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"Relax, pet," I order in my most confident voice, feeling like a total sham. I announce, "Princess, you will not touch my wife until I give an order, understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
She stays on her knees in front of the table. She presses her palms against the metal, directly underneath my pet's pussy. Her face is a foot away, and I cringe inside, freezing.
Tense silence fills the room. I'm still determining how much time passes before Papi calls out, "Thank you for your respect. You may begin, Riggs."
It pulls me out of my trance, reminding me I'm a Dom on the stage. There are expectations. Part of me is relieved Papi thought I was being courteous to him. The rest of me just continues to feel ill.
I pull my arm back, then move it forward, aiming the flogger at Princess's back. The leather straps hit her, creating a loud slap, and she gasps. She arches her back so her shoulders stick out.
I hit her several times until she yelps. The audience begins to grow louder, no doubt getting turned on by the scene. Blood drains down my face, pushing me to the point of dizziness. I can't stall anymore. I know this and would if I could. But I can't.
I muster the words, barking, "You have permission to lick my wife."
Princess moves forward, and I pull my arm back. Her tongue is almost on my pet's pussy when Blakely screams, "Stop! Stop! Stop!"
Princess freezes, and my heart continues beating against my chest cavity.
"Stop! Stop! Stop! Riggs, please! Stop!" Blakely shrieks.
"Get back," Papi orders.
Princess obeys, and I rush over to my pet, releasing the ankle and wrist cuffs. I rip her tear-soaked blindfold off.
There's only fearful chaos in her blues. In a hysterical tone, she repeats, "Stop! Stop! Stop!"
I pick her up and tug her into my arms.
She sobs, pushing against my chest. She cries out, "I only wanted you. Why can't you listen?"
I tighten my arms around her, my insides shaking so hard I don't know how I'll move to get out of here. I murmur, "Shh."
She sobs harder.
I turn my head and demand, "Blanket. Now!"
Someone brings me one, and I wrap it around my pet. I pick her up, and she hides her head in my chest, still crying.
I don't look at anyone, carrying her out of the room and going directly toward the parking garage.
I get to the exit, walk barefoot on the concrete, and open the door to my Porsche. I help Blakely in and put my hand on her cheek. "Pet—"
"Riggs," Papi calls out.
I spin, barking, "Not now."
He hands me my clothes. "You need to put these on. You know the rules."
"Fuck the rules," I seethe as I grab the clothes and shut the passenger door. I race around the front of the car, slide into the driver's seat, and turn on the engine.
The tires squeal as I pull out of the garage. Neither of us says anything, and all I hear the entire drive is my pet's sniffles. I glance at her occasionally, but she never takes her eyes off the window.
It's only when I reverse into the beach house driveway and turn off the engine that she looks at me. So much pain is on her expression that I can barely breathe. And my gut dives when she asks, "Why did you bring me here?"
17
Blakely
