Royal Discipline Read online

  As the duke’s gaze fell on her, she tugged the ragged edges of her crimson skirt to cover her bottom. In short order, she expected to have ten neat lines herself.

  “I believe you know what to do,” he said.

  Between his expression and his voice’s inflection, she understood that this would be her most severe punishment so far. As she bent over the bench, she was not thinking of rebellion so much as Jeannie’s quiet dignity in accepting the duke’s discipline. Violet wondered if she could do that. She thought she ought to try.

  She braced for the caning to begin, but instead the duke walked over to the cane rack and chose a slightly sturdier implement. She supposed it was deserved. Then he went to the door and opened it. A tray was handed in, containing a solitary object. She thought it might be the metal bulb he used to punish her arsehole, but when he brought it closer she realized it was a hefty fig of ginger, carved with a flange not unlike the bulb’s.

  “We have observed your aversion to the sting of ginger,” he said. “I believe a fresh fig in the bottom goes perfectly with a caning, when you cannot help but clench your buttocks and make the burning worse. Your punishment should be a bit more painful than Jeannie’s, shouldn’t it?”

  Violet bowed her head as he parted her arse cheeks and screwed the ginger inelegantly into her hole. By the time he stepped back and picked up the cane, the sting was already making her twitch. She thought of Jeannie’s quiet stoicism and bit the inside of her cheek.

  “Fifteen cane strokes,” he said. “As a beginning. You will count each one.”

  As a beginning? Oh, no.

  The first stroke landed in the center of her arse like a line of red-hot fire. “One,” she whimpered. The impact was bad enough, but then the pain radiated out from the narrow line, and inward again, like waves of flame along every bundle of nerves.

  The next stroke came too soon. “Two,” she cried out, and thought of Jeannie. “Three. Oh, God,” she whispered as the ginger stung her bottom. Each stroke brought a jerk and a clench, and fresh agony, and then the knowledge that the cane would soon fall again. “Four,” she sobbed. “Five.”

  How she wanted to collapse and curl into a ball, or run away again. Why, oh, why hadn’t she been successful in her scheme to get away? “Six. Seven. Ahh,” she cried in entreaty. How did Jeannie bear this without shackles and screaming? But she had, and Violet was determined to do so too, even if she felt ready to die.

  After the tenth stroke, the duke paused as if to allow her a moment of respite. Little good it did her, when she knew she must bear five more, and endure the ginger burning her bottom. Stroke eleven had her up on her toes, dancing back and forth. He waited until she resumed the proper position and delivered the twelfth stroke to the backs of her thighs. A scream escaped, but she stifled it. She reached back halfway to cover herself, but somehow managed to control her hands and return them to their place.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Please forgive me.”

  “Take care, Violet. You know what happens if you interfere during your correction. It is grounds to begin again.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. I understand. It was merely a moment of weakness.”

  She clung to the underside of the bench with all her strength. The thirteenth stroke was especially hard, laid just beneath the previous one. The backs of her thighs were on fire, throbbing, aching, trembling with the effort to be still. By now, she was sure she looked like Jeannie, with welts up and down her posterior, and she still had the two last, worst strokes to go.

  The fourteenth was delivered with a crisp whack to the space between her buttocks and upper thighs. Her legs bowed up as she gripped the bench. Do not reach back. Do not resist him!

  She clenched, bracing for the final swipe, moaning softly as the ginger in her arsehole redoubled its potent torture. She had thought a cane would feel something like a switch, whippy but not unbearable. But no, it was so much worse.

  The last stroke fell, and Violet collapsed onto the floor, crippled by the blazing pain. She crawled back up on the bench, sobbing, squeezing helplessly on the ginger. Her legs hung limp as her bottom cheeks throbbed with lingering waves of heat.

  “We’re not finished yet,” he said, “but you may rest for a moment.”

