Updated: Dec 4, 2021
I have a lot to talk about but I will try to keep this as short as I can (I know, I know, not a thing for me).
The sad part first:
I mentioned in my newsletter that my gramma passed last month. One of my oldest buns also went to bunny heaven. There are a few more things that have happened in my personal life as well. This is not for woe-is-mees but I thought I should mention so in case I'm a bit out of sorts, and behind in posting, you'd know why. I knew my gramma's days were coming to a close. Remember that thing I mentioned a while back? That was the thing. She was diagnosed with dementia---two kinds---and the decline was happening everyday. The dedication in Xavier's School is to her and I weaved it into the words I said about her at her celebration of life. We only ever did every day sorts of things together and yet I always felt like I was on a grand adventure. She's where "Lordy be!" comes from, by the way. She had all kinds of sayings like that.
Okay. *wipes face* Some happy things now.
I have been diligently working on Heart of a Dragon Tamer for the past two weeks. I decided to change the tense which (editors everywhere agree) is probably one of the most tedious things you can do to a manuscript. BUT I promise you it's well worth my efforts. I like it so much better in present tense. It's still 3rd person but it's way more action-based which is what I prefer.
Plus, the manuscript needed so much editing. Like, there are so many freaking words. My goal is to cut it from 620 pages to around 400. I have it down to 485 currently. Yeah, it had that many useless words. I was seriously doubting my skills as I read the story over but then I remembered that it's my draft zero and stopped being hard on myself. It will be clean and tidy by the time it gets to my editor. It's looking spiffy and it will soon be all mine, meaning, I'm scrubbing out the "Harry Potter". Thankfully I do get to keep some stuff that JK doesn't own, like Hippogriffs (though I will change the spelling) and Potions Master--she doesn't own Potions Master! And while there is some complications surrounding the copyright ownership to Peter Pan, Peter Pan and Wendy is public domain so I can use it in my story!
Also, because I am publishing it, I think I have to take it off AO3. *winces* Not sure what I'm going to do about that yet but I wanted to let everyone know in advance so they could have ample time to download a copy via AO3 if they wanted to. It would seriously pain me if I had to do so but an author acquaintance of mine just had trouble with a similar scenario. Anyone know anybody (other than EL James) who's published a fan fiction work I can talk to? Set me up. My choice would be to leave it up. There may be enough differences I'll be OK. But heads up and it may have to happen without much warning ... so here is your advanced warning!
Included is the full cover. I am in love with it. It was created by the talented Dar Albert. I can't wait to have Charlie on my shelf. I have been doing an ARC sign up for this one early. Still room if you wanna read in advance for FREE in exchange for an honest review. I just ask that this kind of book (spanking with DD and Tops and brats) is your thing. It doesn't make much sense for me to ask a dog person to review my cat book, if you know what I mean ;)
Email me: firstname.lastname@example.org
I don't have a Dragon Tamer excerpt for you quite yet. Instead we shall continue on with Tristan's New Clothes adventure. I will put a link to PART I HERE in case you need to refresh. Once I have the whole thing up ... I have to take it down. LOL I'm going to include it as a novella on Amazon for a few reasons I'll chat about in a new blog since this one is too long already. More on that in a week! For now, enjoy it here.
Read Chapter 1 + 2 of Dragon Tamer Here
Read Chapter 3 HERE
Read when Jude meets Charlie HERE
Before I go, I want to thank you all for joining my site. I get so excited with each subscription. I would love to have groups going at some point soon to chat Tristan and Charlie and more (spanking)! I'd rather do them here than on Facebook. Currently there is just one of me but I would like to hire someone to help me---then we can really have some fun.
Ta ta for now!
TRISTAN'S NEW CLOTHES
The hot sun wakes me before the rooster does. I sit up quickly and look to my left for Corrik—he’s not there and I’m not where I should be. I peek to the bed above me: Bayaden is there fast asleep. Right. I’m a pet now who sleeps on the floor, sort of.
I can’t help staring. Bayaden’s eyes are soft, his lids closed sweetly and his breathing is peaceful, none of the heaviness of a day in the life of a warlord to mar him. He’s still larger than life, even in his sleep, and exudes magnificence. How can something that smooth, be so rough at the same time?
There’s a tiny knock at the door. Seeing as I am supposed to be the “manservant” around here, I get up, taking the blanket with me, and answer the door. I wrap the blanket around my waist like a towel. I doubt Bayaden will like it much, but he doesn’t seem to like anything much and also? I don’t give a fuck.
