Returning to the bar, he leaves me to contemplate how wrong I was. Of course, this could get worse. The paddle is inches from my nose, long and thick, and just looking at it makes the flesh on my back crawl. I hate having it so close, but looking away from it means turning away from Viktor, and this isn’t over yet. If it was, he’d have untied me instead of retiring to his unfinished drink.
For the longest time, the only sound, apart from my sniffles and gasps, is the rattle of ice and alcohol in his shaker. He pours, then leans against the bar to watch me as he sips his drink. I don’t know what he’s waiting for, but I’m grateful for every minute. Slowly but surely, the fire in the ginger root is dying, only the faintest heat remains in my clit, and the burning in my ass has become almost manageable.
He finishes his drink before returning to the nightstand. Picking up my partially empty glass of water, he comes back to me.
“Marry me, Princess,” he said as he helps me drink.
“No,” I gasp between swallows of the room temperature water. I hadn’t known how dry I’d become until I get that first sip.
“Are you sure?” He let me drink my fill.
I glare at him. The last thing I want is to be so cliché as to declare ‘never,’ but…
“Never!”
He chuckles. His smile is nothing like Miguel’s. Not only was his amusement handsome, but the warmth of it made his blue eyes sparkle. Tussling my hair, he takes the now empty glass back to the bar and fills it again, adding a few ice cubes before returning it to the nightstand.
Taking off his white shirt as he comes back to me, his gaze burning me hotter than the ginger root. I flinch when his fingers brush the curve of my hip as he steps behind me. The fire barely flares when he takes hold of the ginger plug and pulls. I stiffen, dreading a renewed surge of discomfort, fully expecting him to fuck me with it again. The burning had been so awful the first time, but it forces me to be honest—it was only half as awful as the unexpected pleasure.
The friction stung, the stinging hurt, and the hurt… felt good. Every stroke he gave me stoked the fire into an agony, I’d have done almost anything to escape, but did I give in and sign hisstupid contract? No. Not only would doing so bind me to a monster, it also might have put a premature end to the exquisite pumping of that root, every in and out jolt drilling straight through my sobbing nerves to my sex.
Viktor—Daddy—had driven me to the brink of orgasm long before his expert fingers swept through my pussy folds, taking possession of my clit. I’ve never come so hard, it made me cry, and although I tried so hard to convince myself, it was because this was all so awful—my kidnapping, my torment—it really wasn’t.
I can’t bear to face that. Turning my face from Viktor and his paddle, I try to ignore the pressure tugging at the root, but it’s impossible. My toes curls again, but he isn’t fucking me anymore. He plucks the ginger from me, briefly fanning a residual dying fire before I can breathe a sigh of relief. My back passage is so tender, a sensation he lets me feel in full detail as he massages my bottom hole. His touch feels more like a warning than a soothing caress.
“You need to think about this,” he says as he walks back to the bar. “Don’t you want to know how it feels never to have to be afraid?”
I barely open my eyes when I hear the solid thunk as he throws the root away, followed by the softer bump of the mini-fridge door opening and closing, then plastic rustles. I know that sound.
Lifting my head, I crane my neck to see what he’s doing, and he doesn’t try to hide it. He’s cutting another finger of ginger off the root hand, which looks so much bigger than the last one.
“No,” I moan.
He smiles as he picks up the paring knife to peel away the rough outer skin.
“With me, you’ll never have to worry that someone will hurt you. I won’t let it happen. Not your father. Not the Moraleses, not anyone.”
“Except you,” I point out, never mind he might consider it goading. He pauses, but the look he sends me only makes my pussy quiver. The mix of dread and excitement shivers me. “Daddy,” I whisper.
“It’ll be the paddle if you forget again,” he warns. “You’re right. That rule applies to everyone but me. Still, my spankings, while uncomfortable, will never be the end of the world. Other punishments”—he held up the half-peeled ginger root—”might sting, but I promise I’ll never so much as give you a single scar. Never fear what will happen when I’m angry. You have far, far more to worry about when I’m amused.”
Finished preparing the root, he brings the second ginger plug to me, my stomach sinking with every step. Picking up the lube, he looks at me.
“Make me the happiest man in existence, Princess,” he warns.
Or get another finger of ginger shoved up your ass.
Go to hell, ‘Daddy.’
“No.” I aim my mutinous frown at the bedding and only realize my mistake when he drops the lube and the ginger on the blanket beside me. “Daddy!” I hastily add, but he picks up the paddle, anyway. “I said, Daddy!”
Without a word, he walks behind me. Resting the cool hard surface of the wood dead center across my cringing backside, he ignores my squeal as he takes aim. His arm sweeps back.
C-R-A-C-K!
The pain is everything his hand spanking wasn’t, and like nothing I’ve ever experienced, including the time my father broke two of my ribs.
Maybe it’s because my bottom is already so tender or my splayed position. My ass is taut, and I can’t wriggle or cringe away. I can’t do anything except take it.
