Pistols At Dawn #WickedWednesday

This flash of fiction was inspired by a conversation I had with the wonderfully inspiring Super Astro, who seems to find new ways to intrigue me on the regular and has a way with historical insults that is really rather arousing. 

Pistols at Dawn 

 

It was the ball of the season and in a crowd of cat suits and bondage gear Beatrice stood out in her red, regency ball gown. Elaborately embroidered with gold thread, cinched at the waist and billowing down to below her ankles. Her hair raised in an elaborate up-do that made her ever so aware of the length of her bared neck.

She was casually chatting to her friends when she heard her name screamed across the room in rage. She looked over her shoulder to see Edwin striding in her direction. She turned to face him and tried hard not to be distracted by his tight, white breeches that clung so appealingly to his thighs.

“What Scurrilous poppycock have you been spreading about me, wench?” He growled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sir.” She replied icily, drawing up her body and standing poker straight.

“Are you claiming innocence, trollop?” He stood in front of her, hip cocked, green eyes burning with anger.

“I am innocent, you mutton-headed flapdoodle.” She snapped back, squaring up to him.

“Do not raise your voice to me, wench, when you have cast aspersions on my good name.”

Again Beatrice fought to ignore his strong shoulders encased in his impeccably tailored green silk tailcoat, the fire in his eye, the line of his jaw. She couldn’t drop out of character now, this was only the beginning.

“You would have to have a good name in the first place you villainous scoundrel!” Beatrice screamed at the top of her voice. The room was quiet. All eyes were on them, it was quite the scene, would be quite the scandal.

“Addled brained sauce box!” He thrust his face into hers and almost without thought she slapped him, hard across the cheek.

“Don’t call me names, you vile cur. I am a lady and you are a cad. A bounder. You sir, are a rake.”

“No more slander from your impetuous mouth, you are in enough trouble, Don’t push me any further.”

He plucked at the fingers of his glove, fidgeting, or so it seemed in his agitation.

“You are the one who came in here shouting and bawling and causing a stir, why am I the one in trouble?”

Edwin pulled off his glove and held it in the other hand. Before Beatrice could react he lashed out and slapped her hard across the face with it.

She grabbed her cheek, her eyes watered at the pain and the shock.

“You, you, you can’t challenge a lady to a duel!” She squeaked, indignantly.

“We are in the age of equality, Beatrice, are you claiming that you want some kind of special treatment because of your weaker sex? “

“Of course not!” She shook her head.

“Then meet me tomorrow, a little before Dawn at the clearing in the wood. We will use the Irish Code Duello and as such I swear on my honour that I am no swordsman.”

“Pistols then?” Beatrice replied.

“Pistols.” Edwin nodded. “See you on the morrow.” He turned on his heel and left the room. The chatter resumed as Beatrice stood, still holding her stinging cheek. Wondering what the hell she’d let herself in for.

 

 

At least it was dry, Beatrice thought as she picked her way through the woodland as the night lightened ever so slowly and headed to dawn. She would be able to see where she was shooting, the disadvantage being, so would he.

When she walked into the clearing, he was already there. Dressed in the same high black boots, tight white breeches, high necked white shirt and dark forest green tailcoat.  Her heart thumped harder or at least she was aware of it’s quickening from the echo of it’s beating in her ears.

“Nice of you to show up.” He didn’t look up from the box laying in front of him on the trunk of a fallen tree. She thought she was moving quietly, how did he know she was there?

“Let’s get on with it, Edwin. I have a big breakfast planned.” Beatrice fained nonchalance.

“Pick your weapon.” He gestured to the box before him.

She looked in to see two long barrelled, wood and brass effect guns. It’s not so easy to find flintlocks in the 21st Century, so steampunked nerf guns would have to do.

“How do I know these haven’t been messed with?” She asked.

“Are you casting yet more aspersions, Beatrice? You can take my word as a gentleman, both of these weapons are in perfect working order.”

“You pick first.” Beatrice insisted.

He reached in and picked one out.

