Papa's Little Pain Princess

by Zoe Blake

  Papa’s Little Pain Princess

  By

  Zoe Blake

  ©2016 by Blushing Books® and Zoe Blake

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  Zoe Blake

  Papa’s Little Pain Princess

  Cover Design by ABCD Graphics

  EBook ISBN:978-1-68259-682-1

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books’ or the author’s advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

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  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About the Author

  EBook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  Blushing Books

  Chapter One

  The hushed greetings and whispered conversations ebbed as the lights slowly dimmed. All that could be heard was the faint rustle of taffeta and the occasional muffled cough. Lush red, velvet curtains parted to reveal an enchanted forest. Intricately painted trees were heavily draped with carefully cut out fabric leaves of every shade of green. A backdrop sky of indigo blue shimmered under the pale lights. At center stage was a quaint Woodcutter’s cottage. The thatched roof, Irish moss and gurgling stone well in the small courtyard giving it an air of authenticity.

  From stage left, strolled a portly gentleman dressed in ill-fitting drab breeches from a previous century, a vulgar crimson vest and buckled shoes. Breaking character to give a brief nod of acknowledgment to the discreet round of applause at his entrance, the renowned actor made his mark and paused. His entrance was shortly followed by a stunning actress, artfully dressed in a silk peasant’s blouse just a shade too sheer under the harsh theater lights and an embroidered skirt showing a scandalous amount of ankle. The actress gave a flourishing bow to the audience, followed by exaggerated kisses and long sweeping gestures made to draw attention to her generous hips and bosom. Only the sound of her fellow actor angrily clearing his throat brought her back to the matter at hand.

  “No—upon my soul, I tell you what, Biddy Murphy, it was a lucky day for you, the day you got me,” announced the actor in deep somber tones as he hiked up his breeches.

  Directing a simpering smile towards the audience, the actress tilted her face where she knew the lights would hit her to best advantage. She looked beguiling and beautiful. Then, she spoke. In a harsh, grating voice, she belted out, “Lucky, indeed! A fellow that doesn’t eat everything I have!” The lewd emphasis on doesn’t eat was hard to miss.

  An impatient voice from off-stage loudly whispered a correction, “A fellow that does eat everything I have!”

  “That’s what I said,” shouted back the actress, arms akimbo.

  Archer groaned as for the first time he looked down at his theater program, The Dumb Lady Cured. Not bloody likely, he thought sardonically. Moliere was probably rolling in his grave to see what a tragedy his classic farce “Le Medecin Malgre Lui” was becoming at the hands of the Haymarket Theater with this translation. Lord Archerly, Archer to his friends of which there were few, attempted in vain to stretch out his long legs in the cramped theater box. Built a century earlier, these small, delicate seats were not meant for his six foot three frame.

  Good God! It did not help matters, the lead actress currently strutting about the stage making a mockery of Moliere’s ingenious work was, in fact, his current mistress, Lenora. There was no doubt she was beautiful and served her purpose in his bed, but he was already tiring of her. There was a crassness that bordered on the vulgar about her. In the absence of any other prospects, Archer had tried, unsuccessfully, to convince himself it was sensual wickedness. It was not her fault really. Lenora was a product of the false, glittering world they both inhabited. A world of distorted smiles and perverted values. Increasingly, Archer found himself searching for sweetness, for innocence. There was a darkness inside of him that craved balance. The balance that only someone with the lightness of naive wonder could bring.

  Archer caught the eye of some dewy debutante with large, blond ringlets, doing her best effort to send him what he could only assume was a coquettish gaze over her lacy fan. The young thing was batting her eyes so violently it looked as if she was having some sort of fit. Sen
ding the debutante a playful wink, he laughed out loud when her vigilant mother grabbed her chin, putting an end to the scandalous flirtation. Well almost. Archer tilted his head back and ran the tip of his tongue over his straight, white teeth sending an unmistakable invitation to the still rather handsome mother, taking a sick pleasure in the embarrassed flush that marred her powdered complexion. The mother could tilt her head and pretend to be affronted by his bold gesture, but Archer knew better. Even from the distance of his theater box, he read her body…every pulse, every breath. The way she subtly shifted her shoulders back, forcing her bosom forward. The way her right hand had unconsciously glided closer to the top of her thighs, pressing against the fabric of her dress. The stiff tilt of her jaw as she tried to force her focus to the stage and not to the man exciting the unwanted response. The daughter was more overt, less tutored. She was pulling on the high collar of her gown in a clumsy effort to showcase the top swell of her left breast. Perhaps this evening would not be a total loss, Archer thought as he stroked his upper lip with his right index finger, contemplating the different salacious possibilities of a mother, daughter pairing in his bed.

