Humbling His Bride Page 3

  “Good girl,” the doctor encouraged, his fingertips sliding lightly over the folds of her sex, inspecting her inner and outer lips. His touch made her quiver in spite of her efforts to appear unaffected by the proceedings. The doctor was quite professional as he handled her sex, but all the professionalism in the world would not have changed the quality of the illicit arousal that flooded her in response to his touch.

  “I’m going to conduct an internal examination,” he informed her. “To ascertain the state of your hymen and your intimate responses. Let me know immediately if you feel any discomfort whatsoever.”

  His caring demeanor took some of the anxiety she felt away, but it was still a dreadfully embarrassing inspection, especially when he gently pressed her thighs wider so that she was utterly on display, her outer lips spreading somewhat of their own accord.

  Lydia watched as the doctor put on a pair of latex gloves and applied a generous amount of lubricant to the middle and index fingertips of his right hand. She closed her eyes as his hand descended between her thighs, but her lashes flew open once more as his lubricated middle finger slid between the folds of her lower lips and penetrated deep enough to feel the thin barrier of her hymen. It was only an inch or two, but Lydia could not stop blushing. Around her she could hear the soft moans and occasional whimpers as the others were likewise tested. Just as she thought she had her responses under control, the doctor’s thumb descended lightly against the nub of her clitoris, sending an additional bolt of pleasure through her and her little gasp joined the other soft sounds coming from around the room.

  “Most responsive,” he observed clinically, keeping the finger inside her quite still as his thumb circled lightly.

  In the mid-distance, Lydia could hear the sound of a palm falling on a bare bottom. One of the ladies had evidently run afoul of her doctor and was being briskly disciplined as a result. She felt her loins tighten in response, the bud of her clit becoming ever more erect as the sounds of a punishment she both feared and was curious about continued with the doctor’s thumb brushing lightly over her clit.

  Partway through the inspection, she made accidental eye contact with him and blushed furiously.

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said kindly, pressing his thumb a little harder against that naughty nub. “Responding to discipline with arousal is a natural trait, stronger in some than others.”

  Lydia bit back a moan. Her bare nipples were standing erect, the plane of her stomach hard as she contracted with desire.

  “Very strong in you,” he noted, sliding his hand away from her intimate areas. Lydia had to restrain herself from whining with complaint at the loss of the stimulation. The examination had left her highly aroused and entirely unsatisfied.

  “You will enjoy marriage,” he said with a smile, stripping the gloves from his hands. “You are both compliant and responsive. I do not think you will need much in the way of training to become a good and submissive wife.”

  A good and submissive wife? So that was what she was supposed to be. Lydia closed her legs slowly, regaining the smallest amount of modesty just in time for a voice to come from the other side of the curtain.

  “Doctor? This one has been summoned to the presidential office. Is your exam finished?”

  Lydia didn’t hear what the doctor said in response. She was thoroughly shocked by the announcement. The president wanted to see her? Surely the officer couldn’t be referring to the actual president of the new regime, Tristan Kane? His face had been all over the media for months, first as an outlaw, then as a rebel, then as a supporter of the military uprising, and finally as the head of the new regime and leader of New Paris. He was a relatively young man, just thirty years old, but he had a reputation for a fierce intellect and a ruthless character that had seen him not just lead what should by rights have been nothing more than an uprising of scattered disgruntled technical types, but turn it into a revolution against the aristocracy who had maintained power throughout the history of the colony. He was a figure most loathed in her family, and by everyone she knew.

  The doctor released her from the examination and she was led from the medical bay in a state of disbelief, barely noticing her continued nudity as she tried to understand what was happening. At no point had she anticipated coming into the presence of the president of New Paris. How should she conduct herself in the presence of a man who had destroyed the society she had been raised to love? She should almost certainly have been angry at him, especially given that it was by his orders that she had been taken from her home, told to strip, and thenceforth subjected to an intimate medical examination. And yet, it was not anger that consumed her mind. Curiosity was far stronger, aided and abetted by no small amount of excitement and anticipation.

  Her mind whirling, her bare feet padded along rich carpets with soft steps until she was quite dwarfed by large ornate doors at which two more guards were posted. Their professionalism was to the extent that not a single openly lecherous gaze was cast in her direction, or perhaps the soldiers were simply so inured to the sight of naked young women going about the place that it was no longer a sight worthy of overt attention.

  The doors to the presidential office were opened for her and Lydia found herself sent into a space that once would have been populated with the grandest furniture and decorative carpets and fine art, but that was now a much more masculine room holding a large desk, many shelves of books, a fireplace, and a large dark couch and armchairs. A map of New Paris hung where old art would once have graced the walls, and upon it were marked a great many points and boundaries, none of which Lydia understood at first glance, not that she was trying to understand the map at all. Her eye was not on the décor. It was drawn toward the tall figure standing before the grand windows, a man who turned toward her as the doors closed behind her. He crossed the room toward her, his step sounding precise and strong, and Lydia found herself holding her breath as she looked at the man her father had cursed at nightly for what seemed like most of the last year.

