Over the Knee

by Ashe Barker, Lily Harlem, Katy Swann, Wendi Zwaduk, Lucy Felthouse, Dolly Watt

  And willing it was. A slow burn of arousal had begun when she’d been experimenting alone with the crop. Since Tristan’s arrival it had grown into full-on flames that raged more powerfully still each time he landed the pretty pink heart on her naked skin.

  Four. The cheek stung, heated, throbbed.

  Five. Her upper thigh this time. Not as fleshy, therefore a slightly different type of pain, but delicious and delightful nonetheless.

  Six. She barely had any time to register how it felt at all before she heard a thud, then a much louder rustling of clothing this time. Garments dropped to the carpet. Breathing—louder, faster, closer. Body heat—Tristan millimeters away, examining his handiwork, probably smiling as he gripped the base of his cock and aimed it at her now incredibly slick pussy. The tip of him, barely touching her outer labia, teasing.

  Then his patience crumbled. Gripping her hip with his left hand, he reached forward, grabbed her thick hair and wound it around his fist. Simultaneously, he yanked her head back and drove his cock into her cunt.

  Their hisses and moans mingled together, filling the room. They’d fucked plenty, that very morning, in fact, but it hadn’t been quite the same.

  “Christ,” Tristan said, leaning down and biting her shoulder as his balls pressed up against her buttocks. “Words cannot describe how much I’ve missed this.”

  A sharp sting bloomed in her shoulder, sending yet more endorphins into her bloodstream. Her pussy throbbed around him. “Nor I, Sir. I love you.”

  “I love you too, little subbie. Now, that’s enough talking.”

  He kept a hold of her hair, yanking and jerking her like a rag doll as he began fucking her with furious abandon. The fingers of his other hand dug tightly into the flesh of her hip. She’d have bruises there tomorrow, she was sure. Marks from her Master that would turn her on every time she looked at them.

  Closing her eyes, she gave herself over completely to Tristan. To his tugging, grasping hands, to his pounding cock, to the heat in her backside and thighs that ached deliciously every time her husband’s body slammed against hers. She was carried away on pleasure, perfect pleasure, and a whole ton of relief. Relief that things were back to normal, that her wonderful Dom could tan her hide whenever he wanted.

  And he would. Jayme knew her near future would be filled with lots of spankings, both impromptu and more expected ones. But either way she’d take them, take them with happiness, pride and need.

  The speed and roughness of Tristan’s thrusting increased. He was getting close. No matter—she was getting there, too. Twin flares of agony on her scalp and her hip were seeing to that.

  But then Tristan changed things up. Suddenly he released her hair, and she gasped as the sensations in her scalp altered. But before she processed it, he was spanking her arse. Spanking her arse as he fucked her—slap after slap on her upturned, wobbling backside. Whacking her even as his cock was repeatedly gobbled up by her slick, eager cunt.

  “Ahh!” he yelled, hitting her harder. “That’s more fucking like it! Not just pink, little subbie, but red. A delicious, vivid red. Beautiful. Unnnh!”

  After laying a last, particularly hearty smack on her bum, one that tipped her over the edge, Tristan started to come.

  As Jayme’s climax crashed over her, causing trembles in her body, spasms in her sex, she was aware of a sudden emptiness. Her internal walls clutching at nothing.

  Then warm liquid splattered onto her tortured arse. Growls and groans from Tristan, slick sounds as he worked his cock, drawing every last drop of cum from his balls onto her reddened skin. Rope after rope of spunk painted her, marking her all over again, just in a different way.

  She cried out, another almost-paralyzing wave of pleasure ripping through her. “Fuck, Sir! Fuck!”

  He didn’t reply for a moment, likely catching his breath and riding out his own orgasm. After a few seconds, he chuckled. “Well put, little subbie. Can you stay there for a moment?”

  Nodding, she said, “Yes, Sir.”

  He padded away. Moments later he returned and a warm, wet washcloth was placed on her bum. He swiped the rough material over her sticky skin, causing little aftershocks in her cunt.

