Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

AUGUSTA

I t hurts. It bloody hurts. Nothing could have prepared me for the agony blossoming through my bottom. Nothing. The tawse felt like the prick of a thorn compared to this. How could I have been so mistaken?

Tears burn in my eyes as I stare down at the cane on the floor. As much as it hurts, though, I can't deny how my body sings as the heat rushes through after. It's as if I'm warm from the inside out. Granted, with the bit of ginger lodged up my bum, it's not surprising.

What shocks me, however, is how much I actually seem to enjoy the delicious feeling of that burn deep inside. Having something invade me so intimately is certainly an aspect I can live without. But the sensations are not something I've ever felt before.

If only I paid more attention to what he was doing when he fashioned it. Then I could possibly make one for myself when I'm feeling the need to do something I oughtn't. How much better would it feel coming from him, though?

The duke in question strides around the cross, his forearms flexing in the candlelight as he reaches down to grab the cane. "Such a naughty girl," he purrs, wiping it off before offering it to me again. "Each time you drop it, the count starts over."

"And what is the count?" I'm not sure why I have such a perverse need to know.

Will I drop it on purpose so that he may start again? Heaven forbid. Even now, the skin of my bottom blazes, and just from one strike.

"Such knowledge will do you no good. Now open again. That's my good girl."

Something odd twists about inside of me as he grants me praise I don't deserve. How I would truly like to be his good girl, but I can't seem to keep myself from mischief. Perhaps if he was there to keep me in line?

Again, my brain whirrs about as thoughts and plots threaten to overwhelm me. They all soon scatter with another smack of his infernal implement. This time, I expect the pain and lean into it, biting down on the cane so as to not lose it.

"You're learning," he murmurs, running his hand over the bruised skin. "Shall I reward you with a slight reprieve?"

His touch is soft, nearly reverent as he skims it over me. A lurid groan bubbles up my throat, but soon disperses as he takes the leather to my backside again.

THWACK

The sound buzzes in my head as my body becomes wooden and heavy.

THWACK

My vision wavers. Everything becomes hazy as I stare at the wooden slats of the wall in front of me. The lines dip and sway as I blink, trying my best to right them.

THWACK

I feel nothing but warmth. The ginger burns in my backside as his punishment scalds me from the outside. The pain is still there, but it's muddled somehow. It's as if I've taken one too many sips of sherry.

THWACK

Though I wish to giggle at my drunken, muzzy state, I know deep down that I'm not supposed to move my lips. Why can't I move them? Why don't I want to?

THWACK

Nothing at all seems to make sense. Butterflies flap about in my stomach, their aerial dances fluttering about until I cannot ignore the tickle any longer. I bring my hand down to settle them, but it doesn't move. Why doesn't it move?

THWACK

My thoughts continue to click about slowly, as if they're stuck in treacle. Nothing makes sense, and yet, it does. I'm being punished, and rightfully so. But should it feel so bloody good? Again, the need to laugh bursts from my throat, but no sound comes out.

The only thing reverberating through my skull is the clatter of wood upon wood. Blast. Seems as if I've dropped it. Portswell swims into view, his fawn-like eyes cutting through some of the haze. His lips move, but I find I cannot understand his words.

"Warm," I slur, resting against the wood. "So warm."

He disappears again, but I can't find it within me to care where he went. My arms find release as strong arms scoop me up. Turning into his chest, I drink in the clove and sandalwood, taking his scent deep into my heart.

In his arms, I feel like I'm floating. I'm weightless. But all too soon, reality tries to crash in. Portswell sits us down, and the instant my bottom comes into contact with the implacable expanse of his thighs, pain zips up my spine.

Instead of crying out, a moan drips from my lips as I try to shift about to find some relief. With a chuckle, he lays me out on the bed, face down, so my bottom can be free. He kneels there next to me, his gaze searching mine.

"This is supposed to be a punishment. How can I punish you if you enjoy it so much?"

"Is that what this is?" I mutter, running a finger down his lightly stubbled cheek. "I didn't think I would enjoy it. It does hurt a bit."

"I'm sure." There's a chuckle in his voice as he runs his hand down my backside.

At the contact, I jerk away as if I were burned. His touch is spiky and sharp, nothing like it was before.

"Your backside is quite bruised. You will have a harder time sitting tomorrow. But that was by design."

He watches me again, his eyes narrowing as he studies my face. Soon, his hand drifts over my head, sliding over my hair in a soft, intimate gesture. If I had the strength to move, I'd snuggle into his touch.

"Talk to me, Augusta," he murmurs. "Tell me what drives you so."

"Because I'm perverse," I croak, not meaning for the words to come out of my mouth.

I do my best to stop them, but they continue to pour forth, highlighting my secret shame. If Portswell judges me, he shows no sign. His eyes darken, turning nearly black as I confess the last part.

"Your pain makes me wish to touch myself."

