Made to Order Bride, page 5
"I don't want to take a nap, Master, I just got here!" Her voice was soft, but the entreaty was pure whine, any way you sliced it, and it grated on his ears terribly.
Tru rose, paddle in hand, walked around the horse, and delivered five short, sharp strokes, using the very end of the paddle to delineate each cheek for the first four, then crashing down on both at once for the last crisp crack that echoed quite fearfully throughout the chamber. He had controlled the strength of the swats very carefully. They were baby smacks, at best, designed to bring his displeasure with her whining to her attention. As he made his way back to the chair at her head, he made a mental note that this room needed curtains and some tapestries and carpets to absorb the sounds she would inevitably be generating within it. That was one thing he hadn't thought about when he was decorating it.
He—with his unusual speed—had delivered the blows so quickly and so unexpectedly that Star had only just begun to react by the time he was sitting down again. Her bottom felt as if he had seared it with a hot pan, and she absolutely could not keep herself from yelling, "Ow!" in a loud, long moan, then repeating it as if she was one of those old-style records with the needle stuck, but pretty much after the fact, as if the soundtrack to her life was suddenly not quite in synch with the actions on the screen.
"Enough, Star." Tru waited a beat or two, making sure she stopped, and she did, although she was still breathing heavily, like a woman in labor instead of someone who had just received what he considered to be a few small taps with the paddle. "I hate to tell you, but those were baby pats. I just wanted to let you know that you are not to whine. I cannot and will not abide whining in any form."
"Y-yes, M-master." Dear God, those had been baby swats? Her mind went blank. She didn't want to consider what the upcoming paddling was going to be like! If she did, she'd go mad. Truly mad.
She lifted a wrist half-heartedly, already knowing that there was no hope that they had loosened in the last five minutes since the last time she'd tested their strength. Her wrists were already beginning to hurt from her repeated attempts to slip out of the restraints.
"I just want to reiterate that your basic job is simply to obey me. If you do that, we'll get along just fine. I'll detail your duties more closely tomorrow, but, for today, I'll take care of you. You've had a long trip, and I can't imagine it was a very comfortable one. We'll get your paddling over with, and although I know you don't want a nap, you're going to take one, anyway, because I think it's what you need, and I am now the one who will make every decision for you, as your teachers did before me."
He rose, knowing she hadn't even really begun to deal with the five smacks he'd already dealt her, moved the chair back to the exact position he'd taken it from at the edge of the room, then resumed his position behind her and slightly to the left—the prime spot from which to wield the paddle against that wonderfully prominent bottom of hers.
His mere presence behind her again had Star fairly howling in dreadful anticipation, and her fears were confirmed the second that paddle came in contact again with her vulnerable nates.
And this time, it was no baby slap.
He fell into a terrible rhythm, a crack, crack, whap—individual cheeks, then both sides or individual thighs, which was worse, then both—that had Star tugging so hard at the restraints that she thought she was going to break her wrists. And the worst thing was that tugging at them and writhing and wiggling only served to make her naturally arch her butt out just that much further, as if she was offering it up to the paddle, as if she wanted—liked—enjoyed—its searing, all encompassing, mind wiping kiss.
It was all she could think about. It immediately became her entire world. The seconds between each swat were almost worse torture than the actual smack itself, because they were spent in terrible anticipation of the actual moment that the next spot on her already tenderized rear was going to be scorched, turned a neon, cardinal red and immediately blistered by the indentations of the holes.
When he'd gone over the entirety of her bottom and thighs twice, he stopped, all of a sudden. Every inch of Star's body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, both from the mental terror of the anticipation of each smack and, also, from the aggressiveness with which she had been attempting to escape her punishment—to no avail, of course. Tru walked around to her head and looked at the material beneath it. In the center was one large, darkened area, directly beneath her head. He could hear how she was still sobbing as he returned to her backside, and the level of those sobs increased a thousand-fold as it sunk into her that he wasn't finished with her quite yet.
But then he did something she hadn't expected.
He switched the paddle to his left hand and cupped her well exposed kitty from behind, laying that middle finger again along the inside of her cleft, searching and finding exactly that which he craved, the evidence of her desire, even in this, which he knew she would deny to her dying breath ever wanting. But her body said it for her.
His middle finger was soaked. Tru made sure to gather as much of her juice as he could on that big finger before coming back around to her head again and crouching down by her face, showing it to her first. "Do you see this, Star? I know you're not enjoying your paddling—you're not supposed to—and I know you didn't enjoy the spanking I gave you before, either, but your body does, and this is my proof. Remember how I said that the wetness on my pants wasn't pee? It wasn't. It was this. It was your body letting me know how much you need to be strictly disciplined, how much it craves that. And this is the proof. And I don't intend to let you down."
Tru put his finger to her lips. "Open your mouth, Star."
As much as she didn't want to, she was that much afraid and a thousand times more afraid not to. Star did as she was told, and that moist digit passed through her lips. "Suck it off, that's it. Good girl."
Star had no idea what she was doing or why she was doing it. She was just hoping it was going to defer any further pain.
