by Zoe Blake
Rhys growled in response, the unexpected pinch from her sharp teeth taking him by surprise. Instead of deterring him, it only incited him on further.
Digging his fingers into her soft locks, Rhys grabbed a fistful of luxurious hair, wrenching her head back, dislodging her teeth from his flesh. Tears sprung to her eyes from the sharp pangs as he continued to hold onto her hair.
“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Apparently I am not spanking my fierce feline hard enough,” he darkly observed.
“Go to hell,” she spit out.
Rhys lowered his hand on the delicate skin of her upper thigh with a resounding smack. A cry was torn from Beatrice’s lips. Keeping his grip on her hair to keep her still, Rhys continued his assault. Two swirls of crimson marred her creamy skin, the contrast almost painful to view.
She tried. She tried so hard but it was too much. The pain. The hot heated pain…as if she were standing perilously close to a fire. Her skin was inflamed and swollen, every strike worse than the last. With each pulse, each movement, even the thought of movement brought a fresh onslaught of torment.
“Please, please stop,” she cried out as the tears coursed down her cheeks. Her finger nails dug into the fabric of his breeches, no longer in defense but rather in desperation. Balling her fists into the soft wool, she begged, “I beg you. No more.”
“Do you promise never to ride without an escort again?”
“Yes! Yes! Anything,” she cried out. It was an easy promise to make. Her usual escorts, the stable boys, were afraid of her and she was a better rider, easily leaving them behind.
“And to never attempt to jump high gates?”
Beatrice didn’t respond. This man was nothing to her. As soon as she got herself out of this predicament, she would see him punished and chased off her father’s lands. Lying to him. Telling him what he wanted to hear so her punishment would end should have been easy…and yet she couldn’t. The thought of lying to him…and worse, him learning of the lie filled her with fear.
Rhys stretched out his long fingers, splaying them across her generous bottom cheek before roughly squeezing the tender flesh.
Beatrice wailed in distress.
“Ow! Stop! Stop! Let go!” she pleaded.
Rhys dug his fingers in deeper, watching as her reddened flesh turned white from the pressure of his hand.
“I asked you a question, Beatrice,” he reminded, giving no quarter.
“Yes! I promise! I promise,” she screeched, “just let go!”
The pain was unbearable. The press of his hand against her bruised flesh caused such a spasm of tortured suffering she became lightheaded from the overpowering sensation.
“Say it,” he ordered.
“I won’t do jumps,” she sputtered, tasting the salty tang of her own tears on her lips.
Rhys used her hair to guide her off his lap. Beatrice winced from the sting of pain against her scalp. He placed her upright on her feet, rising to tower over her petite frame. Beatrice felt small and vulnerable as she took in the breadth of his shoulders, his massive chest and superior height.
Without saying a word, he began to unlace his leather jerkin, never taking his eyes off her. Beatrice tentatively lowered her hands to try and cover her cunny from his view.
“Don’t,” he barked. “Hands at your side.”
Beatrice obeyed but not without visible reluctance. Despite her recent spanking, she still had fight in her. Watching him disrobe with trepidation, Beatrice could not explain the throbbing between her legs. It almost matched the pulsing pain of her bottom.
Shrugging out of the leather vest, Rhys laid it across the bench.
“On your hands and knees,” he commanded.
“Please don’t do this,” she whispered.
“On. Your. Knees.”
With a choked back sob, Beatrice crawled back onto the bench. Placing her palms and knees on the thick leather of his jerkin. The leather felt warm to the touch. Warmed by his body.
Beatrice’s body started at the touch of his fingertips on her back.
Rhys brushed his glove-covered hand over the curve of her lower back, over her punished bottom and down her thigh. Depriving himself of the silky feel of her skin, of the sensation of his roughened hand touching her porcelain softness was the only thing keeping his primal urge to fuck her in check. He would have to settle for the slight feeling of warmth that radiated through the thin leather each time he caressed her punished backside. He would not find release but he would be damned if he deprived himself of watching hers.