"Touch yourself? Show me. I wish to know exactly how you find pleasure."

His strong hands turn me over. He ignores my cries as my bottom touches the rough sheets.

"I cannot. It would be unseemly."

"We're far past that, now aren't we? Consider this the last part of your punishment. Do not hide yourself away from me. If it's my pain that drives you so, then I demand to see the pleasure you derive."

My thighs quake as I open them. Between my splayed limbs, I watch, unable to control my movements as Portswell drags a chair up to the side of the bed and watches me, his face so scandalously close to my apex.

Heat swallows me whole, drowning me as I touch that sensitive bundle of nerves. A ragged moan rasps from my lips as I caress myself, allowing the pleasure to wash over me, taking away the last bit of rational thought. A dream. Just a dream.

My madness has finally consumed me. I've succumbed in a way I never imagined. There's no way the stuffy duke sitting betwixt my thighs, his breaths coming in and out in harsh pants. I must be delirious, finally given over to my lusts.

Wordless pleas drip from me as I continue to stroke myself, drowning further in my madness. I'm only vaguely aware of his fingers skimming up the backs of my thighs, touching me as if he means to coax me further. Each pass of his fingers stokes the flames even more until I'm engulfed.

"Good girl," he groans as he slips one of his hands into his lap. "Release for me. Let me see your pleasure."

With his free hand, he wedges his fingers between the cheeks of my bottom and tugs on the bit of ginger, renewing the zing of heat as it washes over me, drawing a loud moan from the back of my throat. He pulls it out, allowing the bulbous part to stretch me, only to shove it back in, scalding me from the inside out. It feels so foreign, so wanton having something piston in and out while I touch myself.

I cannot deny how pleasurable it is. How could my mind conjure such a lurid action? The heat of the friction sizzles along my nerves until everything coils tight within me. Soon, I'll meet that blessed release. It's close. So so close.

"Slap your clit," the duke's voice rasps out.

"Slap… what?" I shake my head, determined to make sense of his words, but nothing comes to mind.

"The place you touch to bring yourself pleasure. Slap it with your fingertips."

Do I dare? So far, everything, save the punishment, has felt wonderful. But even that turned into something far more enjoyable than at the onset.

SMACK

I bring my fingertips down against that sensitive area and my lips part in shock. Pleasure rocks through me, leaving me nearly breathless.

"Again."

SMACK

"Again."

Portswell's voice is like a chant in my mind. Each time he says that word, my hand acts of its own volition. Though the pleasure is intense, I find that it does not give me the relief I seek. Pained whines gurgle at the back of my throat as tears flow down on either side of my face.

"Please," I beg, my voice cracking as I plead with him. "I need-"

"I know precisely what you need. Again."

With a sharp wail, I smack myself. Harder this time.

"That's my good little minx. You can obey, after all. Once more," he growls out. "Smack your clit."

This time, as my fingers descend between my thighs, he yanks out the ginger, leaving me bereft. The desperate whimpers refuse to stay in my head as I command. Instead, they pour out into the room as I beg him again.

"Don't worry, my precocious hoyden." He trails his fingers along that forbidden hole, teasing the sensitive skin until I gasp. "If I touch you here, you will still be a proper fit for your husband."

With a loud groan, he slides a finger deep inside me. My moans intermingle with his as I toss my head back and forth, desperate for release.

"Touch yourself again," he rasps out, pulling out a finger to slide in more. "I want to see you fall apart with my fingers up your arse."

His filthy words spur me forward even as the sting from him stretching me wide gives me that small bite of pain I need. Desperation commands each stroke as I rub the bundle of nerves, wringing all the pleasure I can from it. When it hits, my entire body clenches, tightening around his fingers until he groans and wriggles them back and forth.

It only keeps the pleasure rolling through me as I scream to the heavens. At home, I was forced to be silent, but in this haven, I can be as loud as I want to be.

"That's it, minx," he growls, the sound vibrating through me. "You're so bloody beautiful in the throes of passion."

Another wave ripples through me. I jut my hips up in the air, rocking them back and forth as I end my release. With murmured sounds of praise, Portswell pulls his fingers from me as I slump back against the bed. My eyes refuse to stay open as I lie there, listening to him clean up.

He comes back over, and soon, a rasping sensation forces me to open my eyes once more. With gentle motions, he drags the rag over my bottom hole, cleaning up any remaining ginger. Unable to really move, I blink at him as happiness settles deep into my chest.

"I think I've fallen in love with you, Benedict Fortescue, Duke of Portswell."

He barely pauses in his task. For a moment, I worry he didn't hear me. Or, perhaps I didn't say it out loud as I thought.

I watch as he takes the rag away and puts it into a bucket. His steps are slow and unhurried. Shaking my head, I do my best to clear away the cobwebs threatening to overtake me.

"Did you hear me? I said-"

"I heard what you said, my beguiling little minx. And that is so very unfortunate for you."