Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Two big hands wrap around the edge of the door and stop it from closing. He pushes his way into my apartment, stooping under the door frame to allow his big head and antennae to get in.
“What is going on with you?”
“Uh, my dude, we are strangers to one another. We might have had sex a couple of times, but you don’t know me, so don’t act like you do.”
He scowls. “Before I beat you, I’m going to give you one last chance to explain what this attitude is about. Something has happened. I thought it had happened to you. I’m very glad it hasn’t. I thought Rage had found you.”
“Beat me? No, man. We’re done. Trust me. We are done.”
“Trust me, we are not,” he growls. “There’s something between us. I missed you. Are you telling me you didn’t miss me?”
“Did I come find you?”
I hate being a bitch, but being a bitch is going to make this easier. Maybe. I don’t know. I know that the impulse I am having to throw myself into his arms and beg for his forgiveness has to be resisted at all costs. I don’t deserve his kindness or his care. I’ve got to get rid of him. Now.
“Get the fuck outta here,” I say.
“No,” he replies. “There is something wrong with you.”
“Really, the freak with the wings and the antennae thinks there’s something wrong with me?”
That was cruel. He’ll leave now, for sure.
But he doesn’t. He picks me up with all four hands and carries me back to my bed.
“You and I don’t really know one another completely yet,” he says. “But I know enough about you to tell when you’re lying, and every word out of your mouth right now is some kind of lie.”
“I’m not going to have sex with you.”
“No,” he says. “You’re not. You’re going to have your underwear taken down and your bottom spanked until you tell me what’s happening.”
He makes good on that threat, sitting down on my bed and sweeping me over his powerful thigh. My pajamas give up the fight without issue, retreating down to my knees with a sweep of his hand.
He has three hands to hold me down with, in addition to the one that will punish me. One holds me by the back of the head. Another pins my right arm to the center of my back. The third snugs my hip against his stomach, and the fourth comes down across my ass in a hard slap that makes me scream. It’s not that he’s hit me terribly hard, it’s that the shock of the slap unleashes everything I’ve been holding in.
From that first slap, I wail. He doesn’t stop. If he is concerned at the oddity of the intensity of my reaction, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps me where he wants me and paints my ass with a fraction of the pain I deserve. I don’t fight. I don’t struggle. There’s no point anyway. If he doesn’t want to let me go, then he is not going to let me go. I am here for as long as he decides I should be.
I start to sob as the heat flashes through me, big, hot tears running down my cheeks. Still he spanks me with those stern slaps that catch the lower part of my cheeks, right where I would sit. This is the kind of spanking that has no erotic heat. This is the kind of spanking that is just designed to punish a bad girl who deserves it.
I know I deserve it. I find myself arching my hips up so every time his big palm lands it catches even more of my bare, naked skin. This might be the last time he touches me, ever.
“I told you that you were mine,” he says. “Did you not understand what that meant? It means you don’t run from me, you don’t hide from me, and you absolutely do not disappear for a week and let me think you are dead.”
A flurry of hot, harsh slaps punctuate that sentence, driving a crescendo of heat, shame and soreness that takes my sobbing tears and turns them into absolute howls of contrition.
He stops. He sits me up on his lap, and he brushes stray hair out of my face so that his ruby red gaze can bore into mine with a piercing expression that makes me almost certain he knows already.
“Shhh,” he soothes me, even as my ass feels like molten lava trapped beneath tight skin. “Shh, it’s okay. I still love you. You’re okay. You were in trouble, but you're okay.”
“Not okay!” I sob out, struggling to get myself under control. He has broken down all my reserves and left me at the mercy of my emotions. How am I supposed to keep lying to us both like this?