  Once he was satisfied she was clean, he moved past her, settled onto the mattress and opened his arms. “Come here, little subbie. My perfect woman.”

  She almost stumbled in her eagerness to go into his arms. The intensity of their encounter had left her feeling lethargic, and she settled beside him, humming happily.

  Pressing a kiss to her damp forehead, Tristan said, “How was it for you?”

  Smiling at the cheesy line, Jayme tilted her head back to look at him. “It was quite literally perfect, Tris. But then, I’d expect nothing less from you. You’re a spanking perfectionist if ever there was one.”

  “I did warn you, sweetheart. Properly, or not at all.”

  “Yes, I know. And, as always, you were absolutely right.”

  About the Author

  Lucy Felthouse is a very busy woman! She writes erotica and erotic romance in a variety of subgenres and pairings, and has over seventy publications to her name, with many more in the pipeline. These include Best Bondage Erotica 2012 and 2013, and Best Women’s Erotica 2013. Another string to her bow is editing, and she has edited and co-edited a number of anthologies.

  Email: lucy@lucyfelthouse.co.uk

  Lucy loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.

  Also by Lucy Felthouse

  Wild After Dark: Sated

  A PRIVATE EDUCATION

  Dolly Watt

  Dedication

  For Dr K.

  Trademarks Acknowledgment

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmark mentioned in this work of fiction:

  James Bond: Ian Fleming, Eon Productions

  Chapter One

  Emma had never met a member of the aristocracy before, but Lord Leopold Denby-Peel, Ninth Earl of Folchester, wasn’t what she’d been expecting. Tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, he stood before her, his hair hanging in an unruly mop, his blue-gray eyes glittering in a craggy, big-boned face. Emma hadn’t, either, been expecting the earl to be answering the enormous oak door to Ashlaine Hall, or to be naked from the waist upwards. Didn’t the nobility have butlers? Shirts?

  The earl rubbed his damp, tousled hair with a hand towel. Emma’s eyes briefly strayed over his muscular, richly-haired chest and down to the dark line that disappeared into the waistband of his gray sweatpants.

  “Forgive the déshabillé,” he said. “Just got out of the shower. I’m rather short of staff these days.” He flung his towel over one shoulder and thrust out his hand. “Call me Leo.”

  His grip was warm and confident, as was his smile. “Do come in,” he continued. “I’ll take you straight up to the library. I bet you’re keen to get cracking.”

  Emma followed the earl into a grand entrance hall, her heels ringing on the checkerboard tiles while his bare feet padded noiselessly. Muscles shifted in the broad wedge of his smooth, honey-tanned back as he toweled his hair, dark fluff flashing under his arms. Above them, an enormous chandelier glinted in the wintry sunlight, and the high gloomy walls were hung with stags’ heads and militaristic flags on poles.

  “The place has become a bit of a burden,” he said, draping his towel over both shoulders. “The East Wing is leaking and causing terrible damp problems. The tower needs renovating, the outbuildings are practically derelict. And I don’t have the readies to fix it.”

  “Do you live here alone?” asked Emma, glancing left and right at grand reception rooms and corridors.

  “Yes, apart from a couple of dogs and a handful of staff,” he replied, turning to offer a polite smile. “I’m not the marrying kind.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Not at all. I’m not gay either, if that was your next question. Just one
flight of stairs. Follow me.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “If I can get some money together,” he went on, his hand on the oak banister, “I should be able to attract some funding for repairs and upkeep. I’m loath to sell the library to a private collector, though, so I’m very grateful that you’ve taken an interest. Obviously I’d need some form of financial recompense but—”

  “Well, the library service does have a pot of money for acquisitions,” said Emma, arching her neck to address the back of his head rather than his pert backside. “But the books would need to be deemed of public interest. And I’m afraid we couldn’t pay the sums you’d get from a private collector at auction.”

