Chapter 25 #2
I chide her, clicking my tongue. When she flexes uselessly against my wrist, I withdraw my thumb, making a show of wiping it dry on the flat, heaving plane of her belly.
“What will I do with you?” I ask mildly.
“The cane,” she says, like the two words scorch her tongue. “Whatever you do, don’t touch me with a cane.”
I take a full step back.
She’s gorgeous, pinned up on that cross.
The muscles of her arms stand out; she’ll feel the strain in the morning.
Her hair has come loose from whatever braid she wore in church; the curls fly around her head now, untamed.
Her face is flushed, soft pink hiding her lightest freckles.
Her inked chest looks like an abstract painting.
I want to stroke her legs. I want to tease her clit until her thighs spasm. I want to give her one finger, two, three, use her own slick heat to stretch her until my entire hand is deep inside, and she’s coming around my wrist.
But she’s my sub. I’m her Dom. And she doesn’t get to tell me what to do.
“That’s called topping from below, girl.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re not in charge. You don’t get to say you want the cane.”
“I don’t want it!”
I catch her jaw between my thumb and forefinger, squeezing hard enough to make her eyes grow wide. “Don’t lie to me,” I say, low and steady. “Do not fucking lie to me, girl. And don’t ever try again to top from below.”
Leaving her hanging, I cross to the armoire. I need a moment to temper my control. She needs to learn her lesson.
I take my time, stripping free my black silk bowtie. I remove my diamond studs and slip off my platinum cuff links, settling them on an empty shelf above an array of silver butt plugs that gleam like medical equipment.
My cummerbund. My shirt. My shoes and socks. I fold my tuxedo trousers, adding them to the shelf. I step out of my boxers.
Naked, I turn back to the cross.
The games I play in this dungeon are like the elaborate cons Shannon ran. Everything turns on my ability to read my mark, my sub. I need to check in with her early and often. I need to see how she’s responding. I need to adjust my strategy so I can best incapacitate her. So I can win.
Kate’s Red Cap tattoo stands out on her thigh, mocking me with its bright red ink. The hatch marks of her cutting scars march down to each knee.
She’s used to pain. She’s confident and she’s strong and she’s horny as hell, so her tolerance will be at its highest.
But I know she can’t handle a cane, not yet. Not when I’m the one slashing it through the air. Not when I’m the one in control.
I take my time choosing a tool she can manage. The cat o’ nine tails is made of black leather, each long strand knotted tightly at the end. The handle is carved ebony. It’s heavy in my hand as I turn back to face her.
I hear her swallow from across the room. I don’t know if that’s because she’s accepted she can’t break free from the cross or because she’s afraid of the punishment I’m about to administer.
I shift my grip on the cat as I cross the floor. She’s trembling when I reach her, arms and legs shivering like she’s been caught outside in a storm.
“Please,” she says. “You don’t have to do this. Let me down from here. I can make you feel good. Just undo the cuffs. Let me show you what I can do.”
She’s good at this. She pleads like she means it, like freedom is the only thing in the world she desires.
But she can’t take her eyes from the cat. Her nipples have turned to stone beneath her limp dress. I can smell her arousal from here—honey and melon like a cloud of perfume.
“Let me show you what I can do,” I say.
“Please,” she moans. “Don’t do this. Let me go. I’m begging you. Please…”
The first blow is hard, sharp, striking her exposed right thigh. She yelps as the leather lands, yanking all four limbs tight against her rucked dress. Pink stripes blush against her firm white flesh.
I snag her gaze in the mirror. “What color are you?” I ask, very slowly, with perfect deliberation.
“Green,” she sighs.
So I strike her again, on the left side, to balance the first blow.
She swallows her cry, and I think of all the things people do in the dark, all the things they hide under sheets, under blankets, when they’re living in the confines of their parents’ homes.
“No one can hear you outside of this room,” I say.
“The ceiling, the walls, the floor; all of it’s soundproofed. ”
To prove my point, I twist my fingers in the drenched scrap of lace between her thighs.
I pull hard, and the fabric parts in the crack of her ass, exactly as I knew it would.
She shrieks at the pressure, shuddering as it gives.
I land the cat before her muscles can relax, sharp and clean across her mound, like the leather strands are tipped with iron, drawn to the magnet of her shaved landing strip.
She bellows, open throat, full volume.
But still no safeword.
She’s my enemy bride. I’m her husband. This is the first time I’ve had her in my dungeon, and we both know it won’t be the last.
I won’t strike her again. Not tonight.
But I move to stand behind her. My cock would press into the cleft of her ass if she wasn’t strapped to the cross. Staring at her in the mirror across the room, I fold my arm around her belly, splaying the cat’s leather strands across the hot pink marks I’ve made.
“Hold this, girl,” I say.
She starts to protest, to flex her wrists. She can’t hold anything unless I hand it to her.
“Hold it,” I say. “But the moment you drop it, I stop touching you.”
And I slip the cat’s wooden handle past her soaked folds.