The Wench & Mora's Escape by D.W. Collins
Constance Pendleton had always done her best to be a good wife. She had worked tirelessly to support her husband, Harold, in his work for the Lord. The Rev. Pendleton’s pastoral work had been succeeding splendidly. He was the leading minister in the district and was widely expected to be chosen as the next superintendent for all of Virginia.
The only cloud in Constance’s otherwise sunny life was the lack of husbandly passion showed her. She understood the demands that his work placed on him and did her level best to be the model of a submissive pastor’s wife. It was not her fault that her husband’s congregation was cursed with so many shrews who delighted in criticizing her constantly.
Constance has never had an orgasm and is disturbed by rough handling. She realizes that she enjoys being free for the responsibility of choosing.
Princess Mora of the independent city state of Saint Traxas is fleeing from an unwanted marriage that is being forced on her by her father, King Tyrus. She is captured by the notorious highwayman Jackson Hay. Jackson still bears the scars from a savage flogging ordered by King Tyrus. Mora makes a vain attempt to hide her identity, but Jackson discovers her deception and punishes her for it. He decided that he will use her to get revenge on his enemy King Tyrus. Mora is to be trained as a pleasure slave. Stephen Gadsworth, a wealthy landowner, wins Mora in a game of chess. He appreciates both her beauty and her recent training. Mora falls in love with Stephen. He takes her to his estate and continues training her in his stable.
Includes: Male Domination, slave training, flogging, paddling, humiliation, anal sex, oral sex.
Constance Pendleton wiped a few drops of sweat from her brow. She had only been working in her beloved kitchen garden for only a little over an hour, but the morning was uncommonly warm. Her basket was filled almost to overflowing and she only needed to add a few of those exotic new tomatoes people were talking about. She would use these luscious vegetables to prepare a meal so fine that even her stern husband would have to praise it.
Constance’s two years of marriage had been an unexpected trial. She had met Harold while he was a student at Harvard. Her father was dean of the College of Divinity and her handsome beaux had been his most talented student. The brilliant scholar had courted the shy girl with the kind of determination that he applied to all his endeavors. She had been carefully protected from any practical knowledge of men when she nervously accepted his marriage proposal. Her father had performed the wedding service one month after Harold’s graduation.
The young scholar’s intellectual gifts had earned him a call to one of Richmond’s largest churches. The pretty bride had tried her best to be a credit to her husband, but life as a high profile pastor’s wife had not been easy for her. The church’s parishioners criticized her constantly. They accused her of lavish dress, being too opinionated, allowing the manse to be less than perfectly tidy, publicly drinking an occasional glass of sherry and, worst of all, spending too much time reading. A proper lady of her station did not need to have her nose in a book so often. The thing that Constance hated most was that Harold never spoke a single word in her defense.
She had just gotten to her feet and straightened her dress when she heard a sound that was all too familiar in the Pendleton household. The impatient pastor was applying his belt to an errant female’s bare posterior. The man’s words made the situation clear.
“Mary, I’ll not have you kissing that stable lad.” The smooth leather cracked against the hapless servant’s bottom again. Constance turned the corner just in time to see Harold deliver another harsh blow. The wailing girl was bent over a garden bench. Her skirt and petty coats had been piled onto her back so her pink bottom was shamelessly framed by the billowing cloth. That disgrace was compounded by the fact that Harold had made the girl spread her legs. He regularly justified the humiliating pose so that he could effectively stripe his victim’s thighs. Constance wondered if his real reason had more to do with how blatantly the poor girl’s sex was exposed.
“If you keep playing the whore, I’ll sell your indenture to the inn keeper,” Harold growled as he quickly striped the back of Sarah’s firm thighs three times. She wailed piteously as purple welts began to bloom. “He’s a man who knows how to put a randy trollop to use. A slut like you can earn him a pretty penny as you ply your wicked trade.”
Constance knew full well that any intervention on her part would be dangerous, but she could not keep quiet. “Husband, you must stop. This is not fitting.”
The enraged minister whirled and glared at his impudent wife. “I am the master of this house. The obligation to discipline every female, including you, falls on my shoulders. I’ll not spare the rod on any of you.” He turned back to the wailing servant. A flick of his wrist brought the leather strap up between her legs and onto the sensitive skin between her legs.
“That’s enough,” Constance screamed. “What you are doing is not correction. It is cruel, it’s shameful, and it’s obscene.” She pulled the trembling girl’s skirt into place and told her to go to her room.
“How dare you interfere like this?” Harold’s face was flushed with rage. “You have no right to defy me. My authority comes direct from God!”
“Your so called authority is not divine,” Constance screamed. “It is a product of your wicked lust!” She had never voiced such a daring sentiment before, but her fury was ungovernable. Harold grabbed a hand full of Constance’s raven colored hair and jerked her along behind him. She lost both shoes as he dragged her to their bed room.
“I see that I’ll have to remind you once again about what happens when a rebellious wife defies her husband. You’ll rue this day for defying me. Get on the bed and present yourself.” In the last few months, Harold’s disciplinary sessions had become quite ritualized. Constance was always required to shed her drawers and discard them, crawl onto the bed and pull up her skirt and petty coats so that her defenseless bottom was framed by her soft undergarments. The most distressing part of the posture was that she also had to spread her knees as far as possible.
Harold’s recent implement of choice for correcting his errant wife was a thin wooden cane like the type that school teachers use on their naughty students. He never hurried to administer his first blow. Instead, he used the cane’s tip to tantalize poor Constance’s exposed skin. Her buttocks, thighs, rear cleft and even her exposed sex lips were all forced to endure the cane’s feathery caresses.
Constance hated those sensuous touches because she knew that horrid, stinging cuts were sure to follow. Early in their marriage, Harold had fingered her in some very pleasant ways, but lately, every soft caress was only a prelude for some kind of harsh punishment. A tear meandered down her cheek. What had gone wrong in her marriage?
Harold flicked his wrist and delivered a fiery blow to her uplifted bottom. Constance wanted to resist, but she could not help releasing a shriek. “Keep your bottom raised high or I’ll be compelled to give you extras.” The next blow fell an inch or two lower. The cruel cane began to fall with a rapidity that Constance had never experienced before. The cursed stick struck her everywhere from knee to waist. Her buttocks, thighs and the exquisitely sensitive flesh between her legs all tasted his brutal wrath. The pain was awful, but the humiliation was even worse. She frantically begged for mercy.
He honored her desperate pleas and stopped his lashing, but his hand lewdly fondled her burning flesh. “Have you learned your lesson, wife?” His fingers shamelessly toyed with her stinging skin. “My arm still has enough strength to remind you some more about a wife’s duty to submit to her husband.” Constance wept miserably as his fingers pushed past her nether lips. She hated for him to discover the wetness that his merciless thrashing had somehow caused. Her body had betrayed her once again.
Kulish Viktoriia - Shutterstock.com