Eight
Amelia
The power in his voice, the vulnerability of my position.
To my shame, I almost obey.
My hand goes to the sash of my robe, checking it’s tight. I’m acutely, almost comically aware of what I’m wearing, or not wearing. That I’m naked beneath this. That two minutes ago, I was on my bed, doing what I was doing. Fantasizing what I was fantasizing.
The object of those thoughts stands before me.
My cheeks flush until I can feel them burning. His eyes flick to my lips, then hold my gaze, steady and unflinching, a startling pale grey that’s almost silver.
But fantasies aren’t reality, and some of them are never designed to see the light of day. They’re private, my own. And I am not his.
He’s forced his way in here, against my will, expecting me to obey him. What gives him the goddamn right? I will not bow to this man.
“No.” The word comes out hard, but not hard enough. I lift my chin, brace my back against the wall, stare at him with all the defiance I can muster, and give it another go. “No. I told you to leave.”
“And I told you to turn around.”
The nerve of the man. “What part of no can’t you understand?”
There’s no response, not even a flicker, save that those grey eyes somehow go flat. Like all emotion just got wiped away.
It’s possibly the most terrifying lack of expression I’ve ever seen.
“Do you want to make me angry?” he asks, like that’s a genuine life choice right now.
Maybe he’s not yet angry, but I’m trembling with rage and fear. I refuse to admit it might also be with anticipation. “What I want is for you to get out. I can’t be clearer. You have five seconds before I start screaming.”
“Go ahead,” he says, unruffled. “We both know no one will come. And while you’re doing that, turn around.”
How dare he?
“Fuck you,” I say, but it’s not harsh enough. “Fuck you!” My voice rises in pitch, and I push all I have into it, then open my mouth to scream.
His hand flies out, gripping my neck. My scream dies in my throat. He leans forward, until he’s almost touching me. “I wanted to do this the easy way,” he says quietly. “But I’m not averse to doing it your way.”
“My way?” I gasp out over his hand. “My way is to—”
“Your way is to push me, test me,” he replies. “I’ll allow a small amount, if that’s what’s necessary for you to feel certainty. But I don’t like it, and I have little tolerance for it.”
I’m gaping at him in disbelief that he could be so arrogant when he grabs my shoulder, spinning me around. I’m forced against the wall, my cheek pushed to the cool paint, his body pressing against my back, and his hand grips the nape of my neck.
I whimper in fear, so very conscious of his weight pinning me, my robe no protection. “I’m meeting friends—”
“You won’t be going,” he says like he was waiting for it. No tone of surprise, no hesitation, simply utter indifference for whatever plans I’ve made, wholly irrelevant now that he’s here.
He grips the back of my robe, yanking hard. It’s off my shoulders and halfway down my back before I can clutch at it.
“Not going to cut it off?” I can’t help the scathing retort. Maybe it’s not wise to provoke him, but I’m too angry to care. “Forgot your karambit?” I googled it. I don’t know why, save that I kept seeing that knife in my dreams.
“No, I have it. Is that your preference?”
I scream. It’s all I have left. I aim it toward the window, and the incessant traffic beneath it. People hurrying by, no idea of what’s happening in here.
But I won’t get help from them. If I get any at all, it needs my neighbors to do more than hear it as just another argument and turn up their TV.
His fingers slide around my neck, wrapping around my throat, closing off my air.
“Oh, shush,” he says in irritation. “We both know you want me here.”
“What?” I gasp out. He’s dreaming. He’s delusional. “I do not want you here, and I do not want this.”
“You’re lying to both of us,” he murmurs, breath warm on my ear. “We don’t need this, do we?” He tugs again at my robe.
“Yes, we really do.”
But it doesn’t stop him forcing my hands down so he can work it off my arms, until it pools at my feet, leaving me naked, facing the wall, head lowered, breathing shallow.
But nudity isn’t vulnerability; powerlessness is. And that was my state the moment he arrived at my door.
“Very beautiful,” he breathes, something akin to reverence in his tone. “Hands behind your back, please.”
“No.” I don’t even have to think. He can say please all he likes; if I do that, he has the cuffs.
“Amelia,” he says in admonition, “we both know what’s going to happen. Do you want this easy, or difficult?”
I can’t move. I couldn’t bring myself to obey him even if I wanted to. My legs are weak, my blood pounding in my ears. I can only think of what’s still to come.
He waits long enough to see that I’m not going to cooperate, then grips my wrist, pulling one arm behind my back. I don’t have the strength to stop him.
