On the Bare (26 page)

Emily gritted her teeth for the next stroke and managed to stay silent as it painted a second burning stripe across her posterior.

‘Two.’

The third stroke forced a sharp intake of breath and she clung to the cannon as tightly as she could. Her arms trembled with the effort and her hands were clammy against the metal. In her fantasies Trevelyan had usually tied her wrists together. That would be a mercy now. The possibility of disgracing herself by leaping out of position was a challenge she hadn’t counted on. Sweat trickled down her face and she panted, waiting for the next stroke.

Again the bosun’s rattan met her tender bottom. She hissed through her teeth, determined to stifle her cries. Trevelyan was watching; she could not bear his reproach.

‘Four.’

Harmwell’s dutiful counting was strangely humbling. It was clear he got no pleasure from this; he was simply obeying orders. It was inexplicably erotic. The lieutenant’s power over her was absolute.

As the caning continued Emily found herself floating, as though watching from outside herself. She could take this; perhaps she was toughening up. Trevelyan was doing what
he
had promised her father he would do: making a man of her. There was something poetic about that.

A particularly hard stroke forced another cry from her and she cursed herself for her weakness. She heard the bosun counting the strokes, but the numbers meant nothing to her. Intense as the pain was, Emily felt invigorated. It was the ultimate challenge. The proving ground. This was what she’d wanted. Her beloved lieutenant was having her flogged for insubordination and he was overseeing the punishment personally. Had he been waiting for the opportunity as well, to do his duty by the fainthearted boy?

Harmwell counted ten and Emily breathed deeply, pacing herself for the final two strokes. She could imagine the spectacle she made – her bottom turned well up, her tight breeches inviting the sting of the cane. Trevelyan had no idea he was watching a
girl’s
bottom and the secret knowledge gave Emily a lewd little thrill. She squeezed her thighs against the cannon, stimulating herself as the penultimate stroke fell.

‘Eleven,’ counted Harmwell.

Emily held her breath for the last stroke, but the lieutenant interrupted.

‘The final stroke,’ he said, ‘is always the hardest. Make this one count, Mr Harmwell.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

She sensed the cane drawing back and she gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut tightly.

The last stroke slashed through the air and into her bottom, its impact echoing in her head like a musket shot. She was lost in a strange haze of pain spiced with pleasure. It was not unlike being drunk. Her body was tingling and the throbbing in her sex was almost unbearable. She longed to rub herself against the cold metal of the cannon, to tighten her legs round it until the pleasure exploded within her. But she would have to wait. She would take care of it later that night, in her hammock in the midshipmen’s berth.

The bosun gave a little cough and Emily shook her head to clear it.

‘You may stand up, Mr Vane,’ said the lieutenant.

She slid to her feet and stood up shakily. Then she raised her eyes to look Trevelyan in the face. It was important to regain her dignity.

‘Have you revised your opinion of navigation, Mr Vane?’ the lieutenant asked.

‘Yes, sir. I most certainly have, sir.’

He eyed her sternly for a few moments before addressing the bosun. ‘Leave us, Mr Harmwell.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

They were alone. The silence quickly became oppressive. A bead of sweat rolled down her face and she dared not rub it away.

At last he spoke. ‘Well, Mr Vane?’

Was it her imagination or had he emphasised the ‘Mr?’

‘S-sir?’

‘Look at me when you’re spoken to, lad.’

Emily tried not to blush, but it was impossible. Warmth flooded her face as she raised her eyes.

The lieutenant looked as austere as ever, yet there was a strange light in his eyes. ‘Did that satisfy your curiosity?’

She swallowed. ‘My – curiosity, sir?’

‘Yes, your curiosity. Or have you forgotten our conversations in your father’s library?’

Horrified, Emily lowered her head. She didn’t know what to say.

The silence was broken by a harsh bark of laughter and she looked up, startled.

‘You took that as well as any boy,’ said Trevelyan, smiling broadly. ‘I had my suspicions from the first, but your insubordination gave you away. Your brother would never have dared.’

Emily turned scarlet. ‘I don’t know what to say, sir.’