It's Mary, and she's got food. “Thank you, Mary,” I whisper to her so as not to wake the sleeping beast as I take the tray from her. She smiles shyly—she might have a little crush on me—and leaves without a word.
I set everything out and try to remember how my attendant used to do it. I should probably wait till he makes me do something—I have no illusions of overpowering him, he’s strong and can easily make me—but I’m actually a bit sorry for the big lout having to be stuck with me. I know that sounds ludicrous, I’m a prisoner of war and all, but Papa taught me to be kind to those who are kind to me and thus far—aside from his rough manners and snide remarks—he has been decent to me.
I won’t be here long anyway. I’m sure Corrik is concocting some plan to get me back—if he’s still alive. I hate that I have to depend on being saved, but for now, it’s the best plan I’ve got other than my dragon’s blood, which should only be used as a last resort. This means I’m also dependent on Bayaden for basic needs, overpowered and outnumbered in enemy territory.
I chose not to wake him, lie back down on “my bed” and enjoy the sun. Markaytia is a southern province whereas Mortouge is in the north. I doubt they get much of a summer. Here, it’s hot. Hotter than Markaytia even. We must be way in the south.
Bayaden finally wakes sometime later and jumps up like he’s under attack; the first thing he does is look to the side of the bed I’m on. He must not be used to having someone in the room with him. Doesn’t the resident warlord take lovers?
“You’ll be happy to learn I haven’t gone anywhere,” I say with a giant smirk. I’m sure he’s so happy I didn’t spontaneously combust in the night. “Your breakfast is here.”
He looks at me peculiarly. I feel like a spider. Spiders are interesting, useful even, but you still don’t want them living with you. Once he’s stared long enough, he rises from his bed. Naked, he struts over to the table and sits down. I remain where I am on my mattress and I soon hear the scraping of porcelain against stone. I chance a look and see he’s laid out another plate of meager leavings for me on the ground. He stares at me, sarcasm leaking from his eyes—he’s attempting to egg me on. I’m in no mood this morning so I say nothing, but I do retrieve the plate of bread and sausages and return to my bed.
We continue in silence and it suits me fine. I finish well before him, which isn’t surprising since he didn’t give me much to eat—not near enough for a warrior like me. My stomach growls as the delicious smells of his breakfast waft over to me. “Was that your stomach?” His eyes are wide.
“I need a lot more food than what you gave me.” I turn to face the window, pouting. I’ve had enough of him.
Eventually, I hear the scuff of his chair against the stone floor. “You will dress me human and then you may eat some more. I’ve had my fill.”
I turn to squint at him, how peculiar he is. “Speaking of getting dressed, I could use some clothes—”
“—by all means human,” he says cutting me off. I twist my lips. “I will not clothe you, but if you can manage it, I will not object.” That I did not expect. I smile. He’s given me license to scavenge—something I’m particularly good at. “It won’t be easy.”
I smile wider.
“What in the Gods’ names are you smiling about?”
“I love a challenge.”
“You won’t love this challenge. I promise you. It will be impossible for you to acquire clothing on your own—you’ll see.” He’s smirking like he’s going to love watching me fail.
Fine. Challenge accepted.
My first idea is to simply steal clothes from his closet. But Bayaden isn’t warlord for nothing. He locked his closets sneering at me before he left. He gave me no orders either, and gleefully left my presence.
I look around. There’s nothing to cover myself with, unless I steal a blanket and I could, but I won’t give Bayaden the opportunity to harangue me about taking the easy road. I’m not worried over being naked, not really, even though yes, Markaytians are known as the more conservative sorts, but I was used to being looked upon in the public baths in Markaytia; I can bear it long enough to procure myself some clothes.
I look around the corner and fix my collar in place before I step out of the room. Bayaden said it would let everyone know that I belong to him. I don’t belong to him in my mind, but if can be a tool that helps me stay out of trouble, I don’t mind having people believe it.
The halls are made of grey stones that are soft beneath my feet. They were made for walking on without shoes; I notice that most of the Elves and humans here don’t wear shoes. It begs the question as to why I spied so many boots in Bayaden’s closet?
I don’t know where to go, so I head west in the same direction Bayaden and I came from the other night. I’m used to being in a huge palace and having to find my way around doesn’t intimidate me. Large Elven palace guards walk the halls; the place is crawling with them. They wrinkle their long noses at me, and I know they’d like nothing more than to throw me in the dungeon, but when they see the collar around my neck they keep moving.
