Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Chapter Six
Discipline
Elizabeth accepted the book, biting gingerly upon it. From the feel of the first two strokes, she feared she might gnash it to bits. She had asked for a hard spanking, but that would have been too loud in these close quarters, so August was offering this different thing—these silent stripes of fire.
It hurt, but she knew it would make her feel better. She already felt better. She stared at the wall in front of her, holding her nightclothes tight at her waist. The next blow came, the next swish-whizz of pain, and she bowed her head and bit down hard. With the aid of the book, she didn’t make a sound.
You ought to pray for your soul, Fortenbury had told her. Was this the next best thing, standing and having her bottom striped while she clenched her teeth upon a prayer book?
Owww.
If her pantalettes offered any protection, she did not feel it. Tears squeezed from her eyes. It hurt. Oh, it hurt so badly, but she would not tell him to stop, not when she’d had to work so hard to convince him to begin.
She didn’t know how she’d found the courage to come to him. Well, one reason was that she knew he was capable of spanking her to tears, and willing to do it. Another reason was that she trusted him to do this, to spank her soundly enough to forget everything else.
Owww. Oww!
He was not flailing at her, but he was not giving her much respite between strikes either. His hand would move toward her, the stinging switch would land, and then she would have just enough time to steady herself before the next one came.
Tears flowed from her eyes, falling upon the leather book she bit to process the pain. His hand—the one not switching her—rested upon her shoulder and steadied her through the blows. That had been a dozen now, at least. She could feel each thin weal throbbing in a crosshatch of lines.
The blows paused, though his hand still held her.
“Let’s talk again,” he said, taking the book from her mouth. “Are we doing this because you’re bad? Or because Fortenbury is too dim to realize how marvelous you are?”
“I—” She gazed into his intent hazel eyes, thinking how stern he could look. “I’m not bad. I don’t think I’m bad, but—”
“No but’s.” The book was returned to her mouth. “I suppose we’re not finished yet.”
She sniffled, her nose running along with her eyes. She wanted to ask, how many? How much longer? But that was up to him, for she was determined to take all the punishment he was willing to give. The frustration that had haunted her all evening had an outlet now, and for the first time in many hours, the ache in her chest had ceased. Well, it had been replaced by a different, sharper ache in her backside.
As her switching resumed, she cried for her otherness and loneliness, for Fortenbury’s scorn, and for the terrible, burning pain of being punished by someone reputed to be a real disciplinarian.
The gossip was true. He really was. Her past spankings were child’s play compared to this. When he stopped again, five or six blows later, she was ready for his question.
“Are we doing this because you’re bad, or because Fortenbury is a judgmental donkey, and you needed to feel better?”
“The second one,” she said. “I know I’m not bad.”
“No, you’re not.” He gave an approving nod. “Three final ones, then, to remind you that you don’t really deserve this.”
He returned the prayer book, the merciful book for her to bite upon, which was good because the three last strikes were the sharpest, hardest ones yet. A reminder indeed, for she wouldn’t forget how painful they felt.
She was both relieved and disappointed when the switching was over. She could have taken more. Perhaps. Her bottom ached to a scorching degree. She heard him place the switch on the table, then he came and took the book from between her teeth as she let down her nightclothes. She feared she must have drooled all over the thing, but he didn’t look at the book, only her.
“Feel better now?” he asked.
She nodded, crying anew only because he looked at her so tenderly. For a moment, his gaze was so intent she thought he might embrace her, but he only moved his thumb across her cheek, his head bowed toward hers.
“No more tears, then, if you feel better,” he said. “Those sorts of stripes should fade in a day or two, for secrecy’s sake. Can you smile for me?”
“I don’t think so.” She sniffled, looking toward her feet. “I dropped your handkerchief.”
He located the crumpled linen, and she dampened it with a few more tears, but then her crying slowed. Her bottom hurt, but her soul and heart felt better. She was strange, but she was not bad. August had said so. He’d spanked the thought right into her. You are not bad. Fortenbury is the one who must adjust.