BySandra Harris, writer at


Lady Caroline Cotter, formerly the betrothed of Sir Blaise Carfax, raised the riding crop high above her head and then brought it cracking down across her stable-hand’s muscular buttocks with an almighty thwack…! Robert grunted but did not cry out, as was his way. Lady Caroline greatly admired his ability to bear the pain of her whippings with such extraordinary stoicism.

She struck him again, harder this time, and he grunted and struggled against his restraints but not hard enough to free himself, as she knew he would not. Robert enjoyed being tied up during his beatings. In fact, he preferred it. It was the feeling of helplessness and loss of control that aroused him. Lady Caroline was fully aware of this fact and she frequently used it to her advantage.

She continued to strike the naked stable-hand across his back and buttocks and upper thighs until her arm grew tired, then she tossed away the riding-crop and threw herself down on the grass. It felt dry and springy beneath her bare skin. From where she lay she could see Robert’s injured back and shoulders heaving as he struggled to keep himself from crying after such a severe whipping.

Naked and lashed to a tree with the restraints she kept for just such a purpose, he would be made to cool his heels for a while before she decided that it was time for his reward. His heels may cool, she reflected with a smile, but his ardour certainly would not.

She stared idly up at the clear blue sky for a while, allowing her mind to wander. She regretted the split from Blaise but had already decided that it was for the best. The abduction of his younger sister Anna from her bedroom by person or persons unknown had caused scandal and speculation to be attached to the great name of Carfax. That had been a source of great displeasure to her parents, by whose authority the engagement had been called off.

The strong sexual implications of Anna’s bloodstained nightgown having been left behind on her bedroom floor had only reinforced their decision to disentangle the ancient and honourable name of Cotter from that of Carfax, which if anything was even more ancient but sadly no longer unsullied. Caroline sighed. It was of little consequence. A more suitable match would be found and she would be safely betrothed once more.

Caroline was almost relieved in a way that the union had been called off. Blaise was certainly eligible and handsome, but he would never have permitted her to control him sexually as was her distinct preference. Neither would his male pride have allowed for the taking of lovers- sexually submissive ones, of course- on Caroline’s part.

Poor Blaise, who’d made half-hearted efforts to seduce his plain and angular fiancée because he’d felt he should, probably thought she was frigid. He’d certainly been relieved when she’d rebuffed his advances. He’d have been horrified, no doubt, to find that she had a sexual energy to rival his own.

“Mmmm,” she murmured now, putting her hands down between her spread legs and commencing to pleasure herself, “the lips of my sex are indeed uncommonly swollen with lust.” Robert heard her deliberately taunting utterance, as indeed he was intended to, and he growled and tossed his head so that his long dark hair came free from the bit of ribbon which bound it. He struggled to free himself from his restraints. Caroline smiled and continued to stroke herself between her thighs.

“Ooooh,” she moaned, writhing and squirming about on the grass, “only a man with the stiffest and most upstanding of phalluses could possibly succeed in filling me up now.” She increased the pressure on her exquisitely sensitive soft centre and when she climaxed, she cried out as loudly as she could, knowing that no-one but she and Robert ever came to this part of the forest. On hearing her moans of self-satisfaction, Robert roared with frustration and finally freed himself from the restraints.

“You sick bitch,” he said, his breathing ragged as he stood grinning down at her, “we’ll see how high-and-mighty you are with this fine piece of meat stuffing all your holes for you.” He held his engorged member firmly in both his hands and Caroline experienced a frisson of pleasure at its surely unprecedented size.

“You may service me now,” she said haughtily, holding out her arms in her eagerness to have his hefty body between them while he entered her.

“Not so fast, Milady,” sneered Robert as he expertly flipped her over onto her belly and pulled the cheeks of her buttocks apart so that he could enter her by way of a different hole to the one she’d indicated. Caroline squealed like a pig as he thrust his way inside her.

“You like that, do you, you uppity slut?” taunted Robert, grabbing hold of her hair so that he could yank her head back painfully while he filled her backside with his manhood. Face-down on the grass, unseen by Robert, Lady Caroline Cotter smiled.

Yes, I like it, she thought happily. I really, really do like it…


This story is a work of fiction and comes (almost!) entirely from the imagination of Sandra Harris. Any resemblance to any persons living or un-dead is purely coincidental.

This story is copyrighted material and any reproduction without prior permission is illegal. Sandra Harris reserves the right to be identified as the author of this story.

Sandra Harris. ©


Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn, Le Dernier Paradis at the Trinity Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal. In August 2014, she won the ONE LOVELY BLOG award for her (lovely!) horror film review blog. She is addicted to buying books and has been known to bring home rain-washed tomes she finds on the street and give them a home.

She is the proud possessor of a pair of unfeasibly large bosoms. They have given her- and the people around her- infinite pleasure over the years. She adores the horror genre in all its forms and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia. She would also be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

[email protected]



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