A Proper Spaning

Hans van Berkamp, Captain in the Hungarian regiment of Horse, sat by the fire in the tiny servant quarters kitchen. He leant back in the simple wooden chair, chewing the last few mouthfuls of scrambled egg that he had breakfasted on. He was still in his cavalry strides and boots, their polished leather still glistening with early morning dew and blades of freshly cut glass. He had changed into a loose fitting cotton shirt, as his previous one was being scrubbed clean of his own blood in the washer room by the housemaid. His impressive chest heaved as he let out a mighty sigh, the muscle rippling under the leather lace by the deep meeting of his clavicles, his shirt open in a deep v-neck. He still felt the elation and adrenaline of victory in battle, but this was tempered somewhat by the unsavoury task still to come that morning.

McCreedy topped up his black coffee with another tot of peaty, single malt Islay whiskey. Berkamp took a deep draught of the liquid, "Well my old friend, even at home, a man's duty is never done." McCreedy grinned and nodded in agreement as Berkamp rose, adjusting his shirt, tucked tightly as it was into his perfectly tailored cavalry strides at his narrow waste. He grabbed his sabre from where it hung in its scabbard across the back of the chair. McCreedy stood also and knuckled his forehead in salute as Berkamp stepped out into the pleasant mid-morning air, the cold numbing somewhat the still throbbing, recently sutured gash across his cheek, now the only sign that he had come from a duel to the death that morning.

Marie von Berkamp sat at her dresser, her eyes a little red and puffy against her creamy skin, which itself seemed translucent after her long, hot bath. The tears had subsided somewhat, it had been an emotional ride back from that horrific scene at the dual, but her heart still thrillingly fluttered at the memory of the excitement. Katalin, her maid and confidant, sat behind her and carefully brushed Marie's dark hair.

"What was it like Marie?" Katalin asked, safe in the familiarity and privacy of her Madam's chamber.

"Exciting Kat, terrifying. But what a man he is, I see that now like never before." Her eyes were downcast, then rose shyly to the mirror as she spoke, meeting the reflected gaze of Katalin their eyes briefly flashing total understanding between each other.

"Yes Marie, your clothes were utterly soiled!!" her blond hair shook under her bonnet as she giggled mischievously.

"Oooh, Kat!!" Marie turned, blushing, playfully striking her friend on the arm. "But, oh, how I love him now! He was more handsome than ever I have seen him! But I wish he would see me now, I feel I have sullied our marriage, he will be cold to me now I fear."

"Fear not," said Kat, embracing her with her equally petit body, "he is a great man, he will deal with it well." They paused in comfort and familiar embrace. Kat could feel her hard breasts through the single layer of her night gown. Marie turned her face to her friend, the soft lavender scent still strong after her bath, their lips softly met in a casual kiss. "Thank you for saying so Kat," she spoke softly "I dearly hope that is true."

At that moment, they heard the athletic step of a large man mounting the stairs to the chamber. Kat started, jumping up, she began attending to brushing her mistress' coat. There was a gentle but firm knock at the door.

"Madam, may I speak with you?" It was her husband, his voice polite, but cold and devoid of any feeling.

"Yes my love, please enter." She tried to calm herself, brushing her hair, her delicate hand trembling. He stepped in, filling the door frame, then stepping to one side, holding the door open. With a deep, respectful bow, his sword and belt still in his hand he greeted his wife, his gaze flicking to Katilina in subtle command. Marie could barely speak, her voice cracking with emotion "Katilina, please leave us."

"Yes Madam" she curtsied as she left, again as she passed the Captain, whose stooped body bowed a little deeper as she exited, the door closing behind her.

Captain von Berkamp threw the saber and belted scabbard onto the bed. "My lady, I hope this morning finds you well, I note the exertions you suffered this morning somehow left you more beautiful and gracious as ever, I..." but Marie could play the facade no longer. Seeing the red, inflamed suture on his cheek; his attire and upright bearing reminding her of her feelings that morning, she could no longer hold back. She threw herself at him, her arms around his waist, her head against his chest as she looked up to him, eyes glistening.

