Twenty-Two #2
“And you’ve exhausted mine!” I pull against his hold on me; my arm, my wrist. Neither shifts. “You’re hurting me, and you promised you wouldn’t.”
“I promised I wouldn’t harm you. I’m not about to stop spanking you when you need it.”
I glare at him, trying to ignore the way his words affect me. “Let. Me. Go.” I bite it out. “I will fight you every step.”
“And again, we do it your way,” he replies.
I’m still figuring out what he means by that when he spins me like a rag doll, then pushes me forward until my knees hit the bed, pressing my shoulders down. His hand cracks down on my ass. I’m grateful I’m wearing pants, but they’re not thick enough to offer much protection. It still hurts.
“I don’t have time to spank you right now,” he tells me. “It’ll have to wait.”
Instead, his knee replaces his hand between my shoulder blades, his weight pinning me completely. I can barely breathe.
“You bastard!” I gasp out. “Get off of me!”
Warm velvet-lined leather captures one wrist, pulling tight.
“No! I cut those up!” I try to squirm, but go nowhere. He catches my other hand, and I can’t pull it away.
“I bought new ones,” he says as he secures me.
“Dragging a cuffed woman out of her apartment will draw attention!” I cry desperately.
“Not at twenty after one in the morning.”
Shit.
I do the only thing left open to me. I scream.
“Help! Someone help mmmpf—”
His hand covers my mouth, and his lips are by my ear. “Little Stray,” he murmurs, “I know you like to push, but is this really the time?”
I try to bite him, but he’s gripping my jaw.
“Stop struggling,” he says, like I’m boring him, and his hand smacks into my ass again.
There’s a snick from somewhere behind my head, and I turn as much as he’ll allow. He has his knife out, the blade extended, curved and so damn sharp.
I should be petrified, and part of me is. But my anger wins. I’ve had enough of being forced into things, of people helping themselves to my person and my property. I buck, trying to get him off me, and succeed in dislodging him a little.
His knee returns swiftly, heavier than before, driving the breath from me. “This is for your own good.”
His hand leaves my mouth, but I haven’t got the air to scream again. There’s a ripping sound as he attacks my sheet, then a strip of it is wedged between my teeth. He pulls it so tight it’s uncomfortable, my cheeks forced back, my tongue pinned.
“Mmmm! Mmmmmmmm!”
“This wouldn’t have been necessary if we weren’t in a rush,” he tells me as he ties his makeshift gag tight behind my head. “But fun though this is, we really don’t have time to dawdle.”
Dawdle? I’m not fucking dawdling, I’m fighting!
Just not very effectively.
Wrists bound, mouth gagged, there’s nothing I can do as he pulls me upright, then bends and lifts me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I kick my legs, but his arm is tight around my thighs and it’s not effective.
“Be still,” he says, slapping my ass with his other hand. “Every time you struggle from now on, it’s another ten spanks when we get home.”
Home? Fuck that.
I scream against the gag, kicking for all I’m worth, bucking against his shoulder. It’s not effective, he’s just too damn strong. He carries me out of the apartment, hand still pressed to my ass.
Then pauses in the hallway. “Ah, Haynes. Good timing. Don’t forget to strip the cameras, please.”
“Of course.” There’s a hint of amusement in that response, along with a British accent. I’m certain I’ve heard it before, and then I remember where: the man at the gala, who drove me home.
Van Wyk starts walking again, and I pass a set of legs, then two more. I can’t see anything but Van Wyk’s back and carpet. None of the men say anything, but I know what they’re staring at. What must they think of me, bound and gagged over his shoulder?
We step into the elevator, and I resume my struggles, kicking and crying out as much as the gag will allow.
“I’ve warned you already,” he says as the doors close and we begin to descend. “But if it wasn’t enough, stop now, or the spanks you’ve earned won’t be on your ass. They’ll be on your tight, wet little pussy.”
I whimper against the gag, ceasing my struggles.
I know him well enough that he always follows through on his threats.
The images his words create make my body clench, my breathing catch.
It doesn’t help that his hand is still on my ass, and it’s as if his words inspire him too, because he starts stroking and squeezing.
We ride the elevator down to the basement, and Van Wyk carries me out into the parking garage. He opens the door of a car, bundling me unceremoniously onto the back seat, then leans over and clips a seat belt in. With my hands cuffed, it’s as effective a restraint as bondage ropes.
“There’s my good girl,” he murmurs, booping my nose. “Time to go home.”
I glare at him with as much venom as I can muster, but it doesn’t have any effect.
He walks around to the driver’s seat, slipping behind the wheel. That’s when I recognize the car: it’s the Maybach Haynes brought me home in.
There’s some irony there, being driven away in the same vehicle.
Van Wyk puts some music on, a soft classical piece, and together, we drive out into the night.