  It would only be in keeping with his reputation. Archer was confident enough to know his success in the bedroom had nothing to do with his title or wealth. While his dark looks certainly helped, it was deeper than that, more primal. Stripped bare of society’s trappings of rank, her soft touches and clever wiles useless, a woman in his bed was used for his pleasure and his pleasure alone. He didn’t give a damn about the rest. There was something intoxicatingly, raw and sensual for a woman to be fucked by a man as if he owned her. To use her in the most base, fundamental way a man can use a woman. To force her to accept his cock, his seed, his pain…thrust after thrust…and in the end to find her own completion, her own satisfaction from the inherently selfish, cruel act. It was what he offered and there was no shortage of women willing to take him on. Problem was, he craved more. Not more of an emotional connection, God no! He craved an experience that brought him even closer to the edge. To capture the sweetness of innocence, to control it, to harness it, to use it for his own pleasure.

  “The gold I’ll keep as a lasting monument to my virtue,” smirked Lenora as her character Bridget.

  Archer rose. A man could take only so much. He would take a stroll along Pall Mall and enjoy a cheroot until intermission. It was not as if his intentions involved discussing the play with his mistress anyway. He would make good use of her talented mouth one last time and then search out the naughty mother daughter pair.

  As to his earlier turn of thought, well, it was not as if the theater was a place to seek out innocence. Though he would begin his hunt soon, the yearning had become too strong to ignore.

  ~

  It was too wonderful for words, thought the winsome young woman, aptly named Winnie, as she stole longing glances from the darkened wings of the Haymarket stage. She yearned to trade places with the lead actress, Lenora. How marvelous that would be! Winnie smiled at the thought. Imagining herself in the embroidered peasant’s costume as she danced around the trees, pretending to draw water from the false water well. Only in her imagined world there were cute bunnies and blue birds…oh and fairies too! Fairies would be lovely. Losing herself in the moment, Winnie clapped her hands and spun around with glee, earning a harsh rebuke from the stage manager. Duly chastened, she quickly gathered the costumes she had abandoned on the floor and hastened away.

  Winnie made her meager living as a needlewoman for a dressmaker named Madame Minerva in the less fashionable area of Bethnal Green. Less fashionable was a quaint way of saying it was an overcrowded slum whose only recommendation was it was close to the weavers and silk traders. Winnie received no wages but the work offered board and one midday meal. She often began work each day around 3am and did not finish till well after dark. While not exciting, it was preferable to walking the Ratcliffe Highway by riverside as a lightskirt. The usual fate of twenty-year-old orphans like Winnie. It was not all bad. Winnie liked the other girls she worked with and besides Madame Minerva had recently begun to sew some of the auxiliary costumes for the Haymarket Theater for added income.

  Winnie had begged and begged to be permitted to deliver them. In the end, she had to promise to scrub the outer steps in addition to her other duties for an entire fortnight before Madame Minerva would agree.

  Running in slippered feet along the dark, narrowed corridors, Winnie finally found Lenora’s dressing room. Pushing the door open, she reverently entered the hallowed sanctuary. A pink globed gaslight cast a warm, rosy glow throughout the whole room. The cramped chamber was filled with furniture, discarded clothing and silky unmentionables. Scattered across the top of the cluttered dressing table were crystal perfume bottles, pots of rouge, powder puffs and kohl sticks. Hopelessly curious, Winnie picked up the prettiest bottle with the pink ribbon and spritzed the air, only to wrinkle her nose at the cloying, heavy floral scent.

  Crossing to the wardrobe, Winnie hung the costumes for tomorrow’s play, The Lady of the Camellias. She could not resist lightly running her fingers over the other costumes. Feathers, paste jewels, silks, ribbons. Angel, Princess, Maid, Bird. The same overwhelming yearning almost overtaking her.

