Goodnight Grace

All characters in sexual situations are 18 years of age and older.

*

Whitechapel, London 1887

"Grace!" The angry tone in her stepfather's voice made Grace freeze mid-sweep. With nervous hands, she leaned the broom against the wall of their cramped East End tenement. She had just enough time to wipe the soot off her modest pink dress and put on her sweetest expression before her stepfather burst through the door.

"Grace, you thoughtless chit! Do you 'ave any idea the kind ov trouble you could 'ave put me in?"

"I'm sorry Papa." Grace tilted her round face to look up at her Papa with the big baby blue eyes that often softened him when he was in a temper.

Owen Blythe wasn't such a bad fellow really. Granted, he was an unrepentant thief and a petty conman but he had his good qualities. He certainly wasn't bad to look at. Now middle-aged, his ruggedly handsome face had only improved over time. Lines had started to form at the corners of his sharp brown eyes. Eyes that always seemed to be searching for the next big score. Silvery streaks had crept into his chestnut hair. The salt and pepper scruff of a permanent 5 o'clock shadow completed his decidedly rakish look. A look that said, 'sure I might swindle you but I promise to make it an enjoyable experience.'

Most importantly Owen had done right by Grace's mother. They had been married for less than a year when her mother died in childbirth. Suddenly he found himself a widower saddled with a shy, skinny, ten-year-old stepdaughter. He handled the situation tolerably well considering he could easily have bundled Grace off to the work house or sold her maidenhead to the highest bidder. Instead he merely put her to work as maid, hostess, occasional lookout and any other odd job he and his cozy band of thieves needed.

For the last eight years Papa had kept a roof over her head, clothes on her back and food in her belly. He was never cruel and was even a jovial fellow once he had a few pints in him. Too bad for her, Grace could tell by the sharpness of his gaze that he was presently stone cold sober.

"Don't try them eyes on me." He snapped at her. "I 'ad to do a runner from the Bow Street boys. I coulda been pinched! 'anged even! And then where would you be? A pre'y girl at the tender age ov eigh'een 'aving to make 'er way alone on the streets of Whitechapel. You'd be selling yourself in the gutter in no time."

Grace's eyes grew even wider at the frightful prospect. It was undeniable that the fetching combination of Grace's innocent face, topped by a halo of golden blonde curls, and the womanliness of her figure seemed to draw male attention of the least desirable sort.

"Please, I really am sorry I fell asleep on my watch." She pleaded.

It was little wonder she had fallen asleep. She had been up most of the night before serving drinks to her stepfather's lackeys and then had spent the following day cleaning up after them. Thieves' lairs were hardly known for their cleanliness but Grace always strove to make the place look more like a home and less like the den of iniquity that it was. Yet that didn't leave much time for sleep. So, when she was supposed to be acting as lookout while the crew nicked the luggage off a rich gents carriage she had dozed off in the back of a straw cart.

Exhaustion seemed a reasonable excuse to Grace but she knew better than to try it on her stepfather. Instead she jutted her quivering bottom lip out in a contrite pout.

"Save your performance. I ain't the only one you be owin' an apology to." Her Papa said. It was then that Grace heard footsteps on the stairs.

"I 'ope you 'aven't started wivout us, Owen." A gruff booming voice announced seconds before the two large men barreled through the door.

First came Ollie, his lumbering frame filling the entirety of the doorway. The bloke appeared to be made up entirely of rough cut angles and course materials. Arms that looked like they could crush tree trucks crossed a sprawling barrel chest. With the addition of a pronounced brow ridge and a squared off jaw, it was as if he had been fashioned from a model of man that had been discontinued since the paleolithic era.

At five-and-thirty Ollie had been Owen's right-hand man since Grace could remember. The one he looked to when violence could be at all useful. A genuine ruffian, at least to most. Over the years Grace had grown accustomed to Ollie's intimidating presence. She flattered herself she had even grown on him as well. It's true he never smiled outright but he seemed to scowl a bit less in her company.

Hot on Ollie's heels followed his colleague; Troy Townsend. Somewhere in his twenties, he was the youngest of the motley crew and the most recent addition. Tall, lean, well-dressed and devilishly handsome; he was the one to be called upon when charm and finesse were in order.

