Free Under A Duke's Hand by Annabel Joseph

a
duchess.”
    “I despise you.”
    He straightened and gazed at her. She glared
back, her arms covering her breasts.
    “All I did was ask you to eat something,” he
said. “It was a simple request I made for your well-being. Your
peevish behavior has nothing at all to do with my actions, and
everything to do with your frustration and determination to annoy
me.” He took her arm and led her over toward the bed. “Since I
dislike being annoyed, I shall teach you not to do it again.”
    “You’re not going to teach me anything,” she
cried, pulling away from him. “Except to hate you more.”
    “If you don’t learn anything, then the lesson
will be repeated until you do. Bend over, darling.”
    As expected, his hellion refused. With a
sigh, he forced her down over the mattress, drawing her flailing
hands behind her back. Pressing her to the ticking with one hand,
he lifted the birch with the other and gave her a smart whack
across her bottom. She made a muffled sound into the sheets, her
muscles held rigidly tight. She was trying to be brave, he
supposed, and remain unaffected.
    But it was very difficult to pretend a
birching didn’t hurt.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Gwen bit the inside of her lip as the birch
connected again. It hurt so much worse than she imagined. Each blow
felt like a thousand pin-pricks spreading out across her backside.
Before she could recover from the sting, he swatted her again. She
was determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg
for mercy. He was bigger than her, much bigger, so he could bend
her over this bed and punish her with his godforsaken birch rod,
but he couldn’t make her change her attitude. He couldn’t make her
stop hating him. It would take much more than a birching to
accomplish that.
    But oh, it hurt so badly. She tried to be
still, but her body jerked and squirmed instinctively. Ow, ow,
oww. First she would hear a swish, and then a horrible whack as
pain exploded in spreading heat. Then she’d wait, trembling and
fearing the next.
    “How many times are you going to strike me?”
she asked after an especially smarting blow.
    “As many times as it takes to break you, my
dear.”
    A soft whimper escaped her, and she hated the
sound of that whimper. It was her first show of weakness. Now he
knew he was hurting her. Of course he knows he’s hurting you,
Gwen. Her bottom must be beet red by now, striped all over with
livid birch lines. She bit her lip harder. She would not, would
not give him the satisfaction of hearing her mewl and weep,
although she wanted to mewl and weep more than anything. She went
up on her toes as he whacked the underside of her buttocks.
    “Not feeling it yet?” he asked.
    Good God, she was feeling more pain than
she’d ever felt in her life. The sting’s intensity built with each
stroke, or perhaps he hit her harder. The birch caught her under
her bottom again and her legs kicked up in agony. How long would
this go on? He would not ease his hold on her wrists, even when she
began to struggle. Another whack. That one was definitely
harder.
    “Feeling it now?” he asked.
    “No,” she said stubbornly, but it came out
like noooo ...
    “I suppose your punishment will continue
then,” he said.
    Oh, how she hated him. But he would get his
way eventually, she knew. She couldn’t hold out much longer. Her
bottom radiated heat, her buttocks clenching at each tormenting
stripe of the birch. Moisture squeezed from her eyes, as much as
she didn’t want to cry. The tears fell anyway, dripping down until
the blanket beneath her was damp. She lost the battle to be quiet.
A shriek erupted from her lips, a rough, desperate squawk. Not no , or stop . She would not beg. But she cried because
it hurt, and because he wasn’t going to stop until she bent to his
will. Swish, whack. Swish, whack. Swish, whack.
    He owns you. He controls you. Give up and
accept your fate.
    She tried to steel herself, tried to keep the
sobs inside, but they burst out