Martinique (The Acolyte Book 1)

by Stevie Prescott

  "Only ten more, brat. But for every scream, there will be another. For every insult, there will be two more. This you might consider."

  I could see nothing, only the tufted red material beneath my face. But I felt it rock the sofa, and in my mind's eye I could see it, his arm raising again, in the white linen shirt, to come down once more with a quick, sharp strike. This time I tried to hold back any sound, but a squeal emerged, and I was fearful he would count it as worthy of compounding my offense. I stuffed my sleeve in my mouth and bit down, hard, struggling with all that was in me not to make any further sound, but even I could hear the whimpers escaping me by the time the next descended.

  The anguish was real, and worse than Papa had inflicted on me. But this time, I knew there would be no restraint, no iron bands of propriety holding him back. He was moving between the two globes to spread the fire everywhere, and then lower, into the curve just above my thighs. By the sixth I was fighting to draw breath, fighting not to plead for it to stop, fearful that this, too, would add to the count.

  The twelfth was laid on with the greatest force, the fleshy slap loud enough, I was certain, to be heard beyond the cabin, and then he went still, his voice different. Had I thought him capable of it, I would have called it tender.

  "Next time it will be twenty, I promise you, so you will hold your tongue, unless it's around my cock." He turned philosophical. "Twelve is not so much. I have been given forty lashes, with a cat. Now, lie still, until you can sit up again."

  With that he put the brush aside and pressed his palm into my cheeks, first one, then the other, squeezing them. It was a new sensation, still scalding from the welts he'd doubtless left, yet soothing, comforting, and undeniably erotic. Then he blew across the flesh, and this too was heavenly, so cool against the fiery skin.

  In a lower voice, but still quite parental, he said unexpectedly, "I'm proud of you. You took your dozen well, and no sulks. You are not a baby, are you?" he asked, in a voice that implied just the opposite. Then, to my shock, he lowered his head and kissed the places he'd just abused, while I felt his hand come up my legs, sliding between them, reaching to the top. I was disconcerted by the fact that the dark desire so long unsatisfied had left me soaked between my legs, a thing I didn't truly understand.

  He moved his hand gently now, the whole of his hand, back and forth through the slickness that eased his way, and observed, "Christ, do you know how wet you are? Exquisite. I knew it, the moment I saw you."

  With that he must have picked up the brush again, for I felt it, the bristle side, moving along the inside of my thighs. I closed them tight, gripping the brush, for they were sharp boar bristles, but he demanded, "Part your legs again, now. I won't hurt you. You've paid enough. For the time being."

  I did as he bade me, and in truth he was astonishingly gentle, as if he now combed those curls instead, as he'd combed my hair, moving the bristles up and down, like a thousand needles barely touching the flesh. Dear God, I was in heaven. He slid it upward, then over the backs of my thighs, before returning to the swollen lips that he touched with so much care, I actually wanted him to press harder. Without realizing it, I hitched up a little on his lap, and spread my legs wider.

  "Pain and pleasure, and the knife's edge between. You want that, whether you understand it or not. Extraordinary. You are a savage, little one."

  With that, he raised me from his lap, my stomach tight, the pain delivered but the lust he'd instilled in me unsatisfied. He planted me down beside him on the sofa, and I winced against the horsehair, making him grin, the hazel eyes sparkling. But there was no more time to feel any discomfort, for he fell on his knees, shoving aside what little of my gown hadn't already ridden up past my hips. With no warning, he grasped me by the knees and threw my legs over his broad shoulders, yanking me toward him with a fresh burn across my cheeks, forcing my head back.

  Before I'd recovered myself, he breathed against me, the words reaching out to me. "You've had the pain. Now feel the pleasure."

  His tongue dove into me, and I cried out, this time even more desperately. God, he was right, he was right! His hands slid beneath my ass that he'd so abused, squeezing it, sending the remnants of fire shooting through me as his tongue circled, lapped, swirled. Pain and pleasure and the knife's edge between. I couldn't understand it, but the waves of pain melted into the pleasure, a single sensation, sending me into a delirium. I felt the juice surging from my lips, down, down until it dripped onto the sofa, and couldn't stop it. I couldn't stop anything, including the twisting of my hips in his large hands, or my head lolling back and forth, as I nearly wept from the assault that brought on a climax so soon after, far too soon, my hands now buried in his hair. I wished it could go on the whole of the night.

