Page 10 of Captive Ruin

Absolute. Motherfucking. Bastard.

His finger is still inside me, rubbing, and now he’s forcing me to choose how he fucks me. Making me complicit in my own punishment.

“Spank me,” I say, and if my voice trembles, at least it comes out clear. I want to throw some defiance in there, call him one of the names I only dare use in my head, but I can’t bring myself to.

“Keep your legs straight.”

My body obeys him without my conscious thought. I’m presenting myself for him as he’s commanded, and it makes me so much more vulnerable. My heels don’t help; I’m on my toes. The table is low, I’m pitched forward over it, and my ass is raised as if in offering.

Van Wyk steps back, not even pinning me anymore, and his finger slips from within me. I’m left holding the position of my own choice, exposed and waiting, anticipating the moment he does whatever he wants with me.

I haven’t given up.

It’s not acquiescence, it’s… practicality. Survival.

His palm runs over my bottom, squeezing one cheek, drifting across to the other and giving it a humiliating little slap. “I’ll say one thing, Amelia. You do have a very beautiful ass.”

I grit my teeth. Is it not enough to humiliate me, he has to taunt me, too?

His hand disappears then comes back with a crack, the force of the blow driving me against the table, knocking the air from my lungs. The heat and pain arrive together, and I gasp in a breath.

“I’m going to fuck it,” he assures me, and spanks my other cheek, the sound echoing across the terrace.

“But you promised that if I begged, you’d take my pussy!”

“Oh, I will,” he says, his hand landing for a third time, and he’s not holding back. I can’t help but cry out. “Your pussy tonight; your ass another time.”

That’s twice he’s promised a future. What does he think this is, a first date?

I’m never seeing this man again. Whatever it takes.

The bastard doesn’t spank me again right away. Instead, his palm strokes over my warm cheek, and the gentle contrast is unnecessarily cruel. I screw my eyes shut, biting my tongue so that I don’t make a sound.

“I like the way your ass twitches when I do that,” he observes.

I didn’t… Motherfucker!

Barely has he spoken when the next smack lands, driving my thighs into the edge of the table.

My ass is on fire, all of it throbbing.

“Straighten your legs,” he reminds me.

I whimper, obeying. I hadn’t realized I’d slipped. It was instinctive, a futile attempt to hide.

The next blow lands, his palm striking my lower cheek, fingertips catching my labia. I don’t know if he did it on purpose—probably, everything else tonight has been—but fuck if it doesn’t send electricity shooting through me. My gasp is high, involuntary, and so humiliating.

“Keep still,” he says, his other hand resting on the small of my back. Then he rains down blows, one after another after another, until I can’t count them anymore but only try to weather the storm.

He pauses after what feels like an eternity. I whimper, flexing my legs, trying to shake away the sting, no longer caring how it looks.

“That’s beautiful to watch,” he murmurs. “You’re awake now, aren’t you?”

Jesus. Fucking. Bastard.

His hand smooths over my burning skin, and it feels so soothing that this time I can’t help the moan that escapes. I can’t keep still, my ass twitching under his hand, and I just know he’s going to comment.

But instead, his fingers dip lower, rubbing through my folds. “You’re wetter,” he says, voice husky, pulling at me. “Did you like that?”