I’ve got a luscious Saturday Spanks excerpt for you today, from my historical BDSM romance Challenge to Him. I was amazed to discover that this came out more than five years ago. I vividly remember writing it—how the luxurious world of the Gilded Age came alive in my mind. And how aroused I got writing this particular scene...
All the wealth in the world can’t buy willing surrender.
Andrew MacIntyre, heir to a vast empire of railroads, mines and mills, is the second or third richest man in America, and by far the most eligible bachelor among the society folk summering in Newport, Rhode Island. His mother has filled their opulent mansion with marriageable daughters of bankers and industrialists, but Andrew knows none of these callow young women can satisfy his perverse sexual needs. No respectable girl would ever consent to being bound and beaten, to serving and obeying him the way he craves. His money gives him the freedom to purchase anything except his heart’s desire—a submissive partner to share his life.
Independent, progressive and well-educated, labour activist Olivia Alcott has dedicated herself to improving the lot of the workers who toil in the factories that have made Andrew and his class so wealthy. The strike she organises triggers a confrontation between her and the handsome billionaire. Although their disparate backgrounds and values make them natural foes, something stronger draws them to one another—an intuitive recognition of complementary fantasies. Andrew offers Olivia a bargain—better working conditions for the mill staff, in return for a weekend of her unquestioning obedience. Olivia will help him deflect the attentions of the potential mates assembled by his mother, as well as providing more intimate services. Given Olivia’s origins, a more enduring relationship appears impossible—but Andrew is not the sort to give up something he wants.
“Seven!” The strap whistled through the air. Olivia steeled herself as leather bit into the tender flesh of her ass, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Her lips pressed together to contain her cries. Her eyes were screwed shut to hold back tears. Each stroke hurt twice as much as the previous one, but she was determined to endure the punishment Andrew MacIntyre had decreed—twenty lashes with his hand-tooled belt of Moroccan cowhide—without complaint.
“Eight!” A starburst of pain exploded at the point of contact, then faded to a throbbing ache, echoed by the insistent pulse in her clit. Her buttocks, already sensitised from his earlier spanking, felt as though they’d been roasted over an open flame.
“Nine!” Despite her determination to be stoic, she could not help flinching away from the vicious strap, but she could not escape. Her bonds permitted only the most limited movements.
Andrew had her bent over the footboard of the bed with her buttocks in the air, her chest upon the mattress and her arms stretched over her head. Ropes looped around her wrists and pulled them towards the far bedposts on either side of the pillows. More rope fastened her ankles to the legs of the bedstead, keeping her thighs spread wide. She could do little more than wriggle, and when she did, her pebbled nipples rubbed against the silk coverlet and triggered another sort of agony.
The pain was terrible and yet somehow it excited her beyond belief. It was not the sensations per se that inspired her arousal. She feared the next application of the lash as much as she craved it. What thrilled her was the realisation that she embodied Andrew MacIntyre’s darkest fantasies. Everything he’d ever imagined, she could give to him. Unquestioning obedience. Willing surrender. A ripe, strong female body for him to use as his toy and his comfort. In the breathless moments between his strokes, they were deeply connected by complementary need. That connection was intoxicating.
“Ten!” The belt snapped as it met its target, landing precisely on the delicate underside of her rear cheeks, near the crease where they met. The awful sting forced a cry from her throat, before she caught herself. Hot embarrassment at her weakness mingled with the fire consuming her ass and the fever in her pussy.
Her inadvertent vocalisation made Andrew pause. “Olivia, are you all right?” His fingertips brushed across her welts, waking new pangs that sizzled straight to her sex. She arched backwards, seeking greater contact, and was rewarded by the warmth of his palms, massaging and soothing her battered flesh.
“I’m fine, sir.” The confidence and certainty she heard in her own voice amazed her. “You may continue with my punishment.”
“No, no—I don’t want to damage you.” His hands wandered along the curve of her hips to her waist, then up along her sides to the splayed swell of her breasts, flattened against the mattress. Everywhere he touched, he kindled shivers of delight. He had to lean over her to reach that sensitive spot and the wool of his trousers stung her abraded skin. Awkward, constrained by her bonds, she rubbed against the hard bulk prodding her buttocks. His sigh of pleasure only added to the heat building between her thighs. More of his weight settled upon her back. If only he were naked!
