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He snapped the tongue of the long-handled crop against his palm, enjoying her wince at the smacking sound of leather against skin. “You’ve said you’re sorry. Now is your chance to atone. But don’t worry about trying to stay quiet. It turns me on to hear you scream.”
~*~
Callie’s heart raced, her breath catching in her throat. The tiny bite of food almost made it worse than if she’d had nothing. At least she’d been able to slurp several handfuls of water from the sink faucet.
It was creepy that he’d found her birth control pills, but of course it made sense. He’d naturally gone through her purse when he’d kidnapped her. And she was glad to have them. Imagine the horror of being impregnated by this monster?
At least her phone was passcode protected. The thought of him pretending to be her and sending out texts was horrifying. Had he even brought the phone to wherever they were now? Did it still have any juice left? Could her location be determined if someone was looking for her?
Even as hope surged, she knew it was extremely unlikely. The odds were good he’d gotten rid of her phone from the get-go. While he was clearly deranged and dangerous, he wasn’t stupid.
All other thoughts fell away as she stared up at the ominous cross. She’d read so many novels about submissives undergoing slave training, but the stories had been sexy, not terrifying. She’d often fantasized about what it would feel like to be restrained on a cross or rack, naked and at the mercy of her dominant lover.
But those fantasies had been nothing like this. Damon wasn’t her lover. He was her captor. And there was nothing safe, sane or consensual about what was going on.
The spanking had been bad enough, his hard palm crashing down again and again until her ass felt like it was on fire. But that riding crop looked wicked. Could it draw blood?
The thought made her shudder. A whimper of fear very nearly escaped her lips. She never could stand the sight of her own blood. She’d once made the mistake of participating in a blood drive, and as she watched the bright red blood filling those plastic vials, she’d passed out cold. Afterward, she’d been advised that she was not an ideal donor, to put it mildly.
Don’t think about it, she warned herself. Just get through this.
She would take the punishment because what choice did she have? But no way was she going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream. She was strong. She was brave. She would swallow her cries along with the pain. She would retreat into herself until it was over.
Hopefully.
He disappeared behind her. “Fifty swats,” he said. “You’ll count each one out loud. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Counting would be good. It would help to distract her from the pain, and give her a goal.
The first smack landed on her left cheek with a slap. It wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d feared, and much less painful than his palm had been.
“One,” she dutifully called out.
The second slap landed on the other cheek, the sting easily manageable.
“Two.”
She relaxed, just a little. She could get through this.
The third strike landed with considerably more force, making her understand the first two had just been warm ups, more for his arm than her flesh. This time, the sting was tenfold in intensity, sending a shock through her system. Despite her promise to herself, she yelped in pain.
“Count,” he snapped behind her. “Or we start again at one.”
“Three,” she cried, wondering how in the hell she’d get through forty-seven more.
As she breathlessly counted, the crop rained down against her ass until every inch of flesh was burning. Though the room was cool, she was soon sweating, her body trembling, her heart hammering. She could barely catch her breath to form the words as she cried out the numbers.
At thirty, mercifully, the pain began to lessen, though the blows were just as hard as before. As had happened toward the end of the spanking, her skin was numbing, or perhaps she was just adjusting to the constant barrage of pain.
Twenty more, she encouraged herself. More than halfway done. You can do this!
But then the crop stung her inner thigh. She gasped, tears filling her eyes as she forced herself to keep up the count. The thought of starting over was unbearable.
He was relentless, smacking at her inner thighs until she gave up the fight to remain silent, save for the required counting. She screamed with each searing blow, the tears flowing freely down her face, sweat trickling down her sides and into her eyes.
“Forty-nine,” she finally gasped.
The final blow landed squarely between her legs, the force of the smack lifting her to her toes. The blinding pain and sudden shock of being hit directly on her spread sex took her breath away.
