A/N: Yippee! I am finished with this chapter now and there is only one additional chapter before Pierce comes into the picture! Thank you to atperhach, Elena, bobcatwriter, Jakegajowski1, Michelle Marie R, nursejoh, Guest, and joel shell for your feedback and encouragement. I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's another reason for the T rating. If C/M stuff isn't your bag, you could probably skip this whole chapter, because what happens in this chapter is summarized quite succinctly at the beginning of the next chapter. If it IS your bag, then enjoy!


CHAPTER 10 – PART SEDUCTRESS, PART ATTILA THE HUN

What in the world was Margaret suggesting, referring to getting Charles his punishment over with now?

Would Margaret force him to watch her and Pierce lock lips again when at last he visited? Had she collected evidence of her own regarding the tryst in the ladies' restroom? Would she turn him in at work? Was she in the process of publishing an article in the Boston Globe on his lovemaking skills? He could only gape at her now, his mouth opening and closing with no words emerging.

He thought about his keeping Sunday's date from her. Perhaps punishment was warranted. Of course, she would have no idea as to the nature of what he was atoning for.

"Voilà," she said simply, turning around now, gripping a familiar implement in her hand, one closely associated with his days playing polo at Harvard.

"A r-riding crop?" he spat, his eyes agog as she snapped the leather item with a quick jerk of her wrist. "What on earth do you intend to do with that?"

"Have you never heard of corporal punishment? I can always call it Major punishment, if that's what you'd prefer."

"Ugh, you know how to put the pun in punishment, Margaret," he groaned, rolling his eyes now, his heart thudding loudly and rapidly in his ears. In fact, it was his ears that were surely reddening now from the embarrassment of this entire topic. "I'm still not quite understanding your intentions with that… implement."

Margaret now reached down, pulling the blanket down off of their bodies to expose his pajama-clad legs. With a little grin, she lightly snapped the crop off of his thigh, making him jerk from the sting of it.

"Ah. I see," he replied, gulping.

Charles thought back to his early recollections of his father's study, his view of the rug achieved through rare but significant acts of discipline meted out by his father. It had been decades since he'd recalled those memories, his thoughts only surfacing hours ago, and yet being called upon again the very same day. And now he was certainly too woozy to make a proper counterargument to what she'd proposed.

"So how about it?" Margaret suggested cheerfully. "You can get this all off your chest and enjoy yourself in the meantime."

"What I am failing to understand is why you have such an implement in your nightstand in the first place," he muttered, eyeing the riding crop nervously.

She could only raise her eyebrows, a nervous little grin playing on her lips. Charles gulped yet again.


"What are you doing?"

Charles had attempted to roll back over and fall asleep after the strange conversation with Margaret, but it had now been fifteen minutes wherein he'd been no closer to sleep, fidgeting and squirming about with eyes wide open. Charles had decided to get up and go to the couch but was instantaneously halted by Margaret's question, his body freezing in place at the edge of the bed.

"I cannot sleep or even relax, in spite of all that wine," he muttered lowly. "I cannot help but think of what is to come of—"

"Did you consider my suggestion?"

He rotated his body so that his legs were once again on the mattress, turning his head to reply to her.

"You mean, your whipping me with a riding crop like some kind of… disobedient horse? No, I did not."

"Not a disobedient horse, a raging stallion," she countered, a tired smile on her face. "What was that line again? Fast, hot-blooded, and highly responsive to the whip, I think."

So she'd remembered the specifics of the chapter he'd begun to read her so very long ago, chapter three of The Rooster Crows at Midnight by Abigail Porterfield. It had been shortly after he had arrived in Korea that they'd sat together alone in her tent under mere candlelight, Charles's core body temperature increasing with every word he'd read as Margaret stared off dreamily into space seemingly imagining the scene unfolding before her. She'd been married then, untouchable, even as he'd unintentionally referred to her as Jessica as he'd been booted from her tent. And yet, here they were now, in the same bed, with nothing blocking them from making the story their reality.

"I believe the word to in fact be swift, not fast," Charles corrected quietly, her suggestion of that night so long ago quickly stirring up sensations in him that were hardly conducive to sleep. "And the line was specifically referring to Jessica, not Randolph."

"Though, wasn't Randolph her equal?" Margaret said now, the robe slipping down off her bare shoulders. "I think the very next line mentioned that."

