Taming the Wilde

by Renard, Loki

  “Surely you do not intend to…”

  “Hush Miss Wilde,” he said with a light slap. “You need have no fear for your virtue.”

  “As I am being used for your pleasure I very much doubt that.” It was foolish to argue with the man, but I could not simply allow him to paw at my person in the name of winning a wager.

  His reply came low and intimate. “If I were to use you for my pleasure you would know it, and the sounds you would make would not be this argumentative wittering.”

  I gasped and struggled to get free. His speech was bordering on the coarse and he was certainly not showing proper respect for my person. My frustration was immense as it became clear that having put myself over his knee I would not be allowed up from his lap until he deemed fit. He held me firm, his arm locked about my waist. “Settle down, Miss Wilde, you will do yourself an injury.”

  Twisting my head about at a most awkward angle, I glared up at him. “Get it over with and hit me, you brute.”

  It was a mistake to have made eye contact, for it made me aware of his wicked smirk, the dance of amusement and pleasure in his eyes. “I don’t know if I need to strike you, simply having you here seems to be causing you no end of anguish.”

  I turned my head back to the polished boards and spoke morosely. “If anguish is your aim, Master Roake, you need not bother yourself any further. Life is providing that in abundance.”

  “Poor little convict,” he said, speaking with false sympathy that drove me quite wild. In a fit of anger I opened my mouth and bit down on his stockinged calf.

  His sudden shout of pain was quickly followed by a hard slap to my buttocks and in an instant we were at war. A small, private war to be sure but I was no longer willing to submit to such an unfeeling brute and certainly not to be beaten for his amusement. I put the full force of my body into twisting and wrenching away from him and in a spot of luck found myself tumbling off his lap when he tried to regain his grip on me.

  “I thought you more sporting than this, Miss Wilde,” he growled as I stood out of arm’s reach, breathing quite hard from my exertions.

  “And I thought I was going to win, what of it? Besides, you are taunting me…”

  “As you taunted me, Miss Wilde? Would you prefer it if I performed a pirouette in between each stroke to your behind? Perhaps I could deliver one with the left hand on occasion?”

  Though I scowled fiercely, I could not help but admit that he was correct. He was not doing anything to me that I had not done to him – and publicly. My reluctance to allow him his winnings was pure churlishness. “Very well,” I said. “I will submit to your punishment without further argument so long as you agree to give it in a timely fashion and not linger in the task.”

  “That is of little comfort as I am now bearing the marks of your pearly teeth on my leg. No,” he said, “what I originally had planned for you will no longer do.”

  “Please…” I could not believe that I was asking to be allowed to go over his lap, but I did not wish to find out what my punishment had escalated to. I was not long in the dark, for he was keener to see the matter through than ever.

  “No, you may now take position across the desk,” he said, standing and moving the chair out of the way. “Hold fast to the far side.”

  I did so with great reluctance, feeling the smooth wood of his desk against my cheek as I took hold of the edge. I was trying my best to be obedient though it did not come naturally to me. I hoped he appreciated the effort, though I feared he did not.

  “Have you ever felt a cane before, Miss Wilde?” He asked the question in a conversational tone, as if he was inquiring as to my previous experience with cucumber sandwiches. His ability to remain composed was quite impressive, for I was on the verge of falling apart.

  The mere mention of the cane made me want to beg for his forgiveness, but I had already made quite enough of a spectacle of myself for one day. “I have not.” My reply was muffled for being made towards a wooden surface.

  “Then this shall be your introduction. Six strokes for arrogance, mischief, brawling…”

  “Brawling!” I exclaimed, turning my head to see that he was standing behind me, counting my sins off on his long, powerful fingers. In spite of the pain I had caused him he was still very much enjoying his situation.

  At my objection he stopped and explained patiently. “You bit and hit, Miss Wilde, in the manner of a brawler.”

  “I…” I turned back to face the desk. There was no doubt that I was on the very losing end of this deal and every time I opened my mouth I made matters worse for myself. Better to fall silent and accept whatever punishment Roake had in store for me than to continue to engage the man in conversation.

