Justice For A Thief

Chapter One The day was tepid—one better spent looking for a breeze in the out of doors But she was sequestered in the stone fort, purposely hidden—sorting through her box of jewels with a look of mischievous triumph in her golden eyes. The pale locks of her auburn hair shone by candlelight, gleaming like satin or Oriental silk. She wore no frock, but a pair of leather britches, and a manly style of shirt that made her slim form look boyish—at least from behind—her lovely rounded buttocks the only suggestion of her femininity. To view her from straight on with her voluminous hair loosened from the cap she’d worn, there was no mistaking the fact of her gender. The hair lit up a face radiant with the energy of a fine young woman, noble born with regal features. Her wide-set eyes were sharp and focused, her jawline angular and smooth, her complexion pure—a creamy pink that invited the touch of a tender hand. One glance at her bosom and it was difficult to miss the bounty there. For a woman of nineteen, she had blossomed abundantly, the flesh of her breasts difficult to hide even under the wide shirt she wore. When it was absolutely necessary in order to ply her trade, she would bind them in muslin as best she could to keep an inspecting eye from guessing the truth. At times, it was easier to be a boy-thief—easier to gain access to places where the greatest treasure could be lifted from the unsuspecting. Taverns, brothels and trading houses were not the province of respectable ladies—though it was perhaps a laughable venture to call Rebecca Coverdale a lady at all. Despite her noble heritage, she was a common thief by choice—her trade a lark to soothe her fiery constitution and mock a birthright that stung her at every turn. She heard footsteps behind her but was too slow in acknowledging them to fend off attack. “Stop it, you bastard!” she roared at the instant of capture. Two large arms swooped about her shoulders, binding her against a mighty chest. She recognized the broad hands of her lover, and kicked back at his shin with her boot, angrily striking the mark she meant to hit. “You’ve been thieving again,” his voice was gruff. “What concern is that of yours?” She struggled as she turned inside his grasp, eyes snapping like flames of white hot fire. “You know my vow.” “And you know I’ll resist,” she declared, feet still kicking to defeat his grip. He wasn’t beaten. Duncan Forsythe was rarely bested by a man and certainly never a woman. Despite his lean appearance, his body was one sinewy muscle, toughened by a fierce life and determination. That did not impede the twinkle in his dark eyes—that molten black had often matched Rebecca’s in wit and s****l charm—as well as biting fire. He found his lover delectable in her current state of madness. And, he had a ready cure for that madness. The result would be his ultimate satisfaction. There was a broad brown belt about his trousers that he could unbuckle with one hand while maintaining a firm hold on his fighting captive. “You think you’ll best me, Rebecca Coverdale, you are more addled than I thought,” he declared, laughing he was so amused. He dragged her to one corner of the candlelit room and sat down in order to accomplish his task in a way that he could control her best. Tossing her lithe form over his lap, he held her fixed while he tugged at the waist of her britches. “Have I ever told you how lovely you look in these, my dear?” he taunted. “Get your hands off me, bastard!” she swore. “Oh, my, you’re not giving in, my little brazen one? How dangerous for you. Now, I’ll really have to make this succulent flesh smart.” “You’d better not!” she roared. “Really? You think you can stop me?” She bucked like a wild stallion—to no avail, and was nearly in tears over the attack. “I didn’t think so,” Duncan said as he observed the uselessness of her plight. Having her ass bare, his eyes drank in the glorious sight of her unblemished skin. How that white gleamed in the candlelight, much like the complexion of her face. He noted a layer of perspiration covering the plump orbs. It was miserably humid in Rebecca’s secret crypt, and this would be a hot wet episode from the spanking foreplay, to the fornicating finish. Raising the belt he had doubled in his hand, he snapped the wide flat breadth of it on her jiggling skin. The smack hit her rudely on both cheeks causing her to cry— “Ouch! You fuckin’ ass.” She accentuated that cry with a powerful surge of intent, hoping to achieve the result of falling to the stony floor. But, as was typical of these skirmishes over Duncan’s lap, her try was met with a force far greater than she could muster. He held her fast. Ah! What a sight it was to see the color of her ass turn pink! Duncan thought. Inspired, he pelted her soundly, smack after smack torturing her poor behind, the strident beauty’s cries rash and angry. “I hate you, you vile blackguard!” That’s when she was sane enough to form words. The rest of the time there was little but gibberish coming from her lips. The spanking continued through all her panicked cries and wild gyrations; and the color of her ass was soon a deep pink hue that seemed to fuse to the surface flesh as though it changed colors permanently. He leveled one smack atop another, while others drifted down her thighs, nearly to her knees before his aim returned to her molten behind. For those that were especially harsh, she blared words no lady should ever utter. One would think that Rebecca Coverdale was little more than a guttersnipe, not the daughter of a Duke, distantly related to the king. Now, she was getting a well deserved rebuke—one to match the worst such strappings her dictatorial lover declared suitable for a brat of her uncommon ilk. Soon, her ass was simply a mess of color, the texture of her skin changing in a way that would be apparent for some hours, perhaps days after. Yet, as this painful procedure continued the reckless thief, the boy/girl