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I shouldn’t be excited. I shouldn’t be panting for breath. I shouldn’t be desperate for this, begging for this, already spinning tight to a consciousness that’s trapped between my quivering thighs.
Trap crosses behind me, and I try to turn my neck, to see what he’s planning. I don’t have enough range to see the dresser drawer. I can’t follow what he takes out before he stalks behind me.
“If you could see yourself now,” he says…
“What?” I ask. I wish he had a mirror. I need to know what I look like. I need to know that I’m getting what I deserve.
“Your ass so high in the air… Good girls don’t stand like that. Good girls don’t leave their legs spread, their pussies bare.”
“I’m not good,” I say. “I’m very, very bad.”
I got an A plus in Psych 103, Abnormal Psych—Nuts and Sluts, we students called it. I have a dozen clinical terms for all the things I’m not supposed to like, paraphilias that could warrant years of talking to a therapist.
But if this is sick, I don’t want to be healed.
I deserve this.
I earned this.
“And what do bad girls get?” Trap asks, his voice low and dangerous.
“Punishment,” I say when I can manage enough of a breath.
“Count,” he commands. And a stripe of fire falls across my ass.
It’s a riding crop. I can just turn my head enough to make out the flat tab of leather, the whip-thin rod trembling in the air. “One!” I count. My skin tingles, sharper than the sunburn that crinkles my face.
He strikes me again, igniting a furrow just below the first one.
“Two!” I cry. This time the blow burns a little deeper. The heat spreads further beneath my flesh.
Again.
“Three!” I can feel the imprint of the leather tab, separate from the crop’s thin shaft. He’s layering his blows, restraining the full force he could deliver in favor of careful targeting.
“You’re so red,” he says, caressing my ass. The tip of his finger tests my pussy. “And so very, very wet.”
I’m disgusting. A self-respecting woman would never let herself be tied up and beaten, not after everything I’ve survived. I shouldn’t have asked for this. I shouldn’t submit.
Which means I need more punishment.
So I rock back on my toes just a little. I stretch my arms in their aching sockets so I can raise my ass higher. I squeeze my butt-cheeks tight and beg, “More.”
He gives it to me—seven more blows. Each is harder than the one before. Each raises the flame eating me from the inside out. Each makes me tremble, makes me ache, makes me long for the ultimate release that he alone can give me.
And when I’ve gasped out “Ten,” I beg him. “Please,” I urge. “Finish me off,” I plead. “Please, please, please, let me come.”
But he steps back from the bed and crosses his arms, the crop still gripped in his right hand.
“Please, Trap,” I beg. “I need you. I need…”
“No,” he says, his voice colder than I’ve ever heard it. “I’m in charge now.Isay what you need. AndIdecide what you get. That’s the penalty for being a bad girl.”
I love him and I hate him and I can never, ever, ever get enough of what he’s giving me.
6
TRAP
