Chapter 31
The Upstairs
Killian
I’m buzzing with anticipation, hunger, and violence when I hear footsteps coming up the stairs in the evening. I look up from my book about chess openings. Eight o’clock on the dot. A smile spreads over my lips.
I hate to admit it, but Dad is right about me not being in control, so I take a moment to breathe calmly before I go out to greet Jenna—in through my nose, out through my mouth.
It’s one of the few things I took to heart from years of therapy.
I repeat a few times until the agitated buzzing calms somewhat.
I don’t want to risk fucking this up and giving Dad a good reason to keep her to himself for three more weeks.
When I go out, Jenna is standing on the landing, just one step away from the stairs as if she doesn’t dare go farther.
She’s wearing the cutest little dusty-rose dress with a layered skirt that makes her look even more innocent than she already does.
Her brown hair falls in thick waves down her porcelain skin, making me think of a doll.
Her wide, nervous eyes only enhance the image, as do the white stockings.
I go to lift her dress and find that it’s thigh-high stockings. Her lacy white panties are as flimsy as they can be but still match the innocent theme.
I smile. Thanks Dad.
Wanting to take it all in, I bring her into the middle of the landing and turn her a few times. Her head is slightly lowered in a naturally submissive stance, and her eyes dart across the floor, unruly and unable to meet mine. So damn breakable and willing to succumb.
Shit. I’m tempted to just rip that dress off right here and fuck her. Or maybe tear it to tatters and make her wear the scraps while I come all over her. So many delicious possibilities. But I don’t have much time, and I need a release for all the aggression that has been accumulating inside me.
I’m not sure using Jenna to take the edge off is the best idea, my uncontrollable mood taken into consideration, but if I don’t do this, it will fester.
To take my precautions, I’ve laid out my most tame flogger in the piano room, which is where we’ll be playing.
If I take her to my BDSM room tonight, I’ll just risk grabbing a much heavier implement and going too far.
With the one I’ve picked, I’ll be able to put in almost all my strength and still only leave faint bruises.
Taking her by the hand, I lead her into the piano room, where I point at the padded bench that I have pulled away from the piano and covered with a towel. “Bend over.”
She swallows hard but goes to it.
I wanted to have her kneel on it and bend over the piano like the last time I had her here, but I’m afraid it would trigger a trauma response in her, so I chose this instead.
When she pauses in front of it, not moving farther, I grab the back of her neck and lean close to her ear. “I said down over the bench.”
She lets out a whimper at my cruel tone, and my smile grows.
Gingerly, she gets into position. She lies completely still, only twitching a little, as I proceed to restrain her wrists to the legs of the bench, using leather cuffs and rope.
Once she’s fixed in place, I take out the switchblade in my pocket, enjoying how the metallic pop makes her twitch nervously.
“What are you doing?” she asks in a thin voice, straining her head to get a good view. Before she can see, I turn and lower myself to sit on her back, only putting in enough weight to immobilize her. And then I start.
Grabbing a handful of the skirt, I slice the knife through the many layers of fabric, cutting a hole just above her ass.
And then I rip. Jenna squeals and squirms as the skirt parts in two.
I shake my head. Women and their clothes.
I’ve had girls getting angrier at me for ruining their clothes than for cutting their skin.
“Don’t worry, I’m only cutting the fabric—tonight,” I tell her and pat her almost bare ass a few times. I’ll let her keep the flimsy panties, or I won’t be able to keep myself from using her ass. I don’t have the time for that tonight. “Tonight, I’m just whipping you.”
I get up and grab the flogger. Wasting no time, I strike her ass—not too hard, but not softly either.
I hate sloppy floggings where the strands fan out in a haphazard scatter of leather, but I’ve had more than enough practice to do it right despite the restrained force.
The strands fall in one clean, controlled strike, connecting with just the spot I aimed for, making a loud smack that sounds more violent than it really is.
And Jenna reacts according to the sound.
She cries out like I’ve just struck her with my heaviest flogger, tensing up in her entire body.
“Relax, it’s not that hard,” I say.
She pants but slowly relaxes as she realizes I’m right. She probably feels a sting, but far from enough to warrant such a reaction.
I step back, rubbing the sides of my mouth as I take in the faint pink trail along her perfect white skin. Before I send her back downstairs, her whole ass will be covered in a pretty shade of pink. It’s a shame I can’t leave marks with this flogger. They would look good on her.
I only give her a minute to recover before I deliver another blow. She tenses again, but this time, she only lets out a yelp.
“See, it barely even hurts. I’m not as cruel as you think.”
Before she can respond, I strike again. The loud smack sends a rush through my veins.
I wish she would scream again—but only if she means it.
I hate fake. Vehemently, I suddenly realize as I remember all the other girls I’ve flogged.
