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"No one. I've never met a degenerate like you who likes to hit women,” she hisses, the cheap shot missing its mark by a mile.
If her words are chosen to wound me, it might have worked if I didn’t know I'm a degenerate, a deviant, a debauchee.
Those words exist to separate those who like fun things from the norm. The norm sounds boring to me. I embrace my differences.And so should she. She’d have more orgasms.
She doesn't, hence why she mistakenly believes that I'd feel a particular way about her lame insult.
If physical pain fails to get a reaction out of her, words might. I file that information in my mind for later. First, I want to see just how much of a freak this woman truly is underneath all the pride.
I return to her side, showing her the cane first. "Many experienced masochists have trouble with canes. Especially small, flexible ones like this. Let's hope we don't have to test how well you'll fare with it."
I set it down and take the whip instead. A little more painful than the crop, not nearly at the level of the cane, my leather whip falls on her already sensitive thigh.
Sarah croaks out a plaintive sigh, halfway to a moan, leaning forward. Her legs squeeze together, and when those brown eyes return to my mine, they’re full of unconcealed, raw hunger.
My cock has never been harder. Resisting the need to free it and plunge it past her lips, into her mouth, is a battle. The fact that she’d bite it off is only one of the reasons why I can’t.
If I was a sixteen-year-old kid, I’d give in. I’d fuck her raw, hard. But the rules of this game have changed. I thought I could scare her into compliance. Now I can tell I won’t.
“We have a bona fide little pain slut on our hands.” I chuckle. “Who is the degenerate, again?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snaps.
“Don’t you?”I flick my wrist, letting my whip fall again, on her flanks, her tits, her arms, her legs, not giving her a moment to adjust.
At first, she fights it. She holds out against her needs. Then she’s whimpering, panting.
I stop when I see her clenching her thighs as hard as she can, attempting to make herself fly over the edge.
Oh, I don’t think so, darling. When you come, it’ll be because I allow it.
The look she shoots me is completely baffled, hurt. Like she doesn’t understand how I could possibly have stopped. Not when she was so close.
“Please, Marius,” she whispers, mouth trembling.
I lick my lower lip, savoring the plea. Her eyes are watery as she looks up at me.
“Please what, your highness? You’re going to have to spell it out. I wouldn’t want to get mixed signals, after all.”
I know exactly what she wants.And I also know she’d cut out her own tongue rather than admit it, ridiculously proud as she is.
“Tell me who you think would frame you and I’ll make you come,” I offer magnanimously.
If she’s sticking to that story, it’s her business. It’s hardly unlikely—in my opinion, she sold the video—but I don’t care about the details; I just need to know who’s my next target. Then I can tell my father I’ve handled the issue and we can all move on. He won’t ask questions. Eriks Goltz isn’t one to bother with particulars once a problem is sorted.
“I—someone…dislikesme,” she admits in a low whisper. “But it can’t be him. He doesn’t know where I am, I swear.”
I’m considerably more intrigued than I should be. Dislike her why? And why did he come to mind in this situation?
I can’t deny I also feel a strange wave of protectiveness. The way she looks at this moment is far from her usual composed pride; she’s making herself small. Her voice falters, weak. He’s a problem. And something in me demands I take care of it.
“That’s not good enough. Tell me,” I order.
She swallows, shaking her head.
I snort. “You realize you won’t come, right? I’m going to bring you to the edge, again and again, and stop. It could take a day, ten, a month. You’re going to stay right here until you give me what I want.”
She’s scandalized. “You can’t keep me—”
