by Ava Sinclair
“Just a pinch and a bit of a sting and it will be over,” Dr. Allard said into her ear. Lucy moaned with abject helplessness and closed her eyes as Dr. Crane positioned the tip of the needle over her bottom cheek. She squealed as it went in and then wailed as a fierce sting seemed to suffuse her entire bottom.
“All over!” Dr. Crane was saying, and his large hand was massaging her bottom. “Was that really so bad?”
“Yes!” she whimpered. “It really was. I don’t like it at all! And I don’t like either of you now!”
“Oh, that’s just the fear talking. You don’t really mean that, do you?”
She was raised to sitting by both men, who now looked at her with such expressions of amused benevolence that she felt her anger recede into renewed acceptance of her situation.
“No. I didn’t mean it,” she said, wiping away a tear as she shifted on her unbelievably sore bottom. “It’s just that this has made me feel all so helpless and confused and a little…”
“A little what?” Dr. Allard asked.
She wanted to tell him that it made her feel strangely excited. She wanted to tell him that what had happened to her—the whole of it—was heightening her senses. She had never been more aware of her own body, from the tight ache of her nipples, to the throbbing want of her pussy, to the soreness of her spanked bottom and the burning sting where she’d gotten the shot. It had all left her wanting something she could not even define. She felt overwhelmed and then, suddenly, drained.
“Tired,” she said quietly, giving an answer that really wasn’t the truth for want of something to say.
“Well, then. I think a nap is in order.”
“So early in the day?” she asked.
“One of the benefits of being our little one is that you’ll not have a care in the world, sweet Lucy.” Dr. Crane retrieved a shift from a nearby cupboard and helped her into it. “You can nap when you are tired, eat when you are hungry, play when you are feeling spirited, and cry when you are sad. Our home is your safe place, little one. This environment will be your home until you are strong and adept enough to live as a wife to a man who deserves you.” He touched her gently on the nose. “And won’t he be a lucky chap?”
He stepped back. “Down you go!” Dr. Crane lifted her like a child and placed her gently on her feet. “A good nap, and afterwards a nice hot lunch.”
At that moment, Nurse Lassiter walked in. “Perfect timing, Nurse Lassiter. Would you please take Lucy up to her room? She’s found her examination to be an ordeal.”
“Of course.” The older woman held out her hand and Lucy, too exhausted to protest, took it and allowed herself to be led back up the stairs to the room, where Nurse Lassiter tucked her into bed.
To sleep in the middle of the day was a luxury she had not enjoyed since she was very small. When she’d told the doctors that she wished she could return to childhood, she’d had no idea that they’d take her wistful desire to heart, or make it so real and complete. The pastor and his wife had never indulged her like this, nor given her such comfortable surroundings. Outside, sleet was pattering against the glass of the window, and Nurse Lassiter drew the curtain and stoked the fire in the grate. Even this seemed an extravagance. Mrs. Priven had believed that a warm room was unhealthy, and that sleeping in a cold room built character.
What would the pastor and his wife say to know she slept in a fine bed in a warm room in the middle of the day? She’d last seen them the day Judge Bonham’s secretary had come to fetch her away. She wondered if they knew that the judge had cast her away and put her in the asylum. She wondered if the couple who raised her would believe his allegations. Pastor Priven had preached on the weakness of women, their moral failings, the sin of Eve. His wife had never told Lucy anything about what happened between a man and a woman. “Just do as your husband tells you,” she’d said. “He’ll know what to do.” But Lucy had known the judge’s forceful manner on their wedding night had not been natural, and her instincts to preserve herself from hurt had kicked in. He’d been so different from…
There was a hitch in her breath as she thought of her two guardians—so handsome, so patient and firm. She clutched her blanket, worrying with her fingers as she mulled over all that had happened. She still felt warm and languid just thinking of their touch—those hands, so masterful, so skilled.
