Bound, Spanked and Loved: Fourteen Kinky Valentine's Day Stories (39 page)

She cried out, her mouth open for me, hair sticking to the tears and sweat from her caning. I loved it, loved the feel of her hot ass against my belly, the tight fit of her little cunt stretching to accommodate my cock, her swelling clit as she moaned, trying to kiss me back but both of us too engrossed by the fucking. I pushed her forward, laying my weight on top of her, one hand working her hard nub as I fucked her harder, her pussy squeezing my cock as orgasm built and built, until, at last, she called out my name, the walls of her cunt squeezing my throbbing cock until I pulled out, coming all over her ass, her back, and her hair, forgetting everything in that moment but what fucking Lisa felt like, what owning her submission felt like.

Chapter Nine

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Lisa

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W
e spent the day swimming and laughing, talking about everything we hadn’t talked about in too many years. We made love again, slowly this time. When he’d taken me before, it had been in passion, both of us hungry, burning with desire. I liked sex to be rough. I didn’t like to kiss. I didn’t like to be held. At least not until Jace. With him, I wanted to lie in his arms forever. I wanted to kiss him slowly, deeply, to taste him and to know him. I wanted him to watch me as he made love to me, and, when he did, when he lay on top of me, thrusting into me slowly, he did just that, our eyes open and locked on one another, watching each other in silence as we made love, orgasm coming on slowly, deeply, the tugging at my heart different than anything I’d ever felt before.

This was right. This was where I belonged, with Jace, lying in his arms. I’d dated a lot but had never been in love. I’d never felt like I did with Jace. I trusted him. I think that’s what it was: the trust. We’d built it then lost it only to regain it, and I would make sure I would not lose it again. I’d never felt happier or more fulfilled than I did during that Valentine’s Day weekend. What had started out so wrong had turned out so right. He’d had the courage to get us here, and I would be forever grateful for that.

The weeks following our return home were different, more like they used to be before I’d kissed him and felt like he’d rejected me. We were more than friendly to each other, and it was somehow easy. I liked being around Jace, and he felt the same, and I think we were both just appreciating our time together. Our renewed trust and friendship in addition to the other stuff.

But, apart from the tenderness, the attraction between us built and flared hot, creating an almost electrical charge between us, something that connected us, that would bind us forever. I knew it and he did, too, and although neither of us knew how this would play out, what would happen when we did tell our friends and parents that we were in love, all that mattered now was that we were together. I would take that. I would easily take that.

About Natasha Knight

Natasha Knight is the author of several BDSM and spanking erotic romances all of which explore the mind of the Dominant male and the submissive female, discovering just beneath the surface of each story that key element of love. Her characters are as human as she: powerful but vulnerable, flawed, perhaps damaged but with an incredible capacity to love.

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Acknowledgments

H
ow cool to be a part of a collection with so many authors I adore! A huge thanks to Sue Lyndon for coordinating it all and for inviting me to join.

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2689, the region formerly known as the United States of America.

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Chapter One

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T
he early February wind swept through the street, tousling my hair and making my hands shake inside my cloak. Clouds obscured the sun and left the sky a dull gray. Snow crunched under my boots as I climbed the library steps. I hated this time of year, when winter felt like it would last until kingdom come, but my spirits rose at the prospect of immersing myself in the company of old books.

Craving the silence of the library today more than ever, I hurried inside the warmth of the old building and made my way to the encyclopedia aisle. I inhaled a deep breath, filling my lungs with the familiar and comforting scent of centuries past.

In addition to much needed solitude, today I wished to learn more about Valentine’s Day, an ancient holiday no longer celebrated. I’d heard it was a day for sweethearts, for people to shower their lovers with cards, gifts, and over-the-top gooey affection. In a village as bleak and cut off from the world as Gerrardsville, I appreciated the pains the librarian had gone to collecting her vast array of books. She even had a few magazines preserved in clear coverings, and between those magazines and the encyclopedias, I learned enough about the holiday in question.

