Part I

Sofia stood solemnly in front of the mirror while her maids fussed around her. She was naked and the spring chill set her astonishing white flesh in tight gooseflesh. Every once in a while a maid would tug at her long jet hair or turn her this way and that so that the prominence of her bottom hump could be seen in profile in the glass. With a glimpse of her behind Sofia remembered Ivan’s birch rod and shuddered, striving in vain to be indignant. Knowing the man there would be many more ordeals such as that, she thrilled.

Outwardly this wedding day seemed much the same as her first marriage. As before her sombre visage betrayed no emotion as she was prepared by the women and many might think that as before she was only doing a duty.

But inside she tingled from her scalp to her toes and a whole troop of Cossack’s carried out manoeuvres in her tummy. She could scarce look into the mirror at her own face for when she did the excitement leaked out into a flash of something bestial. It was as if she were possessed so fearing the peasant women would see her gaze she quickly and demurely downcast her eyes.

The women themselves worked fast for the day’s chill was harsh and the naked girl, so cruelly given to a woodsman brute was already vulnerable enough. Already they had scrubbed and cleansed more thoroughly than a chicken for the oven and the girl’s intimate passages must tingle fore and aft following their ministrations. Tradition demanded it.

“My lady,” the elder maid said gently, “There is something…”

As she spoke a younger girl stepped forward with a tray upon which was a curious object like a cake-piping affair alongside a pot of butter. Sofia flushed and chewed at her lips.

“But you have already…” she feared another enema now; the last had been too thorough.

“It is not quite the same my lady, it is butter,” the elder maid offered, “To ease you inside. Sometimes… sometimes men are… well your husband is such a… robust gentleman, perhaps not yet used to the ways of the nobility.”

Sofia almost giggled. The thought of Ivan had already had her more slippery than a fish where it counted and if necessary she would tell them boldly that it was so. But the woman shot a significant glance at Sofia tight behind and then patted it.

“Sometimes men have different tastes,” the maid pressed.

Sofia gasped and her eyes widened. But even before she could comment she was taken gently by both arms and led into a stoop while the girl with the tray moved behind her.

This time the nozzle presented to her intimate place was warmer than before and entered her easily. Sofia found herself wild with the thought that Ivan would use her so and was trilling with the possibility.

“Uh,” she gasped as the warm butter eased into her. There was an awful lot of it and it went in deep.

*

Handsome and magnificent, Ivan looked on impassively at the front of the chapel across the aisle from Prince Molotov. He was splendid in his blue silk smock and sable collar. His hat too was of sable, a finer one than he had worn before, one more fitting to his heavy but well-trimmed beard. He seemed even larger under the eyes of the bishop who read a litany of traditional prayers as a prelude to vows. It was really going to happen then, Sofia thought, her head spinning.

Sofia blushed as she bent forward to accept a token lash or two from her father’s quirt. It seemed as if this time the entire country had turned up to bear witness to the Prince Molotov’s favourite daughter’s second wedding. No doubt they all wanted to see the hero who had saved her and had risen so rapidly to be a count.

But somehow for Sofia it was all the more embarrassing than the last time. The tight cotton pantaloons she had been forced to reveal to the lash clung closely and she was afraid that a hint of butter might leak and mortify her. The obscene little ritual had thrilled her to shame and her head was still spinning with the thought of it. She dared not even look at Ivan as she leaned forward and stuck out her bottom.

As before the lash stung her and she had to bite down on her lower lip trying not to giggle. Tried and failed, much to her chagrin and her father’s scowling displeasure. This was supposed to be a solemn occasion, but Sofia couldn’t help it. Ivan was hers. She giggled again in the excitement and her father gave her a final lash in his frustration.

Then as the bishop stepped forward Prince Molotov sighed and handed Ivan the whip.

One might have supposed that such a lowly born man would have taken the respectful and traditional path of slipping the quirt into his belt as most would. However Ivan tested it decisively in his hand and then took a step forward. Someone chuckled in the crowd and an excited whisper burbled through the church until it died in an expectant whisper.

It was Ivan’s right to deliver a lash or more and why not, hadn’t the giggling girl asked for it with her disrespect? But what happened next drew bug eyes from the bishop and gasps from the assembly. Even Prince Molotov gaped. Determined to start as he meant to continue Ivan extended his hand and seized the pantaloons at their waist. Then in a trice he tore the flimsy material with a rip that left Sofia’s bottom completely bare and only her thighs covered in a parody of stockings.

“Ivan,” Sofia gasped in horror, but instead of rising she dipped her head in shame and hid her face with her hands.

The quirt lashed in hard with seven or eight cuts until the alabaster smoothness of Sofia’s curves were rilled with red angry welts and she hissed and danced under the onslaught.

“I have a tradition of my own and I will have no disrespect from you wench, especially not to your father,” Ivan growled.

Prince Molotov supressed a chuckle and there was small ripple of applause from the congregation.

“Yes my lord,” Sofia squeaked, her face now redder than her bottom.

“Stand up and lower your skirts woman,” Ivan ordered.

He was obeyed at once.

And so they were married, a new Count and Countess holding lands to the south and east of Molotov’s domain, and although Sofia could not even sit down at her own wedding feast without the aid of a pillow she grinned more broadly than she ever had from the first toast to the last.

“Happy?” Prince Molotov asked her in a whisper later that day.

The grin did not leave her face as Sofia nodded.

“Oh yes Father,” she whispered back.

“He is a good man,” the prince said sagely.

“Not so good I think, he will beat me raw,” Sofia said ruefully.

“And so he should,” her father chuckled, adding, “But always with finesse.”

Sofia bowed demurely in acquiescence, but she wasn’t so sure of that either.

