She heard footsteps behind her but was too slow in acknowledging them to fend off attack.
“Stop it, you bastard!” she roared at the instant of capture. Two large arms swooped about her shoulders, binding her against a mighty chest. She recognized the broad hands of her lover, and kicked back at his shin with her boot, angrily striking the mark she meant to hit.
“You’ve been thieving again,” his voice was gruff.
“What concern is that of yours?” She struggled as she turned inside his grasp, eyes snapping like flames of white hot fire.
“You know my vow.”
“And you know I’ll resist,” she declared, feet still kicking to defeat his grip.
He wasn’t beaten. Duncan Forsythe was rarely bested by a man and certainly never a woman. Despite his lean appearance, his body was one sinewy muscle, toughened by a fierce life and determination. That did not impede the twinkle in his dark eyes—that molten black had often matched Rebecca’s in wit and sexual charm—as well as biting fire. He found his lover delectable in her current state of madness. And, he had a ready cure for that madness. The result would be his ultimate satisfaction. There was a broad brown belt about his trousers that he could unbuckle with one hand while maintaining a firm hold on his fighting captive.
“You think you’ll best me, Rebecca Coverdale, you are more addled than I thought,” he declared, laughing he was so amused. He dragged her to one corner of the candlelit room and sat down in order to accomplish his task in a way that he could control her best. Tossing her lithe form over his lap, he held her fixed while he tugged at the waist of her britches.
“Have I ever told you how lovely you look in these, my dear?” he taunted.
“Get your hands off me, bastard!” she swore.
“Oh, my, you’re not giving in, my little brazen one? How dangerous for you. Now, I’ll really have to make this succulent flesh smart.”
“You’d better not!” she roared.
“Really? You think you can stop me?”
She bucked like a wild stallion—to no avail, and was nearly in tears over the attack.
“I didn’t think so,” Duncan said as he observed the uselessness of her plight. Having her ass bare, his eyes drank in the glorious sight of her unblemished skin. How that white gleamed in the candlelight, much like the complexion of her face. He noted a layer of perspiration covering the plump orbs. It was miserably humid in Rebecca’s secret crypt, and this would be a hot wet episode from the spanking foreplay, to the fornicating finish. Raising the belt he had doubled in his hand, he snapped the wide flat breadth of it on her jiggling skin. The smack hit her rudely on both cheeks causing her to cry—
“Ouch! You fuckin’ ass.” She accentuated that cry with a powerful surge of intent, hoping to achieve the result of falling to the stony floor. But, as was typical of these skirmishes over Duncan’s lap, her try was met with a force far greater than she could muster. He held her fast.
Ah! What a sight it was to see the color of her ass turn pink! Duncan thought.
Inspired, he pelted her soundly, smack after smack torturing her poor behind, the strident beauty’s cries rash and angry. “I hate you, you vile blackguard!” That’s when she was sane enough to form words. The rest of the time there was little but gibberish coming from her lips. The spanking continued through all her panicked cries and wild gyrations; and the color of her ass was soon a deep pink hue that seemed to fuse to the surface flesh as though it changed colors permanently. He leveled one smack atop another, while others drifted down her thighs, nearly to her knees before his aim returned to her molten behind.
For those that were especially harsh, she blared words no lady should ever utter. One would think that Rebecca Coverdale was little more than a guttersnipe, not the daughter of a Duke, distantly related to the king. Now, she was getting a well deserved rebuke—one to match the worst such strappings her dictatorial lover declared suitable for a brat of her uncommon ilk.