  Still foggy, my head swimming, I fought him not at all when he stood me up and began to undress me, until I hadn't a stitch on, except his golden collar. I didn't feel any chill in the air.

  For some reason, instead, I found I couldn't push his words from my mind. I realized that I had slept twice with him, but in the pitch darkness of the little berth, my body enclosed by him against the wall, I hadn't known. He was so filled with restless energy, up and dressed and gone before I awoke.

  "You were truly given forty lashes?"

  He laughed at my solemn tone, replying, "Yes, I was. Then they pickled it after."

  "Pickled it?"

  "As one pickles fish in a barrel, to preserve it. They washed it in salt water, brine, to make the pain worse. That was when I deserted. When I could walk again."

  "I want to see."

  This odd request didn't seem to disturb him, though it did take him back a little.

  "It is not a sight for pretty blue eyes, my sweet."

  Stubbornly, I repeated, "I want to see."

  Shrugging, he crossed his arms and yanked off his shirt, tossing it on the sofa, then turned his back to me.

  It was a horrific sight, beyond what I'd expected. My father rarely flogged his people, and then a dozen were laid on, for serious offenses. I knew that at sea, too, this was the custom. Working our docks, many a shirtless seaman proudly displayed those dozen stripes, the brands of his toughness.

  But this was something else, something dark, the hallmark of a captain driven, as were many, by a bloodthirsty need to inflict as much damage as possible upon the men God had given over to him to govern and protect. The ridges rose on either side of the deep trenches, dead flesh of bloodless white, looking like snakes carved into a piece of flawless marble. The cat had, as the saying went, nine tails, knotted to leave the constellation of welts that covered his flesh like healed burns, a tapestry of suffering.

  When he heard no sound at all behind him, he said, "I warned you," reaching for his shirt. But before he could turn, I did something that even now I don't understand. I wrapped my arms tight around his waist, pressing my cheek to his back. Then I kissed one of the ugly welts there, as if he were a boy who'd scraped his knee, as if my kiss could somehow make it better.

  He turned in my embrace, his hands rising to my shoulders as he put me far enough from him to see my face. For the first time since he'd poured through my cabin door, the bluff grin, the mien of both absolute authority and cocksure insolence, had flown. He studied me as if something alien, something completely outside his understanding stood before him.

  "Most young women like you would faint. Or scream." His voice grew warm, laced with a heat I already knew well. "You are a remarkable creature. More of a woman than any I've ever known, but almost primitive. Like something out of legend."

  His hands reached out, stroking my breasts, lingering over the nipples. He gathered me against him and kissed me, passionately, as I tasted myself on his lips. His tongue delved inside, hips grinding into mine, and I felt the arousal our last hour of play had brought forth in him, arousal that had needed no help.

  Raising his head, he was himself again, brash and insolent once more.

  "They say turnabout is fair play, isn't
it?"

  I nodded, my chest tight, too tight for the words to rise up in reply.

  Taking my hand, he walked me toward the desk and reached down, producing two strands of leather from a silver casket on top, but this time was different. He turned to stand in front of the desk, and threw one piece aside. Then he did the sort of thing I was coming to expect from him. He picked up my hands, pressing his lips to my wrists and kissing them, passionately, over the reddened welts left from the Turk having bound me to the table, first one, then the other, as I had kissed his back. My nipples went tight, and he saw it clearly in the sunset burning through the windows.

  "Turn around, brat."

  I did so, heart pounding, as he gathered my hands and tied them behind me, one wrist over the other, taking the opportunity to embrace my bottom once more with both palms when he was done. It was effective, and yet, I knew he could have drawn them tight enough to gouge into my flesh. I knew it was a symbol. He turned me back to face him, then, taking me by the arms, propelled me down.

  "On your knees, my sweet."

