The Devil of Whiskey Row (13 page)

With a sensual curve of her lips, she snatched it from his hand, sashaying to the stage with the signature confidence that made her his top earner. Marie had already guessed the direction of events, and her face closed with grim acceptance.

“Over that stool,” Olive commanded, pointing with the riding crop.

With a resolute sigh, Marie complied, leaning her chest on the seat of the stool and wrapping her arms around its edges.

“Spread your legs.” Olive tapped the crop to one of her legs.

Marie obeyed.

Olive looked pointedly at the audience of leering men and slowly pulled up Marie's first skirt. The men roared their approval. James McCollum got up from his seat and elbowed his way forward, dragging a chair directly in the front of the stage, ignoring protests from the other gamblers. Olive lifted the fluffy expanse of petticoats, revealing Marie's shortened ruffled drawers. The men cheered again at the sight.

Olive walked around Marie and tapped her bottom with the crop. There were catcalls and taunts from the men, urging her to let it swing. She lifted the implement and brought it down with a sharp slice. Marie jumped and grunted. The men grew quieter, perhaps surprised that Olive would spank in earnest. The crop whistled through the air as she brought it down a second time, and the crowd murmured a bit, nervous laughter filling the air.

McCollum, Olive's customer who liked to be spanked himself, was leaning back in his chair, his hand over the bulge in his pants. Olive brought the crop down a third time and Marie made a little whimpering sound. Olive changed the crop to her left hand and used her right to rub a slow circle over Marie's bottom. The crowd tuned up again, egging her on. She looked over her shoulder at them, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

She received a chorus of whistles and shouts in response.

Slowly, with every flair of drama in her, Olive untied Marie's drawers, hooked her thumbs in the waistband, slid them down past Marie’s thighs, and allowed them to fall to the floor. Shouts, cheers, and the banging of glasses on the table rewarded her. Olive fanned herself with her hand. “Is it getting hot in here?” she asked, tugging at the fastenings of her dress. She pulled it off along with her built-in petticoats to a roar of approval. Flexing the crop, she took a wide, confident stance in nothing but her corset, stockings and drawers. The excitement in the room was palpable.

Jake pulled Cora tightly against him, pressing her soft bottom against his hardening cock. He smoothed her hair back from her ear and nipped at it. She pushed actively backward, molding her body against his.

The three weals Olive had already inflicted stood out against Marie's pale skin, and the sight of them affected Jake in the way that seeing a woman's spanked bottom always did. His cock stirred against Cora's body and she responded by slowly bending and straightening her knees to rub her bottom over it. He groaned in her ear.

Olive tapped Marie's alluring backside a few more times before bringing the crop smartly across her cheeks, making a diagonal line this time, crisscrossing the first three straight ones.
Ah, God.
Olive brought the crop down two more times, and a little sob from Marie could be heard along with a loud groan from McCollum.

“She's got six more coming. Who wants to give them to her?” Olive queried her audience.

Chairs fell backward as men jumped to their feet.

“Now wait, wait, wait. I'm going to give this crop to the highest bidder, and we'll start at ten. Do I hear ten dollars?”

It was a stroke of pure genius. Olive worked the crowd until she had the winning bidder up to forty-five dollars. “Pay Hank over there, then come on up here, mister. Let's see what you can do,” she directed. He took the crop and brought it down hard—so hard that Cora gasped and her little body gave a jolt of shock just watching it.

“Now that was too hard, mister,” Olive informed him, inspecting the weal. “If you break her skin, I'm taking that away from you, and you won't be refunded your money. Now try again.”

The next stroke was too easy, but he delivered the last four with a bite that made Marie cry out each time. Olive took the crop away from him. “Thank you very much. Now, who would like to take this lovely lady upstairs? We'll start at twenty…” Olive began another bidding war for Marie, ensuring the two of them would make more money in one night than they normally brought in over the course of a week. Olive left Marie's welted bottom prominently on display as she managed the auction, eventually closing at thirty-five dollars. Only then did she throw her skirts down and allow her off the stool.

“And finally,” said Olive with another suggestive waggle of her eyebrows and a flex of the crop. “Who wants to be spanked by me?” She gave a seductive smile, turning her eyes on James McCollum, who was practically trembling with desire for her. Beckoning him with her finger, she sent him to Hank to pay, and then led him up the stairs, following Marie and her trick.

Jake nudged Cora away from him and slid from his stool. He patted her bottom meaningfully, imparting the idea of his imminent plans for her.

* * *

A giddy happiness filled Cora as she scampered up the stairs with Jake's steady footfalls trailing behind. She felt vindicated by Marie's punishment, but more than anything, she simply could not believe that Jake was hers. Her man. Her husband.
Her Devil Diggory.
She waited for him to unlock his bedroom door and entered when he stood back for her to pass. Always a gentleman.

He had carried a lantern with him and he turned the wick down to a low flicker, leaving the room bathed in a golden wash of light.

“Take off your clothes,” he ordered, his voice husky.

Her heart skipped once and she smiled as she began to unlace the ribbons on her dress to let it fall, pooled at her feet. Her petticoats and drawers followed, and then she began to unhook the front of her corset.