‘You might thank me.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He nodded in acknowledgment. ‘And now I should like to examine Mr Harmwell’s handiwork.’

She blinked. ‘Sir?’

Trevelyan gestured at the cannon. ‘We’ll have your breeches down, Emily.’

Amazed that she could possibly flush any deeper, she hesitated.

The lieutenant’s expression grew severe again and he drew himself up. ‘That was an order, Mr Vane.’

She gulped. ‘Aye aye, sir.’

Then she turned away and her hands fluttered to her waist to unfasten her breeches. She looked nervously down the length of the gundeck.

‘We’re alone,’ Trevelyan reassured her. ‘Continue.’

It was so strange, baring herself like this before a man. She moved as though in a dream state, undoing the buttons at her knees. Her breeches pooled round her ankles. She’d done this often enough in her fantasies, but the reality was embarrassing, excruciating.

‘Back in position,’ Trevelyan ordered.

Emily did as she was told and her breeches slid down over her shoes. With her bottom on display and her bare thighs wrapped lewdly around the gun the position was positively obscene. She moaned in exquisite shame as she lowered her forehead to the cannon. The barrel seemed warmer now and its hard surface pressed into her exposed sex.

She gave a little cry of surprise when she felt Trevelyan’s hand against her bottom. His fingers traced the marks left by the cane and she shuddered at his touch.

‘A commendable job,’ he pronounced. ‘Our Mr Harmwell has a strong arm.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Emily gulped.

The lieutenant continued to examine the marks – slowly, thoroughly. He cupped her cheeks in his hands and squeezed firmly, making her gasp. The blood pounded in her head and again she felt faint. Then his fingers did the unthinkable. They slipped down along her crease and in between her legs.

Instinctively, Emily cried out and reached behind to shield herself, rising up out of her position.

‘Oh, no,’ chided the lieutenant, smacking her smartly on her tender backside. ‘Stay where you are.’

Mortified, she obeyed.

‘Perhaps you need restraining,’ he suggested.

Her ears burned at those words. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him reach for a coil of rope. Her breathing grew shallow as he crouched beside her and tied her wrists beneath the barrel, so that she embraced the cannon. Then he resumed his examination.

His skilful hands explored her sex, probing and fondling the slick folds. Emily stiffened and made a little whimper. But she didn’t protest; she didn’t dare risk breaking the spell.

The ropes let her imagine that this was just another part of her punishment. She pulled at them to reassure herself that she was truly at his mercy.

His fingers described careful little circles over and around the bud of her sex and she gasped at his expert stimulation. She hadn’t known such ecstasy was possible. Her mouth opened in a soundless moan as the attentive fingers slipped inside her. The pain in her bottom had subsided to a dull pulse that mirrored the throbbing in her sex. She writhed wantonly as his fingers worked in and out of her, making her body jerk with pleasure.

Emily imagined that she was being caned again, this time bound naked to the grating up on deck. The entire crew stood watching as the lieutenant painted stripes across her disobedient bottom, counting dispassionately while she yelped and writhed in delirious torment.

When he withdrew his fingers, she squeezed her legs tightly around the gun, protesting with a petulant whimper.

But he wasn’t finished with her. Again his fingers slid inside where she was warm and hungry. And this time his other hand caressed her as well, spreading her open and tweaking her little nub, hard. His attentions elicited gasps of alternating pleasure and pain and Emily threw her head back, arching against him, urging his fingers deeper inside her.

She was climbing fast, straining violently at the ropes, drowning in the liberation of total surrender. All at once
the
climax overtook her and the blood pounding in her ears sounded like the firing of the ship’s guns.

For a long time neither of them said a word. Emily hung limply over the cannon, exhausted and panting. Trevelyan untied her hands. She stood on unsteady legs as she put her breeches back on and replaced her cocked hat.

‘I hope you don’t think that’s the end of the matter,’ he said gravely.

Misunderstanding, Emily’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, sir, you wouldn’t tell the captain …’

Trevelyan gave her a conspiratorial smile. ‘Probably not. I expect we can come to some arrangement. We can discuss it tonight. Report to my cabin at two bells in the first watch.’

