by Mason, Nina
Fury flared deep inside the cockles of Maggie’s heart. “How despicable. Does the king have no morals, no scruples, no sense of propriety? Does he have no fear of God?”
“He has his own odd opinions about religion and morality.” Robert shook his head. “He believes, for instance, that delving too deeply into religious matters will undermine the state; he also thinks all appetites are free and God will never damn a man for allowing himself a wee bit of pleasure. In short, he has tailored his beliefs about God to fit his hedonistic lifestyle, rather than the other way around. He thinks to be wicked, and to design mischief, is the only thing God hates.”
“Does he not see his own malice?”
“Nay,” Robert said. “When it comes to self-reflection, he wears oversized blinders.”
Maggie wanted naught to do with such a selfish and decadent man and now dreaded their trip to the palace even more than before. As she stood there wringing her hands, Robert’s request to be whipped pushed through the other thoughts veiling her mind.
“May I ask you something?”
He still kept his back to her—just as well, given her distress. If he looked at her, she might fall apart.
“Of course.”
“Why do you wish to be punished by my hand? From what guilt do you seek expiation?”
“I would rather not say.”
She heaved a sigh of exasperation. “That is, of course, your prerogative, Robert. But know I will not grant your request unless I know the reason.”
“I will tell you tomorrow. In the carriage. On the way to Edinburgh.”
“Why not now?”
“Because, if you knew, you might refuse to go.”
Alarm reverberated through her like a struck gong. “And what if I refuse to go regardless?”
He rounded on her then with a heated gaze. “You will go if I have to tie you up and carry you to the carriage over my shoulder.”
Maggie’s hands fisted in rage. How dare he threaten to take her to Edinburgh by force. She had to know what he kept from her that warranted such brutish behavior—and a bad beating. Tonight. Right this minute. Her gaze darted from the rack of whips to the prayer chair. If he wanted a flogging, she would give it to him. But to further her own ends.
“Fine,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “Have it your way. If ‘tis a flogging you desire, ‘tis a flogging I shall give you. Now, off with your clothes, husband, and get down on your knees whilst I select something suitable to beat you with.”
To her surprise, he began to undress. Heart fluttering like a bird inside her ribcage, she crossed to the rack of whips. There were single-tail buggy whips, multi-tail floggers, and assorted riding crops. A ceramic umbrella stand beside the display held an array of canes. She pulled out a gentleman’s walking stick with an ivory handle carved to resemble the head of a snake. It seemed appropriate somehow and would do the job creditably.
Turning round, she found him kneeling on the prayer chair, shirtless, but still in his kilt, his head bowed in contrition. Pity tempered her anger as her gaze roamed over his repentant posture.
Holy Mother of God. A crosshatch of fine scars covered his back and shoulders. Tears pricked her eyes and squeezed her throat. Had he done the damage himself? Why? To feel what Jesus felt whilst being scourged by the Romans or to expiate some inner darkness of his own? He claimed his erotic proclivities, though unconventional, were “natural.” Deep down in his heart of hearts, did he doubt his own rhetoric?
“No,” she said to him. “That will not do. If I am to beat you, it will be on my terms. Are we in agreement?”
“Aye.”
“Good. Now, get up, take off everything, and lay face down on the bed.”
He stood, his posture rueful, and unbuckled his belt. His kilt fell, exposing his lack of arousal—a mild surprise. Would he become sexually stimulated when she beat him?
Would she?
He walked to the bed and lay down as she’d instructed. The rusted wires of shame and desire twisted together inside her. He looked so tempting spread out before her like an oblation. She’d sorely missed having him in her bed the past several nights. Missed his kisses, his arms, his cock, his smell, and his softly uttered endearments. ‘Twas strange how quickly she’d grown used to having him in her bed. He might be a devil, but he was her husband. She loved him. To the depths of her soul at times. Now, however, resentment and rage smothered her affection for him.