Tru snatched his finger back more quickly than he had intended, but if she continued much longer, she was going to unman him completely.
To Star's horror, she saw him take the paddle in his right hand as he returned to stand behind her, and seconds later, it smacked down on her defenseless buttocks, and she threw her head back and screamed.
"That's it."
The next swat was delivered to the underside of her cheeks, with just force enough that, if she had been standing, it would have rocked her onto her toes.
As it was, it elicited yet another full-bodied scream.
Music to his ears.
And his cock.
Wonderful, sensual torture.
Tru smiled as he continued to swat her, watching her flesh wobble just slightly with each blow, seeing the reds deepen and her sobs and screams rise, realizing the irony in the fact that, as he caused her to suffer, he was most assuredly going to be suffering himself over the days ahead, because he certainly didn't plan to throw himself on her and rape her tonight. Where would the fun—the anticipation, the planning, the strategy, the glory—be in that?
He intended to thoroughly enjoy deflowering her—in all of the myriad forms that one could possibly take—and he had absolutely no timeline for it. They had forever together. Yes, they needed to produce children, but that would come in time. There was no hurry. They were both healthy, and he wanted to enjoy his time alone with her for as long as possible. Years, if he could make himself stand it. Decades, if possible. Why not? She had been born from nearly the same genetic meddling as he. They would live nearly forever.
She was his, and he intended to indulge himself in her. And indulge her only occasionally. He firmly believed that a woman needed her pleasure. But he also believed that that pleasure needed to be strictly controlled by her man. His philosophy was that females needed to feel approximately seventy five percent pain to twenty five percent pleasure. Approximately.
He did have to admit he was undecided as to when to introduce her to her full pleasure, but then he thought that might resolve itself naturally. He decided to let nature take its course to a certain extent, that he would see where things led him. He kind of liked the idea of introducing her to it and then withdrawing and teasing her with it, once she knew what the culmination was.
Although withholding the ultimate resolution had its intrigues, too, certainly. In an uncharacteristically unplanned move, he decided he'd wait and see what transpired between the two of them in regard to her own pleasure, perhaps waiting to see if she earned it, somehow.
When he finally finished, she was indeed a sorry sight, and he was horrified to find that, as he unbound her, she had been able to create bruises at her wrists and ankles by tugging away so viciously and continually, trying to dodge his trusty paddle.
Well, that would never do. They were faint, he had to admit, but he could see them, and they would probably worsen with time, and that was a problem, as far as he was concerned. Apparently, there was entirely too much play in the way the cuffs were bound to the horse. He would address that immediately once he had her down for her nap.
The idea of obtaining some of the paralytic that had been used during her transportation crept into his head, and he decided that might not be such a bad idea. Tru was certain it could be gotten on the black market—as pretty much anything could that was able to be had nowadays—and he made a mental note about that, too.
Star was well beyond even shame by that point. She was unfettered hand and foot, but she couldn't even find it in herself to make the slightest move towards escape. Her poor bottom must've been in absolute tatters; she was absolutely sure. That's what it felt like, as if there was barely any flesh hanging from her bones. When he set her on her feet, she was extremely surprised that there was no blood beneath them. How could he have beaten her so and not drawn blood?
Part of her wanted to reach behind her to feel her butt, but part of her really didn't want to know in what condition he'd left her. It felt bad enough without knowing the true reality of its condition.
And yet, now that it was over, he was back to treating her as gently as a babe. He noticed that she was shivering and immediately doffed his own huge, warm shirt to wrap around her, kneeling down to put a pair of the most gorgeous, warm slippers onto her bare feet. They were silver and gold and encrusted with what looked like jewels! And they fit as if they had been made for her.
He led her out of the room, the paddle still dangling from his wrist, and it was then that she noticed that there was something written on it. It said, in what she recognized was the ornate Old English style, Tru Star.
She realized it instantly.
It was her new name.
The room he led her to was the most enormous bedroom she'd ever been in. The room she'd occupied at the place she'd grown up was monastic in comparison, and she knew hers had been palatial in comparison to what the majority of the world's women slept in, if they slept indoors at all. And the bed was bigger than the pool she had sometimes been allowed to use.
Everything in the room screamed opulence and luxury—from the solid wood furniture to the heavy velvet drapes. It was like something she'd seen out of a Turkish palace. There were pillows everywhere, as well as a lot of strategically placed mirrors, which were extremely hard to come by, especially whole. They were very dear.
The room was very warm, and he had reclaimed his shirt as soon as she entered it, leaving her again quite starkly nude. Having wished she could see the results of his handiworks, she now found she couldn't avoid it—she could see all angles of herself whether she wanted to or not. Everywhere her eyes lit, she could see how swollen and deeply mottled red her cheeks and all the way down the backs of her thighs were. But it didn't look anywhere near as bad as it felt, she had to admit.
Preferring to dwell on the décor rather than the ever-present reminders of the chastisement she'd just received, Star noticed that there were a few surprisingly feminine touches here and there, too. There were fresh cut flowers, which were also extremely hard to come by, and a beautiful vanity, completely stocked—not with makeup, as she might have expected—with perfumes that were extremely rare and thus inherently expensive and an extraordinary array of gorgeous jewelry that caught her eye, although she consciously restrained herself from showing any overt interest in it.