  Once I was in such a shameful position, I hung my head, while without pause he unbuttoned his breeches, pulling out that incredible bitte, with the elegant lines and generous size. It was in my face. Glancing up, I could see why it had hurt me at first. He'd been right. He was a man, not a boy.

  "I've been everywhere inside you except your luscious mouth. It's time now."

  My gaze was fixed on the floor, like a penitent, for in truth I didn't want him to see my face. The feeling washing over me was incomprehensible. I wanted this. But I was still afraid, having no real notion what to do. Perhaps I was afraid because he had brought me such pleasure with his skillful tongue. For reasons I didn't care to examine, I wanted to give him as much excitement as he'd given me.

  He went still, watching me, then leaned down and put his strong hand under my chin, forcing my face up to meet his. I think even he was surprised by the fire in my eyes, a fire I couldn't hide, defiance and passion. I ran my tongue over my lips, as he'd done the night before, and his face went hard as his manhood, while the smile vanished. He took his prick in his hand, and his other he tangled in my hair at the back of my head, forcing it to my mouth.

  "Lick it, my sweet. As I have licked you."

  I leaned a little toward him, difficult with my hands bound behind me, but he gripped it by the root and held it out to me, and I began to lick him, luxuriously, from the bottom to the top, then lightly around the tip, which, to my surprise, made his whole body twitch. I'd thought I might find the taste of him disgusting, and was disturbed by the fact that the very opposite was the case. He was hard and clean, with a delicate scent beneath, salty and musky and purely male. It shamed me, but I felt more than relief. I could feel the flood between my legs, just from the taste of him.

  He murmured deep in his chest, "That's right, lick it first. Keep licking, little one. Your tongue is so good."

  I licked everywhere, even the heavy sacks beneath, difficult to reach with his breeches and boots still on. I knew in my gut that he wanted it that way, that somehow it increased his excitement to still have them on. I leaned my shoulders into him and twisted myself to tongue them, my hair sweeping nearly to the floor, my tongue brushing his hand, as well, as he fed himself into my mouth. He braced himself with his legs farther apart, his backside barely touching the desk, tiny groans escaping him, until his patience ran out.

  His fingers spasmed, and he seized more of my hair in a tighter grip.

  "Now take it in your mouth. Suck it."

  I gave him what he wanted, the pretense of being unwilling, the illusion that he had to force my mouth open to shove it inside. My heart was pounding as he rocked his hips, moaning in that throaty, urgent voice. I took only the velvety head at first, suckling it carefully, as he'd done to my breasts. As I rolled him in my mouth, I pressed my tongue over the tip, and he jerked again.

  "God, yes! Suck it. Suck harder, brat."

  Still tentative, I obeyed, and wasn't so gentle. His reaction was feverish, heating my blood. I couldn't believe he was finding so much delirium in my complete lack of experience. My stomach was fluttering, my head dizzy with excitement, my first taste of power. His strong hand at the back of my head pulled me closer, whispering brokenly, "Deeper now. Take it deeper."

  Steadying myself, I plunged as far down the shaft as I could, opening the muscles of my throat so he wouldn't choke me, even though he was so thrillingly hard. I relaxed my shoulders instinctively, astonished that I could do it. His hand fell away, as if to give all of himself to me, and I realized I was taking it. I relied on instinct, guided by his little cries and groans. Every time I brought my head back up, I pressed him between my lips, clinging with no hands to aid me. Sometimes I rubbed my tongue over the crown again, tasting the salty drops weeping from the very peak before I dove down again. He set the pace with his hips, and I followed, faster, my head diving and lifting, a blinding rhythm that made him push and pull even harder on the back of my head, burying my face into him each time I came back down, his moans louder, longer, vibrant waves of euphoria.

  I sensed his spine arch as he threw back his head, and I knew my fears were unfounded, that I was giving as good as I'd gotten. He began to murmur to himself as he rocked, davening the Arabs called it, as if in a trance of prayer, swaying his hips forward and back in time with my mouth slipping up and down his smooth, wet skin. Each time he tried to pull me farther down, pressing my face closer. His voice was a distant shout, frenzied with agonized rapture, as if he didn't know what he was saying.

