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“I sincerely hope not,” I say in all seriousness. “The world would be a much less beautiful and interesting place without you in it.”
She smiles at my words.
“Come here, to the head of the bed.” I pat the mattress where I want her.
She goes to lie on her back, but I shake my head. “Not like that. On your knees.”
“Seriously?”
“I have never been more serious.”
She does as I ask, and I waste no time in expertly tying her wrists to the headboard.
When she’s tied up, I admire her for a moment, on her knees, her arms tied above her head and slightly out to the sides. Damn, I need her panties off. I look around me, and on her desk is a pot with pens, rulers, and other things in it. There’s a pair of scissors, and I grab them.
“Kirill, what the hell?” She looks over her shoulder, her eyes widening in alarm.
“Take it easy, Duchess. I just need to remove your panties.” Then, before she can object, I cut down either side of her panties, until they simply fall from her.
Now she’s bared to me. My doll, all tied up, her hair hanging down her back, her ass displayed for me. The hairbrush catches my eye.
“First, your punishment.”
Chapter 22
Mackenzie
Kirill’s words spark fear in me again. He’s been in the strangest mood ever since he came to me. I sense a violence simmering underneath his skin. I don’t think it’s aimed at me, but if sex can help tamp it down, surely that is a good thing. I don’t want him to go and meet his father full of hate.
Will his dad really do him harm? Perhaps I ought to tell my mother that Kirill’s father has demanded a meeting, and she can let Nataniele know?
Then again, I can’t really trust either of them. Perhaps I should tell Dom and Tino. Yes, that seems a better idea.
But I can’t do much tied up naked like this.
“I want you to count,” Kirill says.
Oh, God, is he going to belt me the way Tino did? The red marks have only just faded from where he whipped me.
I glance over my shoulder to discover the hairbrush in his hand. He brings it down smartly on my ass cheek.
“Ow,” I complain, though it doesn’t hurt as much as the belt. The heat from the strike spreads through my skin, and deep down to my core. My pussy clenches.
“Count, not ow.”
He brings it down in the same place.
“One,” I gasp.
He hits the other side. He’s using the flat of the hairbrush, and truthfully, it doesn’t hurt in a bad way. He’s not hitting me to hurt me, I realize. He’s spanking me with it in a way that gives me a stinging jolt of brief pain, followed by a burn of pleasure.
This is way nicer than the belt and not something I’d object to happening again. He spanks me with the brush, even tapping my pussy with it, making me squeal. There’s a degradation to it that a dark part of me likes—craves, even.
I’m the girl who stabbed her professor. The girl who let three men take her at the same time. The girl who likes being spanked by her hairbrush.
I’m so screwed up.
When he’s finally satisfied that my ass has taken enough, Kirill smooths his free hand over my skin.