  “That’s not a problem,” replied Leo curtly. “I’m a book lover. I want the books to be housed where they can be appreciated, not squirreled away in the home of some old fogey with more money than sense. Books shouldn’t be status symbols, don’t you agree? Just along this corridor.”

  Emma hurried to keep pace with the earl, inhaling the clean, soapy scent trailing in his wake as they passed gilt-framed portraits of important-looking men from bygone eras. Leo’s stride was long and confident, while Emma, dressed smartly in heels and a chocolate-brown skirt-suit, was hampered by her clothing and had to keep scampering so as not to fall behind. Eventually, they reached a glossy wooden door.

  “After you,” said Leo, pushing the door open.

  Emma slid awkwardly past him, her clothed arm accidentally brushing his bare chest, and into a sumptuous, octagonal room lined with books from floor to ceiling. Pale sunlight filtered in through two tall diamond-paned windows, and a small fire danced in the hearth. In the center of the earl’s private library stood a wide oak desk, and the place smelled of dusty parchment and leather.

  “What a beautiful room,” exclaimed Emma.

  “Isn’t it? Breaks my heart that half these books need to go, but then again, selfish of me to keep them all to myself. I’m sure they’ll be of immense value to cultural historians and sexologists. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and finish dressing and then fetch us some tea. Do start exploring.”

  Sexologists? Emma was fairly certain that aspect hadn’t been mentioned in the earl’s correspondence with the county library. Leo gave her a small smile, scanning her face as if sensing her consternation.

  “Personally, I’m rather fond of the books to the left of the fireplace,” he said. “Ladder’s over there if you need it.”

  Alone, Emma scanned the rows of gilt-embossed, leather-bound spines in shades of crimson, deep blue and forest green, hardly knowing where to begin. Opting to follow Leo’s hint but not wanting to bother with the ladder, she bent to retrieve a hefty volume from the lowest shelf to the left of the fire. On the book’s vermillion spine was the year 1879 and the Roman numerals I–VI but there was no sign of an actual title. Emma carried the weighty tome to the oak desk, laid it down on the green leather surface, then opened the cover to the creamy first page. Printed in flowing, gothic script reminiscent of titles in medieval manuscripts, were the words, A Gentleman’s Account of Maintaining Order in a Noble Household.

  Well, that sounded disappointingly dull. The large pages crackled as Emma turned them. She ignored the sloping, handwritten text in favor of pages covered with tissue paper. Illustrations would give her more of a clue about the book’s content. How on earth did you illustrate housekeeping accounts? Carefully, Emma lifted a sheet of tissue, giving a sharp intake of breath when she saw the image beneath. An inked line drawing depicted a young woman bent over a table, her voluminous skirts raised to display a naked bottom flushed with heat and framed in petticoat-frills. The woman wore ankle boots and dark stockings but her face couldn’t be seen.

  Emma’s heart raced as she realized she was looking at a bound personal volume of some sort. Very personal, to judge by the illustration. It made her nervous to think this was probably the only copy in existence, and it was housed in a library containing an unguarded fire. No doubt there were other similarly unique items on these shelves.

  Emma’s eyes drifted to the page opposite the semi-naked woman and she began to read. After only a sentence or two, she unfastened the single button of her jacket and leaned forward, elbows on the leather-topped desk, entranced—

  Today I had cause to discipline our new kitchen maid, Polly something or other, having been informed by Hawkins that the young minx had stolen a quart of tea for her ailing mother. She denied it, of course, they always do, but I proceeded with my program, Hawkins watching as per usual.

  “Do you know what we do at Ashlaine Hall to servants suspected of misdeeds?”

  “Yes, sir,” she sniveled. “I have heard the rumors. You beat them on their poor behinds.”

  “Indeed I do. So please, bend over this table and brace yourself.”

  Polly was a comely creature and, while understandably hesitant, she followed my instruction and lay her upper half on the desk’s surface, palms flat to the leather, cheek turned as she gazed emptily ahead. I noted she was trembling somewhat so I reassured her that this chastisement was for her own benefit and would be over before she knew it.

