breakfast before we set out. I fell asleep curled into the side of his hard, warm body and have no pressing desire to face the day quite yet. He has other ideas, however. He has risen whilst I was still sleeping and is dressed for the trip. He has even coaxed the embers in the grate back into life and the chill in the room is softened. My blindfold is gone, once more pressed into service to mask the lower half of his face.
“Thomas has prepared porridge for us and I have already eaten. He has supplied some bread and cheese for you to take with you. There will be inns along the route, but travelling is hungry work.” Gray sits on the side of the bed as I roll on to my back to blink up at him through the dim half-light of dawn.
“What time is it?”
“A half hour after five. We need to leave here by six o’clock to ensure you meet that coach.” He gestures with his chin toward the foot of the bed where I can make out a garment draped over the mattress. “Thomas has also procured a new gown for you. Well, perhaps it is better described as not especially old. Serviceable, you might say.” He stands and strides to the door. “You should eat and dress, whilst I check that our carriage is ready.”
