In Barbe Bound by F.E. Campbell, our heroine is a noble girl being delivered in bonds to her future husband. Only the men-at-arms are bored, and want some entertainment, so they tie her naked and upright beside their night fire:
When her figure drooped from fatigue and disgust Brastias revived it with a hearty slap across one cheek of her behind. It made a fine slapping sound and brought her erect in short order. Her cheeks flamed anew, her eyes flamed protest.
“That put life in the wench, Captain. Give her another.”
Brastias obliged. Her wince and grimace of pain from the stinging impact gave her audience a fresh interest.
“Let’s redden her arse, Captain!”
“Can’t we have a go?”
“T’lass can’t get pregnant with a hand.”
“Warm her up a bit. She could do with it.”
Brastias was amused. If he kept the spanks within bounds her rosy response would fade by the time Gurnie was reached. His lads deserved a bit of sport, the girl could damn well put up with it and count herself lucky. He gestured amiably. “We’ll form a line, boys. Once apiece. Pick your cheek. No bruises. Just the flat o’ yer hand.”
It was pure nightmare! Grotesque, bizarre, not to be borne! But it was happening. It was happening to her. She, Barbe the daughter of Camelford, was standing naked, hands held high to conceal nothing of herself in the firelight, to invite a troop of soldiers one by one to slap her bottom. No wildest story lewdly whispered had prepared her for this. It could not happen . . . It couldn’t!
At first she felt only shame. But as the calloused hands zestily succeeded each other the smart of her punished cheeks set it aside so that her first concern was with a now familiar enemy: pain. For the men it was a playful game vouchsafed them as a sop for the forbidden privilege of planting their seed within her sex. In that mood, each sought to extract the maximum in sound on impact. To do so might not hurt her as much as a solid thunk but the effect was more erotic and the subject’s response doubly pleasing. As ringing slap impinged on hollow spank, the blush on their victim’s face began to match the increasing scarlet of her gluteal curves. No matter which way she turned her nakedness each man accommodated himself to the new posture and struck her with immense panache. Quite early in the proceedings Barbe abandoned any twist of her torso which robbed a man of a satisfying slap. When she did this she was firmly grasped round her waist and given one on each cheek as a compensatory lesson. Thereafter she was grateful to rob them of nothing. She wanted no male hands upon her skin nor any additional inflictions. A girl learns fast.
“Nicest little butt I ever laid a hand to.”
“What say we do this all night!”
“She’ll be hotted up and ready by the time we’re done.”
“I’ll wager she’d willingly spread her legs.”
The tormented girl was indeed aware of a new sensation. Physical punishment was new to her. She had seen but not experienced the bite of thong or withe. She could not ignore the heat spreading through her loins. It was separate from the smarting sting but very much coupled with it. Most of the vulgarities passed her by, but she realized that hovering about her plight were implications at which she could only guess. She longed to clasp her hand between her legs in a quest of discovery.
“Another round, Captain?”
“T’lass’s rump can stand it.”
” ‘Tis but a blush she’s sporting. Let’s liven it up.” Brastias delivered a swinging strike that made his victim yelp. She had steeled herself to take what she must without the shame of cries or protests, but it had caught her unexpectedly. His laughing proclamation was even more distressing. “So be it, lads. There’s bounce there yet. Ye can warm her up again.”
“Oh, Captain, please?”
Barbe gazed at him in urgent appeal. Her bottom was afire, her senses jumbled and aflame. Her piteous plea went out to him from between her raised arms, bent elbows pointing, breasts taut. She turned to regard the men. They had already reformed their line.
“I have been a good prisoner. Why punish me?”
“Come lass, ’tis no punishment you’re getting. I’ll wager you’re wet between your legs.”
His jibe seemed to her irrelevant. The thing he now did shocked her to the core.
Steadying her shrinking form with one strong arm, he applied a kneading palm below. When she tried to cross her legs he kicked them roughly apart and had his way with her sex. Jubilantly he held his hand for her and all to see. It was wet and shining. He made an exaggerated performance of wiping it on the grass. Her face flamed. She longed to die. Or to live! For some terrible revenge . . .