The Knight's Prisoner (Medieval Discipline 1)

She felt a rush of shame and shook her head miserably. “Because I'm an idiot.”

Sir Ferrum frowned. “Don't say that,” he said sternly.

“I don't know, Sir Ferrum. I didn't want to be spanked again, and it made me angry to know you were going to.” She shrugged. “Sometimes I do stupid things.”

He shook his head. “I'm not going to punish you for spitting at me, because I can tell you're sorry for it. But I am going to punish you for talking like a whore in a tavern to the men.”

She sat back from his knee and glared at him, remorse disappearing with her renewed ire. “I am a whore, Sir Ferrum, even if you've taken me from my tavern.”

He grasped her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “No, you're not. You're the Red Fox's Royal Seer.”

She stood up abruptly, her face flaming with anger. “Nay, I'm just a whore, nothing more. You can't make me into something that suits you, just because you've snatched me away from my home and livelihood.”

In less than a breath's time she was upended over his knee, her skirts flung out of the way and his hand lighting into her bare bottom. He spanked her fast and hard, and she thrashed and wriggled to no avail. The sting was horrible. It occurred to her that his hand was no less formidable than his belt when he laid into her this way. She was certain he was spanking with his full strength. On and on he spanked, first striking the right, then the left, then the middle, over and over again. The fire grew hotter and hotter until the need to escape the pain made her frantic.

“You've been given a gift, Dani. You are special. And it is your duty to use that gift for the good of Briton,” he lectured as he spanked.

You are special. Somehow that completely undid her. She was lying in the most humiliating position possible—over a man's lap, with her bottom bared to him, being chastised like a child—and he was telling her she was special. He was not railing at her about spitting in his face in front of all of his men. He was not even scolding her. He was calling her gifted. She had her mouth clamped shut to keep it all in, but when he started smacking her upper thighs a howl escaped her lips. He never paused, just continued spanking away while she lost her control and started to cry. She was sobbing by the time he finished and then lifted her burning bottom onto his lap, holding her close and rubbing her back. For a brief moment she thought to pull away, but the need to be held won out, and she pressed her face into his neck and wept. He held her and stroked her head and arms, kissing the top of her head.

* * *

She was so small and so soft in his arms, and it made his heart ache to see her cry. He doubted this would be her last spanking over this issue—they hadn't really solved anything. She'd gone from submissive to furious in the blink of an eye—he must have said something wrong as usual—and she'd only relented because she'd just had the daylights spanked out of her. When she'd used up her tears, she sat up with downcast eyes. He brushed the hair away from her face and she reached back to touch her loosened braid. “Do you have a comb I may use?” she asked in a wavering voice.

“Aye, in that saddlebag right there,” he directed her. She climbed gingerly off his lap and over to the bag. He hadn't smoothed her skirts down and they were still tucked up in the back, perfectly framing her shapely little bottom, reddened by his hand. He'd had to distract himself from thinking of how beautiful her curves were while he'd been spanking her, and looking now, he felt a prickle of heat and his balls grew tight.

She must have felt the air on her sex when she bent over because she reached back and touched her bottom, then hurriedly threw her skirts back down, casting an embarrassed glance his way. He tried to appear as though he hadn't been looking, but he couldn't look away from her. They stared at one another for a moment, her wide blue eyes showing a vulnerability that made him want to snatch her back up into his arms. Then she broke the trance and turned back to the bag.

She found the comb and unwound the long blond braid, casting a fan of her silvery blond hair down her back and over her shoulders. It was breathtaking in the lamplight—glowing like the finest spun silk. She spent some time tugging at it with the comb before winding it back into the long braid. Then she stood and held up the comb. “May I?”