12. Simone #2
The last four words are punctuated by four hard spanks in quick succession, two on each side, his palm cracking down across my ass with a force that makes me sink my teeth into my lower lip to keep from crying out in shock.
I've never been spanked before—never even imagined it—and the sensation is overwhelming.
Heat spreads out from where his palm struck me, the burning, stinging sensation making tears well in my eyes, and my thighs clench together, my muscles tightening in reaction to the pain.
“That’s four,” Tristan murmurs. “You’re going to get six more for your disobedience today, célie .”
I want to protest. I want to cry out, curse at him, rail against his very existence. Hate floods me, but underneath it, as his hand comes down twice more, is something else.
The way he dominates me turns me on. He’s not swayed by my insults and arguments.
He’s arrogant, commanding, domineering, and I hate him down to the very depths of my bones for all of it—but my body feels differently.
I can feel heat between my thighs, arousal gathering there as his palm comes down twice more, and my hands curl into the duvet, my body throbbing with pain and something else, too.
“Two more,” Tristan says. “You’ve taken your punishment well, célie . Now show me you can be a good girl and take the last two, and we’ll stop there.”
His hand comes down again, a sharp crack echoing in the air as he spanks me once more on each side of my ass, before smoothing his hand over the heated skin. I start to push myself up from the bed, but his hand stiffens, holding me down against the mattress.
“Not yet, Simone,” he murmurs, his voice rough with lust. “Lie there like a good girl, and there won’t be any more punishment tonight.”
I expected him to step back, to say some other bullshit about my place and how I should obey him before leaving me in peace for the night.
But I hear the sound of fabric moving, and I look over my shoulder to see him pushing his sweatpants down, his cock springing out hard and thick above the waistband.
It nearly touches his navel, the tip swollen, red, and pearling with pre-cum, and Tristan’s gaze is dark with possessive lust.
“What are you—” I start to ask, but his left hand stays firm against my burning ass as his right hand wraps around his shaft, and I think I know the answer.
"Stay exactly where you are," he commands, his hand moving slowly along his length. "Don't move." He slides his hand down to the base, squeezing lightly as the veins throb, and then back up.
“You—” I start to spit out an insult, but he interrupts me, speaking through his teeth as he strokes himself in long, slow movements.
“Be careful, célie ,” he growls. “You can lie there and obey me, or we can start this all over again. I promise, it only ends one way.” Another stroke, a low groan coming from him as he rolls his palm over the tip.
“With your pretty ass as red as I decide it should be, and my cum painted over your skin so you remember who you belong to.”
I should be horrified. I should be disgusted.
I am , I tell myself, but I can’t stop staring at him—at his thick, rigid cock, at his tight muscles, his stomach flexing with every stroke of his hand over his length, the way his chest moves with his ragged breathing.
The hot, possessive look in his eyes as he stares at me, stroking himself.
He’s aroused by me, by his dominance over me in this moment, touching himself to the sight of my naked body punished and spread over the bed, and there’s something primal about it, something that makes my core clench with need.
“You should see your pussy, célie ,” he rasps.
“So wet. I can see you almost dripping. You need to be fucked, Simone. Fucked by a man who can handle a stubborn princess like you. Your pussy needs to be filled and kept that way, dripping with my cum every morning.” His voice is hoarse as he strokes himself faster, his free hand gripping my hip to keep me in place, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body as he stands behind me.
The sounds he makes—low groans and muttered curses between the filthy words that spill from his lips—send shivers down my spine.
“You’re going to earn my cock again, célie ,” he growls. “And when you do, I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll forget why you ever didn’t want it.”
His hand is flying over his stiff length now, his hips moving as he fucks his fist, his hand roving over my ass as he grips and kneads the heated flesh.
He curses below his breath, his throat tight and the hard muscle of his stomach bunching as he bows forward, and his hand moves faster, a blur as his thighs press against the back of mine and I hear him groan with a ragged, desperate sound.
“Fuck,” he snarls. “I’m going to coat this pretty ass with my cum—mark you as mine. I’m going to come all over… fuck ?—”
The first hot spurt splashes across my ass, and the next arcs up to my back, spurt after spurt painting my skin as he groans roughly, his hand slapping against his flesh as he comes hard.
