8. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Quinn
Nothing will ever compare to the confusion of falling asleep in a prison cell and waking up being carried by a stone golem. A monster taking me back to his lair. The bite was an instinctive thing born of panic, and I almost froze when it actually worked, but thankfully, my survival instincts are better than that.
I’m running.
My hands are still tied, but my leg restraints are gone, thank the fucking devil. I can run. I’ve always been quick, and how fast can he move, lugging all those muscles around? Not fast enough, that’s for sure. I can’t even hear him behind me.
I don’t have time to register what I’m running through beyond that it’s green and pretty. Grass, gravel paths, trees—it’s all a blur as I power ahead. I pass a person and get a flash of a shocked female face before streaking past her.
The ground gives way to tiles, and I grind to a halt as I reach a gigantic swimming pool. I totter on the edge but just stop myself before I fall in. Shit. With my hands tied, I could have drowned. I choose a direction at random and speed off around the edge, dodging lounge chairs.
What sort of cult has a fucking swimming pool?
I’m almost at the far end before a voice calls behind me. “Getting tired yet?”
It makes me jump, breaking my stride, but I manage to keep upright. He’s close, and he didn’t even sound winded. My own lungs are starting to burn from the exertion, though I’ve got a while to go yet. Years ago, when I was on the track team, I could have run for days. Not anymore.
I don’t waste time looking back.
Past the swimming pool, the scenery opens out onto a smooth, flat green expanse. A little flag tips me off to its purpose. A goddamn golf course. What next, a pony club? It makes for solid footing, so I tap into my reserves and speed up. Hopefully Jacob’s burst of speed will be short-lived.
“I’m impressed. Didn’t have you pegged as an athlete.”
Holy fucking shit, he’s close. Sure enough, I can hear his breathing and footfalls now. Not puffing and panting, but steady, even breaths. And he’s getting closer by the second.
I put my head down and force myself into a sprint. My breath comes in ragged wheezes now, and my legs burn. I push forward, hoping—
A thick arm wraps around my middle. It’s an iron bar, and I’ve no hope of escape. I flail and scratch, raking my nails across his face before he flips me over his shoulder, holding me with one arm. I squirm and struggle, banging my fists on his back until his free hand lifts my skirt up and lands a smack on my ass.
Oh my fucking God.
The pain is a shocking flare. I freeze. I’ve been spanked before, messing about in the bedroom, but nothing like the apocalyptic slap he just landed. It felt like getting hit with a shovel.
Just as I start to yell, he does it again.
And again.
And again.
Each smack lands on the same spot, right at the top of my thighs. The savagery of it shuts me up. Pain blooms, a red flower starting at the place of impact and ricocheting through my body.
Again.
Again.
I start to whimper. I can’t help it, as much as those pathetic noises shame me. He’s too strong, it hurts too much, and I’m helpless.
He stops. His hand rests on my ass, right on the sore spot, and just the pressure of it stings. “That’s six, Quinn. You’re owed four more for biting me. You’re never to attack me, is that clear? Never.”
Even through the pain, I manage to mumble, “Fuck you.”
He sighs. “That’s a shame. I wanted to go easy on you tonight. Ten more for swearing at me.”
Four more. Plus ten. No. I can’t…
His hand lands again, and I scream. Shit. Shit. Shit. He’s moved to a different spot, and my ass is consumed by fire. Another. And another. They start to blur into a wall of pain, and my yells morph into whimpers.
I lose count, and a haze falls over my mind. I still cry out at the strikes, but I’m floaty. Detached. Each strike stokes the burn, and I drift further into the cocoon of overwhelming sensation. It has to be over soon. That had to be twenty.
“Fifteen. You’re doing well, love.”
Said almost gently, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he shifts me, opening my thighs. I realize what he’s planning, the haze evaporates, and I struggle again as he smacks me, this time on the sensitive join where my ass meets my pussy. It stings, bringing tears to my eyes again.
Fuck him. Fuck him all to hell.
I think it but don’t dare say it. If he gives me ten more, I’m a dead woman. Two on each side, in the tender spot, and I’m thrashing.
“Last one. Brace yourself. I won’t go as soft with this one.”
Soft? Those were—
His hand slaps down one last time, and the gunshot sound catches my ears a second before pain erupts across my ass. It reverberates through my body, and I scream, writhing against him. That bastard. That fucking—
“All done.”
I hiss as his hand caresses my ass. Just his touch is fire. He explores the contours of it as if he has every right. He thinks he does. He really thinks he does.
“Don’t. You can’t—”
“I can.” He starts walking but keeps his hand right where it is. I bounce along, ass throbbing, and when we reach the swimming pool it hits me that we’re heading toward a public area. People will be there, and I’m over his shoulder with my panties on display.
“Let me down.”
“No."
"But people will see—”
“You should have thought of that before you bit me. Don’t think being in public will save you. Push me too far, and I’ll pull down your knickers and spank your bare arse in the middle of the refectory. I don’t care who sees.”
