by Zoe Blake
The first time she had seen her new husband, she had been too frightened to get a good look. The second time, she’d been too tired and travel weary. She only remembered the mesmerizing effect of his slate gray eyes and the height that had intimidated her. Now, even from across the room, he still seemed overwhelming. Emmie could tell he was in possession of a strong build that was emphasized by his fine tailored clothing. His hair was chocolate brown and wavy, falling just past his collar. But it was his eyes – that piercing, possessive gaze – that now drew her forward almost against her will.
"There's my sweet, little girl," he said with a welcoming smile as he moved away from the fireplace and approached her with outstretched arms. Mrs. Pew let go of Emmie’s hand allowing him to take both of hers in his own. She looked down and was captivated to see how her small, pale white hands became engulfed in his large, masculine ones – so tan and strong with just a dusting of black hair. She was brought out of her strange reverie when he leaned down to place a chaste kiss on her warm cheek. The contact caused a pleasant tingling sensation between her legs.
"Thank you Mrs. Pew. That will be all for now." Lord Burkewood dismissed the nanny without taking his eyes off Emmie. She looked so precious in her virginal white dress and pink sash. He could tell she had been crying but instead of marring her features they gave her green eyes a bright almost unworldly glow. He felt a shiver of anticipation thinking of when those eyes would glow with tears after he was the one to roast her bottom. But that would come later.
"I am sure you have questions. Why don't we go have dinner and get acquainted, hmm?" He took her by the upper arm and led her across the hall into the dining room, where a long table sat surrounded by high-backed chairs, with one exception. To the right of the seat at the head of the table
There was a long table surrounded by high-backed chairs, except for the seat to the right of the head of the table. This one was a smaller chair with a bowed back. His Lordship led Emmie to that seat, pulled out the chair and bade her take her place. He did not miss the little gasp she emitted when her still-sore bottom made contact with the chair seat. He smiled. She was so adorable, and she was all his.
Lord Burkewood could not resist gently patting her golden brown locks before taking his own seat. He motioned to a footman who immediately poured him a glass of wine and placed a glass of milk before Emmie. A second footman then stepped forward to present a number of sumptuous dishes. There was sweetbread pate, quail with truffles, and roast boar. With all the upheaval in her life over the last few days, Emmie could not remember the last time she had eaten a decent meal. Her mouth began to water at the elegant fare. But she raised a questioning gaze to her husband when the footman placed in front of her a small plate with boiled meat, boiled potatoes and boiled carrots.
He softly laughed. She looked so cute when she frowned.
"This food is too rich for my sweet baby,” he explained. “Your little tummy could not take it."
Tired, hungry, confused and in pain, Emmie snapped. "Why is everyone treating me like a child? I am eighteen! I am not a little girl!" And with that she picked up the wretched glass of milk and threw it across the room, getting a small sense of satisfaction when she saw it shatter against the wall. She stood from the chair and turned on Lord Burkewood.
"Apparently, I am now a married woman...not that anyone had bothered to ask my opinion on that score. Before that I ran my stepfather's household. I took care of the accounts, the staff, and the menus. I – not my stepfather - was responsible for the whole of the estate! I am not a child and I demand you stop treating me like one."
"Are you quite finished?" he asked quietly - too quietly.
Her uncharacteristic burst of anger over, she nodded regretfully. Without acknowledging her concerns, Lord Burkewood snatched Emmie’s arm and dragged her across his lap. He had the back of her dress up and her drawers down before she could draw a breath, and took a moment to survey the nice blush left on her bottom by the earlier correction from Mrs. Pew. He could also see a bit of pink peeking out from between her inner thighs, as well. However, neither of these would lessen the punishment he was about to give her.
Those strong hands she had admired and feared moments earlier now descended onto her unprotected buttocks without hesitation or restraint. Emmie screeched in pain and fear as she felt the devastating skin on skin contact. Lord Burkewood purposely swung his arm so the flat of his hand made full contact with the lower curve of her backside, repeating the chastisement for a minimum of twenty cracks. He never did fewer than twenty; it was a matter of principle.