  I raised her skirts high, baring a pair of creamy-white drawers, split at the rear, and wasted no time in untying them. When the garment was around her ankles, I took a moment to evaluate her backside so I could consider the method of striking most appropriate to her proportions. Undoubtedly, she was a well-fed wench, and her buttocks were deliciously dimpled and fat. I decided to apply one of my broad leather paddles to her rear to ensure maximum coverage of her ample surface area.

  Luckily I had such an implement in one of the desk drawers so didn’t need to prolong the poor girl’s agonizing wait by calling upon Hawkins to fetch additional tools. I flexed my fingers, rolled my shoulder and took the leather handle in a firm grip. I swished the paddle, reminding myself of its weight and balance, then placed my left hand in the small of the maid’s back. Experience has taught me the new ones will try to leap up on impact and I was mindful to keep Polly firmly in her place.

  When I brought the leather bat smashing hard across her buttocks, taking care to strike her on her fleshiest part, she howled like billy-o, her body fighting against my restraining push. I congratulated myself on having had the foresight to hold the wayward creature in place and eyed how her dimpled flesh wobbled beautifully, a rosy glow blossoming on her pale skin.

  “How many do you think, Hawkins?” I asked, turning to address my trusty, hawk-eyed butler. “Was it very good tea?”

  “I didn’t steal no tea!” cried my disciplinee.

  Hawkins cleared his throat. “It was of excellent quality, my lord. Black Ceylon tea.”

  “Very well,” I asserted. “Let’s make this a hard dozen.”

  The errant servant wailed and wriggled as I thrashed her with all my might. Before long, I had no need to hold her in place for the beating subdued her, and her body acquiesced to receiving my tuition. I suspect, as is so often the case, she began to rather enjoy it. Her buttocks turned a wonderful shade of dark scarlet, and I was quite breathless when I concluded my task.

  “There!” I said, satisfied. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  “No, sir,” she whimpered.

  I turned to Hawkins. “Shall I test her?”

  “It’s always advisable, my lord.”

  Agreeing wholeheartedly with his assessment, I inserted two fingers into the maid’s cunny whereupon I found a blazing, molten furnace. I stirred my fingers, probing her depths to ensure a thorough judgment, and the creature moaned like a lunatic from Bedlam.

  I withdrew my fingers, noting they were slick with her cream, and pronounced, “Soaked, Hawkins. She’s soaked.”

  Hawkins made a peculiar noise in his throat.

  “I want you to keep an eye on her,” I said. “I fear she’s not to be trusted. Report back to me her slightest offense. I feel she needs a good deal of discipline to be brought in line, don’t you?”

  “Yes, my lor
d,” said Hawkins. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” came a voice from nearby.

  Emma jumped, suddenly plunged back into the real world, the modern world where she was in a library with an earl she hardly knew who was carrying a tray of tea. He wore faded jeans, trainers, and a dove-gray shirt, and everything about his clothes spoke of money.

  To her horror, Emma realized she was leaning over the open book, positioned much as the young servant had been, albeit fully clothed.

  “I-I—” she stammered, heat coloring her cheeks as she stood.

  “I trust you’re broad-minded,” said Leo, setting the tea things down on the desk. “Librarians usually are.”

  “I’m actually an archivist.”

  “I’m using the term loosely, to denote one who works in a library.”

  “Yes, people often do,” replied Emma, keen to change the subject but unable to ignore the pounding heat in her pussy. “Whereas—”

  “Whereas you prefer terminology which is strictly correct?” suggested the earl. “As befits someone in your profession, someone devoted to order, precision and accuracy.”

  Somehow, his innocent words seemed loaded with meaning.

  “My great-great-grandfather,” said Leo, gesturing to the book. “Quite an old rogue. And as you’ve no doubt surmised, he had certain predilections. I believe many of his disciplining sessions took place in this very room. And many, such as the one you’re currently reading, were with the poor servant bent over this very table. Exquisite drawing, isn’t it? The fifth earl was very gifted with his hands. Milk and sugar?”