Page 28 of Brutal Savior

All the careful training plans I had in place for Suzy are crumbling. As I pick Quinn up like a doll and settle her face down over my lap, reality starts to sink in. Quinn isn’t going to kneel for me and smile. She’d probably headbutt me in the crotch or bite my dick off.

She’s going to need the firmest hand possible, and I can’t let my guard down for a second. The prospect should be depressing but my blood is pounding in my ears, and I have to ask Kendrick to repeat himself. “Sorry, sir?”

“No need to apologize. I asked if you’re ready to continue the meeting.”

I lift Quinn’s skirt up and slide her knickers down, baring her arse to every eye in the room. She goes crazy on my knee, bucking and mumbling. I’d been right. She hates having an audience. The red mottling on her arse and thighs has started to darken to purple, and the effect on her pale skin is stunning.

This is really going to hurt, but too bad. She needs to learn.

I land a savage slap as I answer Kendrick. “Of course.”

My hand has left a beautiful print on her, and it’s hard to tear my eyes off it and back to the laptop balanced on Kendrick’s desk. Brody coughs, manages to unglue his gaze from Quinn’s arse, and starts going through all the false posts made in my name.

I bring my hand down again, this time on the other cheek. Quinn jerks, kicking her legs and flailing her head. As Brody switches to another post, I lean down and whisper, “We’re going to thirty. Every single time you fight me, you get five more. Don’t test me on this, Quinn. I was gentle with you yesterday. Now, I don’t give two shits if you can’t sit without pain for a month.”

She goes very still, my warning hitting its mark. Brody stammers for a moment, then carries on with his presentation.

The flood of posts is disturbing. Almost disturbing enough to distract me from the way Quinn’s little body shudders each time I bring my hand down and the pathetic mewling noises that make it past her gag. Her saliva is soaking my jeans, and if I’m not mistaken, there are some tears there, too.

Usually, I’d feel bad about that, but the image of her smashing a toaster into poor Eve’s head is too fresh for any sympathy to sneak through. She’s going to cry today.

The posts all have one thing in common—they’re personal and aimed at subjects that disgust me rather than just things that would outrage the public.

The young girls “I” made sexual remarks to all resemble my little sister. The black footballer “I” called a monkey is the star striker for West Ham, my favorite team. The disabled gay soldier “I” called a useless faggot was in my old army regiment.

The person who did this either knows me well or has researched the things that would hurt me the most. Either way, it’s a fucked-up situation.

I look down to check on Quinn. She’s limp across my knees now, sniffling constantly. Her skin is bright red all over again. I rest my hand on her arse, and even that makes her twitch. “That’s fifteen. Halfway there.”

Chapter Eleven

Quinn

I don’t know what’sworse—being on display in front of three men and a nerd who looks like he’s here for work experience, the way my jaw aches from the gag and the gross spit drips out of my mouth, or the red-hot landscape of agony that used to be my ass.

Yesterday might as well have been a play spanking. This hurts on another level, deep into my bones. The skin was already tender and bruised. Now it doesn’t feel like skin at all, just a mass of scorching fire. His hand lands again, and I can’t stop the muffled sob that works its way out. Please, just make it stop.

How many was that? It was fifteen a while ago, wasn’t it? My brain can’t count any more.

Or maybe the worst thing is the gnawing guilt about hurting Eve. By the time I realized it was her, it was too late. I was already swinging the toaster. Of course it had to be the fancy sort, heavy stainless steel, not the cheap plastic piece of shit Ihave at home. I managed to ease off on the speed of the swing but not stop it.

If I’d connected with the force I meant to, I could have cracked her skull.

That grisly image keeps flashing in my brain as Jacob lands yet another heavy swat. Fuck! That has to be thirty now, right? Surely?

I thought Gabriel would kill me, so I ran for it and fought as best I could. But no, of course he just delivered me to Jacob.

Another earth-shattering slap brings fresh tears to my eyes, and I fight the urge to struggle with everything I have left. I can’t take five more. I’d fucking die.

Suddenly, he’s lifting me up. What the hell is it with him and carrying me around? I’ve got legs. I can use them. I start to wriggle but then catch myself. My pride is starting to crack under the assault of his damn hand.

Is this really all it takes to break me? No. Fuck that. I’ll still fight, but maybe not right now. My poor ass is a beacon, raw and pulsing. It needs a break, and so do I.

Jacob lowers me to my feet, careful and deliberate as ever. Will he fuck the same way? Carefully counted, measured strokes? The ridiculous thought brings forth a hysterical laugh, and for once, I'm glad of the gag. I would have sounded like a mental case.

Once I’m balanced, Jacob issues more instructions in that irritating, calm way he has. “You’re going to stand here, quietly, in the corner until we finish our meeting. Stay facing the wall, or it’s another thirty. Nod if you understand.”

Another thirty? I almost wet myself at the thought. How am I going to fight against this man? All he has to do is threaten me with the palm of his goddamn hand.

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