Her whole body thrummed with awareness. The feel of the cold night air on her feverish skin. The buzzing, rustling sound of the awakening forest as nightfall approached. The sweet floral scent of the lavender field nearby. The earthy scent of the warm leather beneath her fingertips. Most of all the musky wood scent of the man standing over her prone body.
Rhys pushed his thumb into the top of the crease between her bottom cheeks. Beatrice trembled as she tried to squeeze her bottom cheeks closed.
“Don’t.”
The one worded command was enough. Beatrice unclenched her bottom and bore the indignity of his probing finger as it slid deeper between her cheeks, briefly pressing against her dark, forbidden entrance. Beatrice bit her lip so hard she tasted blood to keep from crying out a protest that would only get her punished harder.
Swirling the pad of his thumb against her puckered entrance, Rhys pressed his two middle fingers against the tight confines of her cunny.
“You’re going to fuck my fingers,” he darkly ordered.
“Wh…what?” asked a confused Beatrice.
“I want you to move your hips back. Impale that sweet cunny on my fingers.”
Beatrice’s face burned with humiliation. This was too much. She started to rise up on her knees, preparing to fight.
Rhys gave her one resounding spank with his free hand. “You either fuck back on my fingers or I pull out my cock and force you to swallow it deep.”
Now he was just making up horrible things to scare her, thought Beatrice. She grew up in the countryside. She knew about the ways between a man and woman. She knew what he was saying was not possible. A man’s member did not go in a woman’s mouth, of that she was certain.
Rhys leaned down close to whisper into her ear, his voice a husky murmur, “Come now. You were the one who wanted to ride a horse astride. To feel the animal pulse and strain between your legs. To control all that sinewed muscle. To revel in its strength. To harness that power for your own. To feel your thighs tighten as the hard leather saddle pressed against your cunny.”
The raw, seductive power of his words mesmerized her. Her hips moved of their own volition. She found herself rocking back, mimicking the rhythm of riding a horse. With each push back, she felt the press of his fingers. First the tips, then pressure as they slid in further, forcing her body to accept, to stretch, to open for him.
There was no doubt his intended bride was a virgin. Her tight passage, the barrier pressing against the tips of his fingers. She was untouched. Rhys felt a surge of pure, primal possessiveness.
Cupping her throat with his free hand, Rhys forced her head back. The movement caused her to arch her back, emphasizing her small waist and the dimples on her lower back just above her bottom.
“Faster,” he growled as he applied the smallest amount of pressure to her throat. Just enough for her to know who was in charge.
Beatrice increased her pace, pushing her body back onto his fingers. Feeling him plunder her cunny. The unfamiliar feeling quickly gave away to a new sensation. The illicit feel of his fingers inside of her. The pressure. The tightness. The twinges of pleasure. Her breathing increased, coming in short gasps. She could feel her heartbeat against his palm where it pressed against her throat. She closed her eyes, giving in to the rioting sensations. The scent of flowers and moss. The warm feel of his hands. The press of his body along her side as he leaned in to whisper dark thoughts into her ear. The harsh sound of her own breath.
It all swirled and pulsed around her.
Till everything melted into one complete moment. Scent became color. Touch became emotion. And sight…sight was only him.
Her release poured over Rhys. He felt her body tighten and clench around his fingers. He watched the small puffs of air leave her red lips with each exhale. Felt her body tremble with each thrust of her hips. Slowly pulling his fingers free, Rhys shifted to stand in front of her.
“Kneel up,” he commanded.
Still lost in a world of sensation, Beatrice did not move.
Rhys placed a hand under her chin. “Kneel. Up,” he repeated with more force.
Beatrice raised up on her elbows before sitting back, cringing when the rounded edge of her heels dug into her still sore bottom.
One again, Rhys lamented being unable to get a glimpse of her breasts. The riding jacket and corset hid every detail from his hungry gaze. He hoped they were full and luscious. Enough to fill a man’s hands.
