He lowered his lips to her ear. “What else will you beg for?”
She snatched a breath. He circled her ass and dipped his finger in her furrow. A pointer, a guide. Yesterday, he implied he would beat her, whip her harshly—a proper punishment. Today, he wanted something else from her. She was more than slightly confused by the judge. Where the hell was the consistency?
She twisted her head around. With her breasts pressed into the bed, she couldn’t see the tattoos. What were they telling him? Had her subconscious betrayed her?
Again, his finger tickled her hidden entrance. She shivered. However, the goosebumps were welcomed as they helped cool her hot skin.
“Well?” he asked hoarsely.
“You, sir,” she groaned, enjoying his probing.
“Do you understand why I punish you like this?” He slid his finger lower and into her hole. Fuck, she was wet, she knew it without any visual clues.
“I am a naughty girl, sir,” she whispered. “My lust for you is wicked.” It was and she couldn’t deny it. She shouldn’t crave a punishment, a whipping, but now she desired it. She imagined herself tied to the post, covered in stripes and dripping with sexual frustration. She’d conceived a dark fantasy—did it mirror his?
“This truly wicked human tempts her judge with this blatant display of wantonness. So I shall punish you and you shall beg for mercy.” He released his grip on her waist and she slipped back onto the floor at his feet. He tipped up her chin, forcing her to face him.
He’d the same apparent sternness in his expression he’d shown her the previous day after they’d fucked. However, she was convinced buried behind it, deep within the darkness of his eyes, a warmth lurked. She chewed her lip. Was she mistaken? Galen wanted a naughty prisoner to punish, but at the same time, he wanted a good girl to fuck? Was that how they were to survive this ordeal? He needed, for the sake of his honor, to complete it. She guessed her humility would maintain that dignity for him. At the same time, he would give her what she desired. Good girl fucks. Could she do it?
She lowered her eyes and appeared demure.
The tattoos emboldened her. Dark, although fuzzy about the edges, rather like her mind, there was no mistaking the message—she was not afraid.
He drew her up, took her wrists and bound them with the cuffs so that her elbows were level with her eyes. She jangled the chains. Galen brushed his hand down her spine and cupped an ass cheek in his palm.
“I’ve asked before, I’ll ask again. Do you trust me, Zara?”
She turned her head. “Yes, sir. I do.”
He squeezed her ass and let go.
Zara gripped the post with her hands and rested her forehead against it.
“Bottom out,” he instructed, the whip once again in his hand. He swung it and the end cracked in the air next to the bed. He repeated his demonstration and each time the whip cracked she flinched, as if it had struck her.
Slowly, she stuck her bottom out and offered it to him. Her mouth had gone dry. She licked her lips, praying softly. She reminded herself this would have been done in a room full of men in front of a camera. It helped, a little, to be grateful it was only she and Galen, and nobody else.
The air moved behind her—a subtle wisp. The crack caused her to jolt forward and the sting whizzed across her ass forming a thin line of fire. It grew rapidly, then diminished to a scorching sensation. She cried out, more from surprise than pain. It wasn’t agony. The cry turned to a soft sob. Galen touched her. He traced the line he’d made from one end to the other. A delicate examination.
Back he stepped, and she caught sight of the whip’s tip as it swayed by his ankle. She braced herself by leaning into the post, while trying hard not to clench her ass cheeks. The tail swept back, but not far, and she watched, mesmerized as he expertly flicked his wrist. That was it. Just that slight movement had caused the lick of pain? She realized then what he could do with it, what was perhaps expected of him. The long sweep of his raised arm, the rotation of his body as he put his weight behind the strike and the full force of the thickest part of the whip against her flesh. But he hadn’t. He’d not come close to using it that way.
He wielded the whip again with a snap.
“Oh,” she screeched. It still fucking hurt.
Two gone. Eight to go. He took his time, fingering each one, offering her a modicum of relief. But by the fifth one she found the need to plead.
“Oh, please, no more,” she shrilled, stamping her feet on the floor.
“Mercy isn’t given to bad girls,” he said in a deep tone.
Another whistle of the whip to prelude the sting.
She parted her legs wider, allowing him to see her slit. He responded with a low growl in the back of his throat.
He cracked the whip and the tip of it struck the apex of one of her ass cheeks. He seemed to be playing with her now, rather than whipping her. She arched her back and pulled on the chains, allowing them to jingle and clatter against the post. She thrashed her head from side to side. Below her breasts were ringed by purple circles. She was a wicked girl. A naughty, depraved prisoner with one thought on her mind.
“Fuck me, sir. Make me pay for my naughtiness.” She had lost it.