Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Then his exhale rushes out of him, and I sense the ‘sir’ affected him more than I first thought.
He pauses a long moment, his breath stirring my hair.
“You still have marks from the last time.”
“Yes, Sir. I like them.” I need them.
“Do you?”
“I like being able to feel them.”
Something smooth and flat strokes down my back. It feels like the flap of a crop. He circles a particularly sore spot and presses on it. “Is this tender?”
I bite back a whimper. “Yes.”
“And now?” More pressure in that one fiery spot, hard and unrelenting.
“It hurts,” I gasp. So good.
“And you like the hurt.”
“I need it.”
“Well then, little bird. Let me give you what you need.” He steps back. “We’ll start with the crop this time.” There’s a snap, and the implement strikes my side, right on the tender swell of my hip. He hits it again. And again. The same spot, over and over, until I’m gasping and sweating, wrenching at the ropes. But with the way I’m tied, I can’t go far. I try to pull my arms out of their bonds, but there’s no escape.
“There you go.” He probes the red-hot patch of skin. “Nice and red now. Shall I make it bruise? It will be tender tomorrow. You’ll feel it when you walk. And if you need it. . .” He leans in close enough the fine hairs on my back rise. “You can press on it. And think of me.”
I’m crying now, tears mixing with snot as I sob into the cross.
“My poor little bird. So small and fragile and at my mercy.”
Snap! The crop bites that one aching spot again. Pain erupts and flows like lava through me, stealing the air out of my lungs.
“Let me set you free. Make you fly.”
I try to twist away from him, hide my hip, yet he still finds a way to tap the crop against that one stinging spot. My writhing rubs my nipples against the cross, stimulating them unbearably.
In the end, I dance from foot to foot, trying to disperse the pain. He hasn’t tied my feet. With my arms thoroughly bound, he doesn’t need to.
“Present your foot to me.”
Oh no. Is he serious?
I raise my foot and point the toe, giving him the perfect target. The crop prods the tender skin of my arch. Swiping up and down, almost tickling me. Then it snaps against my sole, and I cry out. But I keep my foot pointed for him to snap that one spot again and again. The pain splinters through me, blazing through my bones, the nerves of my foot lighting up the rest of my body.
My foot is throbbing so hard it takes a moment to realize he stopped cropping my foot some time ago.
“Good girl. Now, the other.”
I’m shaking, wincing as I shift my weight to my poor, beaten foot. When I finally press it into the floor, the pain takes my breath away. I whimper and collapse against the cross.
He hovers behind me, waiting. Patient. Inexorable. He doesn’t have to speak to assert his will over me.
I sniffle as I raise my left foot and point the toe. I don’t even try to hold myself upright, instead letting the cross and the ropes around my arms bear my weight. Each blow of the crop wracks my body.
“There,” he says in that beautifully deep voice, so gentle and cruel. “Whenever you take a step, you’ll think of me.”
The thought makes me so happy I sob harder. Sweat rolls down my back, and I’m panting like I’ve run up seven flights of stairs.
He’s hit me in only three places, and I’m already undone.
“Shhhh,” he says. Something stirs my hair, and I freeze. My hair tie must have given up the fight because my bun is half undone. My hair tumbles down my back, and he’s lifting it. Not with the crop. With his fingers, he sifts through the thick strands. Touching me. It feels so good, and I can lean into it, protected from him as I am by his gloves. “Good girl. My good, beautiful girl.”
He drops a hand and presses into the fiery spot on my hip. I shriek and rise to tiptoe, but he follows me, pushing his gloved fingers into my bruised flesh.
Endorphins bloom through me, lifting me up. I can’t tell when he steps away. I still feel the imprint of his fingers on my side.
“You’ve done so well.” He tucks my hair over my shoulder, out of the way and wipes my face with a soft cloth that bears a trace of his cologne. He holds a water bottle to my lips, and I drink greedily until I’m full.
It still takes me a moment to clear my throat to ask, “Are we done?”
“Do you want this to be over?”
“No.” Not by a long shot. But I’m not sure if I can take any more.