But something bothered her to the point that she felt a painful lump rise in her throat, and tears welling in her eyes. She knew they were doctors who had taken her in to study. She knew they were only keeping her to be kind. Dr. Crane suggested that at some point, another man would fix his sites on her, and would take her to wife. But as she lay there, Lucy knew in her heart the only hands she ever wanted to feel on her body again were those of the men who had saved her.
Could a woman fall in love so quickly? And could she fall in love with two men? Pastor Priven had spoken of a man leaving his mother and cleaving to his wife for all their days. One man, one woman.
“You’re being silly,” she said, turning onto her side. But as she moved she was again aware of that aching, swollen place between her legs, its wet wanting still evident even now. The idea of any other man touching her there filled her with dread. In her mind the men who’d made her their little girl owned all of her, including that soft throbbing place yearning to be filled.
Chapter Six: The Judge and His Man
Judge Bonham stood before the looking glass, peering at his reflection as he adjusted his wig. Years of indulgent living had added pads of flesh to his face, but in his mind, he was still a handsome man. He had all his own teeth, and his eyes were clear and bright beneath bushy graying eyebrows. He blamed the gray on his wife, who had passed away, leaving him tense and alone and without succor for the passions he believed rivaled those of a younger man.
For the first two years of widowhood, his rise to the judiciary had afforded him little time to think on the pleasures of the flesh. But since taking up the gavel, he once again felt the need for a woman. Judge Bonham decided his prominence was a gift from God, and that the God who elevated him to greatness would surely understand if he indulged his strong desires with a woman hired for the purpose.
But he’d been wrong to presume that God would forgive sin, and he’d been punished in the sternest way possible.
Even now he could still remember that fateful day. It had been Nathan Stiles, his secretary, who’d arranged the liaison with beautiful flame-haired courtesan. Bonham’s heart had raced when he saw her coming through the door. He could still remember what she wore—a green dress with a bodice that compressed her waist and uplifted half-bared tits to his hungry gaze. He was seized by the desire to pull them from their confines so he could see the nipples. Would they be long nipples surrounded by a large, ruddy circle? He’d hoped so; his wife’s breasts had been small with tiny pale nipples. She’d always been of modest dress, as a wife should be. But this woman was made for man’s pleasure. She was made for him.
She’d not asked him his name; she’d been told not to. He knew her name, though. It was Rose, and as she’d undressed for him he’d tried not to show his excitement or agitation as he silently thanked God for sending this exquisite woman to ease his pain.
But when the time came to indulge his lust, the judge’s excitement came to naught. He could not perform. He could feel the desire, but it did not reach his cock, which could do no more than stand at half-mast and bob sadly from its nest of graying hair.
He’d not been angry—not then. He had been ashamed, humiliated, and had gotten Stiles to pay the woman twice her rate with the condition that should she tell anyone what happened, she may find herself in trouble.
Judge Bonham had blamed himself, then. Rose had not been a gift, but a whore, and his inability to perform was a sign of divine judgment. Archibald Bonham told himself that God had punished his pride by robbing him of his ability to function.
He believed in order to be forgiven he would have to make amends, so Judge Bonham threw himself
As personal penance, he denied himself any fleshly pleasures as he carried out the work as God’s righteous hand on the bench. But during that time—as the judge became more powerful and feared—his personal narrative began to change. He told himself now that God had not punished him for being with a whore, but had saved him from one. In a dream he saw God rewarding him with a pure, perfect young wife. It was a sign, he thought. He had only but to pray.
Those prayers were answered in the form of an epiphany when he received the most current framed small picture of Lucy, the child he’d promised to raise for a friend. He’d sent her away to live with the Privens, a godly couple. And then one day, sitting in the palm of his hand, was the answer to his prayers. She was of age, and had written a sweet note outlining all she’d done that year, her lessons, her work with the poor under Mrs. Priven’s supervision.
“Pastor Priven and his wife tell me often that I will make a good wife,” she said. “I only pray that is so.”