"Oh Hans! I was so frightened, it was terrible. Can you ever forgive me?" Berkamp gently pushed her away from him, his hands firmly grasping her shoulders.

"I am truly sorry you had to witness that beastly ceremony Madam, but I fear you must learn a lesson from it. I know you mean no harm, but your charms and beauty are weapons as deadly as the pistol, lance or saber. You must realise that these old fighting men, despite their bearing and decorum, are all classless buffoons. The higher in society they are, the more mistresses they harbour, most drawn from the lowest classes of women across the continent. You must learn to be polite, but not encourage the perversions of these old men, no matter how flattering and well meaning they seem."

"But Hans, it was not my fault, I did nothing to lead him on, he was drunk his hands could not be my fault... oh Hans, but how magnificent you were today! How I have yearned to see that life that you live, the life I can never be a part of, the excitement! Oh how thrilling your life away from me must be!" Her words were cut short by the load slap across her delicate cheek. She gasped, despite the ringing in her ear, the welling of tears in her eyes; it was the sudden change in his mood that had shocked her. She looked into his eyes, drawing away in terror as she saw that same fierceness, the same murderess, piercing gaze: she saw that ferocious, unfamiliar man she had seen that morning. Her heart fluttered madly at her breast, part with fear, but part too with a tingling exciting, a rush of pleasurable adrenaline.

"Stupid Marie, a man has died this day! I see witnessing the unglamorous death of that immortal old hero has taught you nothing!". He roughly grabbed her by the hair, gathering it behind her head. He pulled her forward and her head down, bending her over the plush, velvet covered ottoman which served as her dresser chair. He forced her face down onto the rug until she overbalanced and her bottom was high in the air, her silk night gown fell over her as she was almost upside down, exposing her white, smooth buttocks and thighs. She was naked under the gown, except for her expensive lace stockings and garters.

Marie whimpered timidly, her view was now limited to his leather boot on the rug next to her face, she was terrified; but as before excited. Her normal, proper and somewhat mundane home life had somehow collided with the violence and thrill of her husbands world. She felt Hans move around behind her, reaching for something while still holding her hair behind her head, forcing her face into the ground.

There was a pause, an intake of breath, then a loud swish and something cold and hard smacked across her buttocks, she yelped loudly with the searing pain.

"I won't apologise my dear, as this is for your own good!" Berkamp stated in a loud, controlled voice. He raised the cavalry sword above his head once more, aiming for the red stripe across her soft, quivering flesh. He brought it down, striking her with the flat of the sword again, her flesh wobbling in an explosion of movement that spread like a wave from her buttocks down her soft, feminine thighs. He breathed deeply, his eyes seeing her soft, pink arsehole, her meaty, shivering vagina. He struck her again, counting each blow in his mind.

"Ten of the best will teach you not to be a harlot, just like a common soldier, it's the only thing those heathens understand!"

Marie squirmed and whimpered under the relentless blows, the pain washing over her body. All that she could think of was those steely eyes, she could feel the firmness of the hand holding her hair, the accuracy and sureness of the repeated blows. She felt her juices flow from deep within. She gasped with shortened breaths, squirming around on the ottoman.

"Hold still damn you!" he roared. He saw her thighs moving, her sex becoming slimy, the dewy appearance of her wetness. The sweet, coppery aroma of her quivering sex met his nostrils. He felt his large penis move against the tightness of his strides. Her evident arousal made him furious; he struck her again and again, quickly reaching ten brutal strikes. Her perfect skin was covered in red welts across both buttocks and thighs. Her screams and gasps intensified, turning from fear and pain to animalistic moans of pleasure. He could see her arsehole winking with every convulsive gasp, he could see sticky cords of moisture stringing between her thighs.