“Miss Alcott, I’d love to thrash your delectable ass until it’s twice as red as it is now. But it’s too much—much too much for the first time.”
“I deserve it, sir—ah!” He had wormed his hand beneath her body to capture her swollen nipple in the pincer of his fingers. “Oh!” He ran his tongue down her spine to leave a wet, tingling trail. “And—ah—oh, sir!” He’d pulled back far enough to slide a finger into her soaked depths. Although he kept well away from her clit, the stimulation still had her teetering on the edge of climax. “I—oh!—I can handle it, sir. It’s not my first time.”
The admission tumbled out before she could stop herself.
“What? What do you mean?” His growl suggested anger, but his fingers continued their slippery dance among her folds. She fought the waves of release threatening to engulf her, struggling for clarity and control. Men were so possessive. How could she explain that Dmitri was long gone, that now, tonight, she belonged solely to Andrew?
“In Paris—I had a lover, a master—oh, please, don’t stop…”
He’d pulled his hand abruptly out of her weeping pussy. The sense of loss was devastating.
“I’ll do what I want. Go on, slut, tell me more.”
She squirmed against the ropes that kept her from touching him. Their welcome bite helped her to focus.
“He was a poet. Russian. He knew—knew me in a way I’d never experienced. I didn’t understand at the beginning, but he showed me, taught me…”
“I knew it, damn it all! I felt it, the first time I saw you.” Tears welled in her eyes at his harsh tone. “Did he whip you, this master of yours?”
“Torture your nipples? Gag and blind you? Suspend you from the ceiling? Stuff his fist into your anus? Mark you with his blade?”
Shame flooded through her at this litany of sins. Even Andrew MacIntyre was appalled by her secret desires.
He grabbed her rear cheeks and pulled them apart, as if to inspect her most private parts. Her juices painted the insides of her thighs, clear evidence of her perverse excitement. His nails dug into the welts he’d inflicted. Sweet torment winged through her helpless body.
“Speak up, slave. I want an answer. Which of these obscene things did your so-called master do to you?”
Olivia fought a paralysing sense of humiliation, unable to reply. “All of them, sir,” she whispered finally, terrified of his reaction but compelled by the force of his will. “All of them, and more.”
Andrew abruptly released his hold on her, backing away so that she could no longer sense his heat. Was he leaving, abandoning her in this compromising and uncomfortable position? Had he gone for his knife, to cut her free and dismiss her? She craned her neck, but he was out of her line of sight. She heard quiet rustling as he moved about the enormous room. Was he retrieving an even more painful instrument with which to punish her?
“Sir?” she ventured, well aware that slaves were not supposed to speak unless specifically instructed to do so. The quaver in her voice revealed her desperate need. She didn’t care. “Please, sir… I’m sorry…” There was no answer.
Her heart spiralled down into a pit of gloom. A vision of her future stretched before her, bleak, sterile and unsatisfying. She recalled her despair when Dmitri had left her, the blank hours, the months of aching, unrelieved need. For some reason this was far worse. Though she’d known Andrew less than a day, the sense of connection was far more powerful than she’d ever felt with her sly, seductive Russian master. Dmitri had been irresistible but cruel, a true sadist who had loved to see her suffer. Andrew, in contrast, appeared to be a basically decent man, despite his deviant sexual needs—although those needs were less deviant, apparently, than her own.
If only she’d kept her mouth shut.
Then all at once he was behind her again, his strong hands gripping her hips and his rigid cock poised at her entrance. In an instant, Olivia soared back to the heights of arousal where he’d taken her during the beating.
“What are you sorry about, wench?” A single jerk of his pelvis seated his cock in her wet depths. Gasping at the sudden, delicious intrusion, she couldn’t answer. He moved inside her, hard and sure, glorious and right—stretching, filling, fulfilling. His wiry pubic hair scratched the backs of her thighs as he buried himself to the root.
Olivia strained against the pull of her bonds, arching her spine, wanting more. Instead, he drew back, emptying her. He rubbed his slick cockhead back and forth across her outer lips, carefully avoiding her clit and driving her crazy.
“I beg you, sir, don’t tease me…”
He laughed and swatted one sore butt cheek. “Be still!” Pleasure and pain rippled through her in alternating waves. “I’m in control here. You’re just my slut—the repository of my lust. And a very filthy little slut at that…”