  Tristan Kane was handsome. Very handsome. He had thick dark hair that was a little longer than most of his soldiers were allowed to wear, a square jaw, and high cheekbones. He was a good deal taller than Lydia, and broader too. She felt quite small in comparison, especially as she still did not have the benefit of any form of clothing. He was perhaps not quite as brawny as some of the soldiers were, but he was taller and had a presence that made the soldiers who had led her into the office seem diminutive in comparison. Lydia had heard of charisma before, but as Tristan smiled at her, she felt the full force of it in a way that redefined the word. His gaze was penetrating, knowing, and wise.

  “Hello, Lydia,” he said, his greeting cordial and warm.

  She lowered her eyes to where long leather boots rose to just below his knees below dark blue pants. His clothing was immaculate. He was wearing the royal blue, tall-collared blazer of his office, and under that a starched white shirt. He cut an intimidating figure and Lydia wished more than ever that she was dressed. Her vulnerability was amplified by her nudity as she tried in vain to stand in such a way that might preserve her modesty. As she replied, she kept her eyes on those well-shined leather boots, not daring to look into his face. “Hello, Mr. President.”

  There was a long silence in which she felt herself being visually inspected. She shifted nervously, her weight going from foot to foot as she waited to see what he wanted with her. Anxiety was beginning to twist in her stomach as it occurred to her ever more strongly that she could very well be in trouble.

  “Your father was the minister of economics in the previous government, was he not?”

  Lydia cringed inwardly. So she was to be punished for her father’s role in the old regime. “Yes, sir,” she said again in a voice that was barely audible even to her own ears.

  Two fingers slid beneath her chin, lifting her head so he could meet her eyes. For a long moment she looked into his deep, almost hypnotically brown gaze and found some of her fear m
elting away.

  His voice softened and became gentler still. “You are very pretty, Lydia.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Keeping her chin up, Tristan produced a cloth with a gentle solvent agent imbued in its fibers and began dabbing at her face, cleaning her makeup away in soft swipes. She was quite confused as to why, but perhaps he understood that it was the last veil between her and complete vulnerability.

  “There,” he said, nodding in a satisfied fashion as her bare face emerged under powder and color. “As I suspected, you are a natural beauty, hiding behind a different kind of beauty.”

  A blush rose to Lydia’s cheeks, and this time it was not hidden by her foundation and powder. Now her reactions were laid bare before Tristan’s knowing brown gaze. His eyes searched hers for long moments, looking for some intangible thing.

  “On your knees, Lydia,” he commanded in soft tones.

  She found herself bending to his will almost without any thought on her own part. His fingers slipped away from her chin as she sank toward the floor and found herself kneeling before him. He nodded, satisfied at her obedience, and even that little gesture of approval made her feel warm inside.

  “Your life has changed a great deal in a matter of hours,” he said. “It will soon change all the more.”

  She squirmed in place, her eyes still locked on his boots as she nodded quiet understanding.

  “Thus far you have proved yourself to be a pretty and admirably obedient young woman,” he added. “Go to your hands and knees, Lydia.”

  She felt a hot blush suffuse her body. She lowered her hands to the floor and looked up at Tristan hopefully. She was not sure what the purpose of the exercise was, but she knew that disobedience was not an option.

  “Bottom up,” he further clarified.

  She lifted her hips and slid forward, her breasts swaying under her as she assumed the position he desired. He made a growl of appreciation and began walking around her, inspecting every part of her from every angle. Lydia blushed to her very core as he stepped around behind her and gently extended his leather boot between her thighs, pushing her legs open so as to look at her most intimate places, still wet and swollen from the doctor’s exam.

  “You’re wet, Lydia.”

  His observation made her shy. She couldn’t help the fact that she was still lubricated from the medical exam. It wasn’t her wetness. It wasn’t because she was aroused by this treatment.

  “Such a quiet girl,” he observed. “Feeling a little shy, are we?”

  “You didn’t ask me a question, sir,” Lydia replied. “And we were told not to speak unless spoken to. At least, I think we were.”

  A dark masculine chuckle followed her reply. “So you like to play by the rules.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lydia answered again, playing at submission because she had no real choice. The sight of Melanie being thrashed had seared itself into her mind, the bright red bouncing cheeks squirming to and fro beneath that relentless paddle…

  “Ouch!” she squealed as his hand met her bottom in a light slap that nevertheless shocked her. His fingertips left behind a burning imprint on her soft, sensitive skin. A moment later she let out a soft moan as his hand slid between her legs and brushed lightly over her pussy. He touched her in a gentle, familiar fashion that felt a great deal different than the clinical touch of the doctor. This was genuinely intimate… this was personal.

  His hand ran up over her bottom, slid along her back in a slow caress and then over her shoulders. He was petting her almost like one might a domesticated animal and in spite of her fear and her embarrassment, Lydia found herself moving toward his touch, leaning against his hand as he caressed the underside of her breasts.

