Lara
Chapter Eleven
T he instant our eyes met, I knew I was in deep trouble.
I had thought I was finally free, blending in with the homeless to hide long enough to figure out my next move.
Yet, somehow, he managed to track me down, and I couldn’t fathom how.
If not for Stepan's steadying presence, I would have collapsed to the ground. It wasn’t just about being caught—it was the dread of what awaited me back at the mansion.
Dmitri hadn’t spared me a single glance since we left Midtown. His silent treatment was a heavy weight on my chest. When I attempted to apologize once more for my escape, his icy glare cut through my resolve, silencing me instantly.
As Stepan eased the SUV to a stop by the mansion, Dmitri was out the door before Stepan had turned the engine off.
He seized my arm with a grip like iron, yanking me across the seat and hauling me out with a force that promised bruises.
He dragged me along the circular driveway, my heels skidding against the gravel, causing me to stumble as I struggled to keep my balance.
Dmitri’s hold on my arm was unyielding, his fingers sinking deeper with each step as he led me up the grand staircase to the second floor. I exhaled a shaky breath of relief; grateful he hadn’t directed me toward the kitchen and the stairs leading to the ominous torture chamber below.
Halting abruptly as though he could read my thoughts, he turned to face me, his steely gray eyes piercing into mine. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear as he whispered with chilling intent, “Don’t think you are getting out of your punishment so easily.”
My fists clenched tightly at my sides as I struggled to pull away from him. It was a reckless decision, one I knew would cost me dearly, but if spending the rest of my days in a cell meant I wouldn’t have to marry him, it would be worth every second.
“Let go of me, asshole,” I spat, using my free hand to land a punch squarely on his face.
The blow caught him off guard, forcing him to release his grip on my arm and giving me a fleeting chance to escape. But it wasn’t enough. His arm quickly snaked around my waist, hoisting me up the remaining stairs with a strength that left me breathless.
“I’ll punish that filthy mouth of yours too,” he threatened, his voice a low growl as he held me firmly, positioning me on the plush carpet with my back pressed against his unyielding chest.
He maneuvered us into his room instead of the one where he had initially locked me, swiftly turning the key in the lock before releasing his iron grip.
As I spun around to face him, a sinister expression flickered across his features.
I had never encountered the devil himself, but in that moment, I was certain he stood before me.
“Strip!” he demanded, his voice carrying a tone of authority I knew all too well.
Summoning the remnants of my dignity, I lifted my chin defiantly and locked eyes with him.
Slowly, deliberately, I began to shed my clothing, one garment at a time.
My dress slipped from my shoulders, cascading in soft folds to the floor, forming a silky puddle around my feet.
I stepped out of it with measured grace, meeting Dmitri’s gaze head-on.
My hands hung loosely by my sides, defiantly not concealing the outline of my breasts beneath the sheer white fabric of my bra.
“All of it, kukolka ,” he chided, his arms crossed over his chest, the command as unyielding as his posture.
With quiet resolve, I hooked my thumbs into the band of my panties and lowered them down my legs, using the pointed toe of my slingback heel to ease them down my calves, kicking them aside without a backward glance.
Reaching behind, I unhooked my bra with a practiced flick, letting it slide off my shoulders to join the growing pile of discarded clothing.
Only my heels remained, a final touch of elegance, which I deftly nudged away.
I stood before Dmitri, utterly bare and exposed, my vulnerability laid bare.
Yet, I refused to give him the satisfaction of my tears.
He stepped forward, invading my space, his hand drifting to my cheek before trailing with deliberate slowness down to my neck. His touch was neither rough nor gentle, a neutral pressure that held me in its grip.
“On the bed, face down.” His hand released its hold, granting me the freedom to turn and climb onto the bed.
I moved to the center of the mattress, rolling onto my stomach with a sense of unease.
The soft rustle of his footsteps on the wooden floor heightened my awareness of his movements.
I turned my head toward my right shoulder, eyes widening as he stood at the bed’s edge.
From nowhere, it seemed, he produced a wide leather strap with an attached cuff, a detail I’d somehow overlooked before.
How had I missed it? Panic surged through me, and I struggled against him, but his strength easily overpowered mine.
He grasped my hand, pulling it away from my body, and secured the cuff around my wrist, the leather cool and unyielding against my skin.
“You can fight me all you want, kukolka , but the more you resist, the more spankings you will receive,” he advised with a chilling calmness. “At this moment, you are up to twenty.”
I was powerless against him. He had killed my father, and he could easily end my life too.
As he moved around the bed to the opposite side, I surrendered my struggle and extended my hand, allowing him to fasten it securely to the leather cuff. Methodically, he bound my ankles just as he had my wrists, leaving me spread-eagled and entirely at his mercy.
“Beautiful,” he taunted, the sound of his belt being unbuckled echoing ominously in the room. “Perhaps I should let you escape more often. It could become our own little game.”
A sharp whoosh sliced through the air, followed by a stinging slap across my bare ass cheeks, causing me to jerk my hips upward involuntarily.
The searing pain radiated down my leg, stealing my breath away.
Never had I been spanked before. The agony was excruciating, but more than that, it ignited a fiery anger within me.
“Do you know why you are being punished?”
“You son-of-a-bitch, motherfucker,” I spat, straining against the restraints that bound my wrists. My ass cheeks clenched in anticipation of the next strike.
“That just earned you five more, kukolka ,” he declared firmly.
