Pauline woke suddenly from a dream. She lay in a sumptuous bed, the coverings scarlet in a room of scarlet. It was the second day of her confinement, the second day of his anger.
She blinked, rubbing her bleary eyes as she stretched in the bed. He had been kind to her in his anger, had had the servants arrange a breakfast tray beside her bed. The food, by now, was cold, but she picked at it. She found herself less hungry and more on the verge of something; she knew not what. She looked for a letter on the tray, some indication of his favor, but there was nothing.
She spent her day sewing embroidery, though she could not focus on it. The only thing she could think of was Manfred and his wrath. He had found her, his ward, in a covert alcove of the house, reading.
"What matter do you read?" he had asked, she remembered.
"Ah, nothing, to be sure." She covered the book with her arms, but he yanked it away. He flipped through a few pages and his face went red in fury rather than embarrassment.
"The Earl of Rochester?!" he exclaimed, throwing the book across the room. "What kind of fodder is this for any ward of mine? Especially when you are training to be a governess!" His green eyes were cruel and his mouth turned into a sneer. "I had hoped to be rid of you soon, but it seems you disobey me, so I have no recourse but to punish you. You will go to the Red Room, and stay there until it is my pleasure to see you."
She could do nothing but obey, and so she went to the Red Room with its opulent furnishings and overlarge bed, and sat in the chair by the vanity there, looking calmly into the mirror.
Her dark hair was pulled neatly back into a bun, with several ringlets framing her pale face. Her eyes were large, their irises a dark blue, nearly gray. Her skin was soft and flawless, her best feature, she thought, and her full lips curved downwards into a frown. Her figure beneath the low cut of her dress was voluptuous, and her generous breasts rose and fell with her sighs.
But it had been two days, and she was locked there. She knew, as she had tried the door several times. Everything had been taken care of, even in her exile. The chamber maid came and went to clean and to serve her meals.
Ah, but she thought of the Earl of Rochester, how he must have been an avid lover! Pauline had not, not even in her twenty-first year, been touched by a man. She recalled heated nights when she pulled up her nightgown and slipped her hand beneath, daring to touch where she ought not. She remembered the feeling of the dew beneath her fingers, as she slipped them inside her tight little opening. She remembered how her thighs trembled when she took her finger to that little button between, stroking and coaxing it to life until she shook with the heated chills of climax.
The thoughts of this made her long to touch herself, but she mustn't. She mustn't play with the pert pink nipples of her breasts or slip her hand against the fur of her netherparts. No, she must stay and sew.
Her sewing was intricate, and when it began to finally enthrall her, she heard a creak of the door. No knocking as the maid had done. It swung open and she dropped her needle as she heard the thick steps of booted feet. She turned from her seat at the vanity and regarded the fiery countenance of Manfred, who towered above her.
He was clad in a dark blue coat and trousers which clung to him, emphasizing the proud bulge between his powerful thighs. His hair and eyes were dark, almost black, his skin tanned by constant exercise in the out of doors. His sensual lips curved into a scowl, above which he possessed a small scar, and his hands clenched at his side.
"Get up, Pauline," he said, and would not be thwarted. She rose shakily from her seat, dropping her embroidery. Bending to pick it up, she noticed a coil of rope in one of his hands. He closed the door behind him and locked it, pocketing the key.
"Come over to the bed and place your arms above your head, leaning against the post," he instructed. She gave him a challenging look, but he put a firm hand on her shoulder, guiding her in that direction. She assumed the position, her arms held above her head. It was then that he began to tie them by her wrists to the post.
"You really should know better than to read this sort of smut," he said calmly, almost casually. "I don't know how you obtained it. I keep such things locked up firmly." He tied the rope in such a way that it would not chafe, yet was quite secure. She was still for the present, because she was unsure of her situation. She turned her head so that she could see him. He was carrying a pair of scissors, which he had taken from the vanity.
"Really, Pauline. You should know much, much better than to place yourself in that position. I thought you understood that I was a just guardian with only your interests at heart. I still am. But you ought not to have disobeyed me when I told you not to read such things." With that, he trailed a finger over the back of her neck, causing her to shiver. She could feel the point of the cold metal follow, tracing the shape of her shoulders until it began delicately cutting away at her clothing, in the middle of her back. She squirmed then, trying to get out of his grasp, but it was of no use.
"Shh!" he commanded, pausing to run a finger over her lips. She tried to bite it, but was unsuccessful. He continued cutting open her dress, until he was satisfied and ripped the hem apart. Her stays and chemise were even easier. He unlaced the one and split the other in half. He pulled her drawers down to her ankles, revealing her round bottom, and her creamy backside. Opening the place where he cut, he made sure she was completely bare there. It was then that he moved from her and made some shuffling noises.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, biting her lip. Pauline fretfully gripped the post in her hands, swaying a little from side to side.
"I am going to punish you, of course," Manfred replied calmly. It was not long before she felt the sting of something on her back, and heard the crack of what she was almost certain was a riding crop. She jumped, but he steadied her with a hand. "This is what you deserve for reading tripe. You deserve..." One slap! "To be treated..." Two slaps! "Like the little whore that you are!" And another, and then another after that. It was not until he had reached ten cracks of the crop that he felt himself satisfied.
The red welts began forming over her back and buttocks, and she cried out sharply. He laughed aloud at her cries, running his fingers over the angry welts and down her backside until he reached between her legs.
"Oh, please!" she cried out hoarsely. But his fingers slipped between her netherlips and he inserted them into her, feeling the wetness there. He murmured his approval, and brought his fingers to her lips, sliding them in between, urgently persuading her to taste herself. She suckled his fingers shyly at first, but then more emphatically.
"Ah yes," he murmured against her ear, his hard body pressed against her softer one. "Had I known what a little harlot you were, I would have had you sooner. But as it stands...and believe me, it does stand..." He trailed off, running his wet fingers down her chin and neck. He slipped them beneath what was left of her dress, taking a nipple between forefinger and thumb and pulling on it, gently but then with more insistence. From this he won her first moan, which increased in intensity as he pulled harder.
"So you enjoy pain?" he queried into her ear, one hand idly rubbing the marks he had made on her, the other playing with her other nipple. She said nothing in reply until he slapped her bottom with his hand.
"You enjoy pain, yes?" he asked again, lips pressed against her ear. She nodded. "Say it!" he commanded.
"I enjoy pain..." she whispered softly. With that, he began to untie her wrists. He let the rope drop to the floor, and pulled off the rest of her clothing with an unexpected gentleness. She was bare to him but for her stockings, held up by ribboned garters, and her shoes. She collapsed on the bed, a trembling mass. In the meantime, Manfred rifled through some drawers in the vanity and stumbled upon what he was looking for, an ornate wooden box.
"I've no doubt you're read the Earl of Rochester's poem chastising his prick," Manfred said casually, setting down the box on the table beside the bed. "Have you seen a prick before in your life, my darling?" She shook her head, eyes widening.