“Thank you.” She took the pistol from his hand with a wink.

He sighed loudly.

“How do we do this?” Beatrice asked. “Aren’t there meant to be other people here? People to check everything is above board?”

“No one wanted to get up at five am in the bloody morning,” he complained, “so we’ll just have to do it ourselves. We’ll stand back to back and walk ten paces, turn and shoot.”

“Okay.” She wasn’t completely convinced of the authenticity of this approach but she also hadn’t read all of the 25 rules in the Irish Duello either. She would have to take his word for it.

They stood back to back in the centre of the clearing. The dawn chorus sung enthusiastically around them as the sun rose, slicking the area in peachy morning light.

“When you say ‘go’ we will walk forward, counting our paces aloud. When we reach ten, we’ll turn and shoot. Understood.”

“Yes, Sir.” She replied, her typical honorific slipping through the regency setting of their scene.

And after taking a long, deep breath. She said it.

“Go.”

Each step she counted. Stepping as far as she could stride, wanting to put as much space between her and the hard-tipped bullets in Edwin’s gun.  She was so taken up in counting her own steps she barely registered him counting out his own.

“Eight.” She said then squealed at the hard impact to her back. Another struck and she turned round.

“You cheating scoundrel!” She yelled. As he faced her down, laughing as he took another step forward and shot again. His aim was good as this bullet hit her in the centre of her chest.

“Stop besmirching my honour, strumpet.” He cried.

“You are literally cheating right now!” Beatrice shouted in exasperation and strode purposefully towards him.

“Shoot me then!” He cried. Walking quicker. “Come on. Shoot me, wench.”

She held her finger over the trigger but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Another bullet pinged off her arm. It stung and she growled with frustration. He was only a few steps away but she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t pull the trigger. He shot her again. It hit her squarely in the chest, momentarily taking her breath away. Edwin threw his gun to the floor, strode forward once more and ended up nose to nose with Beatrice.

“Shoot me.” He enunciated every word slowly with care.

She stared him straight in the eye, her gun pointed at his gut, but she still couldn’t pull the trigger.

“Right then.” He yanked the pistol from her hand and she screamed, she threw her hand forward in a limp attempt to slap him, he clasped his fist around her wrist and held her in place. She yelped. He pressed the gun against her side.

“Apologise.” His breath tickled her ear he was so close. Their noses virtually touched.

She clamped her mouth shut.

“No?” He rammed the gun into her ribs.

Air hissed from between her teeth but she refused to repent.

He drew the gun back and she relaxed then regretted it. He pulled it back only far enough to be able to shoot and hit her in the ribs. He let all of the bullets fly in quick succession and she tumbled to her knees. The shockingly painful impact crumpling all stiff indignation from her.

“I’m sorry,” She cried out, “I relent!”

“I’m afraid you can’t.” She could hear the pleasure in his words. She looked up into his stark, green eyes and saw the sadistic gleam there at the confusion on her face.

“You see, rule five of the Irish Duello states that you cannot offer a verbal apology because you physically assaulted me.”

She remembered the feel of his cheek beneath her hand, the sting of the slap as it reverberated through her arm and into her soul. It had felt good at the time but now she regretted it.

“What can I do?” She asked, desperately.

“Well, you can offer to let me beat you with a stick until I’m satisfied.” He nodded his head back casually towards the fallen trunk. Propped up against it was a thick black cane, with a silver, ball handle. She hadn’t noticed before.

“Is that the only way?” She threw all her feminine wiles behind the full frontal, wide eyed assault of her begging gaze. She even clasped her hands together in front of her, as if ardently praying.

“Or death.” He shrugged.

“That isn’t much of a choice.” Beatrice sighed.

“But it is a choice all the same. Make it, Beatrice, I haven’t got all day.”

The cold of the grass seeped up through her knees, the bird song seemed to have disappeared and all she could hear was her own breathing.

“The stick.” She whispered. Edwin reached down, grasped her hair in his fist and pulled.

“The stick, please, Sir.” She repeated, louder.

