Page 22 of Fallen Petal

Chapter 11

J

Life has settled into a new rhythm ever since that day I finally had her, all of her. My Petal turned into a wild creature when I gave her what only I knew she needed. Her cries and pleas still echo in my ears, and by now they have been joined by so many more. I know I can’t do these things to her every single day, because it would destroy her, like it would destroy any other person. I can’t always cane and fuck her like I did that day.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t do something else to her. When I came back to her room the next day, I found her kneeling so perfectly still and obedient that it made my chest burst with pride. Pride and hunger for her. I stepped forward, pulling her up on her feet with one brute pull, to which she answered with a pained mewl that was music in my ears. I dragged her across the room, not stopping until I reached the door to the dungeon, noticing how her breath hiked when I fiddled with the damn key. Her eyes trailed over to the cross right away, but that’s not where I took her that time. I pushed her down onto the floor with her hands in cuffs, tied to her ankles, ass up, face down. She was trembling in a blend of fear and lust, desire dripping from her center.

I didn’t want to beat her that day, not that soon after her first time and with the stripes still deep and red on her perky ass. But she begged me to do it. She begged me to use the cane on her.

And I refused. Because it wouldn’t be right.

She had to live with a few spankings that day, groaning and begging for more each time my hand landed on her ass while I fucked her so viciously that I could be sure she wouldn’t complain about a lack of pain afterward.

It was perfect.

She is fucking perfect.

She’s looking at me differently these days, and I’m not sure what to think of it. Her obedience didn’t suffer from her newfound desire to be hurt by me. On the contrary. She’s kneeling like the perfect slave, obeying every command I direct at her. I thought I’d be happy to see her like that, but I’m not.

I’m worried.

She’s too obedient, too eager to please, and too hungry for pain. While I knew that these are the things she’s always wanted but never dared to pursue, I’m astonished at the severity she craves. Her body is adorned with bruises and red weals, yet she keeps asking for more. She’s in the right hands for what she desires, but she’s playing with fire when she keeps pushing me like this. I may be versed in the art of containment, but I can feel the metaphorical shackles loosening each time I’m with her.

And the fact that she keeps calling me by my name doesn’t make it any better. On the contrary. It’s the only disobedience she’s shown lately, and one that granted her more than one severe punishment. She speaks my name like a pledge, sweet with devotion, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d call it nostalgia. Of course, that can’t be, because she doesn’t have any memory of us, no matter what she may believe.

“I’m worried about her.”

Malia’s voice probes into my thoughts, forcing me back to the triteness of the present. I’m in the kitchen, skimming through e-mails to see whether there’s anything that needs an immediate response in means of keeping appearances at my job. I didn’t take on any new clients this month, but there could always be follow-up issues with the ones I finished before taking Petal here. Nothing today, though.

“Why is that?” I ask, casting Malia a quick glance as she walks past me, holding a rolled-up newspaper in her hand as she makes her way to the sofa in the connected living room. This girl must be the only person I know who still reads the paper version of the local newspaper. It appears to be one of those habits that help her to stay sane in a situation that’s straining, to say the least.

She plunks down into the heavy cushions, glaring at me while she smooths the overly large paper in her lap. “She looks exhausted. More so than usual.”

Reproach is a loyal companion every time Malia faces me, and I don’t blame her for that. But I have no intention of finding excuses for myself.

Petal felt the whip this morning. She was drenched in sweat and tears when I left the room.

But she was smiling. There was a goddamn smile on her face when she thanked me—and it sent a cold shiver down my spine. I left her sooner than I intended, seeking distraction in my business inbox.

“She’s getting what she wants,” I simply say, avoiding Malia’s piercing look from across the room.

A few moments of strained silence stretch between us, and I can sense that Malia has more to say than that. There’s something on her mind, something she has yet to give voice to. And when she finally does, I turn into a pillar of salt, crippled by my own failure.

“You told her your name,” she says. “She just mentioned it.”

“You’re not supposed to talk to her.”

“I didn’t,” Malia insists. “She talked to me. Told me to tell you ‘thank you’—but I have no idea for what.”

I grind my teeth, unsure what to tell her in response. She’s right to call me out on this, because I clearly lost control when I shouldn’t have.

“It was a mistake,” I admit. “It slipped out, and I fucking regret that it did.”

I turn around, meeting her inquiring gaze as I approach the sofa.

“But I can’t take it back,” I add. “I can’t make her forget again.”

She huffs. “We both know you could. Apparently you can do whatever the hell you want when it comes to her.”

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