  The sound of something hard and thin whipping through the air got my attention. I knew it must be the cane. I did not know quite how fearsome it could sound being wielded without a target. My knuckles soon grew white as I gripped the desk, for he had laid the cane over my skirt, an ominous thin line.

  “Be sure to hold your position,” he warned. “Breaking position will result in additional strokes.”

  The cane moved away and the seconds stretched into eternity. I heard it singing through the air, then a loud cracking sound emanated from the regions of my behind. At first I felt nothing at all, then in a rush of powerful ache and burn my rear was flooded with pain. I could not have held my position for all the gold in the world. In an instant I was up, my lips parted as I drew a great breath with which to cry out. I managed to stifle most of the cry and what came out was a strangled squeal. “Oh sweet Jesus for all the love of God what in the blazes is that infernal thing?”

  “That was but the first stroke and now it does not count,” Roake informed me smoothly, watching me clutch at my rear with a gaze that only pretended to be distant and removed.

  My eyes went to the length of cane in his hand. Three feet long and not so much as a quarter inch wide. It was hard to believe that such a little thing could cause so very much pain, even as I stood it felt as though the infernal welt was burning straight through my flesh.

  “If you strike me with that again I will hate you for all time,” I declared.

  He was unmoved by the threat. “Over the desk, Miss Wilde.”

  I moved back over the desk, wishing that I had never had the misfortune to have set eyes on Roake. It would have been better to have drowned in the Thames than to have boarded this horrid vessel and become the whipping girl to a man who reveled in dealing pain.

  He returned to his position, this time placing his palm flat on my lower back. It would not be enough to hold me down, but I did not say anything to that effect. I simply gritted my teeth and held on for dear life as the cane came cracking down against my rear once more. Once, twice, thrice… he brought the damnable implement down six times in such quick succession that I barely had time to react to its landing until the full dose had been imparted, at which point a cry broke from my tortured body, a wail that became a loud sob. My buttocks were no longer my own, they were something apart from me, two painful lumps of flesh I thoroughly wished I could be rid of.

  It hurt to move. It hurt to so much as breathe, but I forced myself to stand and not to cry, though such an effort was almost impossible. “Is that the end of my punishment?”

  “It is,” he confirmed. He opened his mouth to say more, but I stiffly turned and shuffled towards the door of his cabin without engaging him further. There was a silence as I stepped out onto the deck, dozens of eyes turned towards me and I knew they had heard a significant portion of what had passed between Roake and I. Certainly they must have heard the cracking of the cane against my person, for the sound had been like pistol shots. Forcing my features into composure I nodded to those bold enough to make eye contact and descended below decks where I sought the refuge of my bunk. There I lay down and covered myself with a blanket. Then and only then did I allow myself to manifest the tears of hurt, rage and pain that had been pricking hotly at my eyes.

&n
bsp; “‘Ere, you want me to push him off this tub?” Ever faithful, Lizzy was soon by my side. She kept the gawkers at bay and comforted me as I cried until my tears ran dry. I did not know how I had ever thought Roake to be a decent man. My first impressions had been absolutely correct. He lived to beat and humiliate the poor women unfortunate enough to be trapped with him on the hell vessel that was the Valiant. By fancying him a gentleman, a sporting sort, I had made myself a target for his sadism.

  “That would be a better fate than he deserves,” I sniffed. I did not want to encourage Lizzy in her ideas of revenge, she was as much a woman of action as I and I had no doubt that she would at the very least attempt to knock Roake over the edge of the ship if I so desired it.

  “Right,” she agreed. “Make ‘im suffer over the long haul. I like it.”

  I smiled slightly in my dark cocoon, thinking myself tremendously fortunate to have a friend like Lizzy. She was the brightest ray in my day, the closest companion and confidante I had had since childhood. The one consolation in being transported was that Lizzy and I were sailing together. With any luck we would be placed nearby one another in the colonies. I reached out from under the blankets and squeezed her hand in a silent gesture of thanks.

