Page 48 of The Puppetmaster

I blush in an instant and my heart jumps as if bursting with joy. Why does that sound more enticing than frightening to me? It’s a punishment, after all.

“On the bed,” he orders. “On all fours, your ass facing me.”

I swallow dryly. “Yes, Master.”

He steps aside, making a wide gesture toward the bed. When I scurry past him, he places his hand on the small of my back. Leading me, he journeys farther down beneath the hem of the negligée where he pats my ass before hooking a finger underneath the fabric of the panties I chose to wear for him.

“You won’t be needing these,” he announces, before he starts pulling them down in one brutal motion. The sudden move makes me stumble in surprise and I balance awkwardly as the panties drop down along my legs and I shake them off in a staggering dance.

I step out of them just before we reach the bed and I climb on the mattress, positioning myself as I was told to.

He walks around the bed and almost makes me fall over when he grabs my left wrist and pulls me up. Reaching inside his pocket, he produces the strings he removed earlier and reattaches them through the little metallic hooks at the cuff.

To my surprise, he climbs on the mattress next to me right after, my eyes following him curiously while he yanks the string toward the bedpost on the left. I didn’t notice it before, but there are hooks attached at the posts as well. They’re small and black just like the entire bedframe, and there are plenty of them, allowing for the strings to be attached at varying heights. He chooses one that is rather high up, his gaze darting back and forth between me and his hands while he ties the end of the rope around the hook.

My heartbeat is racing by the time he jumps down from the bed and walks around to repeat the same motion on the other side. My arms are stretched to the sides, sprawled out like wings as I kneel on the bed slightly bent over, only supported by the strings attached to the bedposts.

“Move farther back,” he commands, standing behind me now. “Present that pretty ass to me.”

I sigh as I awkwardly shift back as much as I can, losing my balance every time I lift one of my knees to move it back only an inch further.

“More!” he barks as soon as I stop moving.

“I can’t!”

Blazing pain shoots through my behind when his hand lands on my right ass cheek with a blow that I did not see coming.

“Now!”

I mewl helplessly and force myself to move back just a little more, hollowing my back as much as I can to please him—and to make the position more comfortable for me. Already the slim cuffs are cutting into the skin around my wrists, and it’s only been a few moments.

“Good girl,” he praises in a voice that could almost be called loving and soft.

I can’t turn my head in this position, so my eyes stay glued to the pillows below me while I hear him moving behind my back. He opens a drawer from the dresser. I hear him rummaging around, then I hear him closing the drawer, and then his daunting steps are approaching the bed right behind me.

“We’ll start slowly,” he promises, before he lifts the negligée up from my behind to expose my naked ass.

I feel a whiff of cold air against my entrance when he moves behind me. I don’t even know where exactly he is right now because he’s moving as quietly as a cat, but I know he is close.

“Spread your legs,” he commands. “I want to see your cunt.”

A hot rush of shame overcomes me, but I still follow his demand, waddling with as much elegance as I can muster to part my legs further for him. My back is hollowed so much that it’s almost painful, and I hope to God he doesn’t want me to go any farther than this because I’m already dancing at the edge of my limit.

For a few moments, nothing happens. He just stands there, somewhere behind me, observing me quietly, while I begin to worry that I’m failing at my task.

But just as I’m about to apologize for my insufficiency, I’m hit with the first strike. It’s not just one but many thin leather stripes that kiss my skin violently. The pain is bearable but I still jerk forward as if it were the worst thing that ever happened to me. The strain on my wrists hurts more than the actual blow.

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” he says. “You can’t possibly tell me that this hurts you? We’re just getting started, Alena.”

My response is nothing but a helpless whimper because I know he’s right, but I hate to admit it.

The second, third, and fourth strikes against my ass come in rapid succession, not increasing in intensity, but still hurting more with each one as my skin starts to become sensitive to the touch. Still, I hold myself together, barely moving each time the leather cuts into my skin, processing the ache with calm focus.

He keeps going in a consistent rhythm, alternating between left and right as the fervor of his beats grows slowly but steadily.

And as the hits grow stronger, so does the agony they inflict. I want to be strong and endure them without wavering, because I don’t want to give him a reason to call me a fucking drama queen again. I’m anything but that.

I’m Alena Prey, and I can handle this.No, I can handlemorethan this.

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