Page 50 of House of Cards
Was that the door or the closet?
Oh God, is he fetching something from the Closet of Kink?
I’m so fucked.
My heart is pounding so hard, the buckles on my fetish gear are clinking.
The air changes. It feels thicker now, weightier, like it’s pressing down on me. I feel the anger and frustration comingoff in waves from the predator behind me. Hear the rustle of his clothes. Slow, heavy breathing.
God, I’m not going to survive what comes next.
“Smith! Smith!” I yell, yanking on the cuffs, willing them to spring open and release me.
He said he was watching. But he didn’t say he’d intervene. He probably only told me that as some kind of sick mind-fuck.
“Smith, please!” I hate how desperate I sound. How pathetic.
There’s a soft sound behind me.
I don’t know why, but I get the image of something thin and hard being dragged through a clenched hand.
“Hey, listen. Howler, right? I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry!” I blurt out. I wipe my face against my shoulder, trying to push the blindfold off my eyes. “I ran my mouth when I should just have shut up and let you, you know, do your thing. This really is my first time. So why don’t you cut me a little slack?—”
The first lash comes out of nowhere, followed almost immediately by a second strike with whatever he took out of the closet. It’s stiff, thin, and sings in the air on its way to my flesh.
I have no fucking idea what it is, but holy crap, it hurts like a motherfucker. A horizontal line of pain erupts over my ass cheeks like a fire-breathing dragon just licked me, followed by a dull ache that seeps right into my flesh.
The third and fourth strike land barely an inch above that already heated, throbbing flesh. I would have yelled if I wasn’t so busy gasping in shock.
Fuck it, thatstings!
I’m about to say something, perhaps to plead with Howler to take it easy on me, but a fifth, then sixth blow drives all rational thought from my mind.
“Ow, Jesus,fuck!” I suck in a gulp of air, tugging desperately at the cuffs. “Hey!Hey!This really is my first time! All I’ve gotten so far were spanks. Please don’t?—”
Jesus, it feels like a fucking air strike lands on my ass.
Eight, ten, twelve lashes. Everyone lands harder than I thought possible, sharp and precise. There’s a rhythm to them now, a tactical consistency that wasn’t there before. A cleaver methodically sectioning meat from a bone. He targets a wide area from the top of my ass to mid-thigh spreading out the blows so there’s no discernible pattern, no idea where he’s going to trike next.
The man behind me isn’t just angry. He’sfocused.
I try moving away, shifting my hips, twisting my shoulders, but the X keeps me exactly where he wants me.
I’m howling now, and that’s hilarious in a totally unfunny way. Guess that’s why they call him Howler.
How many stitches willIneed after this?
There’s so much agony, it all blends together in a white-hot soup of slivered skin and melted flesh. Something must short-circuit in my brain, because slowly, so fucking insidiously, my brain starts gaslighting me about howgoodit feels.
It’s just heat, baby. Heat and pressure.
Raw. Brutal. So delicious.
Fuckoff, Brain!
“Jesus, stop! Fucking stop!” I blubber through tears that are instantly soaked up by the blindfold.
Somehow, that works. Or maybe the guy’s arm just got tired.