For some time, I think I’m going to be all right, but no dice. A guard steps in my path, his brows narrowed. I turn to walk the other way, but there’s another guard, also male, who steps to block me.
One of them says something to me in Elvish. I remember a little of the Elvish I learned in the last days I spent aboard the ship Corrik had built for me. The one that is likely at the bottom of the sea by now. I don’t know what the Elf says but by his body language, I can assume it’s something like, “Where do you think you’re going, miscreant?”
I pull out my collar’s tag to display for them my new “owner”. I don’t want trouble right now, I don’t like having to use it, but I will. One reaches out and flips up the silver tag at my neck, reads it and says something in Elvish with Bayaden’s name mixed in. The larger Elf, rakes his eyes up and down me, smirking, and asks me a question in Elvish.
“I can’t understand you, you stupid oaf,” I say.
“So, you are a Markaytian,” he says, in an accent thicker than Andothair or Bayaden’s. “You’d better learn some Elvish fast, we Elves don’t speak human languages.” Except he just did.
“Why bother learning it then?”
“Aldrien Elves learn all languages; we are required to learn them. We are not required to speak them.”
Yeah, that’s a reason, I guess. He grabs me by my arm and throws me at the other guard who catches me and locks my arm behind my back. “Hey. What are you doing?”
They don’t tell me, pushing me along so I’m tripping over my agile feet. Bloody Elves! I complain the whole way to wherever they’re taking me, shouting threats and obscenities in Markaytian. I cause a lovely scene in the hallways and when we’re finally outside, I get pushed face first into the dirt, am roughly seized again and then manhandled back and forth between the two guards and the dirt.
There are humans and Elves who stare at me as I squeal like a stuck pig. I’m not scared or worried, I’m indignant that they would dare treat me like this and I hope I’ll embarrass them with my shrieking. I don’t.
But when I realize where we’re headed, I do start fighting in earnest. We’re on our way to the training fields. Normally I would be overjoyed at this news, but I know there could only be one reason why they want to bring me there: Bayaden. I stop squealing and struggle in earnest, but it’s useless. Fighting out of an Elf’s grip is like fighting out of a steel cage.
As I expect, they drop me before two large feet I already recognize and when I try to rise, I get booted hard in the gut by a bare, but solid foot. Bayaden looks down at me with the usual level of disgust, fierce anger burns behind black eyes and my heart beats faster. I’ve known since I set eyes on him that Bayaden is a dominant creature and without me wanting it to, it does something to me inside. I must fight not to freeze up. He speaks to his guard in Elvish. The three of them have an entire conversation before anyone speaks to me in my home tongue. “So. You are his. Consider yourself lucky, human.”
They walk away and leave me on the ground glaring at them. My dragon blood rages, and I want to tear them apart with my teeth. “Enough, Tristan,” Bayaden says. He’s used my name, that’s what gets my attention, plus he’s speaking Markaytian.
“I wasn’t doing anything. They grabbed me for no reason.”
He swears in Elvish. I recognize the word from something my husband uses, but his accent is different. “Stand up.”
I do, but I continue to threaten him without words.
“You’re filthy again,” he says grabbing my arm to pull me up when I don’t stand fast enough for him. He spins me around and delivers several sharp swats to my arse like the bad pet he thinks I am.
“For the love of the Gods. It’s not like I was rolling around in the mud. It’s the fault of those two hooligans,” I complain rubbing my poor bum. Bayaden’s eyes are darker than I’ve seen them so far, his teeth barred. He shouts something at me in Elvish, which I don’t understand, but he’s pointing to the door leading into the barracks so I assume he's saying he’d like to beat me in private.
The barracks in Aldrien are more impressive than the ones in Markaytia, but that’s no surprise, the Elves need the prettiest of everything. It’s all white marbles and tall pillars in the entry hallway and I’ll bet my voice would echo off the walls. I’ll bet my screams are about to.
“I’ll not be seen speaking Markaytian,” he says. “You’d better learn some Elvish fast.”
Ahhhh, I get it. Doesn’t want to lower his filthy Rogue Elf reputation by speaking in Markaytian so he dragged me away from everyone. “How am I to do that?”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re an infuriating ass.”
He grabs me by the neck. I’ve finally succeeded in aggravating him enough he’s going to kill me, and I welcome it. He squeezes hard and slams my back against the wall. The sudden impact takes my breath away, but only for a moment. I fight and struggle anyway and try to pry his hand away from my neck using both of mine, digging under his fingers to no avail.
