The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale (11 page)

He came around to face her and quirked a brow in reproof. But instead of offering a reprimand, he pressed against her, the hair of his chest tickling her, his cock through his breeches rampant against her hip. He lowered his head and took an erect nipple in his mouth.

She jostled against the cold iron, trying to keep silent, thrashing against his thrilling tongue, his sucking lips. His hands snaked around her, holding her firm so he could assault her further. She stifled moans but could not steady her ragged breathing.

And then he bit her sensitized nipple.

She cried out. Or rather, she screamed. Never had she felt such pain, yet never had she felt such pleasure. She wanted more, yet wanted him to stop. The strain on her arms was enervating, yet she had never felt so alive.

“I told you to be silent,” he rasped, menacingly.

He left her side, left her alone to feel the flush of shame suffuse her skin.

Behind her, he tinkered near the smithy’s workbench. He returned carrying what looked to be a knot of rags between two strips of cloth. She shot him an inquisitive look.

“Open your mouth,” he said firmly.

She sucked in air.

“Open your mouth and say nothing.” He moved behind her.

Curiosity turned to alarm as he placed the knot in her mouth and tied the two strips of cloth at the back of her head. Her jaw ached until she relaxed around the gag, her tongue hitting the knot, tasting the essence of those who came before, acrid and salty. Her own saliva flowed uncontrollably to mingle her distinct flavor into the mix.

This is what it meant to be unable to speak, to protest, to scream. Like Constance.

Alarm turned to fear.

Clara tried to remain calm against the turmoil of emotions welling within. As Paul pulled away, his hands trailed possessively across her body.

The fear pulsed with desire.

He went to the same place near the smithy’s workbench again, this time making a racket with his fumbling around, exaggerating the clank and scrape of metal against metal. He returned carrying a large pair of iron scissors.

Clara froze.

He rested the blades ever so lightly between her breasts. Slowly, deliberately, he drew the sharp tips in a line from her chest to her pubis, never scratching the skin, but coming so incredibly close. She held her breath, afraid any movement would cause his hand to falter and the blades to nick her. An image of Constance being brutalized flashed in her mind.

He stopped at the thatch of hair at her mons, barely an inch above her clitoris. Light-headed, she breathed in puffs trying to remain still against the sharp iron. With one hand he dug in the tips just a hairsbreadth, almost enough to cut, while the other hand grabbed, then tugged at her pubic hair, her slickened sex sliding with a delicious friction at the jolt.

Paul pulled the wiry strands of her motte straight, then gradually, methodically, cut off a lock. He held it up for her to see before throwing it into the forge. It burned, acrid and exciting. Clara closed her eyes, puffing rapidly in anticipation of another cut. The next snip was quick but much closer to the skin. Once again, the lock was tossed into the fire.

The slickness pooled, on the verge of trickling down her legs. Paul tickled the inside of her thigh. He knew.

He walked to a corner of the room and retrieved something hanging on the wall, then returned, toying the item reverently. A well-used horsewhip.

Arousal dissipated. Constance had been left for dead, covered in welts.

Instinct and self-preservation fought with curiosity. She could signal the end with a stomp of her foot. But Paul would never intentionally hurt her.

With one flick of a wrist, he unfurled the long braid of leather and snapped the air. Clara jumped.

He came to her again, caressing her bottom with one hand as he pressed the whip’s hardened handle of hide against her belly. He drew it down her thigh, ever so lightly brushing her clitoris with his thumb, then rubbed the handle against the soft flesh between her legs.

“I could fuck you,” he said, his lips against her ear. “I could fuck you in your cunt.” He thrust the handle against her wetness, preventing penetration with his fist. “And fuck you in your arse.” His fingers at her butt tauntingly circled her puckered hole. “At the same time.”

God, yes.
Her insides melted in a molten mass with the threat of sensual invasion. Anything. She wanted him to do anything to her.

He stepped away several paces and dallied with the whip, slapping the ground casually before slicing the air with determination, each crack coming closer and closer to her body. Panic tore through her and she smothered her instinct to flinch, not knowing where the leather would lick next. When he finally nicked her abdomen, it did not hurt so much as surprise her. It was the second flick that cut, eliciting a muffled cry. She looked at him with fear. He turned his back to her, ignoring her transgression, and she exhaled in relief.