"Stop! Stop! Please god, stop!" Emmie wailed, her small hands digging into his strong thighs.
He ignored her, only pausing to admire her flaming buttocks. Thinking the worst was over, she made an effort to dislodge herself from his lap.
This was a mistake, and His Lordship showed her the error of her assumption by delivering another blistering round of smacks. Emmie was now crying so hard she started to choke. Never in her short life had she experienced such pain. Even Mrs. Pew’s didn’t compare. This time when he stopped, Emmie remained motionless save for heaving from sobs.
Each of her custom-made dresses came with a small loop at the bottom of the back hem and a pearl button set between the shoulder blades. Now Lord Burkewood fastened the loop around the button, effectively exposing Emmie’s aching bottom for all eyes, including the footman who had silently witnessed the entire encounter.
Placing her on her feet in front of him he began to question her.
"How does your backside feel now?"
"It hurts," she cried.
"Tell me how it hurts," he prompted. Remembering that Mrs. Pew quizzed her in a similar fashion and would not relent till she described her pain in detail, she now did the same for her husband.
"It feels hot and bruised. It's throbbing."
"Now march over to that corner and don't move a muscle till I tell you too," he ordered, and Emmie dared not disobey. She walked stiffly across the room, shuffling with her drawers still around her ankles, and faced the corner without sparing a glance at the footmen. Lord Burkewood left her sniffling there for over an hour as he leisurely finished his meal.
"All right, my naughty little girl. Come over here." Emmie forced herself to return to her husband, who positioned her between his legs, his hands lightly cupping her warm, exposed bottom.
"I want you to listen very carefully. According to the law, I own you. I am responsible for every facet of your life. I clothe, feed and shelter you. You do nothing without my knowledge or permission. Some men treat a marriage as a partnership; I am not one of those men. This is not a partnership. For generations the men in my family have chosen to honor this responsibility by treating their women as little girls, controlling every aspect of their life. This is now your new life. You will be treated like my very special little girl. I will control when and how you will be bathed, what you will wear, when you sleep, what you eat. I will control everything. Do you understand me?"
She could do nothing but slowly nod her head, mesmerized by his gaze as well as his words.
"Little girls often misbehave as you did tonight,” he continued. “It is my duty to correct your behavior by any means I feel necessary." As he said this, he turned towards the table. She noticed all the dishes had been cleared but for her meager meal. The meat, potatoes and carrots had now all been cut up into small bites. Selecting one morsel of meat, he lifted it to her small pink mouth. Emmie instinctively parted her lips to accept the food as Lord Burkewood used his index finger to push the morsel deep into her mouth, forcing her doll-like mouth to close around the tip.
"Good girl," he said with a warm smile, offering her a piece of potato.
"You have had too much responsibility put on your small shoulders,” he said. “Your stepfather had no right to ask it of you. It is the man's job to care for and protect the women in his life. Now that you are mine, your only responsibility will be to please me." He pushed his fin
ger through some sauce on the plate and raised it to her mouth, gently brushing her lower lip.
"Lick your lip," he commanded and she obeyed. She realized as she did that moisture was collecting between her thighs. There was a throbbing ache there, too, an ache that was quite different from the ache she felt on her bottom. This man who had just inflicted incredible pain had her entranced. She could not pull away from the warmth and desire she saw in his gaze. The conflicting reactions confused her.
He forced his finger through her closed lips. She could taste the creamy, buttery flavor of the sauce along with the salty, tang of his finger.
"Suck my finger," he said. Again she obeyed as if hypnotized by his authority.
"Do you have any questions, my sweet baby?" he asked.
In truth, Emmie had a great deal more questions. But she hesitated, biting her lower lip, for she feared another spanking.
"What is your name?" she finally asked bravely.
"You call me Papa."
She frowned at this. Calling him Papa suddenly made this feel all the more real.
"I don't even know my married name."
"Your name is Emmie. Little girls do not need married names or titles."