The belt descended once more, the impact more intense than the last, when I failed to answer. “Ow, ow, ow!” I cried out, my voice breaking with each strike.
“Would you like five more, Larissa?” he inquired. “Answer the question.”
I couldn’t endure any more at this pace. “Because I ran away,” I admitted through clenched teeth.
“And?”
“Because of my mouth,” I conceded, my voice barely a whisper.
“Good girl,” he commended me. “Now I want you to count.”
Whoosh!
“Three,” I gasped, as the belt struck with precision.
The tears I had fought so hard to suppress spilled over, soaking the comforter beneath my head. The belt struck in rapid succession, each strike a sharp reminder of my helplessness.
“Four, five, six,” I counted, my voice trembling. “I hate you.”
“You can say you hate me all you want,” he mused, running his fingers over my hot skin. “But your body tells a different story.”
Whoosh! Whack !
“Seven, eight, nine.”
Whack! Whack!
“Ten, eleven,” I choked out, the numbers blurring together in my mind.
Dmitri continued his relentless assault, alternating between my right and left cheeks or my upper thighs.
By the time the twentieth strike landed, my skin had gone numb.
And as the numbness set in, a bewildering sensation crept over me, a growing need for satisfaction that I couldn’t comprehend.
How could something so excruciating awaken such a primal desire within me?
“Thirty,” I whimpered, my body trembling uncontrollably and drenched with sweat, a desperate need for release consuming me, tears cascading down my face in torrents.
Dmitri paused his relentless punishment and began to gently rub my tender, reddened skin. “You did so well, kukolka ,” he murmured, his fingers skillfully soothing the rawness and easing the burning sensation. “If you attempt to run again or defy me, your punishment will be far more severe.”
“Yes, sir. I understand,” I replied, fully aware that he meant every word.
His hand glided between my cheeks, and his fingers expertly found my clit, sending electric shivers through my body.
I let out a moan, feeling the throbbing intensity as I instinctively moved my hips, seeking more friction from his touch.
Dmitri slid his finger down my slick folds to my tight entrance, teasingly dipping his finger inside.
The searing pain on my ass and thighs faded into the background, eclipsed by the overwhelming sensation of his finger moving within me.
“Please,” I moaned softly, rotating my hips as he expertly moved his finger in and out before adding a second, intensifying the exquisite pressure.
“Please what, kukolka? ” he taunted, his voice low and commanding, as he plunged deeper inside me, his thumb circling my clit with deliberate precision. “Would you like to come? All you have to do is beg me to give you what you need.”
I bit back my response, a stubborn determination refusing to let him know he held the power over my pleasure. Rocking my hips, I edged closer to the brink of release, needing just a little more to tip over.
He continued his tantalizing tease, never quite giving me the satisfaction I craved.
“I can do this all night, kukolka . All you have to do is beg me to let you come,” he persisted, his barely-there touch driving me to grind against the mattress in a desperate search for relief. He knew he had the upper hand. He knew what my body craved.
“Please, let me come,” I breathed out finally, conceding this momentary victory. He might control my pleasure, but he would never own me.
“You’re even more beautiful when you come. Soon you will be screaming my name. I will own every one of your orgasms.” My eyelids remained closed and I was still reeling with my climax, but I could sense his gaze lingering on me with satisfaction, the evidence of my release vivid and exposed.
Dmitri carefully unfastened the restraints around my ankles; his movements deliberate and controlled.
He then moved to the head of the bed, where he removed the leather cuffs from my wrists.
The urge to crawl under the covers and hide was strong, but I remembered his warning about concealing myself.
As I shifted to sit up, a sharp pain seared across my aching thighs and ass.
Dmitri extended his hand, and I bit back a moan lodged in my throat as I gingerly slid across the cool expanse of the comforter.
“I have something that will make the sting less painful,” he offered, his voice a blend of authority and concern, as I placed my hand in his.
I followed Dmitri into the spacious bathroom, my eyes tracing the way his crisp white shirt stretched tautly over his muscular back. He was a man of formidable strength, yet his grip on my hand was unexpectedly gentle, a contrast from the pain he inflicted moments ago.
Releasing my hand, I watched him pull open a drawer, extracting a tube of ointment. “Turn around,” he instructed, twisting the lid off with ease.
I turned to face the door, my back presented to him. “Ow,” I yelped involuntarily, the sudden coldness of the ointment a stark contrast against my heated skin.
“Sorry. I should have warmed this for you,” he apologized, a hint of remorse coloring his words.
Dmitri squeezed a small amount of the soothing ointment onto his palm, carefully massaging it into my sore ass and thighs with expert precision.
His touch was gentle, ensuring he didn’t exacerbate the discomfort I already felt.
Once finished, he placed his hands on my shoulders, turning me to face him once more.
“Get dressed. There are some papers I need you to sign,” he said, his tone shifting to one of businesslike efficiency.
He gently placed a kiss on the top of my head, a tender gesture that contrasted sharply with the tension in the air.
I remained frozen in the bathroom as his footsteps echoed down the hall, and only when I heard the soft click of the door closing behind him did I dare to move.
Turning slowly to face the mirror, my heart sank when I twisted my hips and saw my refection.
Angry red welts marked my skin, vivid against my pale complexion, while the deepening bruises hinted at the pain that was yet to fully surface.
“This is your own fault, Lara,” I whispered to myself, the words heavy with regret and self-reproach as I lightly touched the welts. “You never should have tried to escape. You shouldn’t have tested his patience.”