by Nina Mason
At the rear of the wardrobe, she found a pair of riding boots. As she put on the elegant ensemble, she pictured Sir Leith as the offending groomsman, down on his knees with his face to the wall. She imagined herself standing behind him in her costume, the riding crop in her gloved hand. Could she bring herself to beat someone else the way she’d been beaten?
No sooner had she asked herself the question than the fantasy changed. Instead of Sir Leith, the man on his knees before her was her foster father. Striding around to boldly face him down, she found him playing with himself.
“What is this?” she asked, appalled. “More of your pervertedness?”
“Yes, well,” he said, leering at her shamelessly. “When a man’s wife won’t have sex with him, what’s he supposed to do?”
“Have you no scruples? Have you no shame?” She raised the whip. “I was a child entrusted to your care.” With a tremor of satisfaction, she brought the whip down on his stroking hand with a gratifying crack.
The image faded, but the demons the fantasy called forth still lurked near the surface of her psyche. Half an hour later, she arrived in the dining room to find the trap door into the dungeon standing open. Amber light and the smell of burning candles emanated from below. There was no sign of Sir Leith. Rather than repel her, the eerie mood appealed to the darkness within.
She climbed down to find wall-mounted torches burning along the passageway leading to his playroom. He wasn’t there, either, so she seized the opportunity to look into the adjoining room she’d only glimpsed last night. The lights were out, so she felt along the wall for a light switch. Finding one, she flicked it on.
Holy moly.
There was a huge four-poster bed against one stone wall and a sizeable cage along the other. Outside the cage were a set of feeding bowls. Did he have a dog? Wait a minute. He was a cat. Of course he didn’t have a dog.
The cage was for his submissives.
Shaken by the realization, she flipped off the light and headed to the wall of toys. Moving toward the whips, she selected a riding crop with a rhinestone-studded handle. She flicked the tongue a few times, enjoying the way the whip felt in her hand. The lightweight stem would be effective to both tease and punish. If indeed he meant to cast her in the role of Dom this time.
Heavy footsteps gave her a start and spun her toward the door, the crop still in her grip. There stood Sir Leith in a long-sleeved white shirt and neck cravat, fitted linen waistcoat, simple tartan kilt, and sturdy knee-high boots. He’d pulled his hair back in a ponytail, but a few loose strands still curled around his face in an appealing manner.
To say he looked Mr. Darcy hot would be an understatement.
Catching sight of her, he clasped his hands just below his sporran, which resembled a small dead animal, and bowed his head in deference.
“Ye wished to see me, m’lady?”
She lifted her chin. “Indeed, Mr. MacTavish…and I believe you know the reason.”
Keeping his head down, he lifted his eyes to hers. “Has it to do with Miss Brown?”
“It has to do with your repeated impudence.” As she said the word “impudence” with all the haughtiness she could muster, she snapped the crop across her palm. The sting shot straight to her sex. “If you expect to retain your position, you must demonstrate the humility befitting a personage of your lowly station.”
“Mr. Brody said ye meant to take the buggy whip to me backside.” He smirked at her tauntingly. “Though, to tell ye the truth, I rather doubt ye have it in ye.”
She puffed up, feeling the full weight of his challenge. “We all have it in us, you insolent dog. If pushed far enough. In fact, when you came in just now, I was in the midst of choosing which whip to use to tan your sorry hide.”
Smirking, he looked from the crop in her hand to her face. “Aye, well. Ye willna teach me much of a lesson with that wee sprig.”
She stared him down, again feeling affronted by his mockery. “This is just to warm up my arm—and your backside--among other parts of your worthless anatomy.”
His eyebrows twitched salaciously. “Oh, aye?”
She painted the crop at his sporran. “Take that awful dead thing off and lift your kilt. I’d like to see what you consider worthy of such cheek.”
The sporran dropped to the floor with a thud. Then, seizing his kilt, he raised the hem without the slightest hesitation.