She moved to the side of the bed and raised the cane, then, thinking twice, set it aside. She would tie him first. She glanced around, squinting to see in the dim glow of the candles. Where had he dropped his neck cloth? Spying it on the floor near the prayer chair, she hurried over to retrieve it before returning to Robert.
“Raise your arms over your head.” He obeyed and, whilst securing his wrists to the nearest bedpost, she said, “Now, choose a safe word, you devil, in case my anger should carry me away.”
“Do your worst, Rosebud. I can take it.”
Incensed by his impudence, she snatched up the cane and brought it down across his buttocks. “Do as I say.”
“Cuckold.”
An odd choice for a safe word. A cuckold was a man whose wife cheated, which she could never do. Even if she did not care for him, adultery was a mortal sin she would never deign to commit. She brought the cane down again.
He flinched under the blow.
To the devil with him. He had too much tolerance, too much discipline. Plus, he enjoyed pain. How would she ever break him? She would fall to pieces long before he did.
Despair gnawed at her insides, masticating her resolve. Her plight seemed hopeless. She turned her back on him, ready to throw away the cane and run. All her life she’d tried to do the right thing, to avoid sin and temptation, to put the needs of others first, to be good.
She’d been abandoned by her parents, treated badly by the sisters, ignored by the saints, and told by the religion she embraced she was lesser in God’s eyes because she lacked a penis.
Something dark and powerful stirred at her core. As it surfaced, all that was good and decent within her fell away like Salome’s veils. Suddenly, she was no longer Maggie Armstrong, the kindhearted duchess of Dunwoody. She was Mistress Margaret, the avenger of Eve and all womankind.
Turning back to her husband, who still lay prostate upon the bed, she tightened her grip on the cane.
“Recite the Act of Contrition, you whoreson.” She struck his buttocks without mercy. “Only address it to me rather than to God—as Mistress Margaret.”
She swept her gaze fore to aft, drinking in every detail of his prone form. The tangle of dark hair, the broad shoulders, the long muscles supporting his spine, the graceful dip of his lower back, the pale twin knolls of his posterior (their perfection now spoiled by welts), the cleft concealing his anus, and the firm, fleshy columns of his thighs.
Desire erupted in her loins, violent and molten. So did hatred. This devilish man had stolen her innocence along with her heart. He’d awakened the shadow side of her nature. He’d tempted her with his apple of knowledge. He deserved her wrath, deserved all the pain she could inflict upon his wicked personage.
She brought the cane down again, more ruthlessly than before. “Say it, you heathen. Beg my forgiveness.”
“O Mistress Margaret,” he began obediently. “I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell; but most of all because they offend Thee, my Mistress, Who art all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.”
“Good.” She whacked him again, for good measure. “Now, honor your vow and confess your sin.”
“I will tell you tomorrow, in the carriage.”
Whack.
“You shall tell me now.”
“No, I shan’t.”
Whack.
“Yes, you shall.”
Her supremacy over him thrilled Mistress Margaret to her marrow. Drunk with power, she thrummed with satisfaction until her gaze took in the damage she’d done. Red welts, some oozing blood, covered his posterior. Even if she stopped now, tomorrow’s jerky carriage ride would be sheer agony for him. Pity and remorse rushed in, diluting her rage and restoring her compassion.
She nudged him in the side with the tip of the cane. “Have you had enough, Your Grace?”
“Nay.”
His obstinacy rekindled her rage in a white-hot flash. She struck him again, this time in the lower back, the seat of the reins. Whatever he concealed had to be dreadful indeed to warrant such ill-treatment. Something to do with the royal court, no doubt. But what could it be? Did he plan to throw her over for the king’s choice of bride?
“Tell me,” she demanded more shrilly than intended. “Or I shall beat you senseless.”
“Pray, do. By all means.”
