by Patty Devlin
He brought the belt down across her twin moons, starting without much force, to allow her flesh to warm up before he applied real force. He striped down to her thighs and back up again several times.
She held still at first, squeezing her cheeks together and tensing the muscles in her back. As her bottom began to turn pink, little cries of protest escaped her. He spanked harder, settling in to deliver the real punishment, but she reached back to cover her bottom.
“Mabelle. Move your hands or the rest of the spanking will be on the backs of your legs.” He struck her once on her upper thighs to emphasize his threat.
She yelped, spreading her fingers and reaching to protect her thighs, too.
“Shall I cut a switch instead?”
“No,” she answered, snatching her hands away.
He leaned over her and took one nipple between his fingers, pinching it and holding. “When you have been a naughty wife, I expect you to take your punishment like a good girl.”
She twisted to look at him, surprised confusion on her face. He saw heat in her eyes.
He grasped the hair that hung down her back, still torturing her nipple. “That’s right, Mabelle,” he murmured, his voice deepened. “After I spank you, I’m going to have my way with you. Any way I like—every way I like. Understand?”
He released her hair and she dropped her head to the quilt, moaning, “Sam,” in a wanton tone.
He straightened and picked up the belt. “Are you going to be a good girl?”
She writhed on the pillows as if offering her bottom to him, or more likely, trying to alleviate the need building inside her.
She hardly protested the next dozen strokes, though he made them hard, arching to meet the stiff leather and clenching in between. The sight of her undulating buttocks made him light-headed with desire, but he continued to whip her, determined to make his punishment memorable and set the correct tone as her husband who must be obeyed.
She began to cry out again and he increased the intensity even more, striking harder and faster as her hips danced across the pillows until she let out a keening wail and he stopped, dropping the belt to the floor. He pulled off his boots and climbed onto the bed beside her.
“Good girl,” he murmured in her ear, running his hand over her welted skin, feeling the heat of her roasted cheeks. “You took it so well.”
She panted, but when she turned her face, her eyes were dry. “Aren’t you going to take me, Sam?” she demanded. She started to crawl out of her punishment position over the pillows.
“Don’t even think about moving,” he growled. “I want you just the way I put you.”
He saw desire flare, her eyes darkening.
“Take me, then,” she challenged.
He crawled up to his knees and unbuttoned his pants, pulling them down enough to free his length. He could see moisture glistening on her dewy sex so he did not hesitate, simply brought the head of his cock to her entrance and rubbed until it opened for him, her plump folds enveloping his full length with delicious heat.
He groaned, losing himself in the pleasure as he pushed into the hilt. She pressed her heated bottom back at him, as if eager for his plundering. “Oh God, Mabelle, I am not certain I can be gentle.”
He grasped her elbows and used them to leverage into her, causing her back to arch with every thrust.
“Oh, Sam! Oh…”
With each instroke he dipped into her sweet heat, with each withdrawal he savored the feel of her punished bottom beneath him, his little ranch girl wholly his, fully surrendered to however he chose to use her. The power and beauty of it intoxicated him until he hit a near delirium of ecstasy as he crested the summit and spilled his seed with a shout.
Mabelle cried out as well, arching until her torso came upright, squeezing her bottom together as her sex spasmed around his cock, and milked his seed deep inside her.
#
She woke in his arms, nudged awake with little kisses.
“It must be suppertime. Are you hungry?” Sam asked, stroking her hair back from her face.
She rolled over in his arms to face him. The thought of putting on clothing and sitting downstairs with the other boarders for a meal did not appeal. “Mmm. I am, but I do not want to leave this bed,” she murmured.
He touched her nose. “I’ll make you a deal. If you promise to stay here,” he said, his hand stroking down her hip, “—just the way you are—I will see if Mrs. Owens will allow me to bring your supper to our room.” He squeezed her bottom, reminding her of its tenderness.
She harbored no resentment over her whipping, instead she still floated on euphoria—the residual pain only producing a warm, relaxed sense of bliss.
“I love you, Sam Pride,” she said, watching as he strapped his belt back around his hips.
He leaned over the bed and kissed her. “I love you, too, Mrs. Pride.”
She glowed at hearing her new name.
Sam gave her a wink as he left and returned only a few minutes later with a plate heaped with food. He settled beside her on the bed and cut the roast beef, feeding it to her before taking a bite for himself.
They ate in contented silence until they had emptied the plate.
“Was that enough for you?” she asked. “You have not eaten since this morning, have you?”
He shook his head. “Have you?”
“No,” she admitted, “but I am certain I eat less than you.”
He grinned. “When a man eats in bed with his naked wife, his appetite is for things other than food.”
She gave him a seductive smile. “Oh?”
He set the plate on the little dresser beside the bed and hauled her over his lap in one smooth motion.
“Ack!” she cried. “Not more spankings!”
He ran his calloused hand over her raw cheeks. “No, I’m just checking my handiwork.”
“I assure you, it was sufficient!”
