“One,” I gasp. “Thank you, Master.”
Another, harder this time, on the other cheek. A gasp is punched from my lungs. “Two. Thank you, Master.”
He continues with his relentless, rhythmic punishment. Each blow is precise, deliberate, lighting up my nerve endings with fire. The pain is intense, overwhelming. Tears well in my eyes and spill over, dripping onto the seat beneath me.
I start to cry softly, the numbers and thanks becoming a tear-soaked mantra.
“Six. Thank you, Master.”
“Seven. Thank you, Master.”
I doubt I’ll be able to sit down after this. I doubt I’ll be able to even lie down or just move without pain.
A treacherous thing is happening beneath the pain. I don’t know if it’s because of all the torture they put me through, or all the abuse I endured before Antonio let me back out again, but a warmth is spreading through my lower belly, a pooling heat that is entirely separate from the sting on my skin. With each brutal impact, a jolt goes through me, a pulse that echoes between my legs because of that piercing he put into me.
I am ashamed, horrified by my body’s betrayal.
He is punishing me, and I am aroused by it? What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck is he turning me into?
He must sense it. He must feel the subtle shift in the tension of my body across his lap. The spanking stops. His hand, instead of landing another blow slides down over the heated, aching, battered flesh of my bottom and delves between my thighs.
I flinch, a sob catching in my throat. His fingers are both knowing and cruel. They explore, parting my labia, and find me utterly drenched.
He lets out a low, dark laugh that if anything degrades me further. “You filthy little slut,” he murmurs, and the words are like a caress. “Being punished like a naughty child, and your cunt is dripping. You love this, don’t you? You love being put in your place by your Master.”
He works his fingers against me, circling my clit with a ruthless precision that has me bucking against his lap. The pain in my rear is a heavy, throbbing ache now, a counterpoint to the exquisite torture he’s inflicting with his hand.
He’s building me up, coiling the tension inside me tighter and tighter.
My hips move of their own accord, seeking more friction, more of his touch. I am lost in a whirlwind of shame and desperate, clawing need. I’m horribly aware that they are watching me, that his brother and that woman are witnessing what he is doing to me, what I am allowing.
He brings me to the very brink. I am panting, my fists clenched, my entire body taut as a bowstring, poised to shatter.
And then he stops, removing his hand completely.
The denial is a sharper pain than any spank.
A whimper of pure anguish escapes me.
He pushes me off his lap and I stumble to my knees on the carpet, disoriented, trembling desperately with unmet need. He looks down at me, his eyes blazing with ownership. He undoes his belt, the click of the buckle obscenely loud, then the rasp of his zipper.
He frees his erection, thick, hard, and demanding. He doesn’t touch himself, he simply looks down at me.
“Now,” he says, his voice controlled in such a way that I could believe I haven’t affected him in the slightest. “Take your time. Show me how sorry you are. Make me believe it.”
I reach up, my hands shaking. The awareness of our audience is a live wire in my brain. His brother is still there, a silent statue, watching me with an almost bored look on his face. The air hostess is waiting, her eyes politely averted yet her presence is a palpable thing.
Antonio’s command overrides everything.
I lean forward and take him into my mouth.
I start slowly, as instructed. I worship him with my tongue, tracing the velvety length of him. Swirling around the head, savouring the salty, masculine taste of him. I am performing my penance with my tongue.
I hollow my cheeks, taking him deeper, my lips stretched tight around him. I set a slow, deliberate rhythm using my tongue, my lips, my throat.
He groans, a deep, gratifying sound that vibrates through me but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t thrust. He makes me work, he makes me serve.
I hear the clink of glass as the air hostess brings him his whisky. I hear the low murmur of his brother’s voice as he begins discussing logistics, security details, Brethren business that continues around my intimate degradation.