“Get out of my sight before I crush you.” He takes his hand away and I fall to the floor whacking my tailbone. I don’t remind him that I’m a breakable human, but I do feel very breakable in the moment, in a way I’ve never experienced until I met Elves.
I’ll gladly leave his sight.
“And take a bath before you make your way back to my chambers,” he tosses behind him before walking away. When Bayaden walks, he stalks like a panther and even if he’s angry, which is his natural state of being, he doesn’t allow that to take anything away from his precise, graceful demeanor. I watch the back of him from the floor, amazed. Would he teach me how to do that? Not wanting to waste time, I slink out of the white hall intent on exploring, in the opposite direction of Aldrien’s Warlord. I’m in an Elven Barrack: Tristan Heaven.
I sniff out the weapon room like a bloodhound and peruse the fine tools with arrested awe. Everything is forgotten for these moments. I’m not Tristan, Bayaden’s slave, or even Tristan, husband to the great Corrik Cyredanthem, I'm just a boy looking at cool weapons. Each one is handcrafted, forged with Elven magic and an inscription on each blade. I cannot read all of them, but some of the words are familiar. It is as I thought, the Rogue Elf language is not that different from Mortougian, the differences lie in the accent and their colloquialisms.
I think about my magnificent Elven sword and its whereabouts. Would Andothair have brought it with him? Or is it on the bottom of the ocean?
No one would notice if I took one of these, would they? But where would I keep it? I try to lift one. The weight of it is too much for my paltry human arm and it clatters to the ground—loudly. I look around, no one is coming, but I’d better get out of here. I still want to find clothing and don’t fancy being picked up by another set of guards or crushed by Bayaden.
It takes me some time, but I do find another door to exit from so I don’t have to walk past Bayaden and I’m careful to keep out of sight of the guards. Some seem to respect the tag and collar I’ve been given, but if they’re anything like the other two that dragged me down here in the first place, I might not get as lucky next time and I could end up in the palace dungeons, where I have no wish to be. Unfortunately, what Bayaden said is true, only he and Andothair keep me safe now, which is not a comfort.
I think about whether I want to make my way back to the palace, or skulk around this area and find out some more about where I am. It’s hot. I have to smooth my short hair back with my hand a few times. I hate the feel of it; my hand runs out of hair too quickly. It’ll grow back Tristan.
I decide my best chance for clothing is from the servant-type areas, like the kitchens or the laundry, though perhaps I could take a detour to the palace markets…?
As it turns out, the barracks are on the edge of the palace property, and I can see the large stone walls that separate me from the village. So close to the outside, no one seems to care if I escape, no one’s got an eye on me … I bet I could climb straight over this wall with no one to notice me. Yes, there are seven or so large male and female guards at the large stone doors, and the others manning the tall towers that lookout to both the village and the palace, but I’m sure I can figure something out. Lucca and I found our way around guards plenty. Bayaden and Andothair think I’m incompetent, something I plan to use against them.
But my dreams of escape will have to wait. I can’t leave without Diekin. Andothair will kill him if he finds me gone.
Palace markets it is then. Only trouble is, I’m completely naked save the collar around my neck, and just the idea of walking into a public area nude makes me blush. While it’s not something I would have done at home, it doesn’t look to be out of the ordinary here. I’ve seen many like me: humans with collars, stark naked, moving piles of clothing and baskets of goods and other tasks. I’ll probably be less out of the ordinary in the markets where I could be anyone’s slave.
No such luck.
The two female guards at the entrance aren’t any better than the males I’ve met as far as manners go. Once they figure out, I'm Markaytian, they proceed to handle me like an animal, grabbing at my cock and balls, sizing them up. “If you don’t mind,” I say batting their hands away.
One laughs and smacks my arse right where Bayaden had. “You belong to Bayaden, human? I doubt that.”
“Yes,” I insist, wanting this to be over. I don’t have the patience to keep arguing with guards.
“Why are you here?” the other asks, suspicious of me as she well should be, I guess.
An idea forms in my mind. “He wants me to get clothes, you know, pants, a shirt. If you would kindly point me in the right direction.” Neither of them budge. “Have it your way then, but when Bayaden finds out the two of you wouldn’t allow me to do his bidding, what do you think he’ll say?”
I don't really think that’s going to work, but it does, both sets of female eyes wide. I guess people fear Bayaden. I would too if I had any good sense. They don’t say a word, but they do part with a curt nod while the other points me to a particular direction, to find clothes I’m guessing.
