Ivan’s fingers hook under the hem of my hoodie and yank upward in one brutal motion. Fabric rips at the seam. Cold air hits skin. I try to twist away but he catches my wrists in one massive hand, pins them above my head against the wall while the other strips me with ruthless efficiency. Jeans tugged to my ankles. T-shirt torn over my head. My briefs shredded, not pulled down,torn.
I’m naked.
Totally exposed.
Humiliating heat floods my face, my chest.
“Please,” I whisper. “Ivan…mercy. I’m sorry…”
But he doesn’t answer.
Instead he drags me toward the foot of the massive bed. The frame is dark wood, sturdy posts at each corner. He forces me to bend forward, chest to mattress, arms stretched out.
Rope—soft black cord from the nightstand drawer—loops around my wrists, cinches tight, then is secured to the far bedposts.
I’m half-standing, half-bent, ass and dangling cock presented, my legs trembling.
I’m vulnerable in a way I’ve never been.
He steps behind me.
I hear the whisper of leather sliding through belt loops.
My stomach drops.
“Ivan—”
“Quiet.”
The first stroke cracks across both cheeks like lightning.
I scream—raw, involuntary.
Fire blooms instantly, bright and vicious. My whole body jerks against the ropes.
He doesn’t pause.
A second stroke. Third.Fourth.
Each one precise. Methodical. Expert.
“Daddy!” I cry out, my cheeks throbbing.
The pain is blinding at first—sharp, cutting—then it morphs, spreads, becomes a deep, throbbing heat that sinks into muscle.
My ass ison fire.
And—God help me—between my legs I’m hard. Throbbing. Aching. The tip of my dick almost feels like it’s about to explode.
And worst of all, Ivan notices.
Of coursehe notices.
He steps close, reaches around, thumbs brushing my nipples. They’re already peaked, traitorously hard.
A low, dangerous sound rumbles in his chest.
He disappears for a second then returns with two small metal clothespins—black, rubber-tipped.