  This deep desire had nothing to do with acting. No nothing so commonplace. It was more ethereal. Winnie’s life was rather dreary. She often thought it mimicked the London weather. Full of grays, a little hazy and indistinct. Her only real chance for color was in her imagination. There she could dream of worlds full of bright yellows, dazzling blues, rich reds, and sparkling pinks. In her worlds, there were fanciful creatures, glittering balls and charming princes. In her imaginary world, she was brilliant and beautiful. With a sigh, Winnie caught her reflection in the full-length mirror…and came crashing back to her gray reality.

  Taking in her petite frame with a critical eye, Winnie picked at the small patch on her faded linen gown. Princesses in fairy tales were tall and willowy with long, curly hair and cute pert lips. Despite her short stature, Winnie had generous hips and a rather plump derriere…very unprincesslike! Her lips were too large and her hair too straight. She recently spent over a month’s wages on one of those crimping irons you put in the fire in an effort to curl her hair like the ladies in the fashion illustrations but all it had done so far was tangle her hair into a bit of a mess. Winnie grimaced, even her eyes were a dull gray.

  Winnie cast another longing glance over all the wondrous costumes and then one at the closed dressing room door. Did she dare? There was no telling when she would ever get such an opportunity again. The other girls in the shop were very jealous and would surely want their turn to drop off the next batch of costumes and that was only if the Haymarket ordered more from the Madame. Did she dare? She had not even been allowed to touch let alone sew the costumes she delivered. Madame carefully wrapped them in linen with a strict warning that Winnie was not to unwrap them. Did she dare?

  Winnie caught another glance of her drab, boring gown in the mirror and impulsively made up her mind. Giggling with childish glee, she ran over to the wardrobe and tried to decide which one she would try on. They were all so beautiful! Finally, she decided on the pale blue striped silk princess costume with the sheer cerulean and gold shawl. She squealed with delight when she found a small silk bag filled with paste jewel props to go with the costume. Although it was much too large, especially in the neckline, it was still the most precious thing she had ever worn.

  Sitting at the dressing table, Winnie put on the oversized diamond necklace and nestled the tiara among her frizzled, half-straight curls. Raising her shoulder and cocking her head from side to side, she took in her reflection. For the first time in her life, she finally felt like the fairy princess of her imagination.

  Pursing her lips and trying to look sophisticated, Winnie demurred. “Oh, Prince Edward, you charmer! I could not possibly dance a third waltz with you, what would people say!” Winnie giggled at the imagined response. She continued t
o admire her reflection. The sparkle of the paste jewels in the soft candlelight lulling her into a dreamlike trance as she lost herself in thoughts of twirling about a shiny ballroom floor in the arms of a handsome prince. So lost in thought, she failed to hear the approach of footsteps till it was almost too late.

  Winnie barely made it behind the safety of the dressing screen before the door swung open with a violent bang. Clutching the swaths of extra fabric of the too large costume to her chest with shaking hands, Winnie tried desperately to slow her harsh breathing, knowing the sound would give her hiding place away. Holding her breath, ignoring the warning rushing sound pounding in her ears, Winnie carefully reached out one hand and gingerly raised the wooden slat of the dressing screen so she could peek out…and immediately wished she had not.

  Her vision was blocked by a burst of stars as in her fright, she forgot to breathe. For the first time in her life, Winnie very much so feared she might faint dead away.

  Chapter Two

  Against her better judgment, Winnie took another peek. The commanding man standing in the middle of the dressing room was unlike any other she had encountered. Dressed in unrelenting black with the exception of his starched white cravat, he was impossibly tall with broad shoulders. She found it hard to believe he had even fit through the small, narrow doorway as a mere mortal. Clean-shaven, his thick sable hair was closely cropped at the neck. The stranger had the angular jaw and sharp nose so prominent in the aristocracy, that Winnie was certain he was a king, or prince or perhaps a Russian czar! With his presence, the room lost the cloying perfume smell that had permeated the air. In its stead, was the fresh cool scent of night air coupled with clove tobacco and just a hint of bergamot.