  “Very nice,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I will give the aristocrats credit for breeding beautiful women. You are absolutely exquisite, Lydia.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said again, feeling a rush of pride at his compliments.

  He walked over to a couch and sat down, looking at her with a sexy smile. “Stand up.”

  She did as she was told, beginning to feel confident in spite of the situation. The president approved of her, seemed very pleased by her. She had never expected to find herself in the presence of such a powerful man, let alone being caressed by him and praised by him.

  “Touch yourself for me,” he commanded.

  Lydia stared at him, not knowing what he meant.

  “Touch yourself between your thighs.” His voice and gaze took on a new masculine intensity. “Rub your pussy for me. I want to see you orgasm, Lydia. I want you to make yourself come for me.” The order was now completely clear.

  Her mouth fell open, her eyes grew wider still, and she did not know what to do or say. The only time she touched herself was in the dead of night, beneath her blankets, far away from prying eyes. She could not fathom the idea of touching herself in front of any man, let alone the president of New Paris.

  She stood frozen while his left brow slowly rose into an expression of displeasure.

  “Lydia.” He purred her name. “Touch yourself for me.”

  The order hung in the air, demanding either obedience or some other response. Finally, she found a word.

  “…No.”

  The other brow rose to match the first. “No?”

  “No,” she said simply. “I don’t want to.”

  “You don’t want to.” He repeated her words flatly, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, his long fingers laced together, his eyes locked with hers. “That will not do, Lydia.”

  She found herself folding her arms over her chest in a protective gesture. She had obeyed every order given to her since her arrival, but that one was an order too far. She would not capitulate to such a base, wanton…

  “Come here.” He crooked his finger at her, silently gesturing her closer.

  She took a hesitant step, then another, then she felt his palms sliding up the outside of his thighs as he pulled her to stand between his legs.

  “Now then,” he said in a tone that was more curious than angry. “Why would you go from being such an obedient girl to refusing to even try to follow my order?”

  “Because it is an order too far,” Lydia said. “I have obeyed enough. It has only gotten me further into trouble.”

  “Oh, no,” he chuckled. “You weren’t in trouble before. You are now.”

  The room swung as he used his grasp upon her to turn her over his lap. Lydia let out a squeal as she found herself pressed against his thighs, her soft belly and hips supported by his lap. She knew with certainty that what had happened to Melanie was about to happen to her, though it did not seem fair at all.

  “You may be the president, but you, sir, are no gentleman!” She flung the accusation before he could slap her bottom.

  “Correct. I am no gentleman,” he agreed as his hand fell and his palm made hard, stinging contact first with her left cheek, then with her right.

  Being spanked was just as unpleasant as Melanie had made it look. Each slap brought with it a sting that burst across Lydia’s skin and was followed by a tingling ache something like an aftertaste, but in the form of a feeling. Lydia had not experienced much in the way of pain in her life, and she certainly had not experienced any kind of punishment before. Her parents had guilted her and needled at her, and said unkind things, but they had never actually disciplined her directly. The experience was as foreign as it was upsetting and before long, tears were springing to her eyes. She sniffed them back in an attempt to be stoic, tightening her body in silent resistance to the harsh slapping being unleashed on her naked rear.

  “It hurts more when you’re tense,” Tristan advised her as he landed yet another hard swat to her bottom.

  “That would suit your aim, would it not?”

  “My aim is to teach you a lesson about obedience,” he growled down at her. “I will not tolerate ‘no’ for an answer from you.”

  “Then there seems to be little point in as
king questions at all,” she replied. It was not typical for Lydia to be argumentative, but the heat in her bottom and the embarrassment of being punished by this man who was so much larger and more powerful made her want to take back some measure of control. She had lost all self-determination since being taken from her home, which would not do. She was not some common woman to be ordered about; the blood of nobles ran in her veins and it was high time she acted accordingly.

  “I did not ask you a question. I gave you an order, which you refused. This is the consequence of that refusal,” he explained in unnecessary thorough fashion.

  Lydia crossed her arms, a difficult task given she was dangling over his lap, but one that showed her resistance without directly disobeying him. If he wished to punish her, he could, but she would not give him the satisfaction of watching her do what Melanie had done when Officer Hatton thrashed her. She would not cry audibly and she would blink back every tear that dared escape her tear ducts.

  “There is no point sulking,” he said, swatting her upper thighs. To her dismay those slaps stung even more than the ones that had gone before them. “Being a pouty little brat will only earn you more punishment.”

  “I imagine everything will,” Lydia said, proud of how bored she’d managed to sound.

  The last little bit of attitude was a step too far, she quickly discovered. She felt his arm snake tighter around her waist and then both the tempo of the slaps and the intensity of them increased several-fold. He spanked her hard and fast, his palm slapping her cheeks in a crescendo of swats that made her twist in his grasp and squeal at the top of her lungs. The notion of modesty and self-control flew away as her swelling bottom pulsed with its own aching contractions that continued even when he was no longer spanking her.