Page 50 of Her Celtic Captor

An hour later,and five switches to the good, Brynhild made her way back to their house. Annag parted from her at the edge of the village and offered a reassuring pat on the arm. "'Twill soon be done, and switching is not so bad. Not really."

It had seemed perfectly unpleasant enough to Brynhild the first time she experienced it, in the forest as they left Skarthveit. She saw no compelling reason to amend her view now. Her footsteps slowed as she approached the door.

"Do not keep me waiting, girl." The stern voice from within brought her scurrying back inside.

Taranc sat at the table, a mug of ale by his hand. He glanced over the bundle of switches and nodded his approval when she laid them on the bench by his side. Then he reached for the pitcher and poured a mug for Brynhild and shoved it toward her.

"Drink. You will need it. Then you will undress and lie across the table."

Resigned to her fate Brynhild obeyed, though her expression was sullen as she swallowed the pungent liquid. Would she ever become accustomed to this strong, brackish brew? She set the mug down and removed her leather sandals then started to unfasten the brooch which held her loose smock in place. Soon the garment was folded on the bench next to the switches. She regarded Taranc, hopeful that he might relent and allow her to retain her cotton leine. His impatient frown soon dispelled such foolishness and she pulled the undergarment over her head.

He pointed to the table as he rose to his feet. With a sob of frustration and bitter resentment at this treatment Brynhild turned to drape herself over the smooth wood.

"I see the marks from your previous punishments have completely disappeared."

"You knew that already. You have seen often enough since I share your bed."

"Ah yes. I believe I prefer your bottom adorned with my marks. It reminds me who is master here."

"I do not believe you need to be reminded," she spluttered.

"And yet, I find myself needing to evade your unprovoked attacks within my very house. The home I have welcomed you into, offered to share with you. And from behind, at that. It was not well done of you, Brynhild."

"You were high-handed. Haughty."

"I am sorry you found it to be so, but it is of no consequence. You will not raise your hand to me, whatever grievance you may claim."

"Yet you may do this to me?"

"As I have said, I am master here. You will submit. And you will obey. Fourteen strokes, we agreed, did we not?"

"Youdecreed it. I have agreed to nothing."

"You will take the fourteen strokes, then you will apologise for your belligerence and your regrettable behaviour. Are we quite clear on that, Viking?"

She dragged in a shuddering breath. "Yes, Celt. We are clear."

He selected two switches and gripped them in his fist, then laid the ends on her upturned buttocks. He tapped her skin with them causing her to flinch, then he lifted the pair and brought them down hard on her pale cheek. Fire sizzled, the pain flared then seeped deep into her tissues as he drew the ends of the branches slowly across her tender backside. He teased her, played with her, tickling her clenching bottom with the switches until she lay still.

"You may grip the opposite side of the table with your fingers, and be sure to remain exactly where you are. Nowriggling, and certainly no reaching back to protect your bottom with your hands. And please, try not to make too much noise since it unsettles everyone within earshot."

She barely had time to nod her understanding of his instructions before he raised the switches again and this time brought them down on her other buttock. The stroke was harder, hotter. Brynhild let out a yelp as the hurt sank into her flesh. Only two so far, twelve still to go.

Sweet Odin, why could she not hold her tongue and keep her temper in check?

He wasted little time in delivering the strokes he had promised, each one harsher, fierier than the last. Brynhild tried to be quiet but by the seventh stroke she could contain her screams no longer. After the ninth she relinquished her grip on the edge of the table and reached for her smarting bottom, convinced her entire backside was aflame. Taranc took her wrist in his hand and laid it in the small of her back, then brought the other to join it. He held them there as he laid the final five strokes across the backs of her thighs, one below the other in rapid succession. Brynhild danced and shrieked and pleaded for him to stop, but he ignored her desperate screams. Only after the final stroke had been laid did he set the switches aside and release her wrists.

"You may apologise, and make it as pretty as you can for I shall expect a decent show of contrition." His tone was stern, uncompromising.

Arrogant Celtic bastard!

She would have loved to defy him, to refuse to allow him the satisfaction of her surrender, but she was hurting. She was humiliated, intimidated, defenceless and entirely vulnerable, and convinced he would not hesitate to repeat the punishment if she did not do as he wanted now.

"I am sorry," she muttered, the words muffled by the wooden table top.

"Louder, if you please, for I fear I did not hear you."

"I am sorry. I apologise for throwing the shuttle at you."

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