“Why are you making this so hard?” he asks as he closes a cuff around my wrist, the leather lined with something soft, like velvet. He tightens the buckle, then pulls my other wrist back against my attempts to stop him. I wince as my shoulder protests.
“It wouldn’t hurt if you didn’t fight.”
I clench my jaw. “Sorry if every other girl you’ve been with bends over on command.”
“So will you, soon enough.”
His words cause images in my mind that I shove away. “Never,” I bite out.
Both my hands are bound now. I strain in futility. There are inches of play, nothing more, the chain between them short.
As if I wasn’t already helpless enough. It’s like trimming the claws of a newborn kitten.
I don’t know what I expect him to do, but what he does is brush my still-damp braid aside, and place a kiss on the back of my neck. It’s almost loving, more intimate in its own way than being naked before him.
It makes me shudder, while I try to work out how scared I need to be. He’s exuding control, but not menace. How quickly that might yet change.
I stand there trembling, waiting for whatever’s next, clinging to the shreds of my agency, my defiance, trying so damn hard to find a way out.
“Are you going to be a good girl?” he asks.
Fuck no. I’m going to fight him with every breath. I bite my tongue, saying nothing. Let him read into that whatever he wants.
“Amelia.” He says my name like it’s a warning. “I asked you a question.”
“And I asked you to leave.”
He sighs, like I’m a disappointment. Then his hand closes on my arm.
“Maybe this is for the best,” he says, steering me toward the sofa. I fight each step, but it’s like trying to resist an ocean wave. He sits down, pulling me across his lap, and with my wrists bound, I’m helpless to stop him.
“Let me go!”
He ignores my protests. “I hadn’t intended to punish you so soon, but there’s a merit to getting it out of the way. Then you’ll know what happens when you defy me.”
Punish me?
My face is pressed into the cushions. My ass is over his lap, raised. My hands are cuffed helpless, but I still try to extend them, covering my exposed bottom. He simply pulls the chain, forcing my hands into the small of my back. I kick my legs, but he bats them away.
“Don’t kick,” he says, irritated. “If you do, your punishment will be far worse.”
Goddamn him.
I ignore him, kicking anyway. It’s the only thing I can do. I’m breathing so fast and shallow I’m almost hyperventilating. The sheer humiliation of the position has my face burning with shame, warring with my anger.
He huffs in frustration, then pins both my legs with one of his. My hips are over his other thigh, ass raised and vulnerable.
“Now I have you,” he says.
And he does. Legs pinned, hands bound, utterly helpless.
His hand comes to rest on my bottom, squeezing one cheek, spreading me open.
“Already so wet,” he murmurs.
As if I wasn’t mortified enough.
Of course I’m wet. I was goddamn enjoying myself before he turned up, and that was only a few minutes ago.
That’s the reason why. It’s nothing else. I ignore the small voice in my head that suggests he’s the reason.
His hand leaves me, only to return a second later, spanking down on my ass. It’s not particularly hard, not like when he spanked me on the terrace. It stings, but it’s mild. It barely hurts.
But he doesn’t stop at one, or three, or ten.
There’s nothing to do but grit my teeth, squeeze my eyes shut, and endure.
Soon, I can’t keep still. Each strike makes my hips buck and writhe, trying to escape the sting. I’m acutely aware his cock is hard, pushing against my hip.
He spanks me with blow after blow, alternating cheeks with a steady rhythm. If I thought the first one didn’t hurt, my ass is burning after a dozen. It’s on fire by the time I lose count.
By the time he stops, I’m almost sobbing with the indignity of it. The pain is bearable; the helplessness and degradation are not. Tears leak through my clenched lids.
Then his hand caresses gently over one bruised cheek, and it’s so soothing that I can’t help the gasp that slips out.
“Did I mention how gorgeous your ass is?”
I don’t bother to reply, but I think he did, now that he’s asked. He called it beautiful, back on the terrace. Then threatened to fuck it.
He strokes lightly over my other side, like he’s shaping his palm to the curve, and that feels too good. Then he grips both cheeks in his hands, and spreads me open.
“Are you going to behave, now?”
“I’ll never do what you tell me,” I hiss at him. “Never. Never.”
“We’ll see.” There’s a brief pause. “I like how wet you get when I spank you.”
“No!” The word is involuntary. I’m not more aroused. I don’t accept that. It can’t be true.
But his fingers dip between my legs, gliding through my folds, and I can no longer deny how wet I am. Is it just because of what I was doing before he arrived? Or is it more now, as he claims?