He wasn’t aroused—something she intended to change at once. Stepping up to him, she ran the crop’s soft leather tongue up and down his penis, which reacted just as she hoped it would. When he was hard, she drew back her arm and snapped the tip of the crop against his erection.
His breath caught and he flinched, giving her a thrilling sense of power. It felt good—and freeing--to have the upper hand for a change.
“Don’t presume to know what I’m capable of, Mr. MacTavish. I’ll be nobody’s doormat ever again.”
“Ye never struck me as a doormat, m’lady,” he said a little huskily. “Though I canna say his lordship shares my view.”
Her gaze jumped to his and narrowed. “What prompts such a bold accusation regarding the baron?”
“Look around ye, m’lady. Do our surroundings not speak volumes about yer husband’s twisted proclivities? I hear he gave Miss Brown a good seeing to down here last night. The poor lass was so done in by his—well, let’s just say flogging, eh?—she could hardly crawl out of her cot this morning.”
“For your information,” she said, stroking his member with the whip, “my husband punished Miss Brown for improprieties in which you yourself were complicit.”
He arched a dark eyebrow while producing a crooked smile that made her weak in the knees. “Might you be planning to punish me in a similar fashion, m’lady?”
The knowledge she could do just as she pleased was a potent cocktail of power and desire. Struggling to stay in her role, she scowled up at his face. While he towered over her in stature, he was miles beneath her in station, and far too equal in his addresses. He needed taking down and she knew just how to do it. She dropped her gaze to his erection, which taunted her with its uppity posture and squinty eye. Lips pursing in disapproval, she brought the crop down hard on the peninsular upstart.
He gasped and bent slightly at the waist, but still held his kilt aloft. She watched, amused and aroused, as a red welt joined the blue veins on his shaft. He did not, however, go limp.
The dark, primitive thing inside her grew in size. Her jaw was tight as she said, “Is there a word you might wish to invoke, should my rebukes prove unbearable?”
The impudent eyebrow shot up again, challenging her. “Is that a possibility, m’lady?”
“It’s hard to say.” She lifted her gaze, meeting his with a spark of awe. God, but he had beautiful eyes. She swallowed hard, reminding herself of her role and her deepest fear. “Whipping you just might pop the cork on my repressed rage—a cork, I might add, that’s been snugly in place a good, long while.”
“Do yer worst, m’lady.” Desire as feral as her own smoldered in his eyes. “I promise ye, I’m man enough tae take it.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Her power over him felt at once heady and dangerous. “Now, turn around and bend over.”
The dark thing sank lower and throbbed with need as she watched him carry out her instructions. God help her, the man had an ass worthy of a sonnet. With a trembling hand, she ran the tongue of the crop over his inspiring posterior before slipping the stem between his legs.
Slapping the whip back and forth against his inner thighs, she said, “Spread your legs, you filthy cur.”
As he widened his stance, she ran the stem of the whip around his dangling scrotum. Desire pooled hot, thick, and electric between her legs. She’d never felt this aroused before. Not even close.
Swallowing hard, struggling for control, she stepped back and ran the crop’s soft tongue up the crack of his buttocks before poking the hard tip against his anus.
“Free to do my worst
here as well?”
“Aye, m’lady.”
The dark entity dropped between her legs and began to throb. Holy moly. She’d never dreamed depravity could be such a turn on.
“Dear, me.” She dragged the tongue of the crop down his crack, over his balls, and back to his anus. “I do wonder if his lordship has a strap-on.”
“I believe he does, m’lady.” He held his position. “Do ye have in mind tae bugger me, then?”
That was exactly what she had in mind, and the idea was making her fevered and dizzy. The toxic waste of resentment bubbled up inside her, poisoning her mind. All at once, she burned with the desire for vengeance, to lash out, to abuse someone else the way she’d been abused. With a vicious laugh that sounded strange to her ears, she snapped the whip across his buttocks. He twitched and tensed, but kept quiet. Dissatisfied, she hit him harder. He still remained maddeningly unresponsive.