That last line was it—his message from God, Judge Bonham decided. He’d kept the girl pure for him, and him for her. It was meant that they be joined together. His hands nearly shook when he handed Stiles the letter to send the Privens informing the couple that he would be marrying his ward. In it, he asked for her measurements so he could have a wardrobe made. He imagined her dressed like Rose, but with innocence—a woman fashioned for his delight, but a virgin purity that would be his alone. He could feel a stirring in his loins at the very notion, and he took this as a sign that God was lifting the heaviness he had placed there. It would be lifted completely on his wedding night when he took Lucy’s virginity.
How long it had seemed that he waited until the day? He’d sent Stiles to collect her, although it had been with some reluctance, for he did worry that Lucy may be disappointed in him after seeing Stiles. His secretary was a dashing young man with wavy chestnut hair and bright blue eyes. Had not the judge so relied on his shrewd assistant, he would have been jealous of how the ladies’ gazes trailed after him. But he could hardly sack the man for being dashing; besides, Stiles knew far too much for the Judge Bonham to ever let him go. And he trusted him, even with the prize of his virgin bride, and comforted himself that when all was said and done, it would not matter whether she was attracted to him. She would still do her duty.
A day later, Lucy had arrived with all the promise he’d anticipated. The pictures had not done her justice, and her fearful expression upon meeting him he interpreted as awe and respect for his wealth and station.
The ceremony had been conducted the day she arrived; he wanted to make haste and claim the reward God had finally given him. He’d had Lucy wear one of the dresses he’d commissioned for her. The low, almost lewd cut of the gown only served to emphasize her innocence by contrast. It had made him all the more excited, because it reminded him of Rose, the whore. Like Rose, Lucy was put here for man’s use. But his alone, and use her he would. It was his right.
After the vows and a short reception, he’d sent the magistrate away and had Lucy taken to the bedchamber to be dressed for bed. He could feel his cock starting to twitch and even stiffen. He’d rubbed his hands together in glee and mounted the steps eagerly to his bedchamber as soon as the maid came to tell him the bride was ready and waiting.
But it was not to be. Even now, Archibald Bonham could not put out of his mind the memory of his inability to take her, and how she had made it worse by daring to reject him, turning his frustration into rage. The way she’d looked down, her eyes drawn to his flaccid cock. The little whore! She’d only pretended to be pure! She had only been feigning innocence! For why else would God strike his cock soft if not to protect him from yet another unholy union?
He’d struck Lucy then, and as she cowered in the corner he’d demanded to know how many men she’d been with. When she tearfully claimed she’d been with no one, he’d started to grasp and choke her, but had caught himself and let her go. He was a judge. He could not afford the scandal of giving his faithless bride the punishment she deserved. So he’d summoned Mr. Stiles, and by the time his secretary arrived, Judge Bonham had convinced himself that Lucy was possessed of a lascivious, depraved nature so severe that she needed to be locked away.
Oh, how she pleaded and begged, but he’d been resolute in the face of her treachery.
“That will teach you. Bitch.” And he’d spat on her as the men from St. Bart’s Asylum came to take her away.
Women. They were all the same. And every time he was the least bit tempted to revive his search for a woman to ease the ache he could not soothe, he took measures to reinforce his hardened belief in the true nature of females.
Another lesson was scheduled for this afternoon, and as if on cue he heard a rap at his chamber door.
“Come in,” he called, settling himself behind the desk of his study.
Stiles entered, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his chestnut hair perfectly coiffed. He guided the woman in ahead of him. She had raven black hair, and was of slight build. She looked frightened, as well she should be, for she was likely wondering why the judge scheduled to hear her case for prostitution would have her brought from her cell to his chambers.
She clutched her shawl nervously as she faced him; he could see the pulse in her pale throat and her fear pleased him.
“Bonnie Adams?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Do you know who I am?”