Captain Hans van Berkamp, threw down the sword with a ringing clatter, pulling the head of his beautiful young wife up violently, he grabbed her by the throat with his free hand. Her royal cheeks and forehead were glistening with tears, her nose had been running and saliva covered her chin. Her eyes; until that morning innocent and bright, were glassy and wild. She was panting, looking at him with filthy lust. He smacked her on the arse again with his bare hand, taking a big handful of flesh and squeezing the soft, tortured buttock hard. He found his finger against her soft arsehole, then, without really knowing what he was doing, thrust it in up to the second knuckle. He felt the muscle expand and contract, accepting the intrusion. Withdrawing it, he fumbled with the flies of his strides, not for a moment losing control of her with the other hand grasping her hair. Pushing her face down on the bed, he bent her over its side, his free hand pushing down on his trousers. His massive, straining cock springing free and pointing upwards in at a rigid military 45 degree angle. His eyes would not leave the now slightly open, slippery hole between her welted, trembling buttocks. He pushed his hips forward, the tip of his penis straining against her arsehole, there was a brief convulsion of that tight-ringed muscle as the feeling of the pulsing cock against her made her gasp; causing the bulbous head to slip in.

The sensation was to much for them both, with a roar, he slammed the full length of his vein laced shaft into her arse. She screamed, her back arched, her breasts popping out of the loose, silk night dress. His balls slapped against her vagina, collecting some of its moisture, sending a pulse through her clit. She could see them both in her dresser mirror: his thighs straining with muscle, her arse rising to his thrusts, tits jiggling, hair pulled back. He thrust with a violence and rapidness that shocked them both, pulling her head now back towards him, arching her back more so he could reach around and squeeze her soft, puffy nippled tits. He pinched the hardening nipples violently, adding to her ecstatic pain. She moaned and screamed in an out of control cacophony, the sensation of the two balls slapping against her lips causing her to reach down involuntarily and massage her clit. She could feel his cock bulging and pulsing as it slid up and down inside her, her slick fingers entering her vagina as she clumsily rubbed her clit and sloppy lips.

She felt the familiar rising of tension in her body; her mind raced in memory, the violent abuse she was experiencing from her powerful husband, the dull sting of her red raw buttocks. The memory of him from that misty morning, strong, brave: invincible. The image of blood on a crisp white shirt, the explosion of powder, the choking, bloody and violent death of her husbands adversary as the ball tore at his throat. Suddenly, she could take no more, a spasm came over her in the form of an impossibly violent orgasm. Her legs kicked out stiff behind her, her eyes rolled back in her head. Her fingers were doused in a spray of her own juices, squirting out of her like a hose, down her legs, splashing on the wooden floor and her husband boots. As his cock completed its last few deep thrusts, her cunt squirted in time with it in a grand finale. Hans, egged on by her messy show, felt his cock spurt hot cum in to her tight arse. He bucked with pleasure, matching her writhing spasms. The last thing she felt before she passed out was him withdrawing in the last throws of orgasm and cum spurting in and around her steaming, dribbling vagina and gaping, bright red, cum filled arsehole.

He stood back, lifting and buttoning his strides. He stared with satisfaction at her laying face down on the bed, clear fluid still seeped out of her engorged vagina, adding to the puddle on the floor. Her arsehole was open in a pink circle, globs of cum visible down inside the fleshy tunnel, sliding down deep into her body. The creamy, porcelain buttocks with that perfect complexion were ruined by red and blue welts. He grabbed his sword and swung open the door, nearly tripping over Katalin who had been kneeling on the floor with her eye to the key hole. He was vaguely aware of the stinking, musky puddle she was kneeling in, piss and her cum still trickling into the underwear down around her knees. The look of shock and guilt on her flushed face was only increased as he spoke on walking past her to the head of the stairs: "make sure Her Ladyship is cleaned up and ready for the Regimental Ball tonight, McCreedy will collect her at 8".