I press my face against the bed, hating the shudder of sensation that washes over me at the feeling of his cum marking me, the way my pussy clenches helplessly against nothing, wanting him to be fucking me instead, filling me with his cum instead of streaking it across my skin.
“ Fuck ,” he groans, and I feel the swollen head of his cock against my flesh, dragging through the trails of cum as the last droplets squeeze out onto my skin. “You look so fucking pretty like this, célie . I should make you wear my cum every day.”
He takes a step back, tucking himself in as his chest rises and falls with his hard breathing, his eyes dark as he takes in the sight of me.
“Don’t clean up,” he orders me. “You go to bed with my cum on your skin, Simone. You can shower in the morning. But until then, don’t you dare wipe off a drop. ”
My face burns, humiliation washing over me. And at the same time, I feel the heat of arousal building between my legs, my clit aching with unfulfilled need. Tristan’s gaze rakes over me, resting between my thighs, and a satisfied smirk passes over his lips.
“Remember what I said about touching yourself, célie ,” he warns.
“I’ll know if you do. This pussy is mine.
Mine to touch, mine to fuck, mine to decide if it gets to come.
Disobey me, and I’ll punish you again, Simone, and make you sleep in bed next to me, handcuffed to the headboard. Do you understand?”
My jaw tightens, but I can’t pretend that I don’t think he’d do it.
Nor do I want to let him see just how frustrated I am, how badly I want to give myself an orgasm.
My body feels tight and shivery with need, and I glare at him, hoping that he reads it as anger and not sexual frustration.
“Fine,” I spit out. “I don’t care. After what you just did to me, I don’t think I could come. ”
He smirks at me, his expression that of a man who knows I’m lying and is enjoying it.
"I have another meeting tomorrow at three," he says casually, as if we’re talking over breakfast, and not with me splayed across the bed, his cum drying on my skin.
"You'll be in my office at two fifty-five, on your knees, ready to take my cock in your mouth. Or we'll repeat tonight's lesson."
Shock ripples through me. I stare at him, my mouth falling open. "You can't be serious."
"I'm completely serious." He steps closer, his legs nearly touching mine again. "You're my wife, Simone. You belong to me. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us."
"I’ll never accept that," I whisper, but even as I say it, I know that I’m fighting an uphill battle. My body craves him, wants me to beg him to touch me, to fuck me, and if this keeps up…
I want to say that I won’t let him break me, but I don’t know how long I can resist.
That smirk never leaves his lips. "We'll see about that." He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear. "Sweet dreams, célie ."
And then he's gone, leaving me alone with my racing heart and the lingering heat between my thighs.
—
I don't sleep that night. I toss and turn, my body pulsing with frustration, desperate for a shower to get him off of me, my mind spinning with everything that happened. The way he touched me, the way my body responded, the way he looked at me like he owned me—it's all too much to process.
I’m tempted to go and shower anyway, but I can’t help but think that he’ll hear it and know I’m disobeying.
I think of his command to come to his office tomorrow, and I know I’m going to tell him no again…
but at what cost? If he repeats the lesson, then what?
I imagine his hand on me again, cracking against my ass, the hot spurt of his cum over my skin, and I don’t know if I’m fearful or aroused.
It hurt… but it turned me on more than I would have ever imagined something like that could.
I feel confused and aroused and angry, dreading the next day and unsure of how to feel about what happened.
None of this would have happened if I hadn’t been forced to marry him. All of my anger is directed at Tristan, at his arrogance, at the fact that he’s taken over my life and doesn’t spare a thought for how that might make me feel.
I shower the moment I wake up, scrubbing him off of my skin, but it does nothing to erase the memory of the feeling that he left behind.
I feel restless and agitated, and I pick at my breakfast, making excuses about it to Nora when she expresses concern.
I go for a run, come back and work out until I’m breathless and sweaty and then shower again, but my chest feels like a fist is wrapped around it.
I keep looking at the clock, counting down to two fifty-five, knowing I’m not going to go to his office.