Page 8 of Red Flag Bull

“How about I tell you?” Jason suggests. “You made a deal with Stepdaddy. Flashed your tits and told him you’d suck his cock next time Mommy took the little one to dance class.”

I stop breathing. There’s no way he could know such a thing without having seen or heard the deal being made. Has he been watching me? He must have?—

“How many sets of headlights did you see on our way here?” He interrupts my thoughts with his change of subject.

I shake my head, confused. “Sorry?”

“Playing dumb won’t help you here, Princess,” he snarled. “How many cars did you see on the road from your wayward forest fuck-fest to your current location, where you will learn what it truly means to regret your actions?”

I gulp. “I… um… I don’t know. Some? Maybe six? Seven?”

“Nine,” he says with certainty. “Nine cars. That’s at least nine lives you would have endangered with your thoughtless stupidity. Ten, if you include your own. Driving drunk is not an acceptable decision, Amanda Warren. Don’t do it again. Ever.”

I hang my head in shame. He’s right. I am stupid. I wasn’t thinking, and I could have gone off the road or crossed the center-line and killed someone. No big deal if it was me, but what if it’d been a family on their way home, kids sleeping in the back?

Jason takes a calm step closer, pats the top of my head, and then slowly strokes my back, as if I’m his pet. His attention is both wonderful and unnerving. The care being taken in each touch is something I can feel in my bones, but the threat of punishment still lingers in the background, and the anticipation is torture.

“You haven’t been shown a lot of kindness, so I understand your confusion about the value of your life,” he says softly, bringing tears to my eyes. Does he know the way he’s touching me is the most kindness I’d felt in… maybe ever?

“You might think it’s okay to be reckless with your life, and it’s not for me to convince you otherwise,” he continues. “That’s a journey you’ll need to complete alone, if you’re to believe it. But I’ll be making sure you leave this clearing convinced it’s never okay to be cavalier with the lives of others.”

“Will you punish me?” I ask in a whisper.

“Not so quietly, Amanda,” he scolds. “Own your words and your behavior. Was that a scared question or a remorseful request?”

“Request,” I confirm, more loudly.

“Ten strikes,” he says in a cool voice, as he slides the short skirt of my dress up onto my back, to expose my thong and bare buttocks to the cool breeze. “One for every life you would have risked. That’s how many times you’ll feel the sting of my hand on your ass, Princess.”

He raises goosebumps across my skin with a gentle pass of his hand over his target. “You’ll feel a fraction of the pain that can be caused when a drunk gets behind the wheel of a death machine, but when I’m done with you, you’ll know to make a safer choice next time. Do you agree that the punishment is fair?”

I nod, my head spinning from the way he’s touching me. It feels good in a way I haven’t experienced before. I’ve been touched on my ass plenty by the boys about town, and my stepdad when I cornered him into sneaky positions I knew he couldn’t resist even in mom’s presence, but Jason has a completely different style. Possessive, but nurturing.

He handles me as if I have value. Not like I’m some fragile or breakable treasure, but definitely worth something. Like he cares what I feel and doesn’t plan to enjoy the pain he’s promising, despite his clear desire to inflict it.

It’s the strangest feeling, to be subjected to these opposing forces, and knowing his pleasant stroking will soon be replaced by a crueler treatment makes his gentle touch all the sweeter.

He seems to know just how to make me feel sorry the pleasure will end, and then he delivers the first stinging slap.

It’s so sharp, it takes my breath and lights my skin on fire. The whole side of my ass tingles with the throbbing heat, and I rock forward to rest my forehead on the cool moss with a moan.

“One.”

He presses his big hand to my inflamed skin, and the vibrations that pass between us are indescribable. I have no frame of reference to measure what I’m feeling against. It’s as if he wants to soothe me and hurt me all at once. I can feel the tremor in his hand — the power in him, being restrained. He metered his touch, so I would take my punishment and receive the message I needed to hear.

“Your behavior was unacceptable.” Another sharp slap. I gasp again, and then press my ass into his palm when it comes close enough to make my skin hum.

“Two.” His tone remains firm and clear.

Nobody has ever struck me like this. I’ve been slapped and dismissed more times than I can count, but on the rare occasion anyone’s bothered to reprimand me beyond that, I’ve only been isolated and sent somewhere I could be more easily ignored. Never has someone delivered a punishment that took the kind of stamina and effort Jason is putting into this.

“I will not tolerate such disregard of safety from you.” He slaps the same spot again, leaving my skin ringing with his mark. “Three.”

Four, five, and six come hard and fast on my other cheek. I moan into the earthy moss, not because of the pain or the heat, but because it feels so good to be found and held accountable for the wrong I’ve done.

How many times have I acted out, hoping for such a reaction, only to go unpunished?

Seven, eight, and nine land dead center, to bridge the achingly untouched gap between the pulsating heat of the sides of my buttocks, and I keep my ass high, knowing I have one more to come — and wanting it more than anything.

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