It would be hard to conceive of a starker contrast from Ollie's roughly hewn appearance to Troy's highly polished appeal. Black hair, slicked back in the current fashion, framed his finely shaped features. He sported a posh silk jacket and a smartly accented voice, very unlike the tatty attire and cockney drawl of the locals. One could almost mistake him for a bonafide gentleman, that is until he smiled revealing a mouth full of leering gold teeth. The golden thread of his grin gave him a rapacious look more suited to dark alleys than Society drawing rooms.

"Evening Miss Grace." Troy swept into an elegant bow. Blue eyes, at once intense and playful, peered beneath dark, slashing brows.

He pointed that scorching gaze squarely in Grace's direction. She looked away as quickly as possible but the damage was done. She could already feel desire tearing through her, stealing her breath and weakening her knees.

The inexplicable physical reaction that came over her whenever Troy was near meant that Grace both eagerly anticipated and fiercely dreading each encounter

"Evening Mr. Townsend." Grace's trembling legs bent into a timid courtesy. Head lowered, she looked up at him through a veil of thick lashes. She paused there and they maintained eye contact for a few seconds longer than etiquette strictly required.

"Ahem-" The impatient throat clearing of her stepfather rang out, rather spoiling the mood. "Now that the niceties is out ov the way perhaps we can get down to the business at 'and."

After another moment of smirking down at Grace, Troy finally broke their gaze. "Right you are, as always, sir."

Grace watched as Troy handed Owen a bag she hadn't noticed before. Though she had been too wrapped up in Mr. Townsend's fine eyes to notice much of anything. Silly girl. It is always best to stay on your toes when dealing with scoundrels. Even ones with fine eyes. She inwardly chided herself for the lapse in focus while Owen rummaged about in the bag. What he retrieved there certainly captured her full attention; a bundle of birch twigs secured by a bright red ribbon.

Owen gestured with the birch to the end of the long wooden table that dominated the room. "You know the drill, Gracie."

Grace had been expecting a punishment. It was not uncommon for her Papa to administer discipline when she displeased him. She acknowledged that she may even deserve it this time. However, she had not expected an audience. Especially a male audience. And especially one particular audience member that made her cheeks flush and her knees knock.

She took a calming breath and forced her shaky legs to carry her to the end of the table. You can do this. All eyes were on her as she leaned over the edge and slowly lifted her skirts above her waist to reveal the thin white drawers beneath.

"Them too," Owen gestured to her undergarments.

She looked back at his two associates who stood on either side watching the proceeding with brazen interest. Humiliation colored her cheeks a deeper pink. "Papa please-"

"Off!" He bellowed in a tone that would brook no argument.

Grace quickly wriggled the garment off her rounded hips and let them drop to the ground. Cool air rushed in to caress the creamy expanse of her backside, enhancing her sense of exposure.

"Open" The tip of the birch rod prodded her thighs until her legs were far enough apart for his liking. Her upper body was forced forward so that her full chest pressed against the rough wooden boards. With her bottom raised thusly Grace knew the men could glimpse the smooth pink flesh of her most private place. A place so private that she had only dare brush against it in the bathtub. Now on display for the world to see.

Once she was in position Owen stepped back, the roaring hearth casting his long shadow across Grace's eyeline. Shutting her eyes tight, she waited anxiously, the seconds stretching on.

"Now count." Owen commanded, one armed raised high. With that he brought the birch down on her bottom. It whistled through the air and connected with a sharp whack.

"One!" She croaked, her eyes forced wide open by the unexpected force of the first blow. Far harder than the halfhearted spankings she had received in the past.

"Two!" The second landed on the opposing cheek with even more savagery. The swat sent a quivering shock wave through the soft round mass. Grace felt the impact vibrate through her whole frame.

"Three!" The next made contact across the path of the first strike with a loud snap. The kiss of the branches left pinpricks of pain behind. Pain that seemed to unfurl and bloom long after the blow had landed. Grace had to bite her tongue to stop from screaming.

"Four, ow!!" She could no longer hold back a high-pitched squeal as the rod caught the sensitive flesh on her inner thigh.

"Go on, you can do 'arder than that, she ain't made ov glass." Ollie cheered from the sidelines. Yet Troy was unusually quiet.