The market is, in essence, like that of Markaytia’s markets: a busy chaotic mass of people. But the one rather large difference is the persistent presence of nakedness, which of course is to my benefit at the moment. My first impression: that humans truly are slaves here, but upon closer inspection, the humans do not seem to mind so much. These elves treat humans like beloved pets and by the Gods, I think they enjoy it.
Some Elves have leashes attached to the collars of their human, some humans crawl on all fours, some are naked, others wear scant amounts of clothing or strange harnesses. Some are with their owners, but some without. Each human-Elf pairing seems to have their own way of things.
I do see why I was accosted at the entrance, there are few humans here without their masters and I suspect only the most trusted of slaves would be permitted out and about. Warlord Bayaden doesn't trust anyone, that much I know about him and I’m sure others know it too.
I take advantage of my short-lived freedom and peruse the Marketplace. I don’t make it far without bumping into Tom and Mary.
“Tristan,” he hisses looking around. “What are you doing here? Bayaden will have your head on a platter.”
“So be it then. I am in need of pants.”
They are awe-struck as I reach into Mary’s basket and pluck out a handful of berries. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I suddenly have a renewed sense of bravery mixed with a dangerous amount of mischief, since arriving in Aldrien. Bayaden brings it out of me.
Oh Gods. He brings out my inner brat. That can’t be good.
Mary moves her basket away from me with scolding eyes but isn’t too upset with me. She’s blushing again. Yep. Definitely a crush. Too bad I’m taken, twice as the case may be. “Bayaden said I may take whatever actions necessary to acquire clothing. He placed no restrictions.”
“You sure he said that … those exact words? It doesn’t sound like something he’d say,” Tom says.
“He said it, sure as my name is Tristan Arcade Kanes. I swear it on my homeland of Markaytia.” Markaytians are renowned for their extreme loyalties, especially to Markaytia.
“Tristan Arcade Kanes? You were the one named succeeding warlord—I’ve heard of you.”
Mary blinks at him. I’m not sure how much Markaytian she knows. It is a common enough language, but on this side of the world it is far less common. She’s human but if she was born of Aldrien, the Elves may not have seen it fit for her to learn. He explains it to her in Elvish.
“Well then, Warlord,” Tom says.
“Just Tristan if you don’t mind.” I am not Warlord anymore, even if too many people won’t stop calling me Warlord.
“Tristan, I don’t doubt your word, but I do wonder if you have a different interpretation than our resident Warlord?”
I smirk and cross my arms. “That’s his problem.”
“Oh, I see. It’s like that is it?”
“This is textbook bratting.”
I scowl at him remembering all the chats I had with Diekin on the topic. “It is not.”
“Whatever you say, Tristan,” he says, but he’s not convinced. “Let’s get you some clothing before Bayaden charges into the market.”
Would he do that?
Tom is escorting Mary, who I learn is here on an errand for Meren, the Head Mistress in the palace kitchens. “Besides,” Tom says. “Mary loves to come down here and Meren knows it.” He winks. This information is surprising. From the way I’ve been talked to and from what I’ve seen, I didn’t imagine an Elf doing something kind for a human.
We stop at several shops, and I notice Mary buying things without the exchange of coin. I ask about that. “Each palace slave is expected to come here at one time or another, on behalf of their mistress or master. Palace slaves are special. Each item purchased is charged to the palace account. They know Mary, but you would have to show your tag,” Tom explains.
He points to my collar and somehow it becomes more apparent how naked I am. But I lock my Markaytian pride away for now. This will be all too easy. I’ll buy something for myself on Bayaden’s account and enjoy gloating to him about it later.
We finally come across a merchant selling pairs of thin pants, but no shirts. “It is not common to find a merchant selling shirts Tristan,” Tom explains when I complain. “Many go shirtless because of the heat.”
I hold up the thin black pants as I rake my eyes over his spectacular white blouse, similar to the ones I wore in Markaytia. “King Caer Gai is protective of me,” Tom says, blushing. “He is not as polyamorous as some Elves are with their slaves and he would like me just for him.”
I think possessive is the word Tom should have used rather than protective. I haven’t met the Aldrien king yet, and haven’t desired to, but this intrigues me. I want to decipher if he cares for Tom or if it is merely the king being possessive over his possession.
I gather Bayaden is not the same, seeing as he couldn’t care a wit about me being clothed or not. “But it proves that shirts do exist in this Godsforsaken city. In fact, I saw several in Bayaden’s closet.” I look to the merchant. The merchant—a heavier set human, black beard, fully clothed with a little red hat centered on the balding spot atop his head—is sending us his displeasure by staring at us instead of doing anything to help us, and I feel the need to remind him he’s human too. I’m gathering that the humans here are different.
