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I tremble when his fingers slide down between my ass cheeks to my pussy. He doesn’t really touch me and the ache is back, harder, hotter, deeper than before.
“You threw my jacket on the floor. You told me no. You treated me, your fucking Master, with disrespect. I own you.” He fists my hair and pulls my head back so his lips sear the shell of my ear. “Fuck, and you let some jackass touch this sweet, soft ass of yours yesterday. I wanted to kill him. No one touches what’s mine without my permission. And you know that. Even if I didn’t explicitly say that, you know it. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Sir.”
“Good. But not good enough. You need to be punished.”
My mind is in pieces, trying to work out whatever it is he’s going to do. Then he spanks me. The slap of his palm against my ass is harsh. The sting and burn radiate, making me moan.
“Please.”
He smacks my ass gain. And again, always changing up where his palm lands. Sometimes on a place he visited before, sometimes new. Tears burn in my eyes.
“Please what? More? Stop? I’ll be good, Master?”
His hand rains down blow after blow after blow. The pain is almost unbearable. The heat scorches and…there…right there…as I beg and promise to be good…it shifts and my pussy starts to throb.
I moan. “Please, more.”
“More?”
“Mercer! Master!” I don’t know why I want him to hit me more, but he does.
And when I think I can come like this, when I’m just spilling out words that make no sense, he stops.
“What a sweet little slut,” he says, his hand now moving between my thighs. He pushes into me. “So wet.”
He starts to thrust into me, curling his fingers. I tighten my muscles, pulling him deep because it feels so incredible and I’m going to come, I’m?—
Mercer stops. Pulls his fingers free, throws me back over his shoulder, and dumps me on the fucking bed.
Like, are you kidding me?
Asshole. I hate him. I keep forgetting that. I keep forgetting I don’t want to be here. But that hold is so strong, my need for him even stronger, and the bliss he brings me is out of this damn world. How can I not want that?
He doesn’t speak. He just watches me on the mattress.
Frustration washes over me as my orgasm ebbs away, thehumiliation of everything crashing down.
We’re in a battle of wills. I know it. He’s waiting for me to grovel, to ask for the ties to be removed. I’m not going to do it.
Time stretches and I don’t know how long this little war goes for but finally, I cave.
“Please, Sir…untie me.”
He stands. “Now why would I want to do that?”
“Because you’re not a complete monster?”
Mercer laughs. “You’re so fucking wrong.”
He leaves.
He…he actually leaves.
Fuming, I scream and squirm, trying to get the ties off. They don’t budge. I gnaw at the ones on my hands with my teeth, finally getting a corner. Relief floods me when it gives.
When I’m free, I march around the room, locked into my wild storm of anger, looking for clothes.