She struck him five more times, then, resting her arm, again surveyed the damage she’d done. His buttocks had become a confused cut-work of livid welts and gashes, many of them bleeding to a worrisome degree. He’d scarcely be able to walk tomorrow, let alone sit for hours on end in a bouncing carriage. Surely, he’d cancel the trip, sparing them both the penalties of this terrible secret he withheld from her. Yet, he did not appear to suffer from his wounds. On the contrary, he was writhing against the fine silk sheets as if the beating had driven him to raptures.
Since her conscience forbid her to continue abusing him—despite his obvious enjoyment—she poked him hard in the ribs with the point of the walking stick.
“Turn over, you pus-eating maggot.”
He rolled onto his damaged backside with nary a wince or hesitation, exposing his body’s inexplicable response to her mistreatment. She would not have believed it, had she not seen it with her own two eyes. His cock was hard and weeping for release.
Her cunny wept, too—for him. Her power over him had a dark attraction she could not account for—nor resist. She only knew the beating had aroused her as much as it had him. Something wild and primitive within shattered what little remained of her civilized shell. Flinging away the cane, she lifted her skirts, climbed atop him, and prepared to impale herself upon his nail.
The passion of Saint Margaret.
She looked into his eyes, braced her hands on his belly, and sat down, taking every inch of him into her body. Satisfaction hissed from her lips. In the fear and loneliness of the past six nights, she had longed for this and now that she had it, she could not get enough. She pierced herself again and again, pitching fore and aft as she did, pulling his body hair and pinching his nipples and scrotum. As he groaned and bucked in response, she rode him harder, desperate to break him.
The climax crashed down like divine wrath. She took his passion nail fully into her body as she splintered around him like the wood of Christ’s cross. The orgasm—her stigmata—was so incredible, so transporting, she nearly lost consciousness. And yet, ‘twas not enough by half.
He remained within her, as still and hard as a statue.
“You have ruined me.” She dragged her fingernails down his torso, tearing trenches in the skin. “Like a fool, I thought I could bring you into the light, but instead, you have buried my light in your darkness. I should divorce you, Robert, return to the convent, and devote my life to God.”
“Aye, you should.”
Eviscerated by his answer, she threw herself down on his chest and began to sob. “Is that what you want? For me to go away so you can be the king’s pawn?”
“We are both his pawns, Rosebud. Like it or not.”
She rubbed her cheek hard against his chest, abrading her fragile flesh on the coarse fan of hair over his breastbone. Neither of them would be in any state to travel tomorrow, let alone meet the king. She sat up, taking him deeper into her, and met his gaze.
God, but he had gorgeous eyes. Like Lucifer’s pitchfork, they penetrated her depths and seared her soul. Nay, reduced it to cinders.
“You failed to answer my question.”
“Nor will I until we are in the carriage well on our way to the palace.”
Anger boomed through her like thunder. She rode him hard again, but this time, he reached the breaking point first.
“Get off me,” he bellowed, bucking his hips. “I’m going to come off.”
She circled her hips, grinding down with a vengeance on his ready-to-blow phallus. Surely, the king would not dissolve their union if she were with child.
Robert gritted his teeth, fighting to hold back his orgasm. She was not about to be so easily defeated. She worked him zealously, grinding and squeezing until he gave up the fight and exploded inside her. The strangled cry he made together with the spurting of his seed within her unleashed another tempest of pleasure.
Maggie, now spent by her exertions, lay down on his chest and threaded her fingers in his hair. She must have dozed off because, when she awoke, Robert was asleep beneath her, his hands still tied, his penis soft. The candles yet burned, telling her she had not slept over long.
She lay there a while, wondering if his seed had taken root in her womb. Could a woman tell if she’d conceived? She felt no different, but knew so little of such things. The sisters had prepared her to be a subservient wife, but not a mother. She slithered down his body, ready to try again. Taking his limp cock into her mouth, she licked and sucked until it grew hard.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a groggy voice.
“Buying insurance.”
