I can’t hold the sob in. It comes out of me, wrenching my body, relief and regret in one pained sound. “No, sir. No. I wasn’t. I—I touched myself.”
His satisfaction wraps around me like velvet, dark and seductive. Of course he wants more though. Whatever I give him, he always wants more. “Where did you touch yourself?”
I shudder. “No, don’t…don’t make me tell you.”
His hand rests on the curve of my ass, his thumb brushing over my heated flesh, back and forth. He hurts me and he soothes me, but never enough. Back and forth. Never enough pain or pleasure. He always leaves me needing more.
Back and forth. “No, little one. You’re going to show me.”
There are vines that wrap around me, their thorns pressing in, making me bleed. Being with Ivan doesn’t free me from the vines. He doesn’t make the pain go away. He makes me want more.
I shove my hand down, graceless, unpracticed, under my body and between my legs. I don’t slide my hand under my panties or finger my clit, not the way I did last night. I just cup myself, protective, afraid.
“What did you do next?” His voice is low, the grate of stone on stone. “Daddy needs to see.”
My eyes squeeze tight, and I shake my head. I can’t. I sin again and again, over and over. And every time, in the seconds before, with my very last breath, I’m fighting it. Fighting myself. Fighting him.
“Show me,” he coaxes, his voice dark and hypnotic. I would follow that voice anywhere. Even into hell.
I press one finger inside my pussy, where I’m already wet, where I’m burning up with lust and shame. I know my cheeks are pink even though my eyes are closed. They’ll match my bubblegum lipstick.
“That’s right,” he says with a sigh. “Can you find your little clit? I’m sure it’s nice and hard.”
&
nbsp; My fingers slide through my wetness and settle on my clit. It’s a hard nub, throbbing at the faint friction. “It is. Please.”
“Good little girls aren’t supposed to touch themselves, are they?”
I’m not a little girl. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say them. I can’t. I can’t add a lie to my sin. Because I am a little girl. I’m Ivan’s little girl, for as long as he’ll have me. Even if this is all I’ll ever be to him.
“I’m not good,” I say instead.
“I know. And I’m going to punish you. You’ll touch your clit while I spank you, and then you’ll learn what happens to bad girls.”
I don’t hear the next blow coming. It takes me by surprise, and I jerk, pressing my clit into my hand. Pleasure arcs through me, white-hot from my breasts against the desk to my toes curled on the floor. I moan and rock my hips, seeking more of the pleasure to take away the pain. The next blow comes too fast, and then he’s hitting me in earnest, beating me—it’s too much. My fingers on my clit only make me sensitized, only make me more aware of every ounce of pain.
I can almost feel the calluses on his palm, the signs that he once fought in the streets before he came to rule them. I imagine I can feel the lines of his fingerprints, uniquely him, branding me for his own. It’s at once a sharp blade and a wide blast, cutting me to pieces and spreading me apart.
He hits me harder and faster, until I can feel each blow reverberate inside me. The pain isn’t outside me anymore; it’s inside, digging deep. I can’t reach this any other way. Not with alcohol, not with dancing. And sure as hell not with sex. Only this—being hit over and over again by a man who cares enough to do it. He doesn’t love me, not the way a man does a woman. He takes care of me. He disciplines me.
He draws a circle around me and then hurts me when I step outside it.
It’s the reason I’ve stepped outside the line so damn much. This.
“I can’t,” I whisper, voice broken. I’m sobbing now. This is what he’s reduced me to. A crying little girl, a mess. I’m clinging to the desk. I wish I was over his lap.
I’d be able to feel his erection pressing into my belly. I’d be able to rub against it.
“Can’t what?” he asks, only faintly curious. He isn’t even breathing hard.
“Can’t do it anymore,” I manage between sobs.
I think he knows what’s coming. That’s why he rains down blows on my already aching ass. Much more and I’ll have bruises tomorrow. I won’t be able to go onstage, but then maybe that’s the point. He’s never wanted me to dance.
He hits me until I’m crying even harder, until I’m begging him to stop. No, please, it’s too much, it’s too hard, please stop, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I’ll be good.
Then he does stop. “What?”