"Can I...can I at least be Emily?"
"No,” he said with finality. “ Ah, and here is your Nanny, come to collect you.”
Emmie turned to look at Mrs. Pew, who was waiting patiently at the dining room entrance. She’d never had a nanny, not even when she was truly a little girl. She wasn’t sure she liked having one now. As Emmie walked towards her, she brought a hand back in a vain attempt to hide her exposed nether cheeks. Mrs. Pew quickly slapped the hand away and grabbed her by the upper arm to lead her back to the nursery. Yes, Emmie thought, she definitely didn’t like having one now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Time for Bottle
Mrs. Pew dressed Emmie in a white cotton nightgown tied together with a series of light blue ribbons down the front. This one was a bit more modest, reaching to her knees as opposed to mid-thigh.
During the hour that had passed since dinner, Emmie had thought of little else but Papa's words. It felt strange to call her husband Papa, but she did not know his name. Asking Mrs. Pew earned her another swat on her already very sore behind and a harsh admonishment.
Could she really do this - live her life like a little girl? Emmie’s logical mind rebelled, but there was a small part of her that found the idea oddly enthralling - this notion that she could live a life without heavy responsibility or effort, pampered and coddled like a child. In the end, did she really have a choice?
Once she was dressed in her nightgown, Mrs. Pew led Emmie to Lord Burkewood’s study. With its dark wooden furniture and books, it felt safe and cozy. Papa was sitting by a welcoming fire that gave whole room a pleasant glow.
"Thank you, Mrs. Pew,” Lord Burkewood said when they entered. “Emmie, come to Papa." He gestured for her to join him on the sofa. Emmie hesitantly moved forward as Mrs. Pew softly closed the door behind her.
Papa placed her in a half reclining position over his right arm on his lap. With his left hand, he brushed at the soft curls hugging her jawline.
"My sweet baby," he murmured and then began to slowly pull at the top blue bow closest to her collarbone. Emmie immediately raised her hands to stop him.
"Ah-ah,” he cautioned. “My little girl doesn't want another spanking so soon, does she?"
Emmie reluctantly lowered her hands and averted her gaze as her husband pulled at each tiny bow until her nightgown was open to her naval. He gently pushed the fabric open on either side, exposing her generous breasts with their pretty pink nipples. Slowly, he traced the aureole of her left breast with his middle finger.
"Beautiful,” he said, moving to cup the underside of the breast and test the weight. Despite Emmie’s small frame, her breasts were lush and heavy. He moved to the right breast and playfully pulled on her nipple to test their sensitivity. He reveled in the soft gasp he heard.
Lord Burkewood stretched his left arm and reached for something on the table behind the sofa. When Emmie saw what it was, her eyes went wide. It was a glass baby bottle with a rubber nipple.
"I have some nice warm milk and honey for you," he said, but she gave a whimper and began to squirm on his lap. She definitely did not want a bottle but she did not want to be punished either.
"Ask Papa if you may have your bottle."
“No!” she objected sharply. It was too much. She couldn't do it. At her continued silence, he transferred the bottle into his right hand resting just beyond her head and moved his left to her breast. Emmie gave a sharp cry as he ruthlessly pinched a nipple.
"Ask Papa,” he commanded, his voice soft and stern. “Say, ‘May I have my bottle?’"
Tears of humiliation glistened on Emmie’s cheeks as she forced herself to repeat the words. "Papa, may I have my bottle?"
"Put the nipple in your mouth and suck hard."
Lord Burkewood watched as his child bride clutched the bottle close and hallowed out her cheeks with each pull on the nipple. As she drank, he returned his attention to her breasts, fondling each one as he watched her drink her bottle. When she tried to close her eyes, he scolded her.