The next few hours bled together. She took her pleasure time and again, but he never climaxed. Each time he got close, he gritted his teeth to keep his body under control. Though his abstinence frustrated her, it also kept him hard. She took full advantage, riding him to orgasm more times than she’d thought possible. In the interim, she stroked every inch of him, her hands trembling with power as she explored his masculine terrain. She also kissed every part within view: chest, neck, jaw, nose, eyelids, forehead, and, of course, his beguiling lips.
So soft, so sweet, so responsive.
At the end, when she’d milked from him all the pleasure she could, she slid down his body and took his unfulfilled erection into her mouth. Surely, he would allow himself to come off if there was no danger of impregnation. She sucked and swirled her tongue around the hard shaft and engorged head, feeling triumphant as his noises grew increasingly guttural and feral.
Just when it seemed he would come, his hands came out of nowhere, seized her by the shoulders and flipped her off of him, onto her back.
He was atop her in an instant, pushing open her thighs with his knees. “You have used me like a plaything tonight, my dear Rosebud.” He buried his length in her with one determined stroke. “And ‘tis high time I returned the favor.”
As he pounded her with abandon, she wrapped her legs around his hips, admitting him more deeply. She had not thought it possible to climax again, but she did. When his release came, she tightened her grip, fearing he might try to withdraw. When he did not, she held him as his body convulsed ecstatically atop and inside her.
When they calmed, he lay against her, his head pillowed on her shoulder, his body limp and heavy. One of his hands rested atop her breast, absently caressing her nipple. She felt remarkably content, all things considered.
In the dim amber glow of the candles, the chamber became a womb. Safe, warm, and contained. She was a fetus growing toward rebirth and he was her twin. Her dark side made flesh.
She stroked his hair and combed her fingers through the tangled strands, comforting herself as she comforted him. He was part of her now and maybe always had been. The missing part that balanced her scales and made her whole.
“What will become of me? If the king should annul our marriage.”
“Nothing need change,” he said softly.
“Except we will no longer be married.”
“Not in the eyes of the law, perhaps. But in my heart, you will always be
my one and only.”
“Even if you are married to another?”
“Aye. ’Twill be a marriage of convenience at best, Rosebud—the king’s convenience. She will not be a proper wife to me.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning the marriage will be naught but a ruse—a beard behind which to hide his new mistress from the Duchess of Portsmouth, who, by all accounts, lords over him.”
“You will not have coitus with your new bride?”
“Nay.”
A sigh of relief bubbled up from her soul. “Tell me the other thing, Robert. Pray, do. I wish to know all your secrets.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Then tell me something else. Something deeply personal and intimate. Something that will help me to understand you better.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as how you came to discover your sexual response to the lash. How old were you? How did it start? Tell me everything and spare no detail. Unless you’d rather not—or do not recall how it started.”
“I do recall. Vividly, as it so happens. And I do not mind telling you.” He took a breath. “It all began when I was a lad of seven or eight. My mother, who’d been very devout, told me of the saints who flogged themselves so they might experience Christ’s suffering first hand.”
He sounded faraway, so she pressed him harder to her breast, afraid he might slip through her fingers like smoke through the holes in a holy censer.
“Fascinated by the practice, I read deeply of the lives of Jean Marie Baptiste, Francis of Assisi, Teresa of Avila, and Alphonsus, among other saints and martyrs. All claimed the practice brought on an altered state of spiritual joy, clarity, and communion, so I decided to try it for myself. At first, the blows were extremely painful, but I carried on month after month until, at last, the pain gave way to euphoria. Thereafter, self-mortification became a daily devotion from which I derived tremendous physical gratification. I only realized in adolescence my pleasure was far more erotic than religious.”
So, childhood devotion had turned to sexual perversion somewhere along the way—if indeed it was perverse to enjoy being flogged. He was right when he said she ought not to condemn what she did not understand. How could she judge his darkness when she couldn’t explain her own?
