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Can I do this?
And in that moment I know there’s nothing I want more…There’s nothing that will satisfy the monster within me more.
Before I can change my mind I grasp her arm and lead her upstairs to the playroom. At the door I stop. “I’ll show you how bad it can be, and you can make your own mind up. Are you ready for this?”
She nods, her face set with the stubborn determination that I’ve come to know so well.
So be it.
I open the door, quickly grab a belt from the rack before she changes her mind, and lead her to the bench in the corner of the room.
“Bend over the bench,” I order quietly.
She does as she’s told, saying nothing.
“We’re here because you said yes, Anastasia. And you ran from me. I am going to hit you six times, and you will count with me.”
Still she says nothing.
I fold the hem of her bathrobe over her back, revealing her beautiful naked behind. I run my palm over her buttocks and the top of her thighs, and a frisson runs through me.
This is it. What I want. What I’ve been working toward.
“I am doing this so that you remember not to run from me, and as exciting as it is, I never want you to run from me. And you rolled your eyes at me. You know how I feel about that.” I take a deep breath, savoring this moment, trying to steady my thundering heartbeat.
I need this. This is what I do. And we’re finally here.
She can do it.
She’s never let me down yet.
Holding her in place with one hand at the small of her back, I shake out the belt. I take another deep breath, focusing on the task in hand.
She won’t run. She’s asked me.
Then I wield it, striking her across both cheeks, hard.
She cries out, in shock.
But she’s not called out the number…or the safe word.
“Count, Anastasia!” I demand.
“One!” she shouts.
Okay…no safe word.
I hit her again.
“Two!” she screams.
That’s right, let it out, baby.
I hit her once more.
“Three!” She winces.
There are three stripes across her backside.
I make it four.
She shouts the number, loud and clear.
There’s no one to hear you, baby. Shout all you need.
I belt her again.
“Five,” she sobs, and I pause, waiting for her to safe-word.
She doesn’t.
And one for luck.
“Six,” Ana whispers, her voice forced and hoarse.
I drop the belt, savoring my sweet, euphoric release. I’m punch-drunk, breathless, and finally replete. Oh, this beautiful girl, my beautiful girl. I want to kiss every inch of her body. We’re here. Where I want to be. I reach for her, pulling her into my arms.
“Let go. No—” She struggles out of my grasp, scrambling away from me, pushing and shoving and finally turning on me like a seething wildcat. “Don’t touch me!” she hisses. Her face is blotchy and smeared with tears, her nose is running, and her hair is a dark, tangled mess, but she has never looked so magnificent…and at the same time so angry.
Her anger crashes over me like a tidal wave.
She’s mad. Really mad.
Okay, I hadn’t figured on anger.
Give her a moment. Wait for the endorphins to kick in.
She dashes away her tears with the back of her hand. “This is what you really like? Me, like this?” She wipes her nose with the sleeve of the bathrobe.
My euphoria vanishes. I’m stunned, completely helpless and paralyzed by her anger. The crying I know and understand, but this rage…somewhere deep inside it resonates with me and I don’t want to think about that.
Don’t go there, Grey.
Why didn’t she ask me to stop? She didn’t safe-word. She deserved to be punished. She ran from me. She rolled her eyes. This is what happens when you defy me, baby.
She scowls. Blue eyes wide and bright, filled with hurt and rage and sudden, chilling insight.
Shit. What have I done?
It’s sobering.
I’m unbalanced, teetering at the edge of a dangerous precipice, desperately searching for the words to make this right, but my mind is blank.
“Well, you are one fucked-up son of a bitch,” she snarls.
All the breath leaves my body, and it’s like she’s whipped me with a belt…Fuck!
She’s recognized me for what I am.
She’s seen the monster.
“Ana,” I whisper, pleading with her. I want her to stop. I want to hold her and make the pain go away. I want her to sob in my arms.
“Don’t you dare Ana me! You need to sort your shit out, Grey!” she snaps, and walks out of the playroom, quietly shutting the door behind her. Stunned, I stare at the closed door, her words ringing in my ears.
You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.
No one has ever walked out on me. What the hell? Mechanically, I run my hand through my hair, trying to rationalize her reaction, and mine. I just let her go. I’m not mad…I’m…what? I stoop to pick up the belt, walk to the wall, and hang it on its peg. That was, without doubt, one of the most satisfying moments of my life. A moment ago I felt lighter, the weight of uncertainty between us gone.
It’s done. We’re there.
Now that she knows what’s involved, we can move on.
I told her. People like me like inflicting pain.
But only on women who like it.
My sense of unease grows.
Her reaction—the image of her injured, haunted look is back, unwelcome, in my mind’s eye. It’s unsettling. I am used to making women cry—it’s what I do.
But Ana?
I sink to the floor and lean my head against the wall, my arms on my bent knees. Just let her cry. She’ll feel better for crying. Women do, in my experience. Give her a moment, then go and offer her aftercare. She didn’t safe-word. She asked me. She wanted to know, curious as ever. It’s just been a rude awakening, that’s all.