  “Excuse us.”

  It was his voice. I stiffened under the blanket and quickly drew my hand inside, as if Roake would perhaps not know where I was if he could not directly see me.

  “She doesn’t want to see you.” Lizzy came to my defense bravely.

  “Perhaps not, but I suggest you stand aside and let me pass.”

  “If you hit ‘er…”

  “Save your threats for somebody who might be swayed by them,” Roake said. “And run along. Your friend will come to no further hurt at my hands unless she deserves to.”

  “Lizzy, it is alright,” I said beneath my cover. I did not wish to see her punished for her loyalty, especially considering her delicate condition.

  “Miss Wilde.” He addressed me, though he was actually addressing the blanket. I was not taking callers at that time.

  “Leave me be,” I said from behind my woolen fortress. “You have your pound of flesh.”

  “You are a most exasperating woman,” he replied in irritation.

  “Oh I exasperate you?” I pretended to care for all of a few seconds. “Oh I am so terribly sorry. Why don’t you beat me until you feel better?”

  There was a brief sigh. “You bought that treatment on yourself. I would have let you go with a much lighter punishment, but you bit me like an ill-trained pup.”

  I scowled in the darkness of my blanket. How dare he. How dare he pretend that what he had done to me was in any way reasonable or humane. “Have you ever been caned, Master Roake?”

  “As it happens, yes, many times.”

  The answer surprised me, so much so that I turned on my side and peered at him out of the darkness. “If that were true you would not visit such agonies on unsuspecting ladies.”

  “Quite the contrary,” he said. “It did me a world of good – as it will do you.”

  “It is barbaric.”

  “No Miss Wilde, it is not. You will not bite me again I think, nor will you make ill considered wagers. And you have been assured in a most physical way that I will make good on my promises to you. Once the ache settles you will find yourself feeling quite secure in matters.”

  “Is that what you came here to tell me? That you have done me a favor by striking me repeatedly with a length of cane in a punishment far too cruel to administer to a beast, let alone a thinking woman?”

  “It is not as it happens. I came here because I need to inspect the results of that caning. To have delivered the strokes over clothing is to have lost a certain amount of control over the outcome.”

  I was deeply suspicious. “What do you mean, ‘inspect the results’?”

  “I will need to see your bottom, Miss Wilde.”

  “You most certainly will not.”

  “You may keep your hood about your face, but your skirts are going to be coming up and your underclothes down.”

  “No!”

  “Miss Wilde…” his voice went deep with warning. “It is nothing I have not seen before and it is quite essential that I take this precaution for your own sake. So you can submit to a brief inspection, or I can convince you in another fashion.”

  “You are a horrid bully… a….”

  “Enough,” he said. “Lay on your stomach.”

  I turned reluctantly and winced as I felt him raising my skirts with a slow and gentle touch. It wasn’t until his fingers reached the ties of my undergarments and loosened them that I made a small sob of frustrated anger. I wished to simply be let alone and there I was with my most intimate flesh being bared to the monster’s eyes. I could feel the cooler air against my heated skin, and his hands so close to my womanhood that he could have moved only slightly and performed most indecent acts.

  “The cane struck deeper than I anticipated,” he said heavily. “Though the skin is not broken, which is most fortunate. The next time I beat you, it will be on the bare. I cannot continue to risk injury to your tender hide.”

  “There will not be a next time.”

  There was a rumble of humor in his voice as he restored my undergarments to their correct place and secured the ties, dressing me as if I were a doll. “We have many months yet to pass on this voyage and you, my spirited angel, are unlikely to pass all of them in a state of grace.”

  In my pained and embarrassed state, I recoiled at his use of a very personal term. “I am not your angel,” I scowled out of the depths of the blanket. “And I will thank you to not be so familiar.”

  “Not so familiar? I am the only man to have ever imparted any discipline to your person,” Roake said. “We are familiar whether you like it or not.”