He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that warmed her to her toes. “Will you disobey me again, Mabelle?”
She twisted to look over her shoulder. “I thought you liked me feisty.”
He threw back his head and laughed, even as his hand crashed down on her sore bottom. He applied his hand steadily for a series of swats, thoroughly re-warming every inch of her already smarted cheeks.
“Sam!” she gasped. “Stop!”
“I expect your obedience.”
She flashed him a wry smile. “I am certain you will handle me when I am not.”
“I guarantee it,” he said, resuming his spanking.
“No, please!” she giggled. “Please, stop!”
He did pause, stroking her tingling bottom again as heat flooded between her legs, her desire renewed with the sting of his palm. When his hand slid between her thighs, traveling up toward her sex, she shivered, tightening the gap.
He delivered a sharp slap to the back of her thigh.
“Ooh!”
“Spread your legs, Mabelle.”
Just the sound of his deep-voiced command turned her to butter. She released the tension in her muscles and allowed her thighs to fall open, trembling in anticipation of what he might do next.
He continued his exploration of her inner thigh, trailing his hand upward until his fingers touched her sex.
She lurched at the sensation as a shock of pleasure shot through her, her swollen folds sensitized to the briefest touch. Moisture seeped out and he spread it all long her entryway as she schooled herself to hold still for him.
He pushed his thumb over her back hole. “The next time you disobey me, Mabelle, I’m going to take you here,” he said, thrusting in before she had time to resist.
She gasped at the invasion, the tight ring of her anus burning with the stretch. “A-ahh…”
“That’s right, little ranch girl. I will take you long and hard back here because this is where naughty wives have to take it.”
She groaned, the pleasure matched in equal parts with humiliation, making her squirm wit
h growing need and the desire for it to be over.
He thrust in harder, as if to give the example of how he might take her as punishment and then pulled his fingers from both holes. Gripping one thigh, he pulled it further open and began to spank her sex.
She gave a little scream, but he continued delivering sharp little slaps to her most delicate parts. When his thumb entered her back hole again and the pussy spanking continued, she lost all control, convulsing as her juices shot out of her in a startled climax. She humped his lap, writhing and wriggling until the spasming ebbed and left her collapsed in a boneless heap over her husband’s thighs.
Sam stroked the backs of her thighs and her bottom, murmuring sweet endearments. She remained in a daze until he eased out from under her to wash up in the basin on the dressing table.
She rolled onto her side to watch him.
“Sam...I hardly know what to think about the things you do to me.”
He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “I’m just handling you, as you suggested.”
“Yes,” she murmured, enjoying the delicious reverberation of bliss still pulsing through her limbs. “Quite well.”
Regardless of any difficulty she might have in obeying a husband, she knew with her whole being that being Sam’s wife made it all worthwhile. And now he was free of the bounty hanging over his head. Her thoughts turned to their plans for the next day.
“So tomorrow is the meeting at the lawyer’s is it not?”
He gave a grunt of assent.
“Did you know you had brothers?”
“I am not surprised,” he said drily. “From what I understand, my father gambled for a living, never staying in one place for too long. I would not be surprised if he had a bastard in every city across the West.”
“How do you feel about meeting them?” she probed. She noticed Sam had looked dazed at learning Mrs. Morrison’s brother was a relation.
Sam splashed water on his face and turned to look at her, drips flying as he rubbed his jaw. “Honestly? I do not know what to think. I never had any family but my ma, and later my wife.” He smiled, warming her with gaze, “and now you.” He dried his hands and face. “I do not really need any others.” He flashed another grin, “Except for those children you said you would be honored to raise.”
She ran a hand over her flat abdomen, imagining it swollen with his baby. Until she met Sam, she had never wanted a husband, nor considered having her own children. Now, the idea brought her joy.
“What about the inheritance? Do you think it will be substantial?”
“I would not count on it, sweetheart. Although you never know with a gambler—if he hit a lucky streak, he might have died with a sizeable chunk.”
“What will you do with it, if it amounts to anything?”
He crossed the room and dove onto the bed beside her, bouncing her with his weight.
She giggled.
“What will we do with it, love?”
She looked into his sapphire eyes, the dark lashes accentuating the blue irises. Shaking her head, she said, “I suppose I have everything I need.”
Chapter Eight
“You look beautiful,” he said, watching Mabelle pin her hair in the small mirror over the dressing table.
“Do you like me better dressed like a lady?” she asked, looking over her shoulder and batting her eyelashes.
“You are stunning. But I would be hard-pressed to say if I like you better. I am awfully fond of you in the calico with a gun belt around your waist and a man’s hat on your head. I guess I like looking at you in any of your clothes.” He gave her a wicked grin, “And out of your clothes, too.”
Mabelle turned and glided toward him, looking every inch the refined lady she had been raised to be. He held out his arm, stifled in the jacket and necktie.
She eyed the guns holstered at his hips. “You are wearing those?”