Grace glanced over her shoulder to see him out of the corner of her eye. His steely blue eyes were fixed on her, silently witnessing her humiliation with sharp scrutiny. She could feel the blush spread further down her chest.

The fifth was the hardest yet. "Five!" It made her backside tense and clench. The entire area flared with heat. She waited long seconds for the fiery sting to slowly convert to a warm tingle.

"Six, ahhh!" The birch whipped against her bottom, wresting another choked scream from her lips. Her breath was now coming in short gasps, fists clutching tightly to the fabric of her skirt.

The individual strokes were not unbearable but the building heat made each strike feel more painful than the last. To make matters worse something was happening. Her body was responding in peculiar ways. The burning in her backside had traveled to the place between her thighs, making the flesh there tingle and throb. She felt telltale wetness gathering in the soft curls that adorned her feminine folds.

Grace tried to ignore the perplexing flickers of desire, knowing that a proper young lady would never have such a shameful reaction to a spanking. So what did that make her? In the past, she had always managed to tamp those feelings down. But there was no suppressing the blaze of lust that presently scalded her. It was mortifying.

"Seven." She gasped out as a whistling stroke hit the sensitive lips of her swollen sex. The sharp edge of pain was accompanied by a shocking jolt of pleasure. Grace bit back a needful moan, not wanting her audience to see just how aroused she was becoming.

A complex storm of emotions drove her deeper into a maelstrom of confusion. She could no longer distinguish the line separating pain from pleasure, humiliation from arousal. It felt so good but so wrong. Tears of shame sprang up in her eyes.

"Eight. Nine!" She gasped for breath as the birch struck one buttock and then the other.

"Tell the lads 'ow sorry you is." Owen growled, slightly out of breath.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She sobbed as a few more lashes struck faster and harder than before. It was too much. Hot tears fell in streams down her flushed cheeks. Her hips were no longer under her control, they bucked and bounced in a vain attempt to escape the burning lashes. "Please, it won't happen again, I swear."

Finally, the blows stopped and Owen's arm dropped to his side. Grateful that the painful and embarrassing punishment was over, Grace swiftly dropped her skirts back to the ground to conceal her swollen, red behind. Composing herself quickly, she choked back her final sobs and dried her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Now what do we say?" Her Papa spoke to her like she was a naughty child.

"Thank you for the correction Sir. But if you please I really must be getting back to-"

"Not so fast girl. We ain't done wiv you yet." Owen halted her. "If it were only me I'd let you off easy. But you didn't just let me down, you put Ollie and Troy at risk as well. It seems only reasonable that they 'ave their turn... correcting you."

She groaned and began to throw her skirts back up.

"That won't be necessary. We got anovver punishment in mind. It should teach you the importance of keeping one's wits about 'em." Owen's dark eyes twinkled in the way that they always did whenever he was devising a devious plan.

Grace felt a moment of relief learning that her tender pink arse would be spared further torment. Yet a tingle of apprehension traveled down her spine as Owen again reached for his bag of tricks. After a quick search, he produced a small white rag and a mysterious brown bottle. The bottle's liquid contents glimmered ominously in the firelight.

"Lil' somefing I got from a crooked chemist. Chloroform, a wonder of the modern age." Owen explained, noticing her curious expression. As he spoke he carefully poured a generous amount of the clear liquid onto the rag.

"Please Papa I-"

In an instant he was upon her, attempting to press the cloth to Grace's face. Fortunately, she managed to twist away and sprint towards the other end of the long table. She wasn't quite sure what this 'modern wonder' did but she was quite sure she didn't wish to find out.

For a long moment they eyed one another from opposite sides of the table. Her expression a mixture of dread and determination. His one of predatory intensity. The other two men flanked her in a loose circle, corralling her like a prey animal. Abruptly she feigned left and Owen followed. She then quickly turned the other way. He chased her until they had made an entire rotation around the table. Neither had gained or lost any ground.

Owen let out a frustrated growl like a bull waiting to charge. And charge he did as he suddenly rushed towards her. Thinking quickly, Grace grabbed a nearby chair and pushed it between her and her bullish pursuer. She took a few rapid steps back. Unfortunately, that landed her right into Ollie's firm clutches. His hand wrapped around her waist, pinning her against his chest with her arms trapped at her side.

