Page 49 of The Puppetmaster

Another blow bites deep into my sore behind, but instead of flinching under the pain, I growl at him, “Is that all you’ve got?”

A sinister laugh is all he responds with in return–and then he delivers another round of leathery strikes that put the ones from before to shame. The affliction is unparalleled to anything I’ve experienced before, and that is saying something. I never expected that being spanked could hurt this much, that the anguish could be strong enough to rob me of my vision for split seconds, that it would force out tears before there were screams. I’m crying in silence and with an unnatural stiffness while he keeps going, stronger and stronger.

“Don’t fight it,” he reprimands me. “Let go, Alena.”

I don’t know what he means by that, but I’m too overwhelmed by the torment he’s inflicting upon me to even consider asking.

And then it happens. A shift happens, a shift that I neither brought forth nor expected.

I relax, worsening the strain on my wrists but relieving myself of an anguish that was becoming too strong to bear. He’s still whipping me, and he’s still doing it with the same speed and magnitude as he has been for a while, but the impact it has on me changes dramatically.

The leather strings no longer feel like hot daggers cutting into my skin. Instead, they feel like a caress. Like a warm embrace, soothing, and giving me a solace I’ve never experienced before.

I realize that my eyes have been closed for a while, and when I open them, my vision is blurred, the images shifting and wavering as if I were under the influence.

Did he give me something? But I haven’t drunk or eaten anything since I got here and the last sip of champagne was hours ago.

That can’t be it.

My lips part to release a desperate moan as I decide to stop questioning this. Whatever is happening with me will be happening no matter whether I understand it or not.

“That’s a good girl.” I hear his voice as if in the distance. “Very good girl.”

I can barely hear him or make sense of the praise, but the way it is said to me feels like a balm in itself.

“Count,” he orders, pausing for the first time. “We have six left. Count them.”

I begin with the next blow.

“Six.”

My voice is hoarse and laced with pleasure.

“Five.”

I tumble under the infliction, realizing that these last flew blows aren’t like the ones before.

They’re worse. Way, way worse.

“Four!”

The number is a shriek, the first one that leaves my lips.

“Three!”

This one ends in a bloodcurdling wail that echoes through the room long after the immediate pain is gone.

“Two!”

I break. The sting is too much to take, despite only lasting for a second. It hit me with a ferociousness so deep that I lean into the strings with such force that I fear I might rip them.

But unlike me, they hold up.

“One!”

I don’t even know if he heard that last one because I’m crying uncontrollably now, shaking my head in disbelief.

It’s over. I can’t believe I made it.

---