“That’s more like it.” He mumbled, released her and walked back towards the tree trunk.

It was only when he picked up the cane that he looked back at her.  He beckoned her forward with his free hand.

Beatrice stood, aware of the aches of the ricocheted bullets and the cold soreness in her knees. She hurried towards him. When she reached the wide, gnarled trunk, he tapped it with the end of the stick. She knew what she had to do so bent over the large log without a moment’s more hesitation. Beatrice had decided it was probably best not to anger him anymore.

He pulled back her shirts, cool wind caressed the back of her legs. She felt so exposed and even more so when he pulled down her knickers with one brutal tug. As she waited, nerves strung out to the finest of lines, she wondered how long it had taken him to find a spot with a log at perfect spanking height.

He didn’t warm, not even with one slap. He went straight in with a cane strike. She knew it was light but even so it stung. The next was harder as was the one following that. As the pressure increased Beatrice became more and more aware of the bark rubbing against her dress (her poor, beautiful dress) and pricking against her skin beneath.

She wasn’t counting but it didn’t take many hits before he made her scream. The initial impact of each strike was a deep thud but the aftershock was all sharp sting.

Just as she processed the pain, fell into his rhythm and felt like she had some control, he flipped the cane and a ball of cold, hard metal thudded against her instead.

Over and over, the punching, thudding pain screamed through her buttocks and thighs. She wasn’t sure which was worse, which was best, she wasn’t even sure who she was any more, all she knew was pain and it felt so good.

“Besmirch my good name will you?” He growled then changed back to using the walking stick as a thick cane. He dropped it once more across her reddening buttocks.

“No,” Beatrice cried.

“But you did!” He exclaimed, bringing the cane down all the harder.

“Never again!” She sobbed and writhed over the log.

“Really?”

“I promise,” Her voice was a squeak then a visceral squeal as the falling cane brought up yet another welt. Her backside felt like it was on fire.

“I promise, Sir, I promise!” She babbled. Unsure how much more she could take.  She was relieved to hear the cane clatter against the log followed by the rustle of clothing. Moments later his big hands clutched at her waist and his hard, straining cock pressed between her hot, sore buttocks.

Beatrice yelped, then whimpered. She loved pain, it heightened her pleasure and when Edwin pushed his dick against her cunt he found her wet and pliant. A beating was her favourite form of foreplay.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” He groaned, “and tight.” He slid forward and slowly she opened to him, moaning and gasping as her walls relaxed and clenched in orgasmic pleasure around him.

Pain alone could make her come. Pain combined with him inside her caused her to roll and writhe in continual ecstasy. Once Edwin was deep within her, he held still for just one moment. The air vibrated with anticipation and then he fucked her. Hard.

She squealed as her poor battered bum was hit over and over by his thrusting pelvis. She squeaked as the bark bit into her where she lay between a rock and a hard place—so to speak—and cursed as he dug his fingers into her hips, her ribs, her back. He searched out and found the sore spots from the bullet impacts from their pistol fight.

She rode the pain, found the pleasure and yelled her delight as they rutted with all the refinement of a train at full steam. She was a rag doll beneath his onslaught, pliant and all languid of limb. He used her, she loved it. He dominated where she submitted and as she convulsed in masochistic ecstasy he came, digging his nails into her back, clawing with sadistic delight.

He tumbled to the ground, energy escaping him. She followed him, with as little grace, nuzzling into his body, letting him enfold her in his embrace.

“Next time, I get to yell about a slight and demand my honour be satisfied.” Beatrice yawned.

“Okay, it seems only fair.” He kissed her neck, his lips cricked in a smile. “But you realise I’ll always win the duel.”

“Because I let you.” She teased, encompassing the truth of their dynamic without effort.

“Shut your Insolent mouth, wench.” He growled and pulled her hair until she mewled her submission once more.

“Why don’t you shut it for me?” She purred, arched and pressed her breasts against his chest.

And he did, with a kiss.

Restitution made.

Honour restored.