Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
Linnea
“Jeez!"
I lie on the table, my body trembling, and my mind a mess.
This ridiculous excuse for an outfit is rumpled, my sex is exposed, and my body is wracked with involuntary tremors that ripple beneath my damp skin.
My breathing comes in thin, serrated gasps, as if something vital has been cut loose inside me.
I force my mind inwards to try to orient myself, but my thoughts are a cyclone, whirling with shame, confusion, and the stubborn ghost of pleasure.
A muscle in my thigh spasms, then another in my shoulder, as if my entire nervous system is in revolt.
Sweat chills on my chest above the low-cut uniform and on my bare arms; the air in the room feels thick and predatory, clinging to all of me.
I can still taste the metallic tang of him, with his relentless mouth and unflinching eyes on my lips, my tongue, even in the hollows of my teeth.
I don’t even know his name, which I suspect is deliberate, and somehow that makes it so much worse.
"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!"
Every instinct tells me to bolt upright, to get off this slab of cold, dark wood, and run.
Instead, I’m paralyzed, pinned by the weight of my own defeat.
The indignity burns inside my soul and between my legs, a sweet sickness I can't expel. The darkness behind my eyelid’s fractures into shards, replaying every second of the encounter.
The sting of leather on my butt cheeks. His hands digging into my thighs as his cock filled me.
The pressure of his fingers in my forbidden hole.
And the fact that my humiliating surrender came so much sooner than I ever thought possible, when I was so determined not to give in to the pleasure which felt so shameful.
In every scenario I imagined for my time here, I never, ever expected to enjoy myself, and now my mind is in revolt. Because instead of hating it, instead of surrendering in silence - or as much silence as I could muster - I only want more.
My legs dangle uselessly off the edge of the table, as if they might drop me straight into the pit this man has dug. Something like laughter stirs inside me, but it curdles before it becomes sound.
A door closes somewhere behind me, and I realize he's left the room. The silence is immense.
I try to recall his words. I think I was supposed to follow, but I just can’t move right now.
"Fuck!"
Eventually, I push myself up, every muscle protesting, and stare at the wall in front of me until the tremors stop.
I force myself to stand on shaky legs, clutching the edge of the table for support. My knees threaten to buckle, but I grit my teeth and push through the weakness. I need to find somewhere quiet where I can process what just happened.
I catch my reflection in a mirror on the wall. My face is flushed, hair wild, lips swollen. I hardly recognize the woman staring back at me. She looks... satisfied. Hungry, even.
"No! That wasn’t part of the deal."
I tear my eyes away, unable to bear the evidence of my own betrayal.
As I stumble down the hallway, it numbly occurs to me I have no idea where I'm supposed to be, but it doesn’t matter because I don’t think I can stay here. Not now.
You have to, a little voice whispers the reminder. The consequences of not staying are far worse than this little bit of disorientation I’m feeling just because suddenly nothing is as I expected it to be.
My feet carry me forward of their own accord, each step sending little shockwaves of sensation through my body. I'm hyper-aware of every brush of fabric against my skin, every lingering ache.
I find myself in a small powder room and lock the door behind me. Leaning against the cool tile wall, I try to steady my breathing. What's wrong with me? How could I have enjoyed that? I meant to endure, to suffer nobly.
It’s messing with my head.
Pull yourself together and stop playing the martyr!
Damn, that voice in my head needs to take a hike. I can’t deal with my conscience or whatever the heck it is, disagreeing with the logic I’d instilled in my mind before I got here.
“Juno!”
Juno? Who the hell is Juno?
Oh yeah, it’s me. I’m not Linnea Reed right now. For the next three weeks - if I make it that long - I’m just Juno.
Kinky sex slave to a rich man with no name.
“Where the hell are you?”
He sounds irritated and impatient. I know I missed some directive, and the bratty voice inside my head is telling me my butt, or some other part of my anatomy, is going to suffer.
I suck in a shaky breath, trying to calm my racing heart. "Coming!" I call out, wincing at how unsteady my voice sounds.
Quickly, I pee, then splash some cold water on my face and attempt to smooth down my disheveled hair. The girl in the mirror still looks thoroughly debauched, but it'll have to do. I don’t dare keep him waiting any longer.