“But—”
I shut up as I realize we’re walking past people. Mostly men, but a couple of women too. They stop and stare, some smiling, others with disapproving expressions. Jacob doesn’t break stride. My face burns to match my ass at the degrading position.
Christ. I should have chosen the old man.
It’s almost a relief when we reach a building and Jacob buzzes us inside. Tile gives way to a creepy red carpet and wood paneling. Old-school. My anxiety grows as we wait for the elevator, which arrives with a ping. The inside is mirrored, and I stare at my own reflection as we go up a few floors.
It’s horrible but impossible to look away. I’m a broken doll, red ass on full display, thrown over a giant’s shoulder. We arrive at his lair too soon. He buzzes the white door open with his thumbprint and carries me inside. Once the door thunks closed, he sets me on my feet.
I take a minute, standing with my eyes closed as the blood drains from my head to wherever it’s supposed to be. I blink at the space. It’s the definition of a man-pad. Bare except for a desk, a comfy-looking gray couch, framed movie posters, and a glass cabinet containing balls and boots. I frown at it, too confused not to ask.
“What’s in there?”
His lips quirk up at my question. “Signed West Ham balls. My pride and joy. And those boots scored the winning goal in the 1964 FA cup.”
He might as well be speaking Swahili, but I nod anyway. Jacob leaves me gaping around whilst he ducks into another room and returns with a wooden chair that doesn’t fit in. It’s like something out of a Victorian school, varnished and with an ornate back. No cushion. He places it beside me. “Sit.”
Weird, but not worth arguing about. I sit, then jump up with a hiss when my ass touches the seat. The pain that had faded to a dull throb reignites, sizzling back into a furnace. “I can’t. You spanked my ass, remember?”
“That’s the whole point. Sit there, or I’ll make you.”
I swallow, staring between the chair and him. I should just do it, but if I start letting him order me around, where does it stop?
“What, you’ll spank me again? How original.”
“You’ve had enough of that for now, I want you to be able to sleep tonight. Now, sit.”
“No.”
He lets out a long sigh, and I can’t tell if it’s genuine exasperation or just played up for my sake. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out four metal circles attached to very short chains. Does he walk around with manacles in his pocket? No, he must have collected them along with the weird wooden seat.
He sets about fastening them to the chair, which I now realize has special holes cut into the legs and seat for just that purpose.
He talks as he works. “If I’d known I was bringing home a brat, I’d have had all this ready.”
Brat? Seriously? His slow, deliberate movements are starting to get on my nerves. He’s too calm, carefully setting up the stupid fucking chair like he’s got all day. I glance at the door, then sprint toward it.
Reaching it, I turn the little handle. Nothing. I glance up, expecting to find Jacob looming over me, but he’s exactly where I left him. Fiddling with one of the restraints. Not even looking at me.
His big hands should be clumsy with the delicate work he’s doing, but they’re not. He threads the final restraint through its slot, opens the cuff, gives it a satisfied tug, and stands up. His eyes widen in mock surprise when he sees me beside the door. “Oh, you tried to escape through the front door. How original.”
God, I want to scream at him. Throw things. Say “fuck you” again and again and again until the words lose all meaning. But he’s advancing on me with that menacing smile, and it’s more terrifying than I want to admit. I dodge to the side and race off, trying to slip past him, but before I’ve gone two paces, he’s got me again.
He’s fast. A bear that moves like a fucking cheetah. It’s a deadly combination, and as he carries me kicking and scratching to the stupid chair, I wonder how I’ll ever get away from this man. Running isn’t going to work, and he could overpower me with one finger half awake. I’ll have to be smart, and that’s not a word I associate with myself.
My poor ass screams in protest as he thumps me onto the chair with more force than he damn well needed to. I scream right along with it as he forces my arms down by my sides and into the waiting restraints and then does the same with my legs. Strapped to a goddamn chair again, but this time, it’s much, much worse.
The restraints give me no room to move, my arms held down at full extension, putting more pressure on my ass. I can hardly shift around to relieve the pain, which is growing worse by the second. “Let me out of here, you fucking—”
His hand clamps over my mouth. “Jesus Christ, you can talk.”
I mumble against his hand as he studies me. “You’re going to listen for a bit. From right now, every word you say is an extra minute in this chair. Nod if you understand.”
I’m already desperate to stand up. The ache is unbearable. Even five minutes would be torture. As much as I want to scream and yell, I want to get out of this chair more. Yelling will have to wait. I nod.
He blows out a breath. “Thank you.”
He pulls his hand away from my mouth. I clamp my teeth together and shift on my seat, catching his attention. “You like the chair?”
It takes everything I have not to respond. Instead, I settle for glaring at him, which makes his lip curl up. “There’s a good little brat. Learning already.”
Deep breaths. Deep fucking breaths.
When I manage to stay silent, he continues. “This chair is where you’ll sit to reflect on why you were punished. After a punishment, I expect you to come here without being told and sit down until I tell you to stand up. If the punishment happens out of the house, you come here as soon as we get home. Nod if you understand.”