"Ah… Right," he responded, shivering at the thought of where this was going. Would this be the last time they could be intimate at night? Where would he stay from tomorrow on? Was it possible that he could have Margaret stay with him instead? The contract hadn't specified Margaret's expected whereabouts in light of his moving out. The idea that Margaret could join him in some five-star hotel to continue their nightly congress gave him a glimmer of hope.

"Well, I'd say Randolph has been very naughty lately," Margaret remarked. "I think Jessica and he have both been incredibly naughty, in fact."

Charles's mouth went ajar, his eyebrows knitted with shock.

"Are you saying that you have also partaken in—?"

"Oh, yes," she cut in, sighing dreamily, a big smile on her face. "I enjoy discipline, though it's been a while since I've—"

"Wait," he began, holding up a hand, "are you saying you derive pleasure from being… struck?"

She could only grin at him, her white teeth visible even in the dim light of her bedroom.


"This is simply absurd," Charles muttered, on all fours in his pajamas as he concentrated on controlling his breathing rate, which had begun to increase to the point where he was practically hyperventilating. "How did I let you talk me into this?"

The wine he'd drank made him lightheaded and apparently much more open to suggestion. The innate coldness of Margaret's apartment surely contributed to his shivering, but being as he was still fully dressed, it most likely it was his nerves.

"I'm not forcing you to do anything," Margaret said, standing by the side of the bed, riding crop in hand. It was difficult for her to believe he was actually acquiescing to this at all. She frowned at him now, expecting for him to snap out of it and return to his melancholic trance.

"Right. My apologies," he answered in a quavering voice, his body trembling uncontrollably in spite of himself, his head down. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he thought of what he'd opted to do, and yet he was already having second thoughts.

Now Margaret let the hand with the riding crop drop audibly to her side.

"If you don't want to do this, you don't have to," she murmured. "I will say, though, if you do decide to go through with it, you will feel a lot better."

"Well, I can't imagine feeling worse than I do right now."

"Is that a yes? You have to say it."

She could hear him gulp and allowed her eyes to scan his body. Though he'd very visibly lost weight when she'd first arrived in Boston, it was clear that he'd since put some of it back on. Even so, the sight of the Boston blueblood in such a humbling position reminded her of the time they'd returned to the 4077th to find everyone sick, when she'd caught Charles taking a nap in the Swamp while she and Father Mulcahy toiled away. He'd rolled off his cot, gaping up at her with terror on all fours as she threatened to dump gruel on his head.

"Yes," he finally muttered. That was most certainly a heart palpitation she felt at the sound of his consent.

"Tell me, Major, what are you being punished for?"

Charles gulped at the question, which Margaret had uttered in a deeper, more commanding voice. How could his loins already be throbbing? He'd predicted she'd refer to him as Randolph, but her choice to refer to him by his very own military rank was certainly stimulating enough. Charles further pulled his thighs together, shutting his eyes in an attempt to regain control of his quivering muscles, the ache in his loins. How had he let Margaret cajole him into doing this?

"There are certainly several, ah, grievances I could list. Firstly, I should have informed you of my planned beseechment on Beacon Hill toda—"

"Let's just, uh, stick with the restaurant and go from there, hmm?"

"Right," he said, exhaling. "As you wish."

There was an awkward silence in which Margaret realized she'd have to take control of the exchange.

"What happened at the restaurant that you think you should be punished for?"

"I lost control of myself…" he murmured through gritted teeth, keeping his head down. It was an interesting thought, that getting the punishment aspect out of the way would clear his mind and allow him to move past the shame. Right now he was drowning in it.

"How so, exactly?"

His mouth was like cotton now, the words tangled in the dry confines of his mouth. Such a question she'd asked. The answer could be nothing but graphic.

"I made you… bend over and I…"

It was already becoming very difficult to speak due to the increase in his need to breathe more deeply.

"You what?"

"I entered you," he blurted, feeling a strange mix of shame and arousal at saying such words aloud. He allowed himself to look down the length of his body, at the growing tent in his pajama pants. How could the anticipation of physical punishment be so very entangled in pleasure?

"Oh my… what very lewd behavior that is," she said in her deeper voice, tsking. "How many strokes do you think you deserve for doing something so… obscene?"

"You're rather good at this; do you know that?" Charles babbled nervously.

It was then that she struck him unexpectedly with the riding crop. He yelped aloud, recoiling and clenching his muscles at the stinging sensation, his mind swimming as he considered this instrument that somehow meted equal measures of pleasure and pain.

"How many strokes, Major?"

"I don't know," he murmured, the pitch of his voice higher than usual. So it had begun, and it had not hurt nearly as badly as he'd presumed it would. "Ten? I'm not sure wh-what is customary."

