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Frightening excitement covers his features at the promise of punishing me. He gets off on the knowledge that he’ll inflict pain, that my flesh will bear a map of his making.
“Start counting.” His hand comes down on my pussy again and I flinch, gasping.
The pain of his slaps mounts with each one, offering a minimal amount of pleasure, enough to make me want to come yet not enough to allow me to.
He’s savage, absolutely merciless, in the delivery of his punishment. He doesn’t stop when I yelp, scream, or sob.
Especially not when I sob.
My tears deepen that sadistic glint in his eyes, the need for more, more, and so much…more.
A beast.
That’s what he is right now with his sharp features, set jaw, and thinned lips.
And control.
He drips with it. Every time my legs falter or fall, he straightens them back up so that I’m in the right position.
So I’m at his disposal to do with as he wishes.
By the time he’s finished, I’m crying my eyes out. My pussy feels like it’s on fire, even as arousal coats my inner thighs.
Creighton pushes off his chair and towers over me. My legs are still bent, my whole body shakes, and tears cover my cheeks. However, I don’t dare to wipe them in case that’ll get me in more trouble.
I’m still not sure how this works, but I know that despite the pain and the discomfort, I’m drawn to it in inexplicable ways.
His hand reaches to my face, colder than my heated cheek, bigger and…safe.
He strokes his thumb beneath my lids, gliding the tears over my skin as I sniffle silently.
Pure sadism shines in his ocean eyes, seeming to eradicate any noble feelings he could have. “I love the sight of your tears.”
My breath catches as a shudder rips through me. “That…sounds sick.”
“Iamsick. You should’ve stayed away while you had the chance.”
He slides his thumb all over my face again, the darkness shifting, morphing, and simmering on the surface.
I watch it with keen interest.
Just like the other time, it seems that whenever he punishes me, something inside him claws to the surface.
Fighting.
Biting.
Hitting.
It’s like he’s…warring for control. But against whom? And for what?
As if validating my thoughts, he shoves his hand in his pocket and steps back.
He’s leaving.
Again.
I can’t help feeling the tinge of emptiness at the dysfunctionality of it all.
