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...
Blurb
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.
Excerpt
“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?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Cane
you?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“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…”
