Chapter Twelve
MILDRED TRIED TO shift her weight off her breasts, but there was little relief to be had. Her bosom would be flattened against the table till he was done. But she was not quite ready for him to be done, though her derrière smarted quite intensely beneath that last blow. Her whole backside tingled, but certain parts burned most deliciously. It was precisely what she had longed for, what she had hoped to receive at Château Follet.
But she never would have expected her cousin to be the one administering to her deepest, darkest desires. His offer had taken her completely by surprise, and if he had not wanted her to accept, he ought not have kissed her. She understood now why so many of her sex delighted in his presence. They knew what he was capable of.
She had known it, too, but as she knew she would never receive his attention in that way, she had suppressed her acknowledgment of these qualities in Alastair. And because he had many faults that she did not admire, she had chosen not to see his seductive qualities. They might was well have been cousins by blood.
Alastair was right. If she had been in full command of her faculties, if her reservations were not thawed by the port, she would not have allowed this to come to pass. She would not be strewn across the table, her rump exposed, happy to receive a flogging from her cousin. She was glad he had placed the mask over her eyes. At first, she thought she could imagine it was Lord Devon spanking her with the crop.
With each successive slap, however, she found herself balking less and less at the fact that it was Alastair who wielded the crop. In truth, why should she be troubled? She had all the weaknesses of her sex, and her cousin was a highly desirable man. With a firm hand. And searing lips. She would have liked to be kissed again by him. Harder. Longer.
The sharp bite of the crop roused her from her thoughts. “Thank you, my lord!”
She tried to raise herself to the tips of her toes so that the edge of the table did not dig into her hips. The crop rained on her rump.
“Thank you, thank you!” she mumbled between gasps.
She rolled onto her side to take the weight off her breasts.
“I did not allow that you could move.”
With a groan, she settled her chest back onto the table. Her backside felt hot, as did the interior of her womanhood. A pressure had welled there, furthered by every whack of the crop.
She felt his hand upon her rump and thrilled to his touch. She had not felt the caress of a man in a very long time, and though it was wrong—very wrong—she welcomed his hand, its warmth, its firmness, how it encompassed more than half the cheek. She wanted to be touched elsewhere by him.
He gently rubbed her where the flesh burned most before withdrawing. She felt bereft.
"I think you have had enough."
"Not at all," she replied. Though she actually would have welcomed a respite from the crop, she was not ready to be done. Her body yearned for release, yearned for him to provide it.
“You should see the crimson blush across your arse.”
“I was in earnest when I said I wished to indulge in what Château Follet offered. You have given me but a small sampling."
He sounded incredulous. "You wish for more?"
"Indeed, my lord."
He was silent in contemplation before saying, "Hold this."
Something pressed against her lips and she parted them. A thin rod slid between her teeth.
“Do not let fall the crop,” he warned, “lest you intend to speak your safety word.”
She closed her mouth over the thin rod and heard him take up something from the table.
She heard him slap it against his palm. It must be a wooden paddle he held. She gulped. She had never been struck by one before.
Whack!
She screamed into the crop. Dear God. The paddle dealt quite the bloody blow. Her derrière ached.
"Remember you have but to use your safety word to put a stop to this."
She considered it for a moment, but through the pain, or because of it, the heat inside her grew. She wanted more.
The paddle walloped the other side of her form. She bit into the crop as she whined, grateful to have an object to hold on to. He walloped her square upon both cheeks.