  Violet closed her eyes. Would the rest of the punishment be worse? Or had he begun with the most terrible part? She was too overwrought to beg for mercy, and she knew she wouldn’t get it anyway. She hadn’t been as stoic as Jeannie, although she’d tried. Nor did she feel expiated, as Jeannie seemed to feel afterward. Violet still felt guilty and frustrated. She was almost relieved when Thornton came to her and repositioned her along the length of the bench, making her lie face down upon the elevated center platform.

  She stayed very still as he shackled her feet together at the end of the platform, and her wrists at the other end, just beside her head. A strap in the middle held her tightly to the bench by her waist. Her chin was placed on a sort of notched shelf at the end of the platform, so she was forced to hold up her head and stare forward. The position was restrictive and uncomfortable, and exacerbated the ginger’s burn.

  “You’re going to be whipped now,” he said, “not for running away, but for placing so many lives in danger above and beyond your own. You threw my household into a panic and drew men with families out into a freezing storm, into a forest known to harbor packs of wolves. Do you understand the seriousness of this offense?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she whispered.

  “You understand that you’re being punished now for your selfishness and disobedience?”

  Oh yes, she understood that. “Please, Your Grace. I’m so very sorry.”

  “You’ll be sorrier when we’re finished,” he said in a tight voice.

  He walked to the wall and selected a slim, braided, leather whip, about two and a half feet in length. The handle was thicker, providing a place to grip, while the implement narrowed closer to the end. He struck it against one of the bench’s supports with a crack that made her jump.

  “I don’t know if you’ll be able to stay as quiet during this one,” he said. “I’m also not sure how many strokes I’ll give you. You’ll simply accept the pain as retribution for your crimes.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Her voice finally wobbled, and broke. She was so afraid. What if he lashed her to pieces?

  The whipping commenced, and he did not slice her to pieces, but he did lay it on heavily, nearly as heavily as the cane. The pain was different, lashing and quick, so that she jerked over and over again in her bonds. The blows came steadily, on her bottom, her flanks, the backs of her thighs, even her calves, until she squirmed to get away from the burning flicks. When the ginger nearly came loose, he worked it in again, twisting it even deeper this time. She sobbed, wishing she could hide her face, but her head was propped up. How evil, to create a spanking bench where the penitent could not hide her shame.

  The reason for this positioning became clear when he paused in the whipping and strode around to stand before her face. As she stared, he unfastened his breeches and took out his cock. It looked as big and frightening as ever. “Open,” he said.

  Tears ran down her face, mixing with her saliva as he drove within her lips, all the way into her throat. She gagged, but she was helpless to do anything to stop him. Her hands were still manacled to the bench. She made urgent sounds for mercy and he withdrew to let her breathe again. The reprieve was momentary. He took her head and made prolonged use of her mouth and throat as the whip rested against her hair.

  “I hope you feel punished,” he said as he shoved himself inside her. “You deserve to feel punished for what happened last night.”

  He abruptly left off, withdrew from her mouth, and recommenced whipping her. The lashes were no harder or softer than before, just steadily and rhythmically torturous. She was sure he raised welts above and beyond the cane welts. Her backside must be a terrible sight by now. Every so often a whip strike would feel especially excruciating, a
nd she knew he had laid it—intentionally—over one of the cane tracks.

  Again, he left off with the whip. He returned with his cock thrust out and Violet opened her mouth. For perhaps half an hour this dual assault continued. First he would whip her until she was crying in agony, and then he would thrust into her mouth until she couldn’t breathe. Her jaw ached, her skin ached, her arsehole ached. She deserved this because she’d been thoughtless, and endangered so many people. She’d caused Jeannie to take a rough caning, because she hadn’t considered anything but her own selfish desire to escape. It was no way for a princess to behave.

  “Are you ready for your medicine?” he said at last with a grunt.

  She was not sure it would fix all the things that were wrong with her, but she swallowed the bitter fluid he spewed into her throat.

