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She contemplated the tone of his voice. It would be worse for her if she argued.
“No,” she relented, for now. She had fond memories of the time he took a flogger to her, but it had been some time and had happened only once.
“Good.”
She felt the crop caressing the contour of her rump.
“As lovely as ever,” he murmured.
Even as she swallowed in fear, the wetness between her legs increased. She tightened her hold of the post. Would he exercise restraint as this was her first visit to the Chateau?
With the crop, he began tapping the bottom of one cheek. Gradually, he increased the amount of force to a tolerable sting. Then, unexpectedly, he whipped the crop against the other buttock. Deana sucked in her breath, mostly in surprise. It was a sharp but not overwhelming blow, the sensation more pinching than what she recalled of the flogger. Her cunnie pulsed.
He flicked the crop at her with increased strength. This time she shut her eyes against the smarting. It felt as if someone had stuck a pin in her arse. She grasped the bedpost as if she could diffuse the pain into it. He let fall the crop several times with lighter, almost teasing, strikes. When she thought she had acclimated to the punishment, he jolted her with a potent blow. She emitted a scream and felt her eyes water.
“Do you require your safety word?”
She contemplated answering in the affirmative, but pride mixed with curiosity won the moment.
“No, my lord.”
He swatted her derriere twice more. The area of her groin grew warm along with her arse. How was it she could be excited while clinging to a bedpost, nude but for the jewelry and the blouse that concealed nothing, submitting herself to being whipped as harshly as a steed urged to gallop? If she had known she would find herself in such a position, would she have acquiesced to coming here?
The answering moisture of her arousal slid down her inner thigh. Rockwell caught the rivulet with the crop and slid it up along her leg until it skimmed her cunnie. Her legs weakened with anticipation. He rubbed the crop against her flesh. She moaned low. The tip of the crop bumped against her clitoris. He retracted the crop and slapped it against her buttock, but this time she fully welcomed the touch, the pain fueling the hunger burning between her legs. Again she felt the crop gliding across her slit, sliding with ease across her wetness.
Good God. First her hand, now a riding crop. She shivered but did not resist the pleasure building inside of her. She wanted the stimulation, wanted it harder and faster. And he seemed to know her body better than herself. He began frigging her with the crop in earnest. The stinging of her arse had not receded and made her more alert to the wonderful sensations fanning from her nether region. Needing to spend above all else, she grasped the bedpost and fucked the riding crop in return.
She spent gloriously, her body engulfed in flames of desire. Pain mingled with pleasure to produce a most sensational end. Her limbs shook. Barely able to hold onto the post, she was vaguely aware of her own cries. The thrusting of the crop slowed. Occasionally the tip of it pushed against her clitoris, shaking quivers from her body. When the crop finally retracted from between her legs, she slithered to the floor. Eyes closed, breath fast, she would have preferred to fall into bed to recuperate but did not have the wherewithal.
After what felt like a long time, she pried open an eye and dared to gaze at Lord Rockwell.
Chapter Seven
DESPITE THE MOLTEN LOOK in his eyes, Rockwell showed no evidence of being affected by what transpired. Deana’s gaze fell to his crotch and the bulge there. Well, perhaps not wholly unaffected. She marveled at his poise. Surely it was uncommon for a man to show more restraint than the fair sex in carnal matters? Her lack of control over her own wayward body surprised her, and yet the self-indulgence provided a most liberating feeling.
“What now, your lordship, now that you have had your way with me?” she asked.
He unrolled his sleeves and buttoned the cuffs. “Bhadra will see that you are properly dressed for our ride and picnic.”
Deana found herself chagrined by his placid demeanor. It seemed unfair that she should have been in such a state of discomposure, giving in to her basest needs, while he chose to proceed with a bloody picnic. Why would he not take her? Had he no wish to? Had she dissatisfied him in some way? She watched him retrieve his coat, studying him for signs that he might be flustered in the slightest. Her body could not have asked for a more satisfying and exquisite conclusion, yet she now felt vaguely unfulfilled.
Returning to her, he assisted her to her feet and kissed her lightly upon the hand. A shiver went through her. The simplest touch from him had such an effect upon her.
“I shall return in an hour’s time,” he informed her before walking towards the door. He paused at the threshold and looked at the crop in his hand. A devilish glimmer flashed in his eyes. “I’ve a mind not to clean it.”
Her cheeks heated. With some relief she watched him take his leave. She had much to digest. The fresh air would suit her. Yes, she looked forward to engaging in normal activities with Lord Rockwell. She pulled the blouse back over her breast and was picking up the sari just as Bhadra returned. Flushing, she covered herself with the fabric.
“I’ve an ointment for m’lady,” Bhadra said as if nothing were amiss.
The maid turned Deana around and began applying the salve upon her derriere.
Deana flinched, mostly in embarrassment.
“It be only a balm of witch hazel and aloe.”
Deana noted the markings upon her arse apparently did not surprise the maid. Indeed, how had Bhadra been prepared with the ointment? Her cheeks colored to think that the maid had heard through the door what had happened or had been told by Rockwell himself. She wanted to ask Bhadra but was too mortified. In silence, she allowed Bhadra to remove the beautiful jewelry, which she placed carefully back in its case. Traditional petticoats and an English riding habit, an elegant green wool challis with velvet collars, complete with a Shako hat were produced.
“Whose garments are these?” Deana asked.