I jerk my head up and down woodenly.
“Good. When you go willingly to the chair, you won’t stay in it long. You’d already be out of it if you’d sat when I told you to.”
He pauses to let the impact of that sink in. I silently curse out Quinn from five minutes ago. That girl was such an asshole.
“Because I had to make you sit, it’s twenty minutes today, and that’s me being very kind because you didn’t know the rules. If I have to force you again, it’s an hour. In the chair, you don’t speak. You think about what got you into the chair and how to avoid it in the future. Got it?”
I nod again, though my head is filled with revenge. One day, I’ll stick spikes to this fucking chair and tie him to it.
Twenty minutes. Jesus Christ.
“When it’s time to get out, I’ll ask you why you were punished and what you can do to prevent it from happening again. All I need is a sincere answer. It doesn’t have to be right. But if you stay silent or tell me to go and fuck myself, you stay in the chair. Got it?”
This just keeps getting better. I nod again.
“Excellent. I’ll leave you to it. There’s a clock on the wall over there”—he points—“where you can watch the time go by. Eighteen minutes to go. Have fun.”
He stands, then busies himself doing fuck-knows-what out of my eyeline. Now that he pointed out the clock, it’s all I can see. Second by painful second, the hands make their slow circles.
I consider rocking the chair from side to side and tipping it over, but even I can’t see the point of such a useless rebellion. I’d still be manacled to it. He’d just stand it up, tell me I was going to have to sit for an hour, and disappear again.
This is how he’ll make you do what he wants.
It’s true, but I can’t see a single alternative. He’s a force of nature, impossible to overcome. When he said he’d be strict, I hadn’t guessed for a goddamn second he meant this strict. I check the clock again. Fifteen minutes to go.
Shit.
I close my eyes and try not to watch the time tick by. The pain is an infuriating throb, pulsing along with the beat of my heart. Almost worse than the pain, though, is the indignity of this. Being punished. Having to tell him what I’ve learned like he’s a school principal and I’m a bad pupil.
Who gave him the right to do this? It shouldn’t even be me in this chair. Suzy should be the one trying not to shift around because it just makes it worse. She should be the one at the mercy of this madman.
Thinking of her in this situation, though, just makes me sad. She’s too nice to be here. Maybe it’s a good thing I got taken instead. Saving Suzy is the only useful thing I’ve ever done, and even though it was a total accident, I'm glad she’s living her life.
Thinking of her feeding her cat, looking after her patients, and generally being free helps me get through the next ten minutes.
When the clock hits five minutes to go, Jacob returns. He crouches next to me, and he must be able to tell I’m struggling, as he cups my cheek in his giant hand. “Almost there, love. I know it hurts.”
Does he? He knows it hurts? Oh, the revenge I’ll take one day. But I’m out of strength, and his hand is solid and warm. I lean my head against it and close my eyes again. Everything softens, even the ache, and I don’t struggle as his free hand brushes my hair away from my face.
We stay frozen like that until, after a million years, he says, “Time's up. Open your eyes.”
I do, meeting his intense stare. There’s a softness there that catches me off guard. It’s intimate in a way I’m not sure I understand. His voice is deep and rich, with no edge of sarcasm as he says, “So, why were you punished?”
I’d been trying not to think about this part, but it’s here now, and there’s no way in this universe I’m spending a second longer in this chair. I lick my lips. “Because I attacked you and cursed.”
He nods, then a thoughtful look crosses his face. “Because you cursed at me. You can say ‘It’s fucking hot in here’, or ‘I hate this fucking song’ but not ‘Fuck off, Jacob.’ Understand the difference?”
I’d rather he let me stand than discuss the finer points of language, but I’m not going to start an argument about that now. “Yes. I get it.”
“Good. And how will you avoid getting punished in the future?”
I feel stupid saying basically the same thing again, but if it gets me out of this seat, so what? “Don’t attack you, and don’t swear at you.”
“Very good.”
He makes quick work of undoing the restraints. Then, without giving me a chance to stand on my own, he lifts me out of the chair. The blood rushes back in, worse than I was expecting, and I yelp as he holds me against his chest. “Your legs might be wobbly. Don’t want you to fall.”
How considerate. But as pins and needles hit my legs, I realize I probably would have hit the deck. He holds me as I wriggle and flex my muscles, then, after a minute, sets me carefully on my feet.
There’s a silence so long it gets awkward as we stare at each other. I look away first, unsure what to do with myself. He’s the crazy captor. He can decide.
As if he’s read my mind, he touches me lightly on the shoulder. “Right, I’m knackered. Let's get ready for bed.”
Bed? As in sleep? With him? The idea is so absurd I almost laugh. Practical considerations take center stage, though. It’s been hours since I’ve used the bathroom, and it’s getting urgent. “I need to pee first.”
He smiles at my bluntness. “Good to know. And after that, it’s time to get you showered.”