next to a bench thing, positioning me on my knees. Then, by pressing on my upper back, he forced me to bend over the bench, chest resting on the flat surface, arms dangling on either side.
“You must remember what you are, esclavo. You are my slave,” he said, very calmly as he buckled cuffs around my wrists. “You are here to take my pain, not to give it.” Once he had my wrists bound, he flipped up my skirt and ran his hands over my buttocks. I thought for a moment he might have second thoughts about whatever he was planning on doing, but then one of his hands came down hard, smacking my satin and lace-covered ass cheek and I yelped in surprise then screamed a curse. Chuckling, no doubt at my reaction, he ripped the back of my panties in half and the shredded material slid down my thighs. “Ah, a blank canvas. All for me.”
“Fuck you,” I growled. “None of this is yours. None.”
“We’ll see about that. I can have it all. I can mark every inch of your body if I want.” He left me.
“You might be able to mark me, to scar and maim me, to make me cry and bleed, but I will never belong to you. Never!” My ears pricked as I listened to his retreating footsteps. There was a creaking sound as he opened a cabinet somewhere close by. This time I knew he would be back. And I knew I would not like what was coming.
I tracked the sound of his footsteps as he slowly prowled closer again. My skin prickled everywhere. Back. Arms. Legs. Scalp. Dread wound through my body. Adrenaline flowed. I twisted my wrists, hoping I might wriggle free. No luck. I was fucked.
And yet, even as I knelt there, fear and apprehension pounding through my body, slick heat pulsed in my pussy. I was turned on. Very turned on. Like more aroused than I had ever been in my life.
From fear?
From apprehension?
That made no sense to me. But there it was. The undeniable truth. Dripping down my inner thigh.
Furling my fingers into tight fists, I closed my eyes and tried to battle the thrumming lust inside me. I didn’t want to feel this way. Not now. Not with a man I despised. If I liked this kind of thing, would I ever be satisfied with a normal, good man? Or would I be constantly drawn to dark, dangerous men who would break my heart and scar my body?
He was standing behind me now. God only knew what he would do next. I sure didn’t.
He reached between my legs, cupping my wet tissues in his palm. “Hmmm. What is this?”
I was so ashamed my face burned.
“Beg for mercy,” he commanded.
Beg? My pride had already taken a beating—worse than my ass would. I would beg for nothing. Remaining silent, I braced for what I expected would be a painful lashing.
A soft whir was the only warning. Then white hot pain seized me, burning across my buttocks. The bastard.
“Beg for mercy,” he repeated.
I would not beg. Hell no. I clamped my lips tight.
A second blast of pain ripped through my body. I bit my tongue. Tears burned my eyes. But I said nothing.
“How I enjoy beating the pride out of a strong-willed slave.” Dipping down, close enough for his body heat to burn my back, he whispered in my ear, “You won’t win. You cannot.”
Fuck him. I would.
He struck me a third time and possibly a fourth. By then the pain was throbbing so hard across my entire ass that I couldn’t tell when he was hitting me or where. How many lashes had he given me? I couldn’t say. Colors swirled behind my eyes.
Images.
Nightmares from the past.
“This is what happens when you don’t listen, you little bitch,” he said.
He was not Kace Ramos, Spanish billionaire.
He was Uncle Doug, grease monkey. Uncle Doug was the bastard to whom the state, in all its wisdom, had handed me and my sister over after our parents died. My eight-year-old sister Karrie was bent over his knees, tears streaming down her face. But no sound came from her mouth. She was taking a beating because of me.
For me.
And she was taking that pain in silence so I would suffer
“You must remember what you are, esclavo. You are my slave,” he said, very calmly as he buckled cuffs around my wrists. “You are here to take my pain, not to give it.” Once he had my wrists bound, he flipped up my skirt and ran his hands over my buttocks. I thought for a moment he might have second thoughts about whatever he was planning on doing, but then one of his hands came down hard, smacking my satin and lace-covered ass cheek and I yelped in surprise then screamed a curse. Chuckling, no doubt at my reaction, he ripped the back of my panties in half and the shredded material slid down my thighs. “Ah, a blank canvas. All for me.”
“Fuck you,” I growled. “None of this is yours. None.”
“We’ll see about that. I can have it all. I can mark every inch of your body if I want.” He left me.
“You might be able to mark me, to scar and maim me, to make me cry and bleed, but I will never belong to you. Never!” My ears pricked as I listened to his retreating footsteps. There was a creaking sound as he opened a cabinet somewhere close by. This time I knew he would be back. And I knew I would not like what was coming.
I tracked the sound of his footsteps as he slowly prowled closer again. My skin prickled everywhere. Back. Arms. Legs. Scalp. Dread wound through my body. Adrenaline flowed. I twisted my wrists, hoping I might wriggle free. No luck. I was fucked.
And yet, even as I knelt there, fear and apprehension pounding through my body, slick heat pulsed in my pussy. I was turned on. Very turned on. Like more aroused than I had ever been in my life.
From fear?
From apprehension?
That made no sense to me. But there it was. The undeniable truth. Dripping down my inner thigh.
Furling my fingers into tight fists, I closed my eyes and tried to battle the thrumming lust inside me. I didn’t want to feel this way. Not now. Not with a man I despised. If I liked this kind of thing, would I ever be satisfied with a normal, good man? Or would I be constantly drawn to dark, dangerous men who would break my heart and scar my body?
He was standing behind me now. God only knew what he would do next. I sure didn’t.
He reached between my legs, cupping my wet tissues in his palm. “Hmmm. What is this?”
I was so ashamed my face burned.
“Beg for mercy,” he commanded.
Beg? My pride had already taken a beating—worse than my ass would. I would beg for nothing. Remaining silent, I braced for what I expected would be a painful lashing.
A soft whir was the only warning. Then white hot pain seized me, burning across my buttocks. The bastard.
“Beg for mercy,” he repeated.
I would not beg. Hell no. I clamped my lips tight.
A second blast of pain ripped through my body. I bit my tongue. Tears burned my eyes. But I said nothing.
“How I enjoy beating the pride out of a strong-willed slave.” Dipping down, close enough for his body heat to burn my back, he whispered in my ear, “You won’t win. You cannot.”
Fuck him. I would.
He struck me a third time and possibly a fourth. By then the pain was throbbing so hard across my entire ass that I couldn’t tell when he was hitting me or where. How many lashes had he given me? I couldn’t say. Colors swirled behind my eyes.
Images.
Nightmares from the past.
“This is what happens when you don’t listen, you little bitch,” he said.
He was not Kace Ramos, Spanish billionaire.
He was Uncle Doug, grease monkey. Uncle Doug was the bastard to whom the state, in all its wisdom, had handed me and my sister over after our parents died. My eight-year-old sister Karrie was bent over his knees, tears streaming down her face. But no sound came from her mouth. She was taking a beating because of me.
For me.
And she was taking that pain in silence so I would suffer
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