“As I said, m’lady. Ye willna bring me tae heel with a wee riding crop.”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
“Aye,” he said, “the cat.”
How she knew he meant the cat o’nine tails, she couldn’t say. She also couldn’t bring herself to use anything so cruel. She wanted to torture him in a teasing, erotic way, not disfigure his beautiful hindquarters.
“Won’t that hurt you?”
“Aye, but what good is a painless punishment? The trick, m’lady, is to keep the endorphin levels up by alternating pleasure and pain.”
From all the reading she’d done, she had a pretty good idea what he was driving at—and that the instruction had come from Sir Leith, not MacTavish the groom. Stepping right up to his backside, she bent over and rubbed her hand across the welt she’d raised on his previously perfect hindquarters. As she did this, she slipped her other hand between his legs and cupped his balls, which felt soft, cool, and well…kind of gross.
“You mean like this?”
“Aye, m’lady.”
Wavering between aversion and longing, she moved her hand forward, to his member, and lightly brushed her fingertips over his smooth, distended flesh. Memories flashed of being forced to touch her foster father in a similar way. Repulsed, she jerked back her hand and, beset by sudden, overpowering rage, she struck him viciously with the riding crop.
Horrified by her sudden violence, she threw the crop away. “I’m so sorry, Sir Leith. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Don’t you?”
He stood up, turned around, and took her in his arms. Gwyn stiffened, unsure how to react. As much as she wanted this intimacy, she was equally afraid. Gently, he loosened his grip on her, and his hand stole up her tight coat to the low-cut neckline.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you overcome your fears.”
“By feeling me up?”
He chuckled, deep in his throat. “More or less.”
A warm hand came inside her stays. Her nipples tingled and hardened as he teased them. Suddenly afraid of her inner stirrings, she tried to pull away. He tightened his hold on her, pulling her against him again.
“Don’t be afraid, Miss Darling. I won’t hurt you.”
Fighting her fear, she pressed herself into the length of his body. He felt so good and so right—despite the ice creeping through her veins. When his thigh came between her legs, she had a sensation like overwhelming panic. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. Needing air, she tilted back her head.
His mouth came down on hers and his tongue caressed her lips like a cat lapping cream from a saucer. Torn between disgust and desire, she felt the unbearable familiarity of intrusion. Memories shot to the surface of her mind. Awful memories of her foster father forcing his tongue into her mouth while he did things between her legs that burned.
All at once, it was too much for her. “I can’t,” she cried, pushing him away. “I want to, but I can’t.”
He stepped back. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, but she felt his gaze on her. Tears pricked her eyes and tightened her throat. She didn’t understand her conflicted feelings. Why had she pushed him away when she wanted this so badly?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It isn’t you.”
“I understand. I have trouble with intimacy myself. It’s just that…well, strange as it sounds, I feel as if I’ve been given a second chance.”
“Because I look like your wife?”
“Aye, but also because Belphoebe isn’t dead.”
“I thought you killed her,” she said, playing dumb.
“Nay. I only put that in my book so Morgan wouldn’t learn the truth.”
Here was her chance to learn the truth from his own lips. “What really happened?”
“I took her across the channel to Brocaliande and put her in the care of the druids. When I returned to Avalon with the heart of a pig meant to fool Queen Morgan into believing I’d carried out her orders, she put a curse on me before banishing me from the Thitherworld.”
“What kind of curse?”
“One that would kill any woman I gave my heart to ever again.”
Swallowing her horror, Gwyn fought to maintain the appearance she’d taken his revelation in stride. “So, you thought all this time Belphoebe had fallen prey to the curse?”
“Aye, but I’ve only just learned she didn’t. She’s still alive, which means there’s a chance we can overcome my curse.”
“We?”
“Aye. You and I, Miss Darling. Unless you don’t want me.”
“Of course I want you.”
He moved closer. “Then, why won’t you kiss me?”
“I thought kissing was too intimate.”