"Eyes on me,” he instructed. “Always keep your eyes on me when I touch you." He moved his hand past her navel and dipped his middle finger along the seam of her freshly shaven petals. Emmie shifted but quickly stilled. His Lordship forced his fingers between her nether lips to discover the hidden wetness. His sweet baby was aroused! Carefully, he pushed his finger deep into her pussy till he felt the barrier of her maidenhead. As she gasped, he removed the bottle from her mouth. He pulled his finger free and raised it to her pretty lips. As he’d done earlier that very evening, he ordered her to suck it.
"Taste your own honey for Papa."
Emmie reluctantly parted her lips and allowed him to slide his finger deep into her mouth, her tongue instinctively swirling around it to the base. She tasted sweet and earthy. Emmie had no idea what was happening to her body; all she knew was he was making her feel warm and lightheaded.
Papa continued to push his middle finger into her pussy in a slow and gentle rhythm. Each time his finger rested to the hilt inside of her he would swipe his thumb across the bundle of nerves at the top of her pussy. She began to breathe heavily.
"Bottle, little one. Don't stop sucking." Papa reminded her, his voice thick. He watched her with those intense gray eyes as she raised the nipple to her lips and once again began to suck. Her doll-like mouth puckered around the nipple. Papa increased the rhythm of his finger thrusts until Emmie felt a wave of warmth rush over her body. She gasped, dropping the bottle, as she pushed her hips upward, thrusting her pussy into his hand. He felt her hot essence coat his palm. His little one was so very responsive! Emmie stared at him in wonder, and her husband chuckled as he stroked her hair with his free hand. His little bride was so innocent. She had no idea she just experienced her first orgasm, one of many.
"Finish your bottle," he said as he began to retie her ribbons. Shortly after she finished, Mrs. Pew once again came to collect her, but this time instead of the nursery she brought Emmie to His Lordship's bedroom.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Papa It Hurts
Like the rest of the house, the bedroom was imposing. A massive bed with huge, carved oak bedposts dominated the entire room. Upon close inspection, Emmie noted that the designs carved into the posts were dragons. It was terrifying.
"Come on child, don't drag your feet. Your Papa is going to want to make you truly his little girl tonight," Mrs. Pew said as she propelled a frightened Emmie closer to the bed.
"Arms up." Without giving Emmie a choice, the nanny forced her arms up and quickly whipped off her nightgown. Emmie cried out in dismay and desperately tried to cover herself.
"None of that now. Up you go." The huge bed was so high that petite Emmie needed help climbing on top of it. Mrs. Pew boosted her up and settled her on her back.
“Arms up," she said again as she dragged Emmie's wrists toward the center of the headboard. Mrs. Pew then secured her charge’s wrists in restraints similar to the ones in the nursery. Emmie whimpered and opened her mouth to form a protest but a warning look from Nanny quickly stifled it.
"I will be back to collect you when your Papa finishes with you. You may have a long wait until he retires for the night so just lie still like a good little girl and don't cry." With that Mrs. Pew gave her a peck on the forehead and left the room.
The only light in the room came from the fireplace. Otherwise, Emmie was left in complete darkness. Despite her terror of the unknown, sheer exhaustion from her taxing day overtook her, and she eventually fell into a fitful sleep.
Emmie awoke to the feeling of a warm hand palming her pussy.
“This is mine,” he said, before forcing his middle finger deep inside her unprepared cunny. Emmie cried out and tried to bring her arms down to protect herself, forgetting for a moment she was still restrained. Lord Burkewood shifted his hand and began to run his thumb over her clit, gently pressing as he swirled his thumb in a clockwise motion. She felt exposed and embarrassed but also warm and lightheaded. The same strange wetness spread between her legs.
His Lordship’s face and body were in shadow, so she felt more than saw him crawl onto the bed. Grabbing each of her ankles, he forced her knees up, spreading her legs even further. When he spoke his voice sounded gravely and low.
"Keep your legs spread and do not move them or Papa will be very angry."
Emmie was so frightened that all she could do was hesitantly nod her head. She held still as his fingers returned to her pussy. Her husband continued to gently rub in swirls and circles, slowly coaxing her arousing moisture. Then he gently pushed his middle finger into the tight passage made slick from her own dew.