The third lash was unexpected, and unexpectedly painful.

Tears dripped down Clara’s cheeks, soaking into the knotted cloth, blurring Paul’s hardened expression as he approached her. One hand still gripping the handle of the whip, he leaned in against her body, his face near hers, his eyes holding hers as his free hand grabbed her crotch, firmly pulling at the remaining pubic hair. A smile flickered across his lips as his hand uncurled to let the middle finger play between her folds. She was dripping wet, yearning for gratification. He stroked her, holding her gaze, teasing her clitoris, smug in his mastery, growling praise as her body weakened against the metal bindings. She closed her eyes, letting the waves of satisfaction eddy through her.

Suddenly he stopped. She looked around to see him once more at the smithy’s workbench retrieving another object. He stalked toward her carrying a very large manacle attached to a thick chain. Behind him dragged a solid iron ball scraping along the bricks. He stood before her and worked the clamp, opening and shutting the ring. With the ring opened he approached her, his hands at the level of her neck.

Clara jerked back futilely, then watched in horror as he calmly placed the ring around her neck and clamped it shut. The chain hung heavy and icy down her back, the ball at her feet.

“That is so you do not run away,” he said quietly, his low bass tone resonating darkly in her core.

He bent down and unlocked the shackles on her ankles, holding each leg tightly as if to prevent her from kicking him. He then stood and worked on her wrist cuffs. Stiff and cold from lack of blood, each arm fell limply to her sides.

He moved behind her to what looked like a tall piece of furniture draped with cloth. He stripped the wrapping away, revealing a most unusual table. The top was tilted so that the edge closest to her was lower than the edge further away, and was covered in padded leather. Even more strange was an oval hole situated nearer the higher edge, with a ring-shaped pillow around it.

Paul stood by the table and motioned for Clara to come to him. The ball and chain were heavy as she dragged them across the floor, the screech and clang of metal piercing the hollow space. He merely watched, a smirk tugging on his lips, amused by her utter abasement. She flushed in shame.

“Well done,” he praised, and positioned her so she was facing the table. He pushed her legs apart to shackle them to the legs of the table. Only when he had secured her did he then unfasten the neck collar, throwing it loudly onto the floor.

He stood behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Bend forward and lie against the padded board,” he instructed, holding her as she did so. Her face almost matched the ring pillow and, after he made a few adjustments, she was able to press her face against the cushion and see out the hole. His hands wandered about her, adjusting, stroking, caressing, helping her relax into her new position. He took each of her arms in turn and positioned them over her shoulders where he tied them, this time with buckles and leather straps, yielding and soft compared to the metal cuffs.

Paul pressed the length of his body against hers, his chest hot against her back, his arms stretched along hers to hold her hands, his erection insistent at the cleft of her buttocks. He ground himself into her, licked along one shoulder to the top of her spine, then teased and tickled her neck. His warmth penetrated her, his tenderness relaxed her. And then he bit her. Hard. Clara screamed into the gag.

He left her. A cold draft bristled against her skin, stinging the sore muscle of her ravaged neck. She twisted, trying to see if there was blood, but instead glimpsed Paul taking off the rest of his clothes. He was completely aroused. His cock sprang forth urgently as he unbuttoned his drawers.

He returned and gently urged her head back into place. A moment later, a nutty scent filled the air. His fingers reached under her, between her legs, to fondle her wet cleft. He stroked her, trailing the sticky moisture to the tight hole of her arse, where his finger remained poised. A warm oily liquid flowed over his finger and he penetrated her, moving in and out of the crinkled aperture, each time adding new oil, until he slid in with slippery ease.

He pushed in further, too far, and she recoiled. He cooed in sympathy, coaching her to relax around him, massaging inside as he continued to breach the unwelcoming passage. She evened her breaths as he instructed, consciously releasing the tension until the pain became pleasure.

And then he introduced a second finger. She clenched in shock.

“Shh, shh, my love. Let go.”

With each exhale she breathed out the pain. And when he pushed in a third finger, she was ready for him.

