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Arousal flared in her middle, as much from his soft, portending tone as his perverse admission. “What if I can’t sit down at all?” she asked. Truly, she was flirting. Asking for more.
“I hope you can’t. I hope you won’t be able to when I’m finished with you,” he went on in his hypnotizing voice. “It will help you remember who your husband is, and what he expects of you. I wonder how many women of the ton have to submit to weekly spankings.”
Her knees felt weak, even as her bottom’s throb became an ache centered between her legs. She turned her face to the wall, flushing so hot she thought she would die from it. Her face must be at least as red as her buttocks. Why did she like this? Why did she enjoy such depraved words spoken in his low, intimidating voice?
Now was not the time to question it. He had told her this was the time she must rather think upon her transgressions, like being “too good of a wife.” A soft giggle escaped her, quickly muffled by her hand.
“Do you find this amusing?” he asked.
“No, sir,” she said quickly.
“You giggled just now, very clearly. Is my discipline not strict enough to show you the error of your ways?”
“It’s perfectly strict, my lord, I promise you.”
“Open your mouth, Rosalind, and get on your knees.” His brows rose in an arch. “I’ll see to it you can’t do any more giggling as you wait to submit to the strap.”
She complied, opening her lips wider when he chided her, so wide he was able to take down his falls, produce his cock, and drive it straight into her mouth. She choked a little, holding his thighs for balance. She could not giggle about fanciful thoughts now. Her whole attention was upon the techniques he’d taught her on their travels through Tuscany and France, techniques for pleasuring him with her mouth and tongue. At first this had frightened her; she had not thought it proper. Now she liked to do it more, even if she struggled. She liked it because it made him gasp and buck in her mouth, and grasp her hair in his fists.
She would not tell him it excited her. She rather thought he enjoyed doling it out as “punishment.”
She licked and sucked his cock until completion, that is, until he emptied himself in her mouth. She swallowed his seed as he’d taught her—spitting was ungenteel.
“We still have a punishment to finish,” he said, helping her stand. “I hope you haven’t forgotten.”
“No, sir.” She hadn’t forgotten for a moment. At least, in the elapsed time, her bottom felt a little less raw and throbby. She knew her respite wouldn’t last long.
“Remove your chemise first,” he said. “Then kneel upon the lower part of the punishment bench and bend over it.”
She eyed the structure as she loosened the ribbon at her neck and drew her chemise over her head. She placed it on the table beside the chest, where he rummaged for an adequate strap. There were five or six she could see, among other whips and paddles. This, on top of all the spanking tools she’d seen on the ship! How many could one man need?
She barely suppressed another giggle—God help her—and knelt instead upon the bench’s lower platform, trying to look adequately repentant. She felt very naked. Marlow openly enjoyed her nudity, stroking his hands across her curves as she positioned herself at his will.
“Kneel up straight,” he said. “Then bend across the bench properly, so your bottom’s out where it should be.”
Her bottom felt most naked of all. Once she was positioned, with her hands clenching and unclenching the curved handles provided at either side, he excused himself for a moment. She waited, feeling so very exposed, until he returned from his bedroom bearing a tray. Beneath the silver domed lid, he revealed a thick, shaved ginger root carved to a rounded shape at one end. She gazed at it, wondering what on earth it was for.
“Have you ever been figged before, darling?” he asked, noting her wide eyes.
“I—I don’t believe so.”
He chuckled. “You would know if you had. Ginger root is sometimes inserted into a naughty lady’s arsehole before she’s spanked or whipped to provide a little extra, uh, sensation. Burning, if you will.”
Rosalind gasped. “Grooms do that to horses when they’re to be shown,” she said. “Put ginger in their bottoms so they’ll carry their tails high.”
“Oh, you’ll carry your tail high,” he promised, showing her the threatening thing up close. “The cook knows, when I call for ginger, just how to feather the sides and tip of the root for maximum irritation.”
“You’re going to put it in my bottom? Here? Now?”
“Don’t make such a fuss, my dear. You’ve had things in your bottom before, very large things.”
Oh, must he remind her of that now?
“The purpose of the ginger is to make it sting when you clench your arse cheeks during a punishment,” he said. “It’s to make things more uncomfortable, you see. Punishments should be uncomfortable, as much as possible.”
She was already bent over a bench awaiting a strapping on her sore, previously spanked backside. She didn’t know how much more uncomfortable she was meant to be.
“If you can control your impulse to clench and squirm about, I’m told the ginger is less irritating,” he added, as if to be helpful.
