Nola

Nola

(c) 2007 (c) 2010 Carolyn Faulkner Blushing Books

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Nola by Carolyn Faulkner
eBook ISBN: 978-1-60968-133-3

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This book is intended for
adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are
fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted
as advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

Chapter
One

Nola clung to
the edge of the bed, as far away from her new husband as she could possibly
manage to get without ending up on the floor - not that she objected to
sleeping on the floor, but she'd already tried that and had only managed to
earn herself another of his monumental spankings instead of any sort of freedom
from his nightly pawing of her person.

Her bottom was
still throbbing from the one he'd given her this morning for resisting his
advances. She snorted softly to herself in her mind. It wasn't as if she'd
planted a fist in his face and run out. He was too damned big for that and
easily managed to subdue her embarrassingly feeble attempts to escape, growling
in that horribly low, almost animalistic way of his, "Didn't I tell you to stay
put, little lady?"

If there was
anything she hated more than the sarcastic way in which he said those last two
words, Nola didn't know what it was. But then he reminded her, rudely: being
spanked. She was twenty one years old, long in the tooth to get married by
everyone's standards but her own, and much too old to be put over anyone's lap
for a paddling.

But that was
exactly what her new husband had done, and without so much as a second's
hesitation, she found her nose buried in the celery green and cream velvet
bedspread that darkened rapidly as he reached over to her nightstand and lifted
the heavy mahogany hairbrush off the silver hand mirror and applied it so
quickly and liberally to her nearly bare bottom that she had no time to catch
her breath between the painful, stinging splats. She had so much hair that her
brushes were custom made, wider and heavier than most, solid mahogany through
and through,
dammit
. And her relatively thick flannel
nightgowns that covered her neck to toes, weren't permitted in the marriage
bed, she'd been boldly informed night before last, when they'd first come
together as man and wife.

A first, he had
refused to let her wear anything to bed - the past two nights he'd ripped each
of her gowns from neck to waist in one brutal motion. The only thing that had
saved her was that last night had been chillier than usual, and he couldn't
have missed the way she was shivering on her side of the bed, so he'd risen and
given her a shirt of his own that ended most obscenely mid thigh. But it was
better than nothing.

So the only
thing covering - barely - her well rounded bottom was that
thinnish
dress shirt of his, which was no covering at all, really, especially against
the wrath of her brush wielding husband.

She didn't want
to cry. She'd promised herself she wouldn't from their wedding night, when he'd
first spanked her for resisting him, and she'd been so shocked and amazed and
humiliated to find herself over his lap that she had dissolved into tears
immediately. It didn't seem to make much of a difference to him one way or the
other whether she tried to be stoic or dissolved into a humiliating morass of
weeping and wailing - it didn't lengthen or shorten the spanking in the least,
regardless of what she did.

But it was
damned hard not to cry. The man had to be some sort of deviant expert at
spanking women or something, although she certainly had never heard of any such
acceptable profession.

He didn't need a
profession, anyway. He was Brandon Sawyer, of the Baltimore Sawyers, and his
father had parlayed some seed money from his grandfather's gold strike in the
mid-eighteen hundreds into enough money that no one in the family would ever
have to work for a living again - not that Brandon was a member of the idle
rich. He wasn't - not in any way. Under his stern hand, the family fortunes had
grown to truly astronomical proportions, and yet he'd completely resisted every
single simpering maid that had been dangled beneath his nose - and sometimes
even between his sheets, depending on how desperate the poor girl's father was.

He'd turned up
his nose at absolutely every female paraded before him - often much less than
politely. His father and grandfather despaired of him. He was the last of the
line, in his late thirties, and had absolutely no interest in providing them
both with the heir they coveted. Hell, he hadn't even had a by-blow bastard
whose background they could overlook in favor of the blood ties.

Until
he saw Nola.

She wasn't even
supposed to be at that ball. The only reason she was there was because she was
friends with Wilde Everest, the famously effete author/poet, who begged her to
accompany him to the annual New Year's Masquerade Ball thrown by Sawyer's aunt
Lydia. This year the ball was to be even more spectacular than usual, since
they were saying goodbye to the nineteenth century and hello to the twentieth.

Despite all of
the hubbub surrounding the ball - drawing of the possible gowns the hoi polloi
would be wearing had appeared in the newspapers, along with bold speculation
about who might be escorting who and what the favors for that particular year
might be - Wilde, as usual, was whining about having to make an appearance,
although if he hadn't been invited he would have been completely crushed. He
declared to Nola with a dramatic sweep of his lily white hand that if she
didn't accompany him he was going to have a dreadful time and no doubt contract
a sick headache from the sheer boredom that would lay him low for nigh onto a
month.