“You are so tight,” he groaned. “I assure you it will only hurt a little.” He pressed his cock against her thigh. He was hard as stone and oily like her bum.

Clara’s breath faltered. Such an act was forbidden, a sin against God. Once more she tensed around his fingers, tucking her hips under to protect herself, trying to turn to face him to tell him “no”.

He reached around to her clitoris and stroked it expertly. “Of course it is forbidden,” he said, reading her thoughts. “That is what makes it so exciting. That’s why it feels so very wonderful.”

She weakened under his touch, her qualms bled out. She craved having him inside her in that shameful way.

“But I want to hear the sounds of your rapture when I claim your virginity.” While one hand still pleasured her, his other untied the gag in her mouth and peeled it off.

Her jaw ached in its freedom, slackening with each excited puff as he tormented her clit. She groaned heavily when his prick nudged her nether hole. He pushed deeper, slowly, stretching her as she had never been stretched before, until the stretching threatened to tear her apart and she screamed.

He purred reassurances as he pressed further into the dark passage, all the while teasing her tender nub. He felt so huge, so impossibly thick and long inside her, and yet her body responded, expanding for him, accommodating him. After a minute that seemed like an eternity, he paused. He had filled her. She exhaled.

Suddenly, he delved even further, thrusting cruelly through her burning muscles tensing and clenching to prevent his advance. Yet he persisted, ignoring her whimpers, her thrashing body, until he breeched the tight ring buried within.

Paul remained inside her, unmoving. He curved over her, his pliant flesh melting into the contours of her spine, his chest rising and falling in cadence to the excited breaths in her ear.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. His lips trailed kisses down her back, cooling her heated skin. His finger at her clit caressed her slowly, gently. “You belong to me.”

There was a desperate edge to his voice, masking an emotion, a sentiment that seeped into her with every thump of his heart.

He began the movement of love, pulling out and pushing in slowly as her body accommodated to him until she accepted it as the pleasure it was. Her hips rocked in rhythm with his, her moaning sighs the melody to his sonorous grunts. He pumped faster, pushing impossibly deeper with each thrust. Her climax reared, then wavered and dissipated from the pain. He sensed it. He rubbed his finger frantically on her clit, pressing determinedly, not letting her go, willing her toward orgasm. She screamed at the peak, letting loose a flood of warm liquid to drench his teasing hand. Her cunt clenched in satisfaction, tightening the other hole around his cock. He barked a cry of ecstasy and hovered a moment, deeply embedded, letting her squeeze him, then emptied his hot seed inside her with a growl.

Paul curved over her once again, their panting breaths merging in unison as they both recovered from their exertions. He reached up and one by one unbuckled the straps around her wrists.

“Move slowly, my love, you may feel a little stiff,” he said.

Clara let out a long exhale and pressed her body back against his as she brought her arms to her side. “Are you
you
again?”

He chuckled as he pulled back. “Yes, the act is finished.” He unhinged the manacles at her feet. “How do you feel?”

Finally free, she turned to face him. He enveloped her in his arms.

She sighed. “I feel exquisite. Sated. It was so … so very … intimate.”

“Good.” He kissed her hair. “That is how it is meant to be.”

She breathed in his masculine strength. “But that’s not how it was for her.”

He stiffened, then held her more closely. “No. There was no intimacy. Only cruelty.”

None of the elation. Only the horror. “Paul, I never want to see my husband again.” She snuggled against the hair of his chest, finding comfort. “Ever.” She couldn’t be trusted to not kill the general in his sleep.

Chapter Eight

Annabella tried to stop crying. Several hours earlier, Ethan had had to physically pull her away from Redmond. Redmond had cried, too. She had never seen him cry so much before, both of them terrified they would never see each other again.

When they had handed her the ransom note, Annabella had merely glanced at it. She couldn’t read, but she did recognize the name of “Lady Clara Strathmore” because her lady had taught her a little bit about letters using their names. But as kind as her lady had been to her in the past, Annabella no longer cared much about her or her unborn child. She only wanted to be with Redmond. She placed her palm on her belly, hoping and praying she was carrying his son.