I kneel as he told me to, my hands planted in front of me, my knees spread out on the bed.
I’m super vulnerable in this position, but a part of me likes that. I’m on the verge of losing control the way I’ve always wanted to.
I hear him pacing behind me, but when I look over my shoulder I can’t see much. He’s walking back and forth, taking everything in, his hands on his hips.
I can’t take the anticipation any longer.
He wouldn’t rape me.
Would he?
“What are you going to do to me?”
Without warning, he leans over and slaps his hand across my arse. I gasp at the sudden pain, my heart hammering. Pulse racing, I keep my eyes fixed on his now that he’s in closer proximity.
“Hey!” That earns me another smack, just like I suspected it would.
He shakes his head slowly from side to side. “This is how it’s going to go, Fran. I’m going to ask you questions, and you’re going to give me answers. A lie will get you spanked. Hesitation also. And then after I have the truth, I’ll finish your punishment.”
And after that? I don’t ask him, though I really, really want to know.
“I’ve never been punished like this before,” I say, as a sort of warning or heads up or something, or maybe I’m just trying to delay the inevitable. Just because something excites me doesn’t mean it doesn’t scare the life out of me at the same time.
“Good,” he says with a hungry growl as he comes closer to me. He isn’t holding anything in his hands, nothing he’s going to strike me with. But when my gaze falls on his large hands, easily twice the size of my own, I realize he doesn’t need to. “Because if anyone else had ever punished you, I’d have to kill them.”
What? Seems a little drastic, but before I can reply, he slams his palm against my arse.
I grab the duvet in my fists and gasp as the first slap sears my skin. In my crazy mind, I imagined being punished by him would be sexy as hell, like some sort of twisted scene out of a BDSM novel, but this hurts. I’m squirming under the onslaught of smacks, whimpering by the time he’s only given me three.
“Tell me,” he says, pacing behind me, just as he rests his heavy palm on my heated arse. It’s like a damn paddle, like his fingers are reinforced with steel.
“What?”
“Fucking everything.”
“Okay, alright,” I say, turning to speak to him when a searing smack of his palm makes me scramble back into position.
“I wrote the books. I told you that. I just didn’t know that they’d sell the way they have. I never meant for anyone to get in trouble.”
He clucks his tongue. “Especially you, aye?”
I hiss out a breath when his rough palm smoothes over my naked arse.
Why is this hot? I should feel ashamed, but instead I want more of the deliberate pain. More of his hand on my bruised skin.
“Aye. Well yes, of course.”
“And what do you have planned after this?”
“After what?”
“The next book. What else will you write?”
I don’t answer because I have no idea. He told me I’d have to take a sabbatical, but he was being facetious.
Wasn’t he?
“I’ll write about someone else,” I tell him. “I’ll… make something up this time.” I’ll say anything to get out of this.