Soon enough, I’ll make Jenna scream with genuine despair.
But not tonight. Tonight, I’ll have to settle for the brutal sounds of the flogger.
So I swing again—harder. Again—harder still.
Jenna squeals and gasps every time, but before long, the sharp tension dissipates and she seems to flow along with the current. Her shoulders soften, and her ass stops tensing with each blow. After another ten minutes, she starts wriggling her ass with a short delay after each strike.
“Such a greedy little girl.” I strike again. Hard.
She yelps. “W-what?”
I land another forceful blow on her ass, and her breath hitches. But not from pain. It’s pleasure that has her breathing hard. I can tell it in every tiny reaction in her body. Her thighs squeezing together, her back arching, and her ass lifting in a blatant plea for more.
“You fucking love this. Maybe you’re not just an ass slut but a pain slut too?” Slam! I swing the flogger again, and the sound cuts through the room, almost drowning out her half-whimpered protest.
“No,” she repeats a few times.
“What did my dad say about lying?”
“I’m no—”
I cut her off with another smack, this time using all my force. She cries out, but I repeat. Five hard strikes have her writhing against the restraints, kicking her feet against the floor.
“No?” I challenge and drop the flogger. “Shall we put it to the test?” I trail my fingers up her inner thighs.
Her quick pants are sharper now. She’s hovering on a precipice, about to collapse off the edge and panic, or maybe fall off another edge if I go about this the right way. I press my hand to the small of her back, then slip two fingers through her pussy lips.
I tut. “So fucking wet. You want this.”
This time, she doesn’t protest. She tenses up, but it’s probably because she’s trying to ignore the pleasure rolling through her body as I keep stroking her opening. Slowly, I insert one finger, then two. She can’t resist. She starts moaning.
“You want me,” I add, sliding my fingers in and out of her, making her gasp and pant. “Despite everything I’ve done to you—no matter how I demean you—you want me. And maybe even because of it. Am I right?”
“N-n… I—” she stutters, stopping herself from lying, unable to admit to her warped desire.
I lean over her, finger-fucking her. “It’s okay, Jenna. I want you too.”
She goes still at those words. Her hips keep jerking from the force of my fingers, but her shaky breaths pause and her eyes are swimming when she turns to look at me.
She’s deep in a submissive daze. She parts her lips—her full, rosy lips.
No words come out. Her brain can’t find them.
I fucking love seeing her like this. I want to do despicable things to her—see just how much she can take before she starts crying.
Then I want to keep going, taking her just a little past those boundaries and find out how far I can push her before she breaks.
But that’s not all I want. In a moment of unusual quiet in my mind, I act upon instinct.
I lean down and press my lips to hers. She tastes sweet.
Like strawberries and honey. Her lips part with a quiet inhale, and I follow the invitation, moving my mouth against hers in slow, deliberate motions, soaking up her taste and the soft feeling of her.
She responds, not urgently, but openly—like she’s been waiting for this as long as I have.
Her lips mold to mine, warm and eager, her breath catching when I deepen the kiss a little.
I keep fingering her, and the movements of her hips grow more urgent, little moans forming inside her throat. She’s nearing the edge.
And I’m fucking kissing her. Softly.
Realization strikes. I pull back, slap her face, and withdraw my fingers.
“Time’s up,” I tell her and glance at the clock to see that I’m two minutes away from my deadline.
Confusion draws her brows tight, but still, no words leave her.
She moves her head from side to side, following me with her eyes, as I move around the bench and release her arms. When I help her to stand, it takes her a moment to find her footing.
She looks almost hurt when she lifts her eyes to me, and it makes me want to punish her.
Or kiss her.
The idea scares me. I don’t like the way I’m reacting to her. Before I can find out just how much I like to kiss her, I make a sharp nod toward the door. “We’re done here.”
She starts walking. One slow step at a time. When she’s at the door, she turns her head and aims those huge, dazed, almost pleading eyes at me.
“Can I have a hu—” She cuts herself off, shoulders dropping in defeat. She wants a hug, and I damn near want to give it to her with the way she’s watching me.
My voice softens as I watch her draw in on herself, hands coming up to rub her arms. “Go downstairs. Dad will give you a hug.”
She nods once, then starts moving. I go to the landing and keep an eye on her as she slowly descends the stairs.
I’m fucking afraid she’ll fall with the way she’s gone into subspace.
I want to carry her to make sure she makes it down safe, but I’m not about to scoop a fucking woman into my arms like that.
I don’t want her to think this means anything and that I, all of a sudden, care about her beyond wanting to rip her innocent pride to shreds.
But when I see her reach the ground safely and I retreat to go play the piano, I can’t stop thinking about the taste of her lips.