And the one thing she noticed most—and, when she thought about it, it was true about every area she'd been in in the house—was that everything was spotless. There was not a speck of dust anywhere. She was pretty sure she could eat off the floors if she wanted to.
Chapter 5
Tru didn't give her much time to contemplate her new surroundings, though. He guided her over to the bed and gestured for her to sit, which she kind of faked, using her legs to keep her ravaged bottom well above what she knew was going to be a comfy mattress, but still, probably not comfy enough for the state her backside was in.
He retrieved something out of a drawer and returned to stand beside her, looking at her closely. Then he suddenly tugged her up and over the bent leg he'd created by placing his foot on the edge of the bed frame, so that she was over his knee, her extremely well-paddled bottom at just the perfect angle to receive the flat of his hand.
Which he delivered quite rapidly as he chided her sharply. "When I say sit down, Star, I mean exactly that. I do not mean for you to thwart my intentions and hold yourself above the bed, so that you protect your bottom. Am I making myself perfectly clear?" He accented each word with at least a swat or two, reigniting the terrible fire in her flesh that had not even begun to calm down since the dungeon room.
Squeal and squeak and squirm as she might, she could not get away from him. He had her caught around the waist and dangling from that broad thigh of his, helpless as a worm on a hook. Her repeated and debased "Yes, Master!" and "I'm sorry, Master!" as bad as they tasted in her mouth, and they did, flew out of it in desperate hopes of abating the spanking somewhat, but she was already beginning to learn that it was a lost cause with this man.
He had no mercy in him as far as discipline went—not for her, anyway. None whatsoever. If he said he was going to punish her or he began a punishment, he was going to see it through to the very end, whatever he deemed that to be, regardless of what she said or did or any previous chastisement she'd received at his unforgiving hands.
It was a hard, horrible lesson to learn, and she had a feeling that this was not going to be her only example of it.
After the last, tremendous swat, she found herself on the bed, her nates in full contact with the fluffy comforter and mattress, but their obvious exquisite quality did nothing to quell the moan of sheer discomfort she couldn't prevent from escaping her mouth the moment he forced her to sit down.
And he wasn't satisfied with just that; he pulled her legs up and rotated her, on her bottom, so that she was lying on the side of the bed. As he did that, another scream boiled up from her gut, but she clenched her teeth together, and it came out only as a hissed, strangled moan.
He divested her of her slippers, then put some sort of fuzzy socks over her feet, which still helped them feel very toasty warm. But then, before she could protest, her ankles were cuffed together, somehow, and a warm, almost blanket style covering was pulled up over her, as if she was being encased in a sack of some sort. It was, she had to admit, wonderfully warm, although very restrictive. It was an extremely close fit, and yet she was still bound, again, just above her knees, and then each hand was placed into a mitten that was sewn into the side of the sack and was cuffed in there, too, so she couldn't withdraw it. Her arms were also then strapped to her sides, and the entire thing was zipped up the front.
At that point, he was literally sitting on top of her, keeping his weight well off her with a leg on either side, but then he snapped his fingers and said, "Damn! Forgot something! I'll be right back." He gave her a mischievous look, saying, "Don't move."
As if she could.
He was back abnormally quickly. Even if she'd been lying there completely unfettered, she wouldn't have had the time to move. He proceeded to unzip the thing, all the way down one leg, so that her privates were exposed to him, making her blush terribly. His face was right next to that area he'd taken great pains to show her was so extremely sensitive to him, and now she was just that much more humiliated and embarrassed to have him anywhere near it.
But there he was, so close she could feel his warm, moist breath on her. Star was so mortified she wanted to die. But there was no hope of that, either. And it only got worse as he proceeded to do with her exactly as he pleased.
Tru could see just how excruciatingly uncomfortable she was with his presence in that very private area, where she least wanted him to be, and having realized that, he had absolutely no intentions of moving himself even one iota. Instead, he reversed the order in which he was going to apply the devices he'd brought back to the bed.
He reached up to her left nipple, which he was more than gratified to see was already—or even still, perhaps—a hard, tight peak, and he let three fingers caress it, very gently but firmly twisting and plucking it, in tune to the sighs and slight squeaks he didn't think she even realized she was emitting, until it had come into just that much more aching prominence, and then he rubbed a substance onto it that would harden in a few seconds as it also seeped into her pores.
Then he did the same thing to her right nipple, gratified to hear that she was already breathing most erratically and loving every unbridled, unconscious rasp of it as if it was her smooth, delicate hand on his cock. Then he waited just a moment for the poultice to work its magic.
Star was at a loss. No one had ever touched her nipples like he had, ever, and now it was all she could think about. She'd had no idea they could engender so many sensations—her whole body was sitting up and taking notice of just those two small points on her body. She could feel the way she was weeping between her legs—inches away from how his fingers were manipulating her. Were the two connected, somehow?