She inclined her head toward Stiles, and her voice quavered as she answered. “This one here says you’re Judge Bonham. It’s you who’s to decide my fate.”
“He is correct, young lady. But I’ve decided not to wait. I shall be deciding it tonight.”
“Tonight?” Bonnie clutched her shawl to her chest. “Why?” Her tone was guarded, suspicious.
“If you’d rather go back to the cell for a fortnight…” the judge began.
“No!” she said hastily. “No, please, sir.”
Judge Bonham leaned back in his chair. “Do you know what you’ve been charged with?”
She looked down. “Prostitution, sir. But I ain’t no whore. I swear to it.”
“But you were in a part of town frequented by such baggage. And you were among them.”
Bonnie twisted her hands in her shawl. “Yes, sir. But my cousin. Well, she’s… fallen.”
“And you were just visiting her?”
“Her mum, my aunt… well, she’s sore afraid for her. My own mum begged me to talk to her.” Tears welled in her eyes. “And now for me to be taken in like this. It will kill her if I’m called a whore in court.”
Judge Bonham nodded. “Indeed, it would be such a disgrace. But if you are to go free, you will need to admit your lustful nature.”
“But I’m not lustful, sir.”
“Are you faithfully married, then?” Judge Bonham moved from behind his desk to circle her where she stood.
“No, sir. I’m not married.”
“So you’re chaste?”
She flushed then, and the judge made a tsking noise. “So you’re not chaste.”
“I don’t give myself away freely to anyone,” she said defensively. “Nor for pay, if that’s what you mean.” When the judge’s face hardened, she realized her error. “Beg pardon, sir, but you must believe me.”
“So…” The judge stood now, and began pacing the room, his hands clasped at the small of his back. “We have a young woman who admits to not preserving her virginity, found in the company of whores, and who now expects me to believe she is not one.” He paused. “I believe this claim must be tested.”
“Tested?” she asked.
Judge Bonham turned to his handsome secretary. “Mr. Stiles,” he said. “Kiss this young woman.”
Nathan Stiles had been standing off to the side until now. But at his employer’s order his mouth quirked in a confident smirk and he strode over and took the young woman in his arms. She was too shocked to protest, and when his mouth took hers and his tongue expertly pried her lips apart, she could do nothing but moan. Stiles’ hands moved up to her breast, his fingers pinching a nipple through the fabric. Bonnie went nearly limp in his arms, in full sway now to the unexpected but expert handling of her body by a handsome gentleman she’d never thought would look askance at her.
“My, my,” Judge Bonham said when his man pulled back. “Not even a struggle.”
Bonnie looked at him, confused and upset. “He took me by surprise!” Tears welled in her eyes.
“So if my man Stiles here were to lift your skirts, he would not find your lady’s core wet with desire?”
When Bonnie didn’t answer, Judge Bonham gave a nod to his secretary, who took hold of the woman from behind and reached down to run his hand up under her skirt.
“Oh, please, sir, don’t…” But when his hand reached the apex of her thighs, she moaned partly from shame and partly from desire.
“Well, Stiles?” the judge asked.
Stiles withdrew his hand, which was glistening with the woman’s arousal. “Slick as an eel, Judge Bonham.”
Judge Bonham stepped close to the woman now, his face hard and stern.
“Just like the rest of them,” he said softly. “Feigning purity when underneath you are all the same.” He paused. “I find you guilty, Miss Adams,” he said, and she began to cry. “But I’m going to give you a choice between jail and a punishment more fitting of your sins—a punishment personally supervised by me.”
Her voice was barely audible. “Wh-what kind of punishment?”
“A sound thrashing,” the judge said. “Delivered by Mr. Stiles.”
The woman looked back at the man behind her, her eyes worried and questioning.
“I need your decision, Miss Adams. A thrashing? Or jail?”
Tears trailed down her cheeks, and she was trembling. “I don’t want to go to jail, sir. I’ll take the… thrashing.”
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