Submitting to Lord Rockwell

The sight of herself in the mirror, her stockings and garters still upon her, her bosom bound, was unexpectedly beautiful.

“Did you learn this in India?” she asked, liking the look and feel of her body in the rope. Its rough dryness contrasted with the soft suppleness of her skin.

“It is a Japanese art form. Do you remember your safety word?”

She nodded.

“Speak it.”

“Rati.”

“Good.”

He held one of her protruding breasts, then let it go and slapped its underside. She gasped, mostly in surprise. His hand came down upon the top of it. The thick flesh, confined by the rope, jiggled once. She could hardly believe that he had struck her, yet the contrast of that touch with the tenderness of his earlier caresses was invigorating. He spanked the other breast, a little harder this time, but she did not recoil. She looked at him to see that he was appraising her responses.

“Do you require your safety word, Miss Herwood?”

“No.”

She wanted him to continue his attentions. He obliged, slapping one breast then the other. Her cunny pulsed. Not only could she bear the punishment, it had the surprising effect of arousing her further. Gripping the rope around her chest, he pulled her to her feet. Her gaze caught in his, she sensed she could have been prey he intended to devour. His mouth plunged down upon hers. She could do nothing but submit to his ferocious kiss and understood then why he had wanted her sober—that she could appreciate every maddening sensation, be it pleasant or painful or a strange mixture of both. When he released her from his kiss, she felt as if a fine wine had been dashed from her lips. She wanted more, wanted his tongue to continue probing her depths.

He repositioned the chair in front of her and bent her over the back of it. In the mirror she saw a woman, naked, her chest bound in rope, her posterior protruding before his lordship. What a wantonwench was this woman staring back at her!

“What implement do you favor for your punishment—the crop, whip, or—?”

“I favor none.”

“Ah, shall we try them all then?”

“The nine-tails.”

She hoped that she had selected the right instrument. The wide leather tapes of the nine-tails looked less imposing than the crop or single whip, both of which would no doubt sting. As she watched him remove the implement of choice from the wall, she assuaged her fear by telling herself that the pain would no doubt dampen all arousal and thus allow her to win the wager.

Upon his return, he caressed the curve of her rump and grasped a handful of the flesh. She closed her eyes. Never had she been so exposed to a man, her most private of parts manhandled in such a manner.

Releasing her arse, he gave it a pat. “You are quite delectable, Miss Herwood. Do you recall your safety word?”

Would she need it?

“Yes, my lord.”

His hand slipped past her buttocks to the wetness between her legs. She groaned. He teased and tormented that traitorous nub of desire. Despite her efforts to resist, she felt the arousal intensifying, felt herself growing hotter and wetter. She shifted, both from having to hold herself up against the discomfort of the hard chair and the ache emanating from within.

“Please,” she mumbled.

“Miss Herwood?”

“Please…punish me.”

Silence.

Was he reveling in his victory? Did he intend to emphasize his earlier prediction by making her beg even more? Glancing in the mirror, she saw the bulge at his crotch. Perhaps she was not the only one fighting back urges.

He stepped back and splayed the tails against a buttock. She gasped. As she had hoped, the tails landed with a thud and not a sting. He backhanded her other buttock with the flogger, warming her skin and making it tingle. The next blow landed with greater force, but not much worse than the spanking her breasts had received at his hand. She wondered how much of his full strength he would employ. Though her heartbeat quickened at the question, she felt she could trust him not to harm her. The tails slapped against her derriere in varying rhythms, warming her whole body, invigorating it. Even the blows that made her wince and grunt proved enlivening. Her bottom ached, but every nerve had come alive. When he paused and ran his hand between her legs, she nearly fell off the chair.

Dear God. Shutting her eyes, she concentrated on staying in place, pretending the exquisite sensations at her quim were not hers. She was elsewhere. This woman at the mercy of Lord Rockwell, this woman bound and flogged was not her. Think of something inane!

Her mind went briefly to her aunt and mother recounting their walks through Hyde Park, whom they saw, what was worn by those they saw, whom they didn’t see…