“I’ve changed my mind—about everything.”
Wanting to kiss him more than anything, she closed her eyes and tipped back her head, offering him her mouth. When his lips touched hers, she transformed, as if by magic, from a timid mouse into the brave princess in a dark and depraved fairytale.
PART TWO
The Courage of a Mouse
Chapter 9
Since the full moon wasn’t for another two weeks, Leith had decided to spend that time helping Miss Darling overcome her intimacy issues. He meant what he said about her being no good to him if she couldn’t bear to be touched. If they somehow succeeded in breaking his curse, he wanted her to welcome sexual intimacy with him, not be repelled by it.
He’d kept away from her for the past several days, partly so he could consider how to move forward with her therapy and partly to protect her from his curse. If he limited his contact with her, he reasoned, his feelings might not deepen to the point where she’d begin to experience symptoms. Because his torque prevented him from crossing the vale, she’d have to go to Brocaliande without him. Tom had volunteered to go with her, bless his soul, but she’d still need to be well and strong to make the trip.
While doing his research, he’d discovered which book she’d taken that day in the library. He now understood much better why she’d agreed to go into the playroom with him. He just wished she’d have told him about the abuse before they got started. Still, no real harm had been done, so there was no point in berating himself.
He needed to look forward, not backward. Much work and difficulty lay ahead, starting with their next session in his playroom. Fifteen minutes ago, when first he’d awakened, he’d sent Gavin to Miss Darling’s bedchamber with a note.
Meet me in my playroom in thirty minutes. Wear nothing except the dressing gown you’ll find in the wardrobe in your room. When you arrive, take it off and kneel by the door with your head bowed. Today, I will be your Master and you will be my slave.
Rubbing his stubbled chin, he tried to decide which props to employ. In their initial playroom session, she’d recoiled from his touch, even though she desired intimate contact with him. This contradictory response led him to conclude sexual arousal triggered flashbacks of the abuse. It also explained why, at the age of twenty-five, she’d never had consensual relations. Avoiding romantic relations
hips was her coping mechanism.
Thus, he needed to find a way to give her pleasure without calling up the old memories of molestation.
From all he’d read, inflicting pain seemed like the most effective approach. Experiencing physical discomfort would keep her mind in the present and, when delivered as a prelude to sexual stimulation, would help rewire her unpleasant associations. That was the theory, anyway.
At first blush, the method appeared to merely replace one form of mistreatment for another, but it was far more complicated than that. The body experienced pain and pleasure in similar ways. Both sensations stimulated the release of endorphins and adrenaline, heightening the senses while enveloping the brain in euphoria.
He wasn’t a doctor; he didn’t understand exactly how it worked. He only knew what he’d read: in many survivors of molestation, the alternating infliction of good and bad sensations helped break the embedded connection between arousal and abuse.
The problem was, Miss Darling was just as averse to pain as she was to intimacy. Therefore, introducing pain into the mix was going to require considerable finesse. Would she tolerate clamping? She’d excluded hitting, but hadn’t specifically prohibited the infliction of pain, so what he had in mind wouldn’t violate her hard limits. Not strictly speaking, anyway. He’d go easy and walk her through how to cope with the burn when the clamps were removed and, for her suffering, she’d be rewarded with salvation and mind-blowing orgasms.
He decided on wooden clothespins, which he would apply to her labia and nipples. First, however, he would deprive her of her senses with a blindfold and earbuds attached to his iPod. The playlist he’d put together earlier that morning included some of his favorite BDSM-inspired tunes—”Venus in Furs” by the Velvet Underground, “Master and Servant” by Depeche Mode, “Erotica” by Madonna, “S&M” by Rhianna, and the like—as well as a few he’d selected especially for Miss Darling, including “Beautiful Pain” by Eminem and Sia, a song about healing old wounds; “Unconditionally” by Katy Perry, a song about being loved for who she was; and “Galileo” by the Indigo Girls, a song about reincarnation.