“Open your mouth.”
Beatrice pressed her lips tight. Even after a demonstration of his power over her both physical and emotional, she still resisted.
Rhys’ only response was to raise one eyebrow with a look that promised an even more severe punishment if she continued to disobey.
Beatrice opened her lips, slightly.
“Wider.”
With a mewling sound of displeasure, Beatrice opened her mouth wider.
Rhys traced her bottom lip with a dew soaked fingertip before pushing two fingers into her mouth.
“Suck. I want you to taste your own arousal.”
Beatrice tried to pull back. Rhys stepped forward and placed a restraining hand on the back of her head, forcing her forward.
“I said suck,” he ground out.
Beatrice’s tongue touched the leather clad tip. It tasted sweet and earthy. The smell of the wet leather mixing with her own musk, teasing her nose.
Rhys pushed the fingers in deeper causing Beatrice’s throat to close on a choke. He refused to relent.
“Suck.”
Beatrice swirled her tongue around his fingers in earnest now. Hollowing her cheeks as she pulled on the leather, tasting herself on him.
Rhys felt his cock lengthen and swell to even larger proportions as he watched her reaction to being force fed his cum soaked fingers. Such a beautiful sight. Her full red lips and pale cheeks stood in stark contrast to the black leather of his gloves. Her large amber eyes wide with fear and grudging desire.
“Good girl.”
He laughed as her eyes filled with malice as they narrowed. Still she obediently sucked.
Feeling the pull of her mouth on his fingers as her tongue circled the tips, he could not wait to fill her mouth with his cock. It would be a striking sight.
As much as he could stay in this field for the rest of his life testing her limits, the sun had long ago set and it was getting cold. He needed to get her back home. Pulling his fingers free, he walked away without a word to retrieve her skirt and riding trousers. Beatrice remained on the hard bench, trying to come to terms with what just transpired between her and the arrogant stranger.
Beatrice immediately tried to grab her belongings the moment he neared. Rhys held them out of reach. “Not so fast, my little fierce feline.” Reaching down he pulled his knife free from his boot. Beatrice stilled. Flicking the sharp blade open, he took a step closer. Beatrice held her breath. Rhys reached out to capture one perfect, silky curl. Pulling the lock tight, he flicked it with his blade.
Beatrice cried out as if he had actually struck her. Her hand flying to the offended shorn lock.
Rhys then cut a ribbon from the bodice of her riding jacket. After tossing her clothes to her, Rhys wrapped the purple ribbon around her lock of hair.
Beatrice stood before him after quickly donning her skirt, leaving the trousers. They were difficult to step in to and she didn’t want to spend another moment bare before his searching gaze.
“What do you intend to do with that?” she asked scathingly as she looked at the beribboned lock of hair in his grasp. Her tawny hair looked like bright, spun gold lying next to the tanned skin of his hand.
“It is a memento. It will help me dream about this for years to come,” he said with a salacious wink.
Beatrice flinched at the word dream. Twisted images of the beast, the forest and the gypsy’s curse flashed across her mind’s eye.
Marching over to her horse, who was nuzzling with his stallion nearby, Beatrice tossed over her shoulder. “I doubt you have days to live let alone years after I am done with you.” Her boldness returning in spades now that she was dressed and away from his grasp.
Rhys stalked towards her with purpose. Grabbing her around the waist, he gave her a bruising kiss meant more to send a message of dominance than seduction. “It would be a mistake to underestimate me.”
Rhys then lifted her up into the saddle. She was forced to once again ride astride. It was not safe to ride side saddle on a forward hunting saddle. Rhys watched the play of emotions across her face. Pain when her bruised bottom first hit the saddle. Trepidation when she realized she would have to ride astride. Regret the moment her bare cunny felt the cold, smooth leather. She had forsaken her riding trousers so there was nothing to protect her highly sensitive hidden core from feeling the brush of the leather with every shift of the horse beneath her. With every pound of its hooves, she would be reminded of his fingers and her spanking.
