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“I’m so-sorry,” I stutter, suppressing my absolute suffering as this is the only way to make him stop.
“Who do you belong to?” he asks, breathless and manic.
“You.” And the air fills with victory.
I want to cut out my own tongue for surrendering, but I can’t take anymore.
He uses his foot to part my legs slightly as he coaxes my ankles apart. I wonder why. My question is answered soon enough. When he hits me across the ass, with a lot less force this time, it’s quite low and skims my sex. It vibrates all the way to my core. I shudder involuntarily, and my nipples instantly pearl. When he does it again, the flick is somehow able to strike me in a way that it feels like he’s just hit me against my center. I whimper, biting my lip.
What in the actual fuck?
My cheeks burst into flames because in some perverse way, just how when he spanked me, this feels good. I am disgusting. I deserve every blow he gives me. But this is so taboo; the immorality of it has me wanting more.
My body has suffered countless strikes. Each time he’s brought down his belt, a whoosh of air leaves him, and he’s left breathless. I’d like to think he’s not getting off on punishing me, but history proves otherwise.
I am hot all over, and my flesh feels raw. Tears are streaming down my cheek, and I can’t breathe. But underneath that lies this…craving. I need it to stop.
“Please. No more. I’m sorry.”
The belt drops to the floor with a thud.
I am aching all over as my body feels as tight as a bow. A bundle of nerves scratches down low, and I discreetly rub my legs together, desperate to douse the flames.
“You can shower,” Saint says before he staggers up the stairs, leaving me alone with this deep-rooted shame…which is exactly what he wanted.
Once he’s gone, I only then allow myself to feel and collapse onto my side, sobbing. Drawing my knees to my chest, I hug them tightly, confused and scared. Through the pain is utmost confusion because I don’t understand why I responded the way I did.
Yes, it hurt, as he fucking hit me with his belt, but each blow masqueraded a luscious sensation, hovering between pleasure and pain. What is wrong with me?
Closing my eyes, I succumb to sleep as it’s the only place where my demons don’t judge me for the wicked creature I’ve become.
She is worming her way into my soul, and each time she cries, I want to console her. But then I remember I’m not the good guy in this story. I am her captor.
And she is my slave.
Day 7
IWAKE INthe same position I fell asleep in—curled in a ball, hoping this blanket of confusion will go away. It hasn’t.
It’s right at dawn, and usually, one can look into the heavens and be thankful a new day is upon them. But today, I don’t feel thankful. How can I be when I’m covered in red welts with an electric energy thrumming through my veins?
The hatch opens, but I don’t stir. I simply lie on my side, broken.
If my father were alive, he would be so ashamed of me. He would wonder when the exact moment his baby girl turned into some wanton fiend.
I know Saint is close by because his fragrance drifts down the stairs. I wonder what he sees. I wonder if he feels victorious.
“This cruelness is the only kindness I can show you.”
What does that mean?
Nothing makes sense anymore.
“Kazimir will live,” he says. I remain silent in response, staring at a smudge mark on the wall.
This is nothing short of awkward, but I can’t stop thinking about my response to him last night. I was…aroused. Closing my eyes, I shake my head, sickened.
“A????…”