The feasting and dancing amid gift-giving and songs went on for three days but finally it was time to go. I will miss Castle Molotov, Sofia thought, she would even miss her governess the baroness, but more than that she felt a passing sadness for the shack in the woods that she might never see again. It had been a pleasant ordeal in many ways and had given her Ivan. For a moment she wondered if the humble life she had been offered as a feint might not have been preferable to setting up court with a man not suited to it.

But in the torchlight amid the gathering well-wishers as they assembled to see the couple off Ivan looked as great a lord as Prince Molotov and Sofia’s heart swelled. She knew then he would serve well as a count and what he didn’t know she would teach him, just as he no doubt intended to teach her. She thought grimly of Ivan’s girl-cousins and sisters and their thousand lashes. Ivan was a hard man, a true stalin. She shuddered, but it was not fear that touched her, not entirely.

*

Ivan had not availed himself of her body that first night, nor any while the festivities still raged. It was not unusual and demonstrated restraint on his part; so much for the fears of her maids and her husband’s brutal ways.

But now they were alone and Sofia only wore the thinnest veil of linen between her and her man. Even that was all but transparent in the firelight as she stood demurely and respectfully next to the bed for her husband to come to their room.

Next to the bed on low table were certain things she had gathered. Some were traditional and others not. There were a rod of birch twigs much like the one Ivan had used on her before over the winter and also flowers with gifts of gold, salt and bread.

To this Sofia had added two small dairy paddles accompanying a churn of butter. She entertained hopes that if she displeased him then he would use softer sanctions than the birch and as for the butter… she had other desires.

Then he was there filling the door frame like a bear at the entrance to a cave. He had a fierce look but as her gaze met his eyes softened.

Ivan swallowed nervously and tried to relax his stance. He remembered how it was with his mother and father, never a kind word and endless love. There were beatings to be sure, but his mother was a peasant without even the pretentions of his father’s lost nobility. Did one handle a noblewoman the same? He remembered the forest and his cruelty. It had been necessary then. The episode with the malt had been reckless of her. But now there was food to spare and silks if she wanted them. She looked so small and delicate, how could she love him?

Before he could take the initiative she spoke.

“Is everything to your satisfaction my lord?” Sofia said shyly.

As she talked she unconsciously motioned to the birch rod on the table. Or perhaps it was something else.

“And if it is not?” Ivan replied, his voice not kind as he had intended but as the rumble of a bear.

“Then you must punish me soundly my lord,” Sofia said proudly, almost with defiance.

“How must I do that?” Ivan asked, his face developing a lopsided grin.

“It is no laughing matter my lord, it is our honour,” Sofia chided, surely he wasn’t going to soften now? “You must thrash my bared bottom as you did before and in any way you see fit. I am not a delicate flower… if your sisters and cousins could take a thousand lashes…”

Ivan roared with laughter, the little brat, trying to manage him was she? She had no idea of what she was talking about.

“A thousand eh?” he chuckled and looked past her to the table, “Hand me that paddle and we will see if you can take 200 with that before we talk of a thousand lashes. What you need is a good spanking to put you in your place.”

Sofia flushed and gulped back her apprehension. Damn, this wasn’t quite the reaction she was hoping for. Nevertheless she reached back, careful to bend seductively as she took one of the butter paddles from table and handed it to him.

One side was smooth the other serrated with small wooden teeth. She wondered which side he would use. She was still wondering when she found herself upended and tumbling across his lap as he sat on the bed. He bottom was bare in a moment and he took the time to give her several light but stinging pats to her bottom with the smooth side of the paddle.

He was about to begin when he noticed the butter and frowned.

“What is the dairy grease for?” he asked.

Sofia felt two pools of hot blood form on her cheeks. She hadn’t expected him to ask, surely he knew? She whispered her reply.

“What was that?” he barked lowering his head to hear.

“The narrow way… my maids said… you might…” she whispered.

He frowned again before truth dawned.

“Why you little trollop,” he gasped his arm lifting to hide his embarrassment.

It landed with a will, not once but half a hundred times before he realised he was spanking her in earnest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Sofia shrieked her legs kicking like a landed fish tail.

By then of course her bottom was cherry red and polished shiny in the firelight. But he had promised her another seven score and ten such spanks and he would not soften now. To make his point he inverted the paddle and let her feel the sting of the harsher side.

“Sorry are you? Not yet you’re not,” he chuckled.

She announced the impact with a howl and redoubled her shrieks for clemency for a good three or four minutes before he was done.

“Now see what you have done,” he smiled as he dropped face down and tearful onto the bed.

As he spoke he tossed off his cloak and lowered his breeches. His manhood was like a horn with a double headed plum on the end. Sofia looked up with a mouth as a rounded in cave of wonder. Ivan had heard that French women… but he shook his head and looked at the butter.

“Dairy grease is it? Well grease me well and then I’ll do you where your maids suggest,” he rasped. “Then I am going to spank you again for good measure.”

Sofia wiped a tear and knelt up on the bed. She couldn’t have sat there anyway just then. Reaching out she grabbed a handful of butter and eagerly went to apply it to the member that had her attention. But for a moment she held back.

“Wife don’t…” she said huskily, if she was teasing him he would…

But Sofia licked her upper lip and then paused to scoop butter on to her tongue. It seemed a suitable enough way to apply the creamy grease.

“Y-y-you you witch,” he sighed, his voice faltering, “Now I really am going to… to spank you trollop.”

There was a mumble followed by a sucking sound.

“Afterwards… my lord,” she cooed, and as she spoke she took him in her mouth while taking another scoop and pressing under her hind-end and between. “Mmmm-fff… afterwards.”

The End