Curled up in a chair near the woodstove, I spent the afternoon reading about the story of St. Valentine and how the holiday had changed over the centuries until it reached a point of nauseating commercialization, like many holidays in the land formerly known as the United States of America. A faded magazine I discovered on a top shelf called February the “month of romance” and listed fifteen ways to make Valentine’s Day special for your sweetheart.

No one else entered the library while I completed my research, and the librarian remained at her desk in the corner of the room, intermittently sleeping and reading. She rarely spoke or made eye contact with anyone, but she spent her days at the desk as if watching over relics of the past was her sacred duty.

I envied her, the old librarian, Stella. A widow with two sons to look after her, she didn’t need to worry about her future. Not like me.

In five days, I was to marry a stranger. A man from Marystown, some twenty miles away, would arrive to claim me on Tuesday. Dread filled my heart, but I didn’t know what to do. My stepfather had arranged the match, and my mother never questioned his decisions. The stranger apparently had money, a lot of it.

It angered me that my stepfather wouldn’t allow me to marry a man who worked at the distillery, where he’d been gainfully employed for over twenty years. He’d saved a dowry for me, modest but adequate to bring to a marriage. There were several unmarried men at the distillery I’d thought could make a good match, but my stepfather would hear none of it. During his trips to deliver whiskey to Marystown, he had become acquainted with a wealthy man in need of a wife, thus sealing my fate.

Five days. I felt like the walls of the library would close in on me at any moment. My breaths became labored, and I moved away from the woodstove for fear of overheating and passing out. I returned my encyclopedias and magazines to their proper places then walked out into the frigid late afternoon air.

With a heavy heart, I trudged home and went through the motions of the night. I helped my mother and stepsisters prepare dinner, sang while my mother played piano, and swept the floors. When all but Ella, the older of my stepsisters, had gone to bed, she and I sat up and worked on our various crochet projects. While she fashioned a mitten and hat set, I busily added the finishing touches to a delicate white shawl I planned to wear on my wedding day. Though I harbored no excitement for my impending nuptials, I still had no wish to wear my ugly brown cloak over my wedding gown on the walk to church. Maybe that meant I cared a little. Or at least enough to want my new husband to think I looked pretty.

“Do you suppose he’s handsome?” Ella asked. “Luke Holsten?”

“Handsome doesn’t matter much,” I replied, not wishing to talk about my marriage. But Ella was nothing if not persistent.

“But you’re beautiful, Nora! Gosh, I wish I had your long, wavy auburn hair. You’re going to look like a princess on your wedding day. You deserve to marry the nicest, handsomest man around. I hope Papa knows that.”

“Papa seems to care more about how much money this man has.” Money. It all came down to wealth for my stepfather. He’d grown up dirt poor on the roughest street in Gerrardsville, and I knew he wanted to make sure his daughters never wanted for anything. Even though I despaired over his decision, I appreciated that he thought of me as his own daughter. He’d always treated me the same as Ella and Heather. My eyes burned.

“What’s wrong? Oh, please don’t cry!” Ella set her half-completed hat in her lap and frowned at me.

I sniffled and blinked hard to dispel my tears. “I don’t want to marry a man I’ve never met, and I certainly don’t want to leave Gerrardsville.”

“Marystown is much nicer. I heard over half the houses there have running water. Running water, Nora! Can you believe it?”

I smiled despite myself. Ella was a sweet soul who always saw the best in any situation. Not for the first time, I wished I could be more like my older stepsister.

“You’ll see Papa every time he travels to Marystown. Every other month.” She grinned and leaned forward with a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. “I plan to sneak aboard his wagon the next time he travels there so I can visit you. But shhhh! Don’t utter a word about it to anyone. I know he’ll thrash me something good for it, but I want to visit you as soon as possible to make sure you’re all right.”

I laughed. “I look forward to your illicit visit.”

“As do I.” Ella appeared pensive for a short while before adding, “You know, your cousin has that compound outside the village. I’ll bet if you visited him for a few days and happened to miss your own wedding, Papa would be forced to take your desires into consideration. Harry from the distillery has had his eye on you. The lad might not be the wealthy owner of an ammunition factory, but he owns land and seems to do well enough.”