I know in Mortouge, the humans who reside there now are the offspring of the humans who lived there before they banned outsiders from entering freely. I’m told those humans live longer than the standard—me—and have magical qualities even though they do not harness magic in quite the same way as the Elves do.
Humans here are more, human-y. Like they have come from all over. Mary’s different. She’s born of Aldrien and has an added sparkle to her but I’m not sure that Tom is. I think he comes from elsewhere. That red hair. It’s something else.
“I’ll take this pair. Put them on this account,” I say, flashing my tag, acting like I own the place; behavior that seems to be working so far.
“Let me see that a little closer,” he says in Markaytian. I’m not surprised; it is a common enough tongue even as far south as we are. I hold it out so he can inspect it closer. “That is the crest of our Warlord.”
“How observant of you.” I probably shouldn’t be lippy but I’m not in a good mood. I just want some form of clothing, any form, then I’ll head back to the baths, washing up and returning to Bayaden’s chambers to lie in bed the rest of the day. This day has been exhausting even if I haven’t done nearly what I’m used to.
“I did not know the warlord had a manservant, but even if he does, I don’t see him clothing you. Humans are meaningless to him.”
Don’t I know it? “He did. He said I could acquire clothing." Well? He did. And I’ve reached my limit, exhausted with having to explain myself over and over, just to get a Godsforsaken pair of pants. "And another thing, do you think I’d want to wear this collar? Do you think I want to belong to that human hating ass?” I distantly hear hooves approaching as I continue to rant. “I was taken, taken! Do you hear me? I am a citizen of Mortouge and of Markaytia. I am a prince forced into slavery.” I’m getting a bit hysterical.
“Tristan. Tristan.” Tom’s voice is urgent beside me. I ignore him.
I won’t calm down now. My rant has only just begun. “Why do you look like you agree with them? Is everyone crazy in this place? We are human, not parasites. Some of us are great warriors and would rather—”
“—would rather what?” The baritone voice from above me is clipped and sends a jolt straight to my stomach.
I look up and plan on saying something smart, but I’m arrested by his dark eyes and lose the ability to speak. Somehow, I managed to forget what he looks like in the short time I’ve been away from him. He’s bigger than I remember, sitting atop his black warhorse. I don’t want to admit it, but I’m scared. Me. Tristan Kanes. Not scared of a bloody thing, other than my father’s disappointment, afraid of this one Elf. I won’t let him know it.
“I would rather die than tell you.” Again, the bit of brattishness rises up, the brattishness Bayaden seems to pull out of me. I fold my arms with the black pants still clutched in my hand, in effort not to shake. The stupid merchant rips them from my grasp without apology. I glare at him.
“You may yet get your wish,” Bayaden says.
I look to Bayaden. “Tell the man you said I could acquire clothing.”
“Come here, Tristan,” Bayaden says.
What kind of a response is that? My legs want to obey him immediately in an odd, compelling way and I have to fight nature to remain planted where I am, glowering at him. “No.”
Tom and Mary gasp.
“Stupid, human,” the all-human merchant says.
“Tristan.” It’s a low rumble, one I’d be stupid to ignore twice. I make my way over, meek and embarrassed. But it only gets worse from there and I learn why it’s not a good idea to make Bayaden wait. Once I get within reach, he grabs me by my collar, which chokes as he tosses me over his horse, belly first, my arse presented plainly for Tom, Mary, the merchant and whoever else wants to watch.
Bayaden lays several, crisp whacks to my still smarting bottom—it hasn’t forgotten what Bayaden did to it earlier. At first, I'm mortified to have them witness Bayaden spanking me over his horse, but when my eyes are watering from the stinging pain, I care less about them watching me kick and more about them not seeing my face. Something is released in the crying and while I’m sure my arse is bruised by the time he finally stops; I feel a world better.
I have to use my wrist to wipe the tears from my eyes, but I can do nothing to rub away the sting. I distract myself by surveying the ground in front of me and I notice more hooves. Bayaden brought the two jerks from earlier with him. They can see my face. They snicker. Someday, I’ll show them what I think of them.
Bayaden doesn’t spare a glance to Tom and Mary. “Hijah!” His horse is turned around and we head up to the palace.
Things are not going well, not going well at all.
TO BE CONTINUED...