  "Christ, what a mouth you have! It's as hot as your cunt. Fuck me with your mouth! Harder!"

  I sucked until my jaw hurt, pulling and tugging furiously. He nearly howled, in helpless thrall to the woman tied up, naked and powerless on her knees at his feet, the woman who was in truth sovereign in this encounter.

  I closed my eyes, feeling him change inside my mouth. He was even stiffer, beginning to throb as hard bands rose up on the smooth column of skin. The sounds in his throat were growing frantic, until he came with a delirious cry, his body wracked by spasm after spasm, the hot seed erupting into my mouth and down my throat. There was so much it was a shock at first, but I was determined to lose none of my reward, swallowing, greedily running my mouth and tongue over him to gather the rest as he went on shuddering with it, fighting to ease out of his shattering climax.

  When he caught his breath, he slid down the desk and fell to his knees in front of me, panting, reaching out with an awestruck expression to take my face in his hands.

  Then he lowered his forehead to mine and said, when he could finally speak, "I've taken pearls and rubies and gold, but I've never taken anything as magnificent as you." Gripping my face, he kissed me, feverishly, his tongue reaching inside to taste himself there, just as I had done.

  He made love to me through the whole of that night, leaving no part of me untouched, worshipping every inch. And when I awoke the next morning, after he'd gone, I found an elegant silver mirror with an ornate swirled handle lying beside me.

  Unfortunately, in the end, I would be his undoing, though I had no intention of it.

  Chapter Ten

  He called me that constantly now, "brat," in a stern, silken voice that made my heart race. He knew that he'd uncovered the core of me, by chance and intuition, and took hold of it, ruthlessly, carrying me into another world, where the rules of ladies and gentlemen no longer applied.

  Yet, he was still the gentleman in so much else, still indulgent. He knew I wanted desperately to wash, particularly my hair, for it had been weeks. He'd said there was a natural spring of fresh water, water that pooled in the caves beneath the mountain, in a private cove we were approaching that he knew well, and thought of as his own. I took a bar of lavender soap and an ivory comb with me, from my things.

  It was more beautiful than he'd said, an inlet that was a nearly perfect half-circle, tucked away from the desert that ruled on the other side of
the cliffs. It was cool under the palm trees, the water clear, but cold, which was heaven after the heat of the sun.

  I wallowed in the luxury of a real bath, while my captain stood in the crystal water behind me, washing my hair. He seemed to be enjoying himself. When his fingers slowed, his lips grazing my shoulder, I plunged beneath, laughing, and he got hold of a leg, yanking me back to him.

  It was Arcadian, making me feel like a siren from a fairy story. The blessed cleanliness alone, with no brine in the water, was paradise. A paradise that was to be shattered, for no sooner had he taken me in his arms than we heard the distant sound of cannon fire.

  He froze, his body going stiff. Lurching out of the water, he grabbed for his clothes, ordering me to remain behind. Of course I disobeyed, taking up my own things and following after, hurriedly dressing, determined that if something should happen I not be left behind alone in this unknown place.

  Though apparently, someone else knew of it.

  My captain, still drenched, reached for his glass in the bundle of his things, then stared out over the bay at the ship as it disgorged another round, merely announcing its presence, but in a menacing fashion. As it rounded the point, I got a fairly good look myself with no need of a glass. It was a mighty ship, and though I'd seen engravings of such, I'd believed them to be of the artist's vivid imagination, an accompaniment to the popular tales of the Arabian Nights, just as my uncle had said. But despite its gaudy splendour, the gold gilding on the gunports and the huge eye painted near the prow, this was a powerful naval vessel, with three decks of cannon.

  "It's the Suleyman!"

  He was stunned, as if he were seeing the risen Lord walk out of his tomb.

  "What ship is it, the Suleyman?"

  "It's the Ottoman flagship. The Kapudan Pasha's personal floating palace. He's the admiral of their navy. And I hope to hell he isn't on it."

  I said nothing as we stood and watched it enter the bay, as far as it dared with such a draft, followed by a frigate sailing as escort.