The poor girl barely had a moment to scream before the villain produced a cloth he had been concealing behind his back and pressed it over her mouth. She swore into her captor's palm but it only came out as incoherent mumbles. They'd tricked her, the devious swine! They'd led her right to him. She wriggled in his grasp but considering that Ollie's biceps were about as thick as Grace's waist, it wasn't exactly a fair fight. The more she fought the tighter his grip became like the coils of a python.

It was only when she sucked in her first deep breath that Grace noticed the sickly-sweet scent invading her nostrils. Chloroform. A powerful surge of dizziness struck her like a blow. The world around her seemed to spin wildly on its axis. Her eyes widened in astonishment. Battling the sudden prevailing urge to close them, she thrashed violently but Ollie easily lifted her petite frame off the ground, letting her kicking legs fly out harmlessly. He wasn't the least bit bothered by her fruitless struggles. On the contrary, his obvious excitement at her distress was evidenced by the hard erection insistently prodding her backside.

"Don't fight it luv'." Owen advised in a matter-of-fact sort of way. "Be a good girl now and maybe I won't let these boys have their fun with you while you're out. Though I ain't sure that's fair. You lost them money and compensation must be paid, if not in cash then in-kind."

Ollie chuckled and adjusted his grip so that his big brutish hand was grasping onto her breasts through the thin muslin of her dress. He kneaded the full spheres roughly causing Grace to scream louder under the muffling cloth. Her thoughts were becoming slow and muddled but she could still comprehend the sinister meaning of her stepfather's words and the sinister intent of his lackey's hands. Panic enveloped her, giving her one last burst of adrenaline. She renewed her kicking and flailing but it was no use. A frightening numbness had crept through her arms and legs, rendering them practically useless.

The spinning was out of control now. The tiny room was closing in around her and pitching like a ship on stormy seas. Heavy weights seemed to pull at her eyelids, compelling them to close.

The other two men closed in from either side. They were speaking to her but she could hardly make out their words over the far-off ringing sound in her head. Occasional fragments drifted in from another time and place, urging her to 'breathe deep' and 'let go'.

"Atta girl, take your medicine and go to sleep." Owen's voice broke through the haze, his formerly brusque tone had turned soothing, almost sweet.

Sleep. Yes, that sounded so very tempting. The siren song of the sandman was calling to her. Somewhere deep-down she knew she shouldn't answer but she could no longer remember why.

"Sweet dreams, Gracie." A husky whisper rang in her ear.

Grace breathed a small sigh of surrender and then all was shadows.

* * *

The next thing Grace knew she was lying on the hard floor. Cold, cramped and confused. She lay still for a bit, hardly even able to open her eyes. Her mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton and her mind felt hazier than London fog. The chill in the air seemed to be sweeping all over her. It was then she looked down to discover she had been stripped of all her clothes, apart from her white stockings.

Memories came rushing back to her in a flash. The terror of her last few moments of consciousness played in her mind with agonizing detail. The sweet-smelling rag, the futile struggling, and then the enveloping darkness. But what happened after that? she wondered with a shudder.

Finally willing her sluggish body to move, Grace stretched her stiff limbs and was suddenly conscious of a deep soreness between her thighs. With a probing finger, she tentatively explored the area of her sex. It was slick, swollen and very sensitive.

Close by the sound of male laughter echoed through the room. Cautiously Grace spied the three rogues drinking and laughing at the table. They had all divested of their jackets and were playing cards and drinking in a relaxed manner. The fire had mostly burned down, suggesting she had been unconscious for quite some time.

Grace's heart raced. She had to get away! With quaking legs, she tried to stand but her stocking feet slip out from under her. Thud! Her knee hit the floor.

"Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakes." Owen announced calmly, no doubt alerted by the commotion.

"Bout bloody time. Round two, it's your turn Troy." Ollie casually tossed Troy the bottle and went right back to his cards.

"Good evening Miss Grace. I trust you had a pleasant rest." Troy quite deliberately set his brandy glass on the table and rose. She watched with growing apprehension as he sauntered towards her, looking every inch the dark, dangerous rake.

He smiled, flashing his golden grin. How very good it looked on him.