Nola had to
break into a broad smile as she'd considered her histrionic friend where he
perched on the genteelly worn settee in their relatively modest parlor. He
looked like a particularly exotic bird taken from the jungles of Africa and set
on display in a Woolworth's somewhere.
A true gem among rags
- the exact opposite of how she felt when she let him drag her to these things.

Nola's family -
the Hughes - were made well enough to do by the sweat of her father's brow as
he worked in a livery at first, then ended up owning the place and several more
like them scattered across the West. But Sawyer money made theirs look like a
true pittance, despite the market boom and her father's cautious investing.

But the annual
ball on the Vanderbilt estate - complete with a luxuriously appointed,
Vanderbilt owned train to carry everyone out from the city to the Hudson Valley
- was well out of Nola's social strata. It was out of Wilde's, too, but that
was overlooked since he was the darling of New York society, and considered to
be a witty and amusing addition to any party by the ladies who set such
standards - despite the fact, or maybe because of it, that he rarely accepted
any such invitation.

This ball,
however, was not to be sniffed at, and he was desperate for Nola to come with
him, promising her the world if she'd just agree to appear on his arm for a
mere hour of her time - which Nola knew would become no less than eight to ten
hours, at least, if she was lucky. Wilde protested too much, however - he
adored all of the attention he was going to garner simply by setting foot in
the place.

It was very hard
for her to turn Wilde down. He was just too much fun, and would pull such faces
that he had her giggling until she couldn't breathe for it, so she finally
agreed. Her mother, of course, had seen his invitation as much more than it
really was, and had gone all out, commissioning a dress from the same
dressmaker that Louisa Vanderbilt herself used - supposedly.

All Nola knew
was that she was heartily tired of the constant fittings and shopping. She
would have much preferred to be out riding or writing, but, as her mother was
fond of saying thousands of times a day, neither of those pursuits was going to
get her a husband.

Nola had assumed
- even as time went on and no one caught her eye - that she would be allowed to
make her own choice about whether or not to get married, and she was most
distinctly leaning towards "not". Most of the men in her social set were either
fops or rakes, and she'd never had a liking for either of those types. In fact,
she'd never had much of a liking for any particular man, perhaps because her
father was such a thorn in her side.

But apparently
she was wrong. Her mother had always harped at her, of course. That was what
mothers did. All of her friends' mothers were exactly the same, but of course,
all of them were already married, and most had had the coveted grandchildren.
Her father - despite how much they clashed on everything else, from women's
suffrage to women's rights - had never said a word about her unmarried state.

They had made a
grand entrance, having arrived fashionably late and eschewing the free train
ride, despite its many temptations. When Wilde had mentioned his distaste for
the inevitable crowds, her father had offered his best carriage with four
matched, pure white horses, along with the livery and coachmen to staff it to
the hilt, as if they were European royalty instead of a raffish writer and the
daughter of a man who got his start shoveling shit.

If there was one
thing her mother did well, it was show off her daughter. Her gown was of the palest
pink satin overlaid with the finest, paler pink lace, making the dress appear
almost white with the slightest of blush about it.
Its
off the shoulder design was paired with white lace gloves, which differed from
the current kid fashion but matched the dress nicely. A set of gossamer wings
had been attached to the back darts of the dress, and she carried a restrained
but elegant pink mask on a long pink holder, approximating some sort of fairy
or nymph. She wore only the best jewels her mother owned - soft, pink teardrop
sapphires in her ears with an elegantly simple, matching teardrop nestled just
above her cleavage.

But it was her
hairstyle that caused a murmur to run through the crowd. The luxuriously thick
length of her deep russet hair wasn't swept up in the current fashion, but
rather
its
outrageous natural curls were played up
and placed enticingly over the bosom the s-shaped bodice created.

Since she had no
concerns or worries about attracting a husband at this crowd, and her mother
had always considered her hair to be her best asset, they had agreed that her
unusual hairstyle - on top of its unusual color - couldn't hurt. And Nola was
only too happy not to have the weight of it piled on her head all evening in
some intricate - and undoubtedly uncomfortable - do.

Wilde, of
course, adored it. He loved anything unusual, anything guaranteed to set
society on its ear. He came as Lord Byron, in complete costume - wig, tights,
and all. They were a pair, the two of them, and the gasps they generated rippled
across the ballroom floor.

Wilde escorted
her right out onto the dance floor as the musicians struck up a waltz. He
whirled her around the floor for a few minutes before others decided to join
in, grinning from ear to ear the entire time.

Nola hit him on
the shoulder with her mask. "You're enjoying this entirely too much, you
realize."