strumpet, the womanly Rebecca began to find surrender the bravest and wisest response to her plight. Some curious bent that made this act turn into pleasure made her loins burn with a peculiar heat that was decidedly s****l. When this took place, Duncan would swear that he didn’t change the force of his strokes, while Rebecca would swear that he softened them. Regardless of the truth, the pain ceased to torture her, and became a fuel for the furnace afire between her thighs. That fire growing molten and needy, she squirmed erotically, her ass jerking, her tears turning into whimpers of a s****l quality. When Duncan stopped the spanking, dropping the strap to the ground, there was no sigh of relief; she was too focused on having his hands work her hot mounds as his c**k would work her aching p***y. For at time, Duncan was content to stare at the lovely handiwork his strap made of her backside. All the while, the wanting young woman waited in the excruciating silence of the steamy room. “So, quit staring at my bum and get on with it!” she finally blared. He smacked her hard on the left cheek. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked. She didn’t reply, choosing to answer with her wiggling ass. “Who’s in charge, Rebecca?” he asked one more time while giving her other cheek a good firm crack. He wasn’t going to settle for silence; and worried that he’d start the punishment all over again if she defied him, she finally spit out, “you are, dear Duncan. Now please take me.” Her desperation tore at the heart. “That’s better. I’m glad to hear you understand the facts,” he said. And with that admission, his bare palm moved on her spanked cheeks. “Oh, Duncan, yes!” Her reply was instantaneous joy. “You like this, my little b***h?” he asked, as his hand roved the blistering hot skin, his fingers journeying between her thighs to find the liquid gathering there. “Ooo, yes, my love, but please don’t call me a b***h,” she protested—though it was hardly a protest at all. “You call me a bastard, I’ll call you anything I like,” he vowed. “You certainly are no lady. We established that fact a long time ago. Now, tell me. You want more?” “Oh, please, love yes, yes more.” The need was urgently gripping her. And while she might have remained on Duncan’s lap, she managed to twist herself about so they could kiss, so that their embrace could lead to stripping away their clothes and falling to the bed of straw on the floor. “Ah, yeesss,” she purred while lying back on the prickly surface. The straw burned her raw behind, but she hardly cared. Duncan had her body naked. With the remnants of her boy’s clothes stripped away, the full measure of her womanly charms was there for him to behold it all their fascinating glory. She never ceased to thrill him, to make his anxious c**k stir restlessly—regardless of her attire. Now, so beautifully laid out for him—and submissive to boot—he dove into her welcoming riches with the same sure abandon of their many copulating moments. He thought he liked her best after a good spanking, strapping or caning—all of these measures liberally used to bridle her virtually unbridled appetite for illegal ventures. At the moment of surrender, she was most appealing. And, it seemed the kind of justice necessary to preserve their peace. She would continue to mock him, and he’d continue to chastise her. It was the only way he could live with her crimes, her occasionally ranting tongue and defiant manner. For Rebecca’s part she allowed Duncan Forsythe his reign over her because she loved him—his c**k, his might, his haughty attitude, and his ability to curtail her recklessness and remind her of virtue. She rarely aspired to anything virtuous despite her good breeding. Of course, it was uncertain if she’d had any breeding at all. She’d been raised in a rough household with brothers and uncles and only a sickly mother to teach her. She despised her mother for her weakness, and once the woman knew this, she cared little about what her young daughter did with her life. Her father was commonly gone, or too drunk to pay attention to her. Rebecca regularly fought off the s****l advances of her lewd uncles, lucky to escape her childhood unscathed by rape. At a time in her life when she should be sipping tea or wine with courteous ladies—as her mother often did—or, like the other young women of her station, courting her future husband, concerned with fashion and making a home, she was occupied with thievery and banging Duncan Forsythe. He was a common man with a most uncommon s****l appetite she loved; but he was not considered marriage material—something that didn’t bother either one of them. Getting married was neither Duncan nor Rebecca’s aim. They would both turn up their noses at the possibility of spending their lives tied to each other. As Duncan’s palm moved down her naked thigh, the many pleasures of her times with him came to her with a little sadness and bittersweet remembrance. The familiar tingle of his fingers running lightly over her skin stirred the sensitive hair. “Ah, yesss…” she whispered, gasping every time he ventured toward the swollen bud peeking between her labia. Breathing the combined scent of their bodies, the perfume enlivened her. She smelled s*x in the aroma of Duncan’s loins. He was fresh washed a day or so ago, not yet too ripe to enjoy, but at that earthy time when she could drink in his body musk and never tire of it. The smell of him alone could perpetually prod her hungry s*x. “Oh, I shall miss you,” she purred, as his tongue glided from her earlobe down the line of her graceful neck to a tiny pert pink n****e appearing atop its paler round of skin. While he massaged her pubis, his other hand squashed the hillock of her left breast flesh in his palm. Rebecca lay back arms overhead, content to let Duncan love her as he was so accomplished at doing. “What was that you said?” he lifted his face from her neck, and stared into her gold/green eyes.