“I need to hear it, baby girl. What’s your safe word?”
“Swan.”
“Swan. Good.”
He points to his knee. “Now, it’s time for you climb onto my knee and take your punishment like a good girl.”
“Yes ... Sir.” I almost can’t bring myself to call him that. He’s not my Sir, Ares is.
I crawl across the floor and stand, then I fold myself over Atticus’ lap.
Violet grabs my ankles, spreading them apart. “Show us that beautiful cunt, baby girl. I want to see it dripping with need.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“She’s so good.” Violet strokes the back of my thighs, gently raking her nails over my skin. “How did an angel like her land in our laps, Sir?”
“Technically, she’s inmylap, and her squirming is making me hard again.”
“Will you fuck her again afterward?”
“If she wants me to. Though I’d love nothing more than to see you fucking her.”
“Hmm, that would be fun.” Violet’s accompanying sigh is wistful and dreamy. “I’m going to play with her clit between each blow.”
“Whatever makes you happy, darling.”
“I love you, Sir.”
“I love you too, Violet.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to her striking hair. “Now stop talking. You’re distracting me, and our little ballerina needs a spanking. Don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I want you to count, Camille.”
I nod, but before I can verbally acknowledge his request, his hand comes down on my ass.
It’s not hard. It’s a warmup slap. He’s getting me used to the sensation before he really works up to something brutal.
“One, Sir.”
“Good.”
“Two.”
Slap.
“Three.”
Slap, slap, slap.
“Four.”
I’m panting and writhing in his lap. I fling my hand back to ease the sting of the next blow, but he interlocks his fingers with mine, folding my arm behind my back and keeping it steady. He leans into the beating, his heavy forearm holding me down while the other hand smacks my ass.
I count. I count and I long for that sweet abyss to swallow me up, but it doesn’t. I close my eyes and squirm as Violet touches me between slaps. I swivel my hips, trying to both get away from his painful beating and the infuriating pressure on my clit. I hate this feeling. I love this feeling. I love being held down. I love the attention, and if I close my eyes and block out the sounds of Atticus and Violet, I can almost imagine it’s my Sir’s hand punishing me, bruising me, marking me as his while he brings me to the brink.
When I get to fifteen, I’m a mess. Sweat sticks to my skin. My flesh burns where Atticus has spanked me, but I’m pliant and half-dazed when he pulls me from his lap and walks me to the leather bed at the end of the room.