Swish. The leather strikes her, making a small splotch of faint pink bloom against her pale skin and eliciting the most beautiful little cry. I lash her again and again, each flick a little harder than the last. At first, she actually growls at me, cursing under her breath but unable to get away. She whimpers, squirming, when the crop lands with more intensity. When I’ve painted her a fetching shade of pink, I flip the wand around and tickle her abused flesh with the feather.
“Ohh!” she gasps in protest, squirming, likely surprised by the different sensation. I take the delicate feather-tipped crop and trace it up her back and to her neck, tickling her just there, before I flip the crop again and give her another sharp spank.
“Beg.”
“No.”
I continue the same torturous teasing, alternating flicks of the crop and tickling feathers until she’s moaning, her hips rising, and I know that if I touch her secret folds she’ll be sopping.
Another swishing swing of the crop, “Beg me.”
“No.”
I’m growing impatient.
“It’s unfortunate you’ve chosen to be so stubborn,” I say. “You’ll need something more serious, then?”
Clenching her jaw, she refuses to give in.
I shake my head and cluck my tongue, walk to the bedside table and open it again. She watches every move. I take out a leather flogger and tap it against my palm. Tame, but would work if we had more time. I place it back in the drawer and take out a stout cane. Too harsh. Then I eye a lightweight but sturdy wooden paddle. I nod to myself. That will do well.
“You’re crazy,” she says with a scowl, staring at the solid wood. “Insane!”
“And you’re stubborn as fuck,” I say with admiration. “I like it.”
Without another word, I place my hand on her lower back and slam the wood against her full ass cheeks.
“Ow!” she screams and bucks, but I’ve got her tightly secured. I do want to subdue her, but I also want to take her to a place where pain and pleasure blend. I don’t strike her again yet but rather run my hand along her heated skin, massaging. She freezes, unsure of what I’m doing next. I drag my fingers along her inner thighs, so silky and warm to the touch.
“Beg.”
This time there’s a slight pause, and her refusal is tamer when she whispers, “No.”
I shake my head with mock regret. I’m not at all disappointed I need to continue to punish her. I hold her in place with my hand on the small of her back and bring the paddle down a second time, but lower so it catches the edge of her upper thighs.
“I will not have a disobedient wife,” I scold. “You will do as I say and learn your place.”
Smack.
A third swat with the paddle has her whimpering. Again, I stroke her inner thighs, but this time I go higher, just to the very edge of her sweet spot. Leaning down, I brace myself on the bed and blow out a breath, letting the warm air ghost over her skin. She shivers and ever so slightly parts her knees. With slow, deliberate moves, I graze her clit, just enough to arouse but not enough to really stimulate.
“Pl—” she freezes when she realizes she almost did what I asked. Again, I tease her, one gentle stroke of my fingers touching her most sensitive parts before I draw back.
“Beg.”
She doesn’t obey, but she doesn’t defy me, either. I lift the paddle and push it between her thighs, parting them, drunk on the scent of her arousal, the way she’s fully at my mercy. I glide the paddle to her clit and gently push, making her moan so beautifully my cock aches with the need to fuck her.
“Caroline,” I say sternly. A warning.
I move the paddle from side to side, working her clit with the hard edge. She’s grinding on the pressure, her breathing labored, her fists clenching the sheets white-knuckled. I remove the paddle and graze it along her reddened backside, lift it back, and slam it again, but this time not quite as hard. She doesn’t even flinch but moans when I spank her with firm, deliberate, sensual strokes.
“Beg.” The command is sharp, demanding, and she bites her lip in response, her eyes closed so tightly I know she’s warring within herself. I don’t care how long this takes. I don’t care how long I torture and punish her. The longer it goes, the harder I get.
Another tap of the paddle.
“Beg.”
Smack.
“Me.”
She won’t.Chapter 10CarolineI will not beg.
I. Will. Not.
I don’t care if he keeps me on the very edge of arousal or if he beats me with that goddamn frat paddle all night long, he will not make me cave.
“You are my husband,” I hiss, as if somehow reminding him of this will get him to stop assaulting me. Husbands aren’t supposed to treat their wives poorly. Doesn’t he get that?