Stepping back several paces, he pulls the thin chain taunt. Turning, he gives it a gentle tug and then leads me through the parting crowd.
The hostility is palpable as music beats around me with every step I take following him.
Keeping my eyes on his back, I ignore the sneering hisses of bitch, traitor, puta, cochina. I don’t want to see who’s calling me those names, let alone if they are saying those things while sporting one of my tattoos. Not that I’d be surprised. I did a lot of ink on the men and women of this club. They don’t know the full story, and definitely not Kandie and my side of the events.
Not being able to blame them does not make enduring this any easier.
Snake leads me onto the dais. The clinking chain’s links are the only noise heard above the low hum of the music.
Taking a throne-like chair, they replaced Angel’s with while he’s away with his family. Snake tightens the chain, drawing me in, wrapping it in tight coils around his fist.
“On your fucking knees, Saban.” He jerks the links, propelling me to the floor at his feet.
My locs fall from its topknot like a curtain around me.
“Face them.” He instructs creating a little slack in the link, causing them to clink and jingle.
Turning, I face the people who think I betrayed them. There is a mix of emotions as I look on to the people I’ve known most of my life. Anger, hate, sorrow and even dread greet me as I look upon each countenance.
Wanting to speak, I turn back to Snake, who gives an imperceptible shake of his head.
“Saban Toussaint, you have betrayed el Diablo, the people who gave you succor and protection for over ten years. Through your actions, you put this MC in peril as well as the livelihoods of the men and women who work for Cruz Enterprises. You fled rather than face what you wrought, leaving two communities that were once allies at war. Your punishment will be public. Once your subjugation is complete, you will remain under my care and supervision until the MC deems your penance paid.” The crowd shifts at his words, and I see edges of what I haven’t before — something is on the stage where Angel’s motorcycle sat the night he claimed Easy on top of it.
“Up.” He commands. Chain tightening as I rise, I follow the pull right over his knees.
My breasts are squeezed tight against his knees. He sweeps my locs over to the side so everyone can see my face — my mortification. The thought of people witnessing my punishment results in a response I did not know I’d feel — a tight, hard pulse low in my sugarcake. My heart is beating so hard, and I can feel it racing against his knees.
“Please, no.” Words come trembling, spilling out of my mouth, knowing what my body did the last few times he did this. How slick and ready I was for him. Even begging, despite howmad I was at him. How I hated him and myself afterward as I yearned for him, wanting more of his harshness.
“Now everyone gets to see how I own you. They get to see why you won’t ever betray the MC again. I get to save your life and make you mine.” He says in Haitian Creole knowing that only I can understand.
“H—” the plea never comes. No sooner than I try to call his real name is he raining down his brutal punishment on my bottom.
I don’t even try to muffle my screams and cries. Humiliation is like a dirty little kink finally exposed as I’m deeply aware of everyone seeing him bring me low.
“Such a bad, naughty little girl.” He chides me — my pussy clenches, anyway.
“Awful, dirty little slut making me wait for what’s mine.” Blow after blow makes heat blossom on my cheeks, eliciting a deep throbbing ache inside where my muscles spasm in response not only to his words and deeds but to what he’s doing to my brain chemistry.
He’s man is handling me in a way I never anticipated.
I see now he was holding back. All that shit is gone. His dominance unleashes, and I, eager little sub that I didn’t know I was, lap it up with every harsh slap on my ass.
“Damn. Look how you’re wetting my hand up.” His big hand falls in front of my face to show me my own glistening essence slicking the thick plains of his hand.
“Lick it off.” He growls.
Sticking my tongue out with an eagerness I didn’t think I possessed, I let him rub the flat of his hand over its surface.
“Good, little kom solope,” he whispers, rubbing his wet hand over my face before gripping my locs and tugging my head back. His mouth covers mine. The kiss is savage — a possession.
I whimper against his harsh lips, wanting more.
Ignoring the sting in my scalp, I let him hold me at an angle as he takes complete possession of my mouth.
He tongue-fucks my mouth so thoroughly I hear muffled groans from the crowd.
Pulling away, he looks over me like he’s checking in. Open, and vulnerable, I feel trust expanding in my chest, knowing through his silent communication that no matter what else happens, he’s got me.
