Royal Discipline (14 page)

* * * * *

When they arrived in the duke’s discipline parlor, he made her bend over with her hands on her knees and receive ten swats with a stinging wood paddle, for entering his chambers without permission, and opening his drawers, and peeking into his dressing room, and worst of all, for molesting herself upon his freshly made bed.

The hardest part of the paddling was holding the position he demanded, bending forward at the waist with her thighs slightly parted, and her legs and back held still and straight. It was no easy thing not to crumple, or at least to sag, when your bottom was being repeatedly attacked by a devilish slab of wood. By the time he was finished with that part of the punishment, Violet’s bottom cheeks felt hot as an oven, and she promised to never, ever violate his privacy again.

“Now, about the matter of your flower,” said the duke, and the tenor of his voice filled her with dread.

“I’ve completely forgotten about my flower,” she said. “Why, I can hardly remember it’s still there. Perhaps there’s no need for any further punishment.”

He ignored her pointless blathering and marched her over to the spanking bench, and bent her over it. He made her part her legs, and secured each ankle at the base of the bench so she could not draw her thighs closed.

“The purpose of this exercise,” he said, “will be to deliver an unpleasant consequence the moment you begin to enjoy the pleasantness of touching your flower. Conditioning. Have you heard of it?”

“No, Your Grace,” she murmured as she saw him cross to the rack of canes.

“By the time we’re through, I imagine your urges won’t be a problem anymore.” He returned with one of the narrower, whippier canes. He brandished it back and forth in the air. “A bite of this across your bottom could make anything seem unpleasant. It’s also something you’re likely to remember, should you be tempted to touch yourself again.”

Violet cringed over the leather-topped bench. She did not think she would enjoy this “conditioning” at all. “Are you certain I can’t just try on my own willpower first?” she asked, turning in her knees. “I’ll try very, very hard.”

“After this, I have no doubt you will.” He tapped the backs of her spread thighs with the forbidding implement. “Straighten your legs, dear. That’s better. You know I’m a stickler for holding the proper position. Now, use one of your hands to brace yourself, and the other to reach down and caress your flower.”

“But I really don’t—”

“Touch it as you touched it before, when you were in my room.”

His voice brooked no disobedience, and Violet again wondered how she bungled into these situations. This was all part of her punishment for being immodest and undignified, so she reached between her legs and found the hidden nubbin of flesh that brought her so much joy.

“Now, when it begins to feel exceedingly good, when you can feel increasing urges, then you’re to stop touching yourself and raise your hand.”

“And then you will hit me with the cane?”

“Precisely.”

Violet whimpered. “Perhaps this will sound disrespectful, but I think you’re a horrible person.”

“Your opinion is noted.” He swatted her with the cane. “And your disrespect is punished. Have you anything else to say?”

Violet clung to the bench, breathing through the aftermath of the white-hot pain. “No, nothing else to say, Your Grace,” she managed between her teeth. She began to move her fingers, gingerly at first. She did not wish to be caned again, but if he wanted to do this exercise, she had no choice but to obey. She shifted her feet as far as she could within their fetters and stroked her flower. Already, too soon, it started to feel pleasant and good.

With a choked sort of sigh, she stopped and raised her hand where he could see it.

Thwack!

“Oh,” she cried.

“Did it make the pleasurable feelings go away?”

Violet bobbed on her toes, wiggling her bottom. “Yes, Your Grace. Immediately.”

“Good. You may begin again.”

“How many times—”

“As many times as I think necessary.” He flicked her with the cane, not hard enough to leave a mark. A warning shot. “Do as you were told and stop dawdling.”

Violet clenched her bottom and reached again to caress herself. She was weak indeed, for even knowing the consequence, warm and sensual feelings did not take long to return. Since she was so weak, she let herself enjoy them a little longer before raising her hand.

Thwack!

“Oww,” she cried. “Oh, that hurts.”

“Begin again.”

Each time, she let the pleasure go on a little longer, because she wanted to avoid her punishment, and because it felt good, but each time he caned her a little harder. Eventually, her bottom hurt so terribly it became difficult to find that impetus, that desire to feel pleasure again.

Thwack!

Ohhh... It was so frustrating. She wanted to touch herself, but she didn’t. After a while, she had to switch to the other hand, because the first hand simply wasn’t willing to bring more pain. Tears spilled from her eyes as she leaned over the bench, only wishing it to be over, but he made her continue.

“Touch yourself,” he would say sternly, when she couldn’t bear to do it. “Make it feel good.”

So she gritted her teeth and caressed herself, and resisted the urges as well as she could. It began to take longer to make the feelings bloom, much longer before she felt any pleasure. Eventually, a full ten minutes passed before she felt anything but dread and reluctance, and the painfully throbbing lines on her ass, no matter how steadily she touched herself.

“You’re trying not to become aroused now, aren’t you?” he asked. “You’re trying very hard.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said.

“And it is not nearly so enjoyable when you do become aroused, is it?”

She shook her head, stroking herself miserably. “I don’t want to touch myself anymore.”

“Then we’re nearly done.”

One last time he made her the author of her own torment, forcing her to seek that thrilling and blissful pleasure, and then punishing her for doing so with one final, terrorizing stroke. Violet could honestly say she never, ever wanted to stimulate herself again. It wasn’t worth it, not to suffer such pain.

While she slumped over the bench, unable to move due to her manacled ankles, her tormentor went to the wall to replace the cane. A moment later, he returned to stand before her. Even in his casual sporting clothes, he was a formidably intimidating man.