He nodded. “I still do not trust this meeting. It could be a trap of some kind.”
Mabelle snorted. “A trap for what reason?”
“Maybe someone who doesn’t know there is no longer a bounty on my head.”
She rolled her eyes. “You are being silly. Not that I blame you for not trusting anyone.”
He snaked an arm around her cinched waist and pulled her satin-covered form against him. “I trust you, little lady.”
She beamed up at him and he touched the tip of her freckled nose. “Shall we?”
He led her down the stairs to their wagon, which he had already hitched. They planned to leave after the meeting, as leaving the ranch unattended for so long invited disaster.
He found Hobart St. James’ office and tethered the horses to the hitching post outside it before lifting Mabelle down from the wagon. He loved the feel of her little waist in his hands, the way she leaned right into him, depending on him to catch her falling weight. They walked inside together and though unsure about meeting his half-brothers, nothing dimmed his pride at having Mabelle on his arm for introductions.
The front room stood empty, but he could hear voices coming from behind a second door, so he knocked and entered.
Inside the lawyer’s office, a white-haired man sat behind a giant desk and three couples sat in chairs.
He scanned the men’s faces, taking in their similarities. Though they varied in the color of their hair and eyes, two had the same square jaw and dimpled chin he saw when he shaved in a mirror, and he suspected the third bearded man did, too.
“Sam Pride,” he said, sweeping his eyes across the room to include all its occupants. “And this is my wife, Mabelle.”
His half-brothers stood and introduced themselves and their wives, though by the time they had finished, he realized he had not remembered a single name, his thoughts too occupied with conjecture about his father. He hoped Mabelle had paid attention.
The attorney indicated they should sit. “We’re just waiting for one more couple,” he said.
Mabelle sat and immediately began polite conversation, asking the women if they had traveled far, and whether they were surprised to hear the news of the will.
When the door opened and a man wearing a marshal’s star on his vest stepped through, he tensed, his hand going to his pistol.
“Ah, Marshal Owens,” the attorney St. James said, shifting the papers in front of him.
He relaxed his fingers. The newcomer had the same cleft in his chin. He was another brother, not a lawman here to arrest him.
Mabelle touched his knee in a show of support. He exhaled and stood for another round of introductions.
When they all had settled into their chairs, St. James read his father’s will, in which he apologized for being absent from each of their lives. “Each of you is to receive fifty-thousand, one hundred, thirty-two dollars and eleven cents, and you may divide up his worldly goods or give them to charity, as you see fit,” St. James explained when he had finished reading.
He glanced at Mabelle, stunned, though he kept on his best poker face.
The attorney began to write out the checks while his brothers discussed what to do with their father’s journals and personal property. His eldest brother, Abel asked for the journals and they decided to give the rest of their father’s effects to charity.
Still dazed, he stood and accepted the check, shaking hands with all the men.
“I hope you will forgive us, but we left our ranch back in Wyoming Territory unattended and we are anxious to get back to it,” he said.
He saw Marshal Owens eying him suspiciously. “Marshal, I want you to know I cleared up that business with Mick Malone,” he said. “Just in case my face looks familiar from the Wanted posters.”
The other brothers and their wives turned and stared.
Mabelle took his arm and lifted her chest. “My husband was unjustly accused after acting in self-defense,” she explained.
He suppressed a smile. He hardly cared what these men thought of him, even if they were his blood relations. Only Mabelle’s esteem matt
ered. Tipping his hat and nodding to the group, he led his bride out to the busy street where the noise of carriages passing and people’s voices filled the air.
He pulled Mabelle against him and stared down into her beautiful face.
“Fifty thousand dollars!” she breathed, her eyes wide.
He grinned. “Looks like we are having steak for lunch!”
Her eyebrows drew together. “Our plan is still the same, though? We are going back to Wyoming Territory?”
He nodded. “Don’t we have a ranch to run?”
The lines on her forehead relaxed and she smiled up at him. “Yes, we do!” she sang out triumphantly.
“Come on, little ranch girl,” he said, leading her to the wagon and lifting her into it. “I cannot wait to get you home.”
She looked down, her eyes shining. “Home,” she repeated softly.
He unhitched the horses and climbed in beside her, putting an arm around her waist to draw her close as he managed the reins with the other hand.
There, in the streets of Denver in broad daylight, he kissed his wife full on the lips. The promise of their future glowed no more brightly than that instant, sitting beside her in an old wagon, knowing every moment going forward they would be together.
Renee Rose
Renee Rose, an erotic romance author, did not come out of the closet as a spanko until she published her spanking romance Betrothed. A lifelong writer, she has a B.A. in creative writing from Knox College, where she won the Davenport prize for both fiction and poetry, and the Lorraine Smith prize for literary criticism. She spent thirteen years in technical writing before she found a way to incorporate her deepest darkest spanking fantasies into fiction and express a part of her that longed to see the light. She is now passionate about supporting others in accepting and exploring their kink, whatever that may be.
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