Free On the Bare by Fiona Locke Page A

not count it correctly. This, perhaps, will be one.’
    Again the leather cracked down across my helpless bottom. I writhed like a wounded animal over the table, wishing I had the stoicism of a martyr. But I didn’t. I didn’t even have the brave resignation of a reformatory girl, accustomed to such treatment and expecting no better.
    I lowered my head to the cool wood and whimpered, ‘One, thank you, Captain.’
    Another stroke. Another pitiable yelp and I counted. My tight-laced corset wouldn’t allow me to fill my lungs completely and I panted shallowly, afraid that I would faint. But if I did at least they might realise what brutes they had been. To treat a lady so!
    ‘Ahh! Two, thank you, Captain.’
    On and on it went. I had never known eight of anything to last so long. I kicked and struggled, but my uncle held me firmly. And the captain was merciless, whipping me as though I were a horse. Rides his fillies hard indeed!
    I was determined not to give him the satisfaction of another sound from me and I hissed through my teeth as another stroke slashed into my bottom.
    ‘Six,’ I growled, drawing strength from the injustice. ‘Thank you, Captain.’
    I heard the scoundrel laugh and the seventh stroke was harder. I bit back a wild cry and remembered Polly’s composure. If she could do it, so could I. I kept my wits about me as I counted.
    The crop sliced through the air once more and this time I did cry out, cursing myself silently. But my voice was steady as I spoke the hateful words for the final time. ‘Eight, thank you, Captain.’
    ‘You may return to your place, Angelina,’ said my uncle. ‘And finish your dessert.’
    I stood forlornly at the end of the table, helpless to replace my underthings. I couldn’t bend to reach them.
    ‘I think perhaps the young lady needs her maid,’ the captain said, his tone exaggeratedly sympathetic.
    I grimaced at him and nodded helplessly to my uncle.
    He rang the bell and Polly appeared meekly at the door.
    ‘Polly, please help Miss Angelina,’ he said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for me to be standing in the dining room with my Parisian scanties around my ankles and my ill-treated bottom on display.
    I burned with shame as I knew she could see the stripes painted on my skin. But her hands were cool and gentle as she helped me adjust my drawers and smooth down my petticoats. And I was astonished when she offered me a brave little smile. It vexed me. Had I been brought down to her level or had she been raised to mine?
    I returned to my place and tried to avoid the men’s eyes. I seated myself gingerly, for my bottom was dreadfully sore. Still, I wouldn’t give them the pleasure of seeing me wince with the pain. I scowled at my dessert plate and pushed it away pointedly.
    ‘Sir,’ the captain said coolly, ‘if Miss Angelina is going to sulk, perhaps she should be sent to her room while we discuss her marriage portion.’
    I tried hard not to react, though my face fairly blazed with fury. Never would I consent to such a match – never!
    But my uncle nodded. ‘Very well. Angelina, you may retire. Go to bed and think about your behaviour tonight.’
    Both humiliated and relieved, I pushed my chair back and got to my feet. Affecting a conciliatory tone I asked, ‘May I take Polly with me? I can’t undress without her help.’
    ‘That does look awful sore, miss,’ the maid said with genuine sympathy.
    I was still surprised at her kindness and I replayed the entire evening in my mind as she unlaced my corset and helped me into my nightgown. I had all but engineered her own whipping. Why did she not hate me? Instead she helped me into my bed with sisterly affection. I winced as I crawled beneath the blankets.
    ‘How ever do you stand it, Polly?’
    She shrugged. ‘It clears the air, miss. Means I can get on with things without worrying any more. And really, truth be told, miss – when it’s over it actually feels rather warm and