On wobbly legs, I make my way out of the powder room and down the hall. I pause at the bedroom door, hearing movement inside, then, bracing myself, I knock softly. "Sir?" I venture, hating how meek I sound. "I'm here."
The door swings open, slamming back towards the wall. He looms in the doorway, eyes raking over me with predatory intensity. "You were supposed to follow me," he growls, grabbing my wrist and yanking me into the room.
I stumble, nearly losing my balance. "I'm sorry, I just needed to use the bathroom.”
"I don't care what you needed," he cuts me off sharply. "When I give you an order, you obey immediately. Is that clear?"
I nod quickly, the little bit of equilibrium I so recently regained rapidly slipping away. "Yes, Sir. I'm sorry."
“It seems like a little more correction is necessary,” he states, his voice a frozen chip of ice betraying not the slightest iota of warmth.
It’s like he’s a different person from the shouldering hot man who fucked me only thirty minutes ago.
My stomach drops at his words. I had hoped my momentary lapse would be overlooked or at least be excused as a call of nature. That seemed reasonable enough, and it is my first day, after all. But clearly I was mistaken. His hold on my wrist tightens as he pulls me further into the bedroom.
"I-I didn't mean to disobey," I stammer, desperately trying to backpedal. "It won't happen again."
He regards me coldly, unmoved by my plea. "You're right, it won't. Because I'm going to ensure the lesson sinks in this time.”
My eyes dart around the room, taking in once again the array of implements laid out on the bedside table. My heart races as I wonder which one he'll choose, because this time, I know he will. The flogger? The cane? Something even more sinister?
He releases my wrist and circles behind me - again - his presence looming. I resist the urge to turn and face him, knowing it will only anger him further.
"Strip," he commands. "Everything off. Now."
My fingers are clumsy as I fumble with the buttons and zippers of the maid outfit.
I peel it off slowly, hyper aware of his intense scrutiny.
When I'm fully naked, I stand there shivering, arms crossed protectively over my chest. His eyes rake over me, taking in every curve and imperfection, and even though he keeps doing this, I still feel defenseless and vulnerable.
"Hands at your sides," he barks, and reluctantly, I let my arms fall, leaving myself open to his intense examination. Well, it’s not like it’s the first time. This seems to be some weird ritual he enjoys. Something designed to intimidate.
And it does.
My skin prickles under his study, and I tense, waiting for his next move.
"Bend over and grab your ankles," he commands.
My face flushes hot with humiliation, but I do as I’m told, folding myself in half. The position leaves me utterly exposed. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to see his reaction, or whatever implement he chooses for this latest punishment.
My butt is still stinging from his belt, but instinctively, I know this will be much, much worse.
It’s even worse than that.
There’s a whistle and a displacement of air, and that’s the only warning I get before what I think must be a cane sears across both my butt cheeks.
I don’t yelp; I scream and almost faceplant the floor. Would have if his arm hadn’t darted out to catch me.
But despite that, there’s no mercy. He strikes again and again in burning stripes down my buttocks. There’s no time to assimilate, no opportunity to regain my equilibrium between the excruciating blows. The pain builds quickly, radiating across my skin, layer upon layer of it.
By three strikes, tears are pricking at my eyes. By five, I'm openly crying, my voice wavering as I start begging for him to stop.
There’s a word, isn’t there? A word to stop this. What the fuck is it?
My mind’s a blank as I scrabble for it.
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.
I let out a mournful howl as another strike falls, and suddenly it’s there.
Red! The safe word is red.
I gasp a breath and open my mouth to shout it out, but the word doesn’t come.
What fresh hell is this? Why can't I bring myself to say it?
Pride. My pride won't let me, even as the pain becomes almost unbearable. I lose count of the strikes, my world narrowing only to the burning agony across my backside and thighs.
I’m feeling lightheaded from the position, and scalding tears run into my hairline. My nose is running, and I know I’m a hot mess, sobbing and begging and blubbering, knees buckling, legs trembling, ass on fire.
It’s only my Sir who is keeping me upright, and my own stubbornness.
Suddenly, it stops. I'm gasping for air, my face wet with tears and snot. His hand rests on my lower back, surprisingly gentle.
"Stand up," he orders, his voice surprising in its softness.
I’m not sure I can. I think I’m going to collapse in a heap on the floor. Unclasping one hand from around my ankle, I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth and nose, knowing it will do little to diminish the wreck I am.