  After that, he went for the long, thick strap. She cried and tried to shake her head, but what could she do? Her welted, exposed bottom and legs were finished off with twenty resonating licks from the brutal leather implement. All she could do was thrash in her bondage and sob. The ginger hardly registered anymore. Her whole lower body was one great mass of layered pain. It was as if she could feel each of the fifteen cane tracks beneath the numerous whip welts, and the strap brought it all to a final height of agony. She could take no more.

  When she thought she must truly die, he desisted and walked across the room to hang up the strap. She watched his measured steps, and the rigid way he held his body. He crossed then to a tall oak chest in the corner and opened one of the drawers. He withdrew an ebony shaft similar to the flanged bulb he used for The Handle, but this shaft was thicker, and much more daunting in size. From his pocket, he produced a jar of oil she recognized all too well.

  “Please, no,” she begged. “I cannot bear it.”

  “But you shall,” he replied. He took the ginger from her bottom and spread her cheeks again, this time to add a copious amount of the stinging oil. She was still bound, and could not do anything to avoid her fate. With the help of the oil, he pressed the thicker shaft within her bottom hole.

  “Ow,” she cried. “Ow, ow, ow, ow, owww.” She tried to escape the discomfort, but the waist strap held her fast. Her tears, which had only just calmed, burst out again. Between the pain and the wretched burning of the ginger oil, she thought she would expire. “It’s too big,” she begged. “Please, take it out.”

  “It’s slightly bigger than the other one, but still not as large as my cock.”

  Violet took that as a warning, and stopped squirming so desperately. The duke added more oil, and eased the shaft in and out of her until it settled into place, filling her up in that secret, aching place. Only then did he unshackle her hands and her feet, and unbuckle the waist strap. She found she could not walk, so he lifted her instead and carried her toward the great cage against the wall. She watched their approach with renewed dread.

  “You mustn’t lock me in that iron cage,” she pleaded. “I won’t be able to bear it. Please, no!”

  “Yes. It’s the final part of your punishment for attempting to run away. You’ll stay here the rest of today, and overnight.”

  He let her down by the door and made her walk inside. There was only a thin pallet on the floor, and a coarse wool blanket. There was a tray with a pitcher of water, and in the corner, a chamber pot.

  While she took in the mean surroundings, he shut and locked the door, and pocketed the key. He looked at her through the bars. She was crying too hard to speak.

  “I suggest you rest,” he said. “And, of course, think about exactly what has brought you to this low point of your life. I’m sure you will never wish to experience such a punishment again.”

  “No, Your Grace,” she said with especially deep feeling. “I don’t ever want this to happen again.”

  Chapter Nine: In the Cage

  Violet sank to the cage floor, trying to accustom herself to the thick shaft in her bottom. The stinging oil made her clench and shift nearly constantly, which in turn made her remember that she was impaled on the shaft, and was still being punished. She had cried so much she could barely cry anymore.

  She wiped away her tears and tried to find a comfortable position on the pallet. Lying on her back was out of the question due to the cane and whip welts, and lying on her stomach made her feel too exposed without a back to her gown. At last she curled up on her side, squirming and wiggling her bottom, and trying to get warm.

  She did not know how to feel, aside from pained. She felt sort of numb, and sort of confused. She felt humbled, which was a terrible thing. How happy the duke would be, to know he had finally succeeded in humbling her, if only for a while.

  Or perhaps he would not be happy. He had not doled out a gleeful punishment, but gone about it in a depressingly businesslike manner, as if he’d grown as tired of this ordeal as her. Somehow, the idea frightened her, that he might give up. Never mind that she had just risked her life to escape him. She wanted him to believe she was still a salvageable case. Perhaps he did not believe that anymore, and that was why he seemed so sad.

  She turned over on the pallet, groaning as the rough wool scratched her tender welts. She wished she was at home in her silken, fragrant bed. She wished it so desperately that she could feel it, but then her bottom would clench and the shaft would remind her that she was in the Duke of Thornton’s cage. Then she would think, maybe I need to be in his cage. For a little while, at least.