Emily flushed. She felt her sex moistening again at the prospect. ‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘Navigation is important, Mr Vane,’ he said. ‘But action at close quarters is the true test of any officer.’

Bursting

JULIE HAD TO
go. Desperately. She hadn’t reckoned on so much traffic on the way back from the airport and she’d thought she could survive till she got home. It was usually a half-hour drive, but today everything was conspiring against her. First she got stuck behind a tractor for several miles. Then there was a patch of roadworks. And now this bloody bus trundling along at a snail’s pace. She sounded her horn in irritation, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. Overtaking wasn’t even an option; she couldn’t see around the bus.

She squeezed her legs together, trying to sit as still as possible. Her jeans felt unbearably tight. The slightest movement was agony and threatened to make her lose control.

She’d already passed the one dodgy petrol station where she might have used the loo, but she’d been less desperate then. She wasn’t going to double-back now and there was no point in leaving the main road for a pub; she might as well gut it out until she made it home.

It had been an awful visit with Melanie. Though the girls had been inseparable throughout school, they’d lost touch for several years after university. And while the emails exchanged through Friends Reunited made it seem like no time had passed, the reality had been unbearable.

A weekend in the south of France had sounded like paradise to Julie. Unfortunately, Melanie’s paradise included two shrieking babies and a gormless husband who
thought
fart jokes were the pinnacle of wit. Julie’s polite smile became increasingly strained as she counted the minutes until she could leave. She’d used the headache excuse early on but by the end of the visit no faking was necessary. She’d even lied about the flight time to get away earlier, preferring to kill the final three hours at the airport.

Her haste to leave had clouded her judgment and she’d had two vodka tonics in the airport bar to obliterate her memories of the awful visit. Then she’d had a cup of tea on the plane to sober up for the drive. She’d needed to relieve herself when the plane landed, but her suitcase was – amazingly – already on the carousel. The queue for the ladies’ stretched out the door, so she’d ignored the urge in her eagerness to be home again. Now she was really suffering.

Briefly she considered pulling over to pee in the bushes, but she didn’t fancy braving the nettles or ruining her heels in the wet grass. It was only another few miles.

The bus lumbered to a stop and Julie watched helplessly as an elderly man shuffled to the door and climbed the steps with excruciating care. She couldn’t take it any more. She threw the car into reverse and backed up enough to see around the bulk of the vehicle. The road was clear ahead and she stamped the pedal, squealing her tyres as she overtook. An oncoming car appeared over the ridge and blared its horn at her, but she made it into her own lane, finally achieving some speed.

Her bladder ached as she watched the speedometer climb to 80, then 90. She was on the home stretch. It wouldn’t be long now.

She glared at a speed camera warning sign as she sailed past – a crude likeness of an ancient box Brownie that was supposed to encourage you to slow down. But the boxes seldom had cameras in them. She’d certainly never been flashed by one on this familiar road. Not that it would deter her now anyway.

Almost there, almost there
, she told herself, swerving to avoid the suicidal pheasant that emerged from the hedgerow. She skidded a little on the wet road and had to brake
hard
to regain control of the car. Her handbag slid off the passenger seat, spilling its contents noisily onto the floor.

Julie cursed and leaned across to retrieve things, wincing at the discomfort in her bladder as she bent down. The car wavered on its course as she felt around under the seat for her phone. She had just rescued it, and was raising her head to look up at the road again, when she saw the fence rushing towards her.

She cried out and hit the brakes, but not before the nose of the car crunched into the wooden slats and she lurched to a painful stop in the gravel of a farm track. Almost immediately she saw the flashing lights of a police car in her rearview mirror.

‘Nooo!’ she cried, a long plaintive wail of dismay. ‘Not fair!’

For a moment she was tempted to do a runner – just floor the accelerator and race home, run inside and relieve herself. The cop might chase her inside the house, but she could shout her explanation through the closed bathroom door and present herself contritely to him afterwards.

But she was also aware of the alcohol in her system. If she made him chase her home he would assume the worst. She wasn’t drunk, but there was no way she’d pass a breath test. Besides, he could easily take her down before she made it inside the house. That old goat Mr Beddowes across the road would love to see her arrested outside her own front door.