Read Online The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales) by Louisa Trent - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louisa Trent
Tags: BDSM Historical
Ads: Link
with a shroud.
Up on her knees, she crossed her arms protectively over her chest.
“Clasp your hands behind your head, wench,” he said from where he now stood, over to one side.
When she did, the move brought her nipples up and out in bold relief, the ends sticking into the air. He could see her arousal from his positioning. Deeply shamed by the involuntary reaction of her body, she dropped her chin in dire humiliation.
At least he was not so cruel as to keep her waiting. The leather came down, a fiery bite into the tender flesh of her backside. The pain cleansed her more than the river. Purified her more than the gritty sand she had scrubbed into her flesh in atonement. In anticipation of the next fall of the lash, she bit back her throaty purr.
Like the clover-scented candles she had once sold at market, her enjoyment was another perverse secret she must hide, another unnatural longing that set her part from all other women. Yet, casting shame and humiliation aside, she could not keep from arching her throat in longing for the next fiery stroke.
To lengthen the pained pleasure, she angled her body to the biting kiss of the leather. Just as he let the whip fly.
The strap did more than flick her breast. The strap snaked around and caught the end of her nipple.
She cried out. In ecstasy.
For a big man, he moved lightly on his feet. Her abandoned cry still hung in the air when he was there at her front, reaching for her lashed breast, cupping the round mound in his calloused warrior’s hand. Not gently. Not tenderly. He touched that private part of her as if she were a thing. An object. His possession. Something he looked after because he owned her.
Turning the throbbing tip this way and that, he finally grunted, “No lasting harm done. The skin is not broken. The nipple is not split. You will wear a bruise but carry no scar.”
With seeming reluctance, he dropped his hand from her flesh. “But I will not tolerate another accident like that happening again, an accident, I might add, that was caused by your own willfulness.”
Seeing that her nipple had sustained an injury, she thought for sure he would call a halt to the punishment. To her, that would have been a far worse punishment than the strapping itself.
But nay. She need not have feared that the uncompromising warrior would change his mind. Instead of quitting, he said solemnly, “You are to hold still and receive your just punishment. Make no further attempts to avoid it.”
“I was not seeking to avoid it, my lord,” she said, defending herself. “Rather, I thought to yield to the punishment by turning toward it in acceptance of the pain.”
“Be that the case, go to all fours. You will have pain aplenty to accept in that pose.”
Before the inflexible overlord, she went to elbows and knees, her back leveled out at a slant, her loins remaining stuck in the mud.
The middling high grass was sharp and abraded the hardened tips of her breasts. Despite its soft texture, the mossy vegetation aligned to her mons irritated the sensitive folds of her cunny.
Wiggling, she courted this additional punishment…for all that ’twas unjustly earned.
An excellent swimmer since childhood, she could not have drowned herself in that river even if she tried—which she had not. Wearing the outlaw’s splattered blood had been intolerable. Her only thought had been to rid herself of the stain, not to end it all. Never again would she do such a thing.
She owed her mind change to the royal. The rough warrior had given her a rekindled appreciation of life.
The next two leather strokes caught her lower, on her buttocks, and she rocked in place, then wildly convulsed, no longer caring that he could see her arousal, no longer trying to hide her excitement. She spread her legs wide, wider still, hoping the strap would land between her open thighs. The knot inside her belly had begun to unfurl like a flower in the sun, all thanks to him.
“Oh aye,” she cooed.
Up on her knees, she crossed her arms protectively over her chest.
“Clasp your hands behind your head, wench,” he said from where he now stood, over to one side.
When she did, the move brought her nipples up and out in bold relief, the ends sticking into the air. He could see her arousal from his positioning. Deeply shamed by the involuntary reaction of her body, she dropped her chin in dire humiliation.
At least he was not so cruel as to keep her waiting. The leather came down, a fiery bite into the tender flesh of her backside. The pain cleansed her more than the river. Purified her more than the gritty sand she had scrubbed into her flesh in atonement. In anticipation of the next fall of the lash, she bit back her throaty purr.
Like the clover-scented candles she had once sold at market, her enjoyment was another perverse secret she must hide, another unnatural longing that set her part from all other women. Yet, casting shame and humiliation aside, she could not keep from arching her throat in longing for the next fiery stroke.
To lengthen the pained pleasure, she angled her body to the biting kiss of the leather. Just as he let the whip fly.
The strap did more than flick her breast. The strap snaked around and caught the end of her nipple.
She cried out. In ecstasy.
For a big man, he moved lightly on his feet. Her abandoned cry still hung in the air when he was there at her front, reaching for her lashed breast, cupping the round mound in his calloused warrior’s hand. Not gently. Not tenderly. He touched that private part of her as if she were a thing. An object. His possession. Something he looked after because he owned her.
Turning the throbbing tip this way and that, he finally grunted, “No lasting harm done. The skin is not broken. The nipple is not split. You will wear a bruise but carry no scar.”
With seeming reluctance, he dropped his hand from her flesh. “But I will not tolerate another accident like that happening again, an accident, I might add, that was caused by your own willfulness.”
Seeing that her nipple had sustained an injury, she thought for sure he would call a halt to the punishment. To her, that would have been a far worse punishment than the strapping itself.
But nay. She need not have feared that the uncompromising warrior would change his mind. Instead of quitting, he said solemnly, “You are to hold still and receive your just punishment. Make no further attempts to avoid it.”
“I was not seeking to avoid it, my lord,” she said, defending herself. “Rather, I thought to yield to the punishment by turning toward it in acceptance of the pain.”
“Be that the case, go to all fours. You will have pain aplenty to accept in that pose.”
Before the inflexible overlord, she went to elbows and knees, her back leveled out at a slant, her loins remaining stuck in the mud.
The middling high grass was sharp and abraded the hardened tips of her breasts. Despite its soft texture, the mossy vegetation aligned to her mons irritated the sensitive folds of her cunny.
Wiggling, she courted this additional punishment…for all that ’twas unjustly earned.
An excellent swimmer since childhood, she could not have drowned herself in that river even if she tried—which she had not. Wearing the outlaw’s splattered blood had been intolerable. Her only thought had been to rid herself of the stain, not to end it all. Never again would she do such a thing.
She owed her mind change to the royal. The rough warrior had given her a rekindled appreciation of life.
The next two leather strokes caught her lower, on her buttocks, and she rocked in place, then wildly convulsed, no longer caring that he could see her arousal, no longer trying to hide her excitement. She spread her legs wide, wider still, hoping the strap would land between her open thighs. The knot inside her belly had begun to unfurl like a flower in the sun, all thanks to him.
“Oh aye,” she cooed.
Similar Books
