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I completed my circuit, taking up position to her rear. I let the cane rest high on her buttocks.Tap, tap, tap.
“Beg.”
“PLEASE, MASTER, PLEASE!” she yelled. “HURT ME!”
I landed the first blow before she’d even finished. It landed hard, and she jumped a clear mile, straining at the chains. I let her settle back into position. Her legs were already shaking.
“More,” I hissed.
“Please hurt me,” she wheezed.
“Good girl.”
I landed the next two in quick succession and she cried out, dancing on one leg like a wounded ballerina. Instinct took over as I read her movements, leaving her just enough time to regain her balance. Again, and again, and again. I savoured her stripes: savage white flashes of punishment on tender skin. Neat lines from a steady hand, a practised hand. Her ass looked so fucking pretty.
Her breathing grew frenetic, pain flooding her body with adrenaline. She started swearing, hissing out filthy obscenities. It only made me punish her harder. I increased the pace of my strokes and she started to flail, losing her fight for composure. She twisted and turned, howling like an animal until her throat was raw. I gave her a moment, moving close enough to finger the ridged stripes on her backside.
“Cry for me,” I whispered. “Let it all go.”
I hit her again and she wailed like a butchered pig, flapping her useless arms around in her cuffs. The next stroke buckled her knees, and she swung in her chains, wailing without breath, just one long, desperate wheeze. It sounded so fucking good. She got to her feet, knees knocking, and her shoulders began to bow, hunched. I ran the tip of the cane down her spine and she straightened.
“Ready for more?” I growled.
“Yes please, Master.”
“Good girl.”
She screamed through the next few. It’s that beautiful final stage, the one before they break. I love that part. Feral cries of torment, skin on fire. I eased up slightly as her chest began to heave. Tears. Beautiful fucking tears. I made sure to land two hard strokes in the same spot on her ass, and it sent her right over the edge. Sobs. Loud, desperate, gorgeous fucking sobs. I pressed myself against her back, wrapping my hands around to squeeze her poor, sore titties. She liked that, I could tell. They always like that. Sore titties make wet pussies.
“That’s right, Violet,” I whispered. “Let it go.”
She cried freely, resting her head back against mine. I nuzzled the tender spot at the nape of her neck and her breathing calmed, slowly. I turned her face in my direction, eager for my prize. She was even more beautiful than I imagined. Black rivers of tears ran thick down her cheeks, make-up spoiled so perfectly. I licked them up, all the way from her jawline, running my tongue right the way over her puffy eyes, digging for more. She groaned, straining for my mouth on hers. I gave it to her, wide open and wet, forcing my tongue in as far as it would go. When I pulled away her eyes were glazed, high on endorphins. She smiled at me.
“I’m going to really fucking hurt you now, Violet,” I breathed.
“Please, Master, please more,” she said, and she really meant it.
There were no more screams. Only tears. The soft yielding of a body hungry for punishment. She took it well, like the true pain slut she is, until I finally rewarded her with my whole fucking fist where she takes it best.
The beast inside savoured every fucking second.
***
Chapter Eight
Lydia
Masque. Sculpted from sin, and sex and sweat. His brutality, so measured. The beast on his chest, pain embodied. He was all I could think about. He was all Ihadthought about, through the early hours of Sunday morning with the taste of Explicit still ripe on my tongue, and on still through the day,allday, without reprieve. I had endless questions about the man in the mask, all to which Rebecca replied one damning phrase.
No, Lyds. Not him. He’s way too dirty-bad-fucking-wrong.
But she couldn’t know. How could she? She couldn’t possibly know the way I’d thrummed to his darkness, the way his body had called mine across that room, the way every part of me ached for liberation in his chains.
I jumped in my seat as a thwack boomed loud. Metal on wood. A metal ruler slamming onto a desk, more specifically.
“Jesus Christ, Lydia. Are you even here today?”
James Clarke didn’t look happy. His brows were heavy with annoyance. His jaw set in a grim line.