Keeping hold of her reins, Rhys mounted his own stallion, leading both horses back to the main estate.
The moment they reached the paddock, Beatrice alighted from her horse with no assistance and ran towards the dimly lit house.
“Dream about me tonight,” Rhys called out to her fast retreating back.
Beatrice turned with a look of horror before spinning away and disappearing into the darkness.
Rhys waited till he heard the main door open and the butler, Mr. Watchman’s, shocked greeting followed by her stinging retort before leading both horses into the stable.
As far as he was concerned, it was an excellent start to their courtship.
Chapter Five
Beatrice let out a sigh as she eased herself into the soothing, warm bathwater, having sent her maid what’s-her-name away for some privacy. She didn’t appreciate all the curious looks she was receiving for her wrinkled attire and askew hair.
Inhaling deeply, she allowed the familiar scent of rose oil, her own special blend, to calm her. She used oil pressed from the Damask rose petal, loving the hints of myrrh, green grass and apricot which gave it a signature musky sweet fragrance. The very air was perfumed with its scent.
If only her thoughts were so easily soothed and calmed.
She thought back to her scandalous behavior earlier that evening in the lavender fields. It would be effortless to place the entire blame on the handsome stranger. He overpowered her. He forced her. He wouldn’t allow her to escape. Beatrice knew better. She was not some commonplace female and it had nothing to do with her wealth. She was intelligent and self-sufficient. Although her father would never admit it, she was the reason why the Arbot de Villeneuve perfumery had achieved such an exalted status. Her father was a success to be sure but it was her perfume recipes that were demanded by the royal courts of Europe. She ran both the estate and the perfumery during his absences of which there were many with increasing length since her mother passed.
Beatrice felt a pang at the remembrance of her mother’s death. It was the day everything changed.
Giving herself a mental shake, Beatrice forced herself to focus on the present. There was no point in dwelling on the past, it would change nothing.
The simple truth was that stranger was able to take such disgraceful advantage because somewhere deep inside she had wanted it. It was as if some force had risen that would not allow her to resist his mesmerizing pull. She thought again of the haggard gypsy’s curse.
You shall only know happiness through pain, will onl
y find love through supplication to the beast.
Be forced to yield to the hand of your master or face your destiny alone!
“Stuff and nonsense,” she scoffed out loud to the empty room.
It wasn’t that ridiculous curse or the gypsy. If anything, it was her dream of the night before. Yes, that was it. The dream was to be blamed. Between the heated dream and her wild ride across the countryside, her blood was up. She was feeling wild and untamed. The stranger merely took advantage of her heightened state.
It was no matter. She would see he was dismissed in the morning. He would be gone, only a memory. But, oh what a memory! Beatrice’s cheeks heated as she closed her eyes and recalled the feel of his hand on her throat, the pulsing pain of his spanking, his scent, what he did with his fingers. Her hand closed over one full breast as she tried to imagine what it would have felt like if he had been able touch her there. Realizing abashedly she never learned the stranger’s name. It was absurd. Names had never been terribly important to her. The servants and villagers thought it is because she is self-absorbed. The truth was she was just plain rubbish at remembering names so she long ago stopped trying. Yet, somehow she longed to know his.
For now, Beast would just have to do, she thought with a secret smile as she sunk deeper into the water.
“As it so happens, your intended princess is quite a woman.”
Rhys raised an eyebrow at his faithful valet as he continued to brush down his stallion. He enjoyed the labor, never one to allow servants to bow and scrape and handle his every task. Rhys preferred to do things for himself.
He loved spending time in the stables. The shaded interior with its quiet hush made the chaotic world outside slip away. The only sound the occasional whinny from a horse or the metallic jingle of the tack. The fresh earth smell of clean hay and green grass. The simple order of things. Man…beast working together.