“Come here,” her husband commanded from where he'd sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. “I want to do that.”

She walked slowly to him and turned around so he could unlace the back of the corset. He finished and then pulled her down on his lap, his good hand stroking up her inner thigh until it reached her moist sex. He slid his finger over it lightly, but the moisture dried. Her passion had dimmed in the context of the bed and the bedroom, doing the familiar dance she'd done with hundreds of men. Her belly tightened, but she willed herself to relax, to enjoy Jake the way she had that day in the office when he'd taken her against the wall. The way she'd wanted him to only a short time earlier when he was pressing his hardened cock against her backside down at the bar.

Realizing that he wasn't getting anywhere with her, he gently pushed her off his lap. “Lie down, Cora,” he said, peeling his shirt off and unbuttoning his pants. She watched the hard ripples of his muscles as he climbed over her with sinewy grace. She held her breath, fighting off the familiar dread that was creeping over her. This was Jake. Her husband. Not a “trick.”

He climbed above her to kiss her neck, and then moved lower, suckling on her nipple. She lay there in passive endurance, keeping her eyes wide open and on Jake, trying to stay with him, in the moment. So many nights she'd lain as still as she could, not wanted to encourage the sweaty, smelly man on top of her.

He moved even lower, parting her thighs and licking into her folds. She squirmed, unable to remain unaffected by his ministrations, and her body relaxed. He cupped her bottom with his large hands—the contrast of the stiff broken hand compared to the agile one discernible. She spread her thighs wider and enjoyed the pleasure much like she would enjoy a warm bath—as a sensual, relaxing experience. Pleasant, but not arousing.

After a while he lifted his head and stared at her. She shrank under his gaze, knowing full well she was disappointing him, like she'd disappointed so many men, but helpless to change.

“Gah, I don't like gentle, either,” he said, scrambling back off her and the bed. Grasping her thighs, he twisted them to flip her to her belly and pulled her down until her hips folded over the edge of the bed and her feet touched the floor.

He stroked her bottom with his stiff hand. She craned her neck to look behind her and found him gazing down at his mangled paw. He shrugged. “Well, I'm going to have to break it in sometime, aren't I?”

Before she could decipher his meaning, he clarified with a resounding slap. He then proceeded to spank every inch of her bottom and the backs of her thighs.

She felt it then—a thrill of excitement. Was it just knowing that he enjoyed it? Or was it that she somehow enjoyed it too?

Considering the pain he was inflicting, that seemed counter-intuitive, except that part of her seemed to crave it. He stopped and stroked her bottom, murmuring his appreciation, and she felt her pussy spasm in response. She needed his touch, wanted more. When he grasped her hips and entered her roughly, she reveled in the violence of it—sensing his passion, desiring his dominance. He drove in and out of her, plowing deeply so each time she felt him pounding against her inner wall. His hand moved from her hip to her sex, his finger drawing circles around the little sensitive bud in front. She squealed, her knees buckling as he continued to pump into her. Another hand pulled and twisted one of her nipples, and when she pushed on her elbows to lift her torso, he slapped at her tender breast, spanking it as he'd spanked her bottom. She lost it then, lifting on her tiptoes and making a high pitched moan as her entire body shuddered from the inside out, her climax sending wave after wave of pleasure through her body.

He held her tightly, pressed deep within her until she finished, then he pulled out and began to spank some more. This time there was no resistance to the pain. She welcomed each slap, submitted to it. When he had thoroughly re-heated every inch of her flesh, he plunged into her once more. He moved roughly with the uneven strokes that belied an approaching orgasm. She felt his fingers wend through her hair, then his fist closed and he pulled back, lifting her head in another small act of violence as, with a shout, he came to his own climax. She shivered with pleasure, her sex contracting again on his long shaft, milking it for its seed.
Yes, this was how a baby was made.

He pulled out and grasped her waist, lifting and tossing her back onto the bed, pouncing on her and placing hot, mad kisses on her throat. She wound her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. Her lover. Her violent, passionate lover, who was so very different from any trick she'd ever entertained. Triumphant that she had not disappointed him, love poured from her heart and her body sank into the deep languor of satiation.

Jake rolled to one side and wrapped his arms around her, looking into her face. “Are you all right?” he asked softly.

She nodded.

“Good. Because you can expect that treatment every night. Maybe every day, too—the ship ride to Ireland will be long and we'll get so bored there will be nothing else to do.”

She giggled. “You weren't frustrated with me?”

He laughed. “Never. I might have been disappointed if you'd pouted and cried after the way I mistreated you. But you liked it, didn't you?”

She flashed a wicked smile.

“Yes, I'd say we're perfectly suited, you and I. We play to a similar tune.”

At the mention of music she picked up his crooked hand and interlaced her fingers through his, turning it around to examine the bulges where the bones broke. “How is your hand?”

He shrugged.

“What if you can't ever play the piano again?”

A shadow crossed his face, but then he smiled, removing his hand from hers and stroking it over her hip. “No matter. I have a new instrument to play now.”

The End

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