“There will be an accounting every day,” he said, gazing into her eyes. When she looked away, he grasped her chin and tilted it back up. “Mind me, Violet. I’ll ask you each night before bed if you’ve resisted your urges, and I’ll know if you tell a lie.”

She believed he would know, and didn’t want to imagine the consequences if he caught her in a falsehood.

“I’ll be good, Your Grace,” she promised.

“I wouldn’t be so strict about this if it wasn’t important. Everything about you is important. That’s why I’m so thorough in my duties where you’re concerned.”

She blinked at him.
Everything about you is important
sounded so much better than
Everything about you is awful
.

“I want to be good,” she said, and she really meant it.

He released her chin, then put his hands to the ties of his breeches. “There is one last matter to settle. I believe you know what it is.”

Violet stared at the gap in his breeches as he drew forth his rigid member. “I have not been mannerly,” she said with proper meekness. “I did not speak respectfully to you upstairs, or just now, when I called you a horrible person.”

“And what do I do when you misuse your mouth, and speak like a termagant?”

“You put your cock inside it to humble me.”

She opened her lips the way she’d been taught, and was careful not to skim him with her teeth as he surged forward. This was indeed a humbling activity. She couldn’t breathe, move, or protest when he was buried in her throat.

Even worse, he took obvious pleasure in this activity, pleasure which was to be denied to her. She wondered how it would feel to press her flower against his mouth, against his handsome, expressive lips. The thought was so striking she nearly got aroused again, even with the fresh cane welts meant to discourage that very thing.

She set herself to pleasing him instead, out of fear, out of dread that she could not be as good as she needed to, that she could never be good enough to please him. Tears began to leak from her eyes. Perhaps it was only from the force of him driving between her lips.

He made a soft sound, and withdrew enough to slide a thumb across one of her cheeks. “Don’t cry,” he murmured. “You’re getting better. Much better, but we don’t want to let up yet. You’re still not as perfect as you could be.”

He pushed to the back of her throat as she braced with her spread, shackled legs. When she tensed her muscles, every welt seemed to ache individually, building on each other so she must endure the vicious burn. Still, she tried to stop crying, as he said. She was not that sad, because she could feel she was doing better.

Later, when he came after dinner to deliver her nightly spanking, he brought some strappy contraption with him, and laid it on the bed as he pulled her over his lap. So she not only had to endure the spanking, which was quite uncomfortable upon her recently punished bottom, but she also had to wonder over what the thing was.

“Ow, ow, ow,” she whimpered as he delivered brisk, steady smacks to her bottom. “It hurts.”

“I know,” he said, and yet he continued the spanking until her entire backside was on fire. When he finally stopped and folded down her shift, Violet slumped into his proffered arms and rested her head against his shoulder. She almost,
almost
rubbed her bottom to make the sting dissipate a little faster. He would not have seen it, but she knew it wasn’t allowed, so she kept her hands curled together in her lap.

“I suppose you’re very sore,” he said.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Have you had any difficulty keeping your hands to yourself?”

She shook her head emphatically and then hid her face against his neck. She heard a low chuckle rumbling in his throat.

“It will get easier. And remember, it’s only until you’re married. I’m sure your husband will allow you plenty of pleasure once he’s got you in hand.”

“I hope so,” she blurted out, and then realized how unladylike it sounded. She sat up a little straighter. “What’s that thing you’ve brought?”

He lifted it and showed it to her. “I had this fashioned especially for you. I thought it might help. It’s most difficult to be good at night, isn’t it?”

She nodded, blushing. “Yes, Your Grace.”

He traced along the straps and began to undo one of the silver buckles. “This is a chastity belt. Really just a reminder, now that you know the consequences of disobedience in this quarter.”

She shifted on her still-sensitive welts and studied the device, which was comprised of intersecting leather straps, two buckles, and a silver plate of a shape and size to cover her mons. “I have to wear it?”

“Only at night. I think it would be best, at least until I know your urges are under control. Now, go and relieve yourself first, since it will be considerably more difficult to do so once it’s on.”

After she visited the privy closet, he made her stand in front of him and lift the edges of her shift, and then he buckled one of the straps about her waist, and the other snugly between her thighs, so the metal plate fitted over her flower and the surrounding folds. The strap’s tail came up between her arse cheeks and buckled in the back. It was not precisely uncomfortable, for the leather was soft, and the plate fitted to her body. It was more the feeling of being constricted—or restricted.

“Try to touch yourself,” he said.

First, she tried to insinuate her fingers within the metal plate in order to reach her womanly parts, but he’d pulled the straps too tight. There was not enough room to do it. Then she tried to push on the plate hard enough to rub against it, but it was designed like a shallow bowl, curving outward, so all she could manage to rub against was the air within.

As soon as she realized she was truly unable to get at that part of herself, she suddenly wanted it with a depth of perversity she’d never felt before. She crawled back into his lap, curling her legs against his chest, and whined a little as he laughed.

“I don’t mean to make you miserable,” he said, giving her backside a soft smack. “Only to make you behave.”

“I’ll be good,” she promised.

He gave her an amused look. He didn’t believe her, and perhaps he shouldn’t have. “It’s only that I’ve just now discovered that height of pleasure, and you’re taking it away,” she said with a pout.

“You shall have plenty of pleasure in your life.” He sounded so sure of it. She wished she felt the same.

“It depends if someone will marry me.”

His hand brushed through her hair for just a moment before it was gone. “My dear, you were made to be loved. Someone will marry you soon enough.” He lifted her off his lap and dumped her onto the bed, and helped her scurry under the covers. The metal plate felt substantial against her body. Implacable. She felt rather ashamed that she wished it wasn’t there.