Page 32 of Captive Ruin

He spanks me with blow after blow, alternating cheeks with a steady rhythm. If I thought the first one didn’t hurt, my ass is burning after a dozen. It’s on fire by the time I lose count.

By the time he stops, I’m almost sobbing with the indignity of it. The pain is bearable; the helplessness and degradation are not. Tears leak through my clenched lids.

Then his hand caresses gently over one bruised cheek, and it’s so soothing that I can’t help the gasp that slips out.

“Did I mention how gorgeous your ass is?”

I don’t bother to reply, but I think he did, now that he’s asked. He called it beautiful, back on the terrace. Then threatened to fuck it.

He strokes lightly over my other side, like he’s shaping his palm to the curve, and that feels too good. Then he grips both cheeks in his hands, and spreads me open.

“Are you going to behave, now?”

“I’ll never do what you tell me,” I hiss at him. “Never. Never.”

“We’ll see.” There’s a brief pause. “I like how wet you get when I spank you.”

“No!” The word is involuntary. I’m not more aroused. I don’t accept that. It can’t be true.

But his fingers dip between my legs, gliding through my folds, and I can no longer deny how wet I am. Is it just because of what I was doing before he arrived? Or is it more now, as he claims?

I draw in a sharp breath, my hips rising. He teases my entrance, circles my clit, and brushes a fingertip across it. His touch is too damn effective. It’s like he knows exactly what I like, exactly how I would be doing it if I was pleasuring myself. Only when it’s him, and not me, it’s even more arousing.

No. Don’t get turned on by this.

But it’s impossible not to. My body is responding to him, and I’m not even trying to resist. I don’t want it, I don’t want him, but I can’t deny how good it feels.

There’s nothing I can do to prevent him, and the position gives him all the access he needs. I can only imagine how I look to him, even when he’s not spreading me open. A whimper slips out, but it’s shame, nothing more. I bite my lip until I taste blood, trying to fight my responses with pain.

He doesn’t stop. Minutes pass, and I’ve no idea how many. I’m trying to resist him, I really am, but he’s relentless. I’m suddenly aware I’m making noises into the sofa cushion. The pleasure is building, and I can’t stave it off. He’s not even rubbing my clit like he’s forcing it on me, but instead he’s teasing me with repeated, gentle touches.

It’s so much worse. So much harder to withstand.

I try to squirm away, but my legs are pinned. My hips won’t move enough, and he follows me easily. I’m only giving him a view with all my squirming, and achieving nothing.

Then he slides a finger inside me, stroking my g-spot, and focuses on my clit too. It’s too much, and I crash through into my release, wailing my shame into the cushion of my couch.

“I told you this is what you wanted,” he says, as he brushes a fingertip across my clit, sending an aftershock through me.

“Fuck you.” The words come out through gritted teeth, my face pressed into the cushions, my bottom lifting of its own accord. I can’t fight what he’s inflicted upon me, and I can’t fight him. I hate him with every fiber of my being.

“I didn’t catch that,” the bastard says. “One more time?”

I turn my head to the side, so there’s nothing muffling my voice. “Fuck. You.”

“You sound a little bitter,” he observes. “Have I not been gentle? Have I not been considerate? Are you professing that you don’t like this?”

Is he serious right now?

Gentle? When he gripped my throat? All but tore my robe off me? When my ass is throbbing with his spanks?

Considerate, when he’s bound my wrists and forced me face-down across his lap, despite my protests?

And he thinks I like this?

“You’re fucking delusional.”

“And you’re stubborn. We both know you’ve been thinking of me since the terrace. We both know this is your fantasy.” His finger toys with my entrance, spreading my wetness around, as if to illustrate his point. “I’m giving you what you want, what you need.”