My mouth dropped open, and Ella winked at me as she sat back in her chair.

After I finished my shawl, I bid good night to her and retired to my room, where my thoughts spun in endless circles. Dread twisted knot after knot in my stomach. The possibility of running away kept flitting through my mind. At first, I cursed Ella and dismissed the idea with a shake of my head. But, after a few minutes of increasing trepidation, it became a prominent thought that made better sense the more I entertained the idea.

I imagined a happy life in Gerrardsville with Harry as my husband. I would see my family and friends often, every day if I wished.

The full moon rose high outside my window, casting a pale strip of light across the floorboards. The high stone walls of my cousin’s compound flashed in my vision every time I blinked. I would be safe there. I could remain hidden until my wedding day passed.

I tried to quiet my thoughts of running away, but I tossed and turned as the moon rose higher and higher, until I finally threw off my covers and packed a bag.

*****

I
drifted in and out of consciousness, the only sound that of hooves clomping on the precarious dirt path twisting up the mountain and the occasional sniffle from one of the other captured girls. I knew nothing but terror, hunger, and bitter cold. Even in sleep, I found no relief, because dark shadows and piercing screams filled my dreams.

I had been so stupid. Not long after I’d left the safety of the village, a band of slavers had come upon me.

Eight days had passed since that fateful night. I hadn’t believed I could hide forever at my cousin’s compound, but I’d thought running away would get my stepfather’s attention enough to make him reconsider my marriage to the stranger. But now I would never marry, and neither would the other women crammed in the back of the wagon.

The slavers would sell us off at an auction. I’d heard them discussing it. I didn’t know where the wagon was heading, but we kept traveling higher and higher up the mountain, and the air grew more chilled by the hour.

Today, I hovered on the edge of unconsciousness more than usual, too cold and hungry and fatigued to remain fully awake. It was during one of my brief sleeping spells that the wagon came to a sudden stop, jostling me into the girl curled up beside me.

My eyes fluttered open, and I tensed at the sound of raised voices. Had we reached the site of the auction already? My guts turned to water at the prospect. Marriage to a stranger seemed like the better option now.

Worst of all, I doubted whoever bought me would be merciful enough to allow me contact with my family. After a desperate and fruitless search, they would presume I had died of exposure or met with trouble on the road.

The voices grew louder before abrupt silence blanketed the mountain. I strained to hear what was happening. Hunger-induced weakness prevented me from sitting up to peer through the bars of the wagon.

The door swung open with an earsplitting screech, and a collective gasp went up among my companions. My heart pounded in my ears as one of our captors entered the back of the wagon. When his gaze locked on mine, I tried to back away into the bars, tried to will myself invisible.

“No!” I thrashed in his strong grip, but he easily hauled me out of the wagon. My eyes caught Margo’s, the girl who had been sleeping beside me. She gave me a pitiful look, her face pale and tears glittering on her eyelashes.

“Settle down, girl.” The man’s sour breath wafted in my face, making me gag.

Once he had me away from the wagon, a tall and well-dressed man approached, his assessing gaze sweeping me up and down. I got the distinct impression he wanted to ensure I wasn’t harmed in any way. A vein on his temple bulged, his jaw set in a firm line, and his eyes shone with murderous intent. I shuddered.

“Here she is, sir. The girl we picked up outside of Gerrardsville.”

I stood frozen as the well-dressed man looked at me. Around us, the other twelve slavers stood in a circle with weapons drawn, apparently not trusting this stranger who’d appeared.

“What is your name, girl?”

“Nora. My name is Nora.” It didn’t occur to me to lie to the well-dressed man. Perhaps he was here to rescue me on behalf of my family.

“I’ll take her.”

My breath caught in my lungs.
He’ll take me?
I hugged myself as I was thrust forward into the stranger’s arms, but I didn’t attempt to escape his firm hold. I’d used the last of my energy fighting the slaver in the wagon. Now I stood the captive of another man, feeling like a shell of my former self, weak and compliant after days of cold and near starvation, not to mention the slavers’ constant threats of punishment should any of us misbehave.