She wouldn’t scream, she’d take her punishment and not give any excuse for Blake to be lenient. She daren’t risk Harkess dismissing Blake’s efforts and making the constable repeat the punishment.
Blake tapped the cane across her bottom, measuring the distance. She clawed the edge of the table, anxiously waiting for the first proper descent of the cane.
She heard the swish, braced herself, pressing her hips onto the edge of the table. The thwack came as she exhaled. She’d not been aware she’d been holding her breath for so long. The cane seared her bottom, covering both buttocks in one swoop. Involuntarily she jerked her legs.
The second came lower down, close to the crease of her bottom. She butted her forehead on the table, gritting her teeth. Hell, if it hurt when Blake did it, what would the constable have done to her? She sucked in another lungful and held it, while Blake lined up the next stroke.
Three became four, then five and onwards. He kept a steady pace and occasionally he ran his hand over her blazing bottom. By the time he reached the fifteenth, she gave up on being quiet and resilient. She cursed, loudly and used the most colourful words she’d ever used. Her feet stamped on the floor and on the twentieth, Blake pushed her back down when she jumped up, rubbing her bottom.
He said nothing, other than to count. She glanced at him once, as he measured up the distance. His biceps bulged and she fancied he was concentrating hard to ensure he didn’t release the full force of his considerable musculature. For the last five she buried her head in her arms and bawled her eyes out, like a child. The tension, the stress of the last twenty-four hours was too much—locked in a cell, interrogated, smeared with some awful substance then brought to the brink of terror.
The cane clattered on the floor. “Finished.” He gathered her up in his arms. Her legs trembled and tears splashed down her cheeks on to his shirt. He held her tight, almost suffocating her, but she clung onto him, relieved to hear the thumping of his heart.
“You’ve been brave, but you need to stay brave. We’re going now to Harkess and you will present yourself, say nothing and keep your opinions to yourself. Is that clear?”
“I promise.”
He tilted her chin up. “I’m saving my kiss. If I give it to you now, I won’t be able to stop. Be patient.”
She wanted to apologise, say many things to him about what had happened. How Millicent had set up Sym, how she’d tried to bring the wives together and instead had driven them apart. She remained quiet, aware that she could not turn back the clock. She’d screwed things up.
He fingered the collar of the white frock they made her wear. “Take off that stupid shirt. Put on your prettiest dress. No panties.”
Harkess didn’t leave them waiting long in the ante-chamber. Lysa dreaded the constable being in attendance, but the only occupant of the austere office was the smirking Harkess.
“So, you did the deed yourself, Blake.” He leant back in his chair. “Leniency isn’t acceptable.”
Lysa stood next to her husband with her head bowed. The walk over to the security block had been another shameful parade. She heard the voices whisper, saw the fingers gesturing and the eyebrows raised. Blake didn’t march her there, instead, he held her hand and let her walk at her own pace, which had been painfully slow. The stripes on her bottom throbbed—a rainbow not of colours but scorching lines. She’d asked him if her skin had split apart, and Blake assured her it was intact, although very red.
Blake folded his arms across his chest. “I did what was required, nothing more or less. Twenty-five strokes of the cane.”
“Show me,” said Harkess clapping his hands together and rubbing them. “Stand facing the wall, girl, and lift up your dress to your waist.”
Lysa clenched her teeth together, not in pain, but embarrassment. Her stiff legs fought to comply and Blake prodded her, cocking his head at the wall. Swallowing hard, she took up position and with trembling fingers, gathered up her skirt until her naked bottom was visible.
She heard Harkess’s chair scrape across the floor. Don’t touch me, please. It was a forlorn request and she scrunched together the features of her face as his hand brushed against her tender skin. He muttered under his breath and she wonder if he was counting each welt, checking the number given.
“Part your legs and stick your bottom out,” he commanded. “You, stay back.” Directing his request to her husband.
“Is this necessary?” demanded Blake.
“I need to judge the severity of the marks. This is quite necessary. Put your hands on the wall and stand still,” he snapped at Lysa.
Her palms pressed against the cold surface and she bent slightly. The humiliation of the day seemed unending as he dragged out the inspection.
“More, and spread your legs.”
Lysa shuffled her feet a few more inches. She flinched—Harkess’s finger traced a welt. As he traversed her buttock, he pressed harder, scoring her flesh with his rough fingertip. She bit back a cry of pain. He moved lower and his finger dipped in between her cheeks and slid down.
“Enough!” snarled Blake.
Harkess removed his offending digit. “You know how to use the cane, Blake. You’ve missed a career as a constable. She likes it, too.”
“I do not!” squawked Lysa, forgetting her requirement to be silent.
“Lysa, keep quiet,” urged Blake.
Harkess’s hot breath mushroomed by her ear. “You’re wet. Like a slick down there.”