  She thought of his face in the woods, haggard in torchlight, telling her Don’t move. She thought of the lightning illuminating the wolf’s predatory stare, and the way he’d clutched her close afterward. She remembered the gentle way he’d laid her in his bed. The duke and the wolf and the storm all muddled together in her thoughts, until she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  She awoke with a start at the sound of a key in the lock. Jeannie held up a candle and peered into the cage.

  “I’ve come with some dinner, miss,” she said, “and salve for your backside, if you need it. And I’m guessing you need it.”

  Violet blinked and tried to sit up, and cringed as the shaft shifted within her. The ginger’s burn had somewhat dissipated, but it stretched her just as much as before.

  “I’m going to leave the door open when I come inside,” said the maid. “Do you promise you won’t try to escape?”

  “My escaping days are over,” Violet assured her. “I honestly don’t want to move.”

  “But you should eat something. It’s not a full dinner, I suppose because you’re in disgrace.” The maid cast a disapproving glance around the cage, but set about arranging the tray in front of Violet as she levered herself gingerly to a sitting position.

  There was not much, just a bit of dried fruit and bread, cold meat, and fresh water, but it was plenty for Violet in her agitated state. When she finished eating, the maid bid her to lie down on her stomach, and held the candle above her buttocks and legs. After a moment, she gave a low whistle.

  “He did a much worse job on you. I’m ever so sorry, miss.”

  With that sympathetic assessment, she put the candle back on the floor and took up the jar of salve.

  Violet looked back over her shoulder in confusion. “Aren’t you...” She gawked at the maid’s good-natured smile. “Aren’t you the least bit angry with me? You know, for what happened to you?”

  “Oh, miss.” She shrugged, and gently dabbed the fragrant salve over the worst of her welts. “I deserved some punishment, I suppose.”

  “But I was the one who got you in trouble. I was the one who tried to run away.”

  She thought a moment before she spoke again. “I was angry, yes, and a bit shocked that you would try such a scheme. You lied to me about feeling ill, and quite a talented actress you were. But then I thought, maybe, in your position, I might have tried the same thing. I know the master is awfully hard on you sometimes.”

  Violet winced as she applied salve to an especially sensitive welt. “Yes, he is.”

&nb
sp; “Ooh, I’m sorry, miss,” said Jeannie. “None of these are bleeding, but you’re a pile of bruises, you are. I can’t imagine what he was thinking, just like I can’t imagine what you were thinking, but I try to be kind in my judgment of people. I try to take the perspective of others, and consider how they’re feeling. I suppose that shaft in your arse feels awful.”

  Violet hid her face. “Yes, it does. It feels very...humbling.”

  Jeannie made a soft sound. “I’m so sorry, miss, that you’re being made to go through this. I don’t think I could be so strong. But I suppose when you are a...well, I’m not supposed to say it. But you are a princess, miss, a Royal Highness, and I think you’ve been ever so brave through all of this. A princess through and through.”

  Violet snorted. “I haven’t been brave. I’ve been stubborn. You see where it’s gotten me. He says I ought to learn my lessons, but somehow I never do.”

  “I don’t think His Grace means to be cruel. I think he means to help you, but he’s very strict. And very fair. When a servant breaks the rules, he disciplines them in a just and civilized manner. It’s important to us, miss. Every one of the servants peeked at my welts after the caning, because they believe poor duty should be punished. They thought it very fair for what happened.”

  Violet did not think it very fair, but she kept her mouth shut.

  “How did you do it, Jeannie?” she asked instead.

  “Do what?”

  “How did you stay so still and quiet during that caning? I took a caning after you, and believe me, I sobbed like a baby.”

  Jeannie laughed. “Well, I imagine he caned you a little harder. But it’s out of respect, too. I earned the consequences, and he gave me a fair punishment. It’s like a contract, in some way. If I did not think it fair, I might have cried a bit more.”

  Violet digested this explanation and realized that was exactly what the duke wanted from her. Respect, cooperation. Submission. The acceptance that she had earned her various consequences, and was obliged to endure them. Unfortunately, this bore no resemblance to her usual grudging attitude.