  “It is an ill distinction, Master Roake,” I said, throwing back the blanket so as to give him the full benefit of my scorn.

  He smiled at me, entirely unconcerned by my wrath. “Are you a sore loser, Miss Wilde?”

  “I am a very sore loser, as it happens,” I replied, unable to resist the play on words in spite of the pain. “And it is all due to you and your tricks.”

  “Ah, I see,” he said, leaning against the far bunk and bracing himself with his long legs stretched out shoulder width in front of him, his arms folded across his chest in a rather dominating manner. “You do not appreciate the invasion of your territory.”

  It was my turn to make noises of irritation. “What nonsense are you talking now?”

  “You prefer to be the trickster, Miss ‘I cannot read’,” his lips twisted with wry amusement at my expense. “But you do not like to be tricked yourself.”

  “My tricks do not hurt like the blazes. My tricks do not cause flesh to welt.”

  “No, your spoiled temperament and biting does that.”

  Somehow I was losing yet again, this time in a verbal duel. Master Roake kept the upper hand so effortlessly that I was beginning to think the absolutely unthinkable: that it might be I who was in the wrong on this occasion.

  “Do not worry Miss Wilde, you have not yet learned how to gracefully take a thrashing you earned. I imagine it is quite a novel experience. It will become easier over time as you become more accustomed to the notion of consequences.” He flickered a rather rakish wink in my direction and left me quivering in yet another novel fashion as he walked away, so utterly certain of his rectitude that mine had crumbled all about me.

  Chapter Seven

  It is not easy to find rest when one has welts impressed across one’s tender flesh. Suffice to say the night after Roake made free with the cane on my person I slept fitfully, my dreams filled with images of a tall man wielding a rod of fire. In addition to the dreams, which were torturous enough of their own accord, I was woken many times when I inadvertently rolled onto my back and reignited the burning sensations with the weight of my body.

  To make matters worse I seemed to be suffering from
some kind of nervous condition that made the flesh between my thighs quiver. It was a condition exacerbated by the slightest touch and when I put my hand between my legs to soothe myself I found my flesh slick with moisture.

  Naturally I was compelled to explore this sensation, and found that my breath soon came in short gasps as I moved my thumb lightly over the tight bud at the apex of my softest lips. Still I could not exorcise Roake from my mind as I played the images from our duel and the subsequent punishment over in my mind, pressing my flesh harder, thinking I might be able to banish him from my thoughts by reaching a climactic peak.

  Frustratingly my own moisture made it difficult to achieve that aim, my fingers could not take purchase and slid over and past my sensitive spots without the necessary pressure. I had become my own sensual torturer and my self-explorations had lead to a full flush of arousal. I tingled from the very top of my head to my toes and thought I might go mad if I could not release the energies that were so pent up.

  Only by pinching at my nipple and applying a similar grip to the wicked bud between my legs was I able to finally come close to climax, the rocking of the ship an aid to disguising my movements as I urged my hips forward in the darkness. I felt both shameful and wanton, but I could not stop myself. I needed release, even though the movement of my hips made punished skin pull tight with a deep ache. It was pain and it was pleasure. It was all things at once as my tortured nerves finally sung with one note and my breath came in a long muffled gasp. Finally I sank into the embrace of sated sleep, just a half hour before the guard roused us all from our beds.

  I was both exhausted and ravenously hungry when compelled to leave my small blanketed haven. I could have slept for many hours more, but the week had begun anew and with it, lessons. I might have succeeded in banishing Roake from my mind for all of half an hour, but it would be a short reprieve for I was required in his cabin for our customary morning meeting.

  The journey to Master Roake’s cabin was not an easy one. The welts from the cane had stiffened in my short sleep and I was rather bruised. I knocked at his door and he answered in his shirtsleeves, swinging the portal open with a broad smile that sent a flash of guilt shooting through me. For a small moment I supposed that he might have some knowledge of what I had been doing in my bed, but I quickly dismissed it, pushing my sins out of mind as he beamed down at me with what seemed to be genuine pleasure.