The Princess and the Rogue

Spanking and BDSM erotica woven into a tale of medieval intrigue and drama.

Here is an excerpt.

Oh God, what have I done? Scarlett saw the determined look in Sir Roland’s eyes as he came forward purposefully and she started to back up. “Just what do you think you are doing, Sir Roland?” she said.

“We are going to have a little discussion, you and I, and you are going to tell me what is going on. I want to know about your father, I want to know about this high minister, and most of all I want to know about you. Something is not right here and I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

He took her by the wrist and pulled her after him. Scarlett was nonplussed. What was he doing? They had been riding along a road lined by forest and now Sir Roland was practically dragging her toward the woods and a thick felled tree. He sat down on the tree, which had fallen sideways, and whirled her around until she faced him. He pulled her close, trapping her between his knees.

“Now listen, my haughty princess. I want you to tell me right now. Why is your father being sequestered? Why has his minister taken over the affairs of state?”

Oh my God, thought Scarlett. What should I do? He knows something is wrong here, but if I tell him… no, I can’t. I don’t know his intention and I’m afraid of Lord Tomas.

“I demand you release me, Sir Roland. There… there is nothing out of the ordinary and my relationship with the high minister is perfectly cordial.”

“I see,” said Roland, but Scarlett could tell from the way he narrowed his eyes that he didn’t believe her. “Well, then, if all is fine, maybe what I’m about to do is just some rough justice for your treatment of an innocent stable boy.” Before Scarlett could react, he gripped her firmly and tossed her face down across his lap. The fake princess found herself staring at the forest floor, her nose mere inches from a dense mat of pine needles. She felt his arm encircling her waist, pinning her down. Blood rushed to her head and she tried lifting it to determine what he was doing.

She couldn’t see, but what she felt was alarming. He was lifting her skirts! What she had on underneath were silk drawers that hugged the curves of her bottom. Scarlett felt terribly exposed. Her legs were bare, and she could feel a soft breeze on her backside. The soft caress of the breeze did not last very long.

Crack! She felt a male palm smack her right on the crowns of her bottom. The suddenness of it took her breath away. Then, crack! Crack! Crack! Three more spanks fell in quick succession. “Ow! Ow!” She yelped in pain as Sir Roland began to apply a methodical spanking to her thinly clad bottom. It stung! She squirmed, but to no avail. The knight was too strong.

The sting of his descending palm was like a hot fire on her tender seat.

“This, princess, is a mild version of what it feels like. I’m only using my hand. That stable boy was whipped with a strap.”

“Ouch! Stop! I command you. My father will… he will…” she sputtered.

The knight paid no attention to her protests, but continued to spank her with sharp staccato blows that made her kick her feet up and wriggle around on his lap. Each spank was a new wave of heat layered onto the last. It was not only painful to be spanked like a lazy milkmaid, but it was horribly embarrassing. The stinging sensation was atrocious. She felt like she’d do anything to make it stop.

But then something happened. Tears began to well up. She’d been so terrified, and she’d had to pretend to be someone she wasn’t. She’d been so cruel to others, something that was not in her nature. There was a part of her, she realized, that wanted the knight to keep going, to punish her for being so horrible to everyone. It wasn’t just the stable boy, it had been her maids, the pages—just about everyone. To convince them she was Juliet she’d been rude, autocratic, snobbish, and overbearing. She’d been too scared to do otherwise. So maybe he should spank her until her bottom glowed, she thought. She deserved it. Emotionally wrung out, she burst into tears and started sobbing.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry! Wahhh!” she cried, completely breaking down and bawling.

The spanking stopped, and the knight lifted her to her feet and stood her between his knees, his hands on her shoulders. She gazed into his eyes, and what she saw was a stern, but kind face. He seemed to bear her no ill will, instead, he seemed both concerned and chagrined at her total breakdown into tears.

She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. He was taken aback at her reaction, but he put his arms around her in a comforting embrace and pulled her close.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “It’s not like me. I’m not her. I can’t be her.”

Roland pulled away so he could look her in the eye. “What do you mean, you’re ‘not her.’ Not who?”

“The princess,” she cried. “I can’t do it.”

“Explain what you mean, princess,” he said softly.

She gulped. This was it, she had to tell him. He was just this rough-hewn knight and he was all alone. But who else was there to turn to?

“I’m not who you think I am. I’m not Princess Juliet of Westvale.”

The Princess and the Rogue



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