"Ten it is. I want you to count out each stroke. Do you understand?"

He blinked then, feeling the trembling return, the now spreading heat on his backside, with the stark realization that he was again losing control of his body. How was this happening to him yet again, a man known for his sense of self-discipline and unflappable composure? He was falling apart at the seams and soon the real test would begin.

Another stroke landed and Charles could not help but buck forward, a whimper escaping his lips, having not realized it had already begun.

"Do you understand, Major?"

"You mean, you haven't even begun? Yes, I understand completely," he babbled, his voice breathy. "I will count out each stroke."

For a brief moment, he glanced behind him to see that Margaret had allowed the ties of her faux fur robe to fall open, revealing that she was wearing nothing beneath it. He shuddered as he took in the sight of her standing with implement in hand, the very essence of his earliest personification of her as half seductress and half Attila the Hun. How was he to tolerate this whipping when his body was longing for her so badly that it hurt?

The first official stroke found its mark. Charles jerked his head back around to the front as he reacted to the sudden stinging sensation of the crop striking him across the seat of his pants.

"One," he croaked, his voice breathy and weak. He prepared for the next stroke by again pulling his thighs together, hanging his head between his shoulders. His breaths were already coming in pants and he shut his eyes so tightly that he could see stars. This was utterly humiliating to endure… and yet what he felt was not humiliation in any sense of the word.

"Two." What was now more noticeable than the sting of the riding crop was the uncomfortable sensation between his legs. How was this punishment… arousing him so? Not only that, but he had many other legitimate reasons that he should repent, and yet at the moment, he could think of nothing more than his eager anticipation for the next stroke.

"Three," he whimpered, allowing himself to feel the sting of it, the heat that came from it. The fact that he had seven more strokes to endure made him gulp. It was entirely possible that he would sully his pajamas and earn himself even more strokes, were he not to force some semblance of control over his ever-increasing arousal.

At the fourth stroke, Charles was panting and wincing, his backside hot, rivulets of sweat dripping down the back of his neck. Never would he have imagined he could be deriving so much enjoyment from such an act of humiliation. How could his presenting himself to a woman to be whipped be so very stimulating?

"Four," he finally managed to utter. "Margaret, I am not certain how many more of these I can endure."

"Is it too hard?" she replied, her voice normal again as she spoke to him in her usual voice. He turned to look back at her, his face pained.

"It's not the pain that is the problem; it's the… pleasurable aspect of this. I… fear that the end is soon to come…" he was unable to finish his statement and turned his head to hang it yet again, wincing at his admission of weakness.

"Are you satisfied with your punishment?" Margaret asked now.

He peered down at himself and clenched his fists, steeling himself.

"Well, perhaps one more would suffice," he murmured quietly.

"Do you want the final stroke to be harder or softer, Major?"

"Harder," he heard himself utter, trembling yet again as he lowered his head, gritting his teeth tightly. "Please."


"Do you feel better now?" Margaret asked him, having returned to her side of the bed now, shrugging off her robe and lying back completely unclothed before him.

Charles had since sunk back onto his haunches on the bed, his backside burning, pajama pants straining at the seams as he peered over at Margaret. What she had done to him had been strangely cathartic in multiple ways, not only in the way of pleasure but in making him feel almost lackadaisical in considering the consequences of their restaurant tryst. Now she lifted her arms above her head affording him an uninhibited view of her body, her toothy grin growing until it had spread across her face. She was a goddess and he a mere mortal before her.

"In fact I do, though not quite in the manner I'd expected," he admitted, his voice croaky, a blush spreading to his face. Margaret had just seen him in quite the compromising state, and yet the fact that she was lying there now with a come-hither gaze took his breath away. Margaret was all he could see now, all he wanted to see and feel and know. Somehow she'd known exactly what he'd needed, in spite of its inherent unconventionality. His blue eyes locked on hers, his face serious. "I should like to repay you, Margaret."

"How so?"

"I'll have you know that my mouth is not only useful for reading lurid mystery novels and verbally besting my compatriots. I should like to reveal to you its, ahem, more private capabilities."

Margaret watched as Charles shifted over to her body, gently moving her legs apart. Now kneeling between her feet, he promptly lowered his earnest face into the junction between her thighs.


A/N: I love feedback of all kinds and you can see in real-time how much your feedback has meant to me regarding my speed of finishing and posting new chapters! So please, continue letting me know your thoughts and I will make it worth your while with rapid updates!