her twin rushed through the crowd of domestics who stood around them in great anticipation. “What is the meaning of this? My sister—”
Lord Bentley’s glare stopped Colette a few feet away. “My wife has misbehaved by venturing into town without an escort, and without my permission,” he announced to the roomful of onlookers. “I’m taking this opportunity to assure all within my household that I am in control, and that I will be obeyed.”
With more speed than Camille anticipated, he pressed her against the outside of his thigh. “You will now bend over, Camille. And you will lower your drawers, after you hand me a shoe.”
Her heart dropped into her stomach. “You can’t be serious about—”
“Oh, but I am.” Rutledge calmly looked about the room, at the servants, his son, and her twin. “Most in this parlor who have lived here longer than you, dear wife, have not only witnessed such an event as this, but have been the recipient of my discipline. Am I correct?”
All around her nodded, barely concealing their glee.
This had to be a hoax. There had to be a way out of this embarrassing situation. “Then why did you dismiss Charlie by telling him to collect his belongings? Why isn’t he to receive—”
“He’s got a flat ass. Not enough flesh there to make a lasting impression—nor is that flesh as…attractive as yours.” Rutledge’s expression softened, yet he was deadly serious. “Discipline and humiliation are effective means of keeping you on the leash, my love. It’s time you learned that lesson.”
She wanted to bolt from the room, yet she sensed he’d double his punishment once she was caught. “Wasn’t it enough humiliation, pushing me down on the table after dinner, while the kitchen staff looked on?”
“Lean over, or I shall lick your slit again after I’ve spanked your naughty bottom.” His grip tightened on her wrist, and yet he was choking back laughter. Rutledge was enjoying this spectacle, as though she were a child about to receive her annual spanking at a birthday party.
She handed him a shoe. The skin on her backside prickled and her throat went dry.
“Thank you, Camille. You’ll be a better wife for this.” He flashed the kindest smile she’d seen all day. “Now lean over and show me your assets.”
Stifled snickers. More of those eager gazes, which barely concealed her observers’ glee.
Closing her eyes, Camille lowered her lacy drawers to her knees. She stifled a whimper as her husband bent her over his lap. He yanked her drawers to her ankles to remove them over one foot at a time, and then slowly raised her skirt. First he exposed her lower legs, pausing to allow those in the room a full glimpse before he continued his slow, tortuous treatment. “Isn’t she a sight?” he asked proudly. “Have we ever witnessed such shapely calves—and such succulent thighs?”
Camille’s backside quivered as appreciative murmurs filled the room. Her only recourse was to grasp Rutledge’s stout legs and duck her head so no one would see her inflamed face.
“And at last we reveal the seat of our affections,” her husband teased. His palm tenderly circled first one cheek and then the other. “So soft and firm and rounded,” he murmured. “So sweet and pale, soon to be awakened to a sacred purpose…a higher virtue than Camille displayed when she left Briarcliffe unattended this evening.”
She cringed at his touch now, wishing he’d perform his onerous punishment and be done with it. Bad enough that every maid and manservant witnessed her humiliation: Rutledge vibrated beneath her with an energy she’d never felt before. He relished every nuance, every morsel of mortification she could suffer.
Smack!
Camille cried out, more from surprise than pain, when the sole of her shoe met her tender flesh.
Smack! Smack! Again he found the roundest, most vulnerable spot on each cheek to spank, eliciting two more shrieks. Her bottom stung, to be sure, but it was nothing compared to the burn in her face…in her soul. While Rutledge was not reacting in anger to her evening’s misdemeanor, it was his restraint—his damned gentility—that irked her as he continued his disciplinary display.
“Ah, behold the roses in her cheeks,” he crooned. “See the way her body quivers in anticipation, wondering where the next slap shall fall…how many more…and whether this initial pain shall lead to exquisite pleasure. A remorse that might redeem her wayward inclinations and even lead Camille to beg for more.”
“More!” someone suggested eagerly.
“Oh, yes, Lord Bentley! Your wife seems to be calling out—silently yet surely—for more!” one of the maids agreed.
Camille nipped her lip. Oh, but she’d make Daisy pay for that remark!
Smack! Smack!
She sucked in her breath and braced herself, clenching her bottom against his stinging assault. Would this never end? Hadn’t her husband proven his point?
Several seconds passed. While no one around her spoke, Camille detected the furtive rustling of fingers inside clothing…skin whispering against skin. Just as Daisy had done after catching her at her sister’s door, these lascivious servants were scratching an intimate itch that now permeated the room. But she would not look—would not let them see her exasperation, either! How could she ever face them again if she gave in to embarrassment? She had no choice but to endure Lord Bentley’s punishment, but if she lost control of her emotions, the staff would never respect her again.
Smack! Smack!
Camille writhed on her husband’s thighs, feeling the rumble of his laughter and despising him for it. He’d set aside her shoe to spank her with his hot, fleshy palm now, a more personal affront…
Smack! Smack! SMACK!
As his hand met her backside, she arched upward. “Please! Stop!” she rasped. “I’m sorry I upset—sorry I left without your permission!”
“Ah, but I have no need of your apology, dear Camille,” Rutledge crooned. He leaned across her so the heavy warmth of his body held her in its grip. “I need nothing from you, don’t you understand? I’m simply raising your awareness. Broadening your horizons, as to the full spectrum of sensations to be experienced.”
Smack! Again his hand landed on her throbbing skin, but this time his fingers swept surreptitiously between her parted thighs.
Camille flinched, but he didn’t remove his hand. The heat of his palm penetrated the irritated skin of her ass while his fingers…the tips of them teased at her nether lips.
“You’re wet.” His whisper filled the music room and although her eyes were clenched shut, Camille sensed a moving forward—a closing in of the crowd as their own intimate caresses continued.
“Wet,” came the echo.
And across the room someone else amplified it, “Wet!”
“Yes, wet, and so open. So pink and soft and…wanting.”
Someone gasped with need. Camille then recognized her own sister’s murmur among the sibilant sighs around her. It was the ultimate betrayal, however, when her thighs parted
