Page 17 of Brutal Savior

I start to whimper. I can’t help it, as much as those pathetic noises shame me. He’s too strong, it hurts too much, and I’m helpless.

He stops. His hand rests on my ass, right on the sore spot, and just the pressure of it stings. “That’s six, Quinn. You’re owed four more for biting me. You’re never to attack me, is that clear? Never.”

Even through the pain, I manage to mumble, “Fuck you.”

He sighs. “That’s a shame. I wanted to go easy on you tonight. Ten more for swearing at me.”

Four more. Plus ten. No. I can’t…

His hand lands again, and I scream. Shit. Shit. Shit. He’s moved to a different spot, and my ass is consumed by fire. Another. And another. They start to blur into a wall of pain, and my yells morph into whimpers.

I lose count, and a haze falls over my mind. I still cry out at the strikes, but I’m floaty. Detached. Each strike stokes the burn, and I drift further into the cocoon of overwhelming sensation. It has to be over soon. That had to be twenty.

“Fifteen. You’re doing well, love.”

Said almost gently, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he shifts me, opening my thighs. I realize what he’s planning, the haze evaporates, and I struggle again as he smacks me, this time on the sensitive join where my ass meets my pussy. It stings, bringing tears to my eyes again.

Fuck him. Fuck him all to hell.

I think it but don’t dare say it. If he gives me ten more, I’m a dead woman. Two on each side, in the tender spot, and I’m thrashing.

“Last one. Brace yourself. I won’t go as soft with this one.”

Soft? Those were—

His hand slaps down one last time, and the gunshot sound catches my ears a second before pain erupts across my ass. It reverberates through my body, and I scream, writhing against him. That bastard. That fucking—

“All done.”

I hiss as his hand caresses my ass. Just his touch is fire. He explores the contours of it as if he has every right. He thinks he does. He really thinks he does.

“Don’t. You can’t—”

“I can.” He starts walking but keeps his hand right where it is. I bounce along, ass throbbing, and when we reach the swimming pool it hits me that we’re heading toward a public area. People will be there, and I’m over his shoulder with my panties on display.

“Let me down.”

“No."

"But people will see—”

“You should have thought of that before you bit me. Don’t think being in public will save you. Push me too far, and I’ll pull down your knickers and spank your bare arse in the middle of the refectory. I don’t care who sees.”

“But—”

I shut up as I realize we’re walking past people. Mostly men, but a couple of women too. They stop and stare, some smiling, others with disapproving expressions. Jacob doesn’t break stride. My face burns to match my ass at the degrading position.

Christ. I should have chosen the old man.

It’s almost a relief when we reach a building and Jacob buzzes us inside. Tile gives way to a creepy red carpet and wood paneling. Old-school. My anxiety grows as we wait for the elevator, which arrives with a ping. The inside is mirrored, and I stare at my own reflection as we go up a few floors.

It’s horrible but impossible to look away. I’m a broken doll, red ass on full display, thrown over a giant’s shoulder. We arrive at his lair too soon. He buzzes the white door open with his thumbprint and carries me inside. Once the door thunks closed, he sets me on my feet.

I take a minute, standing with my eyes closed as the blood drains from my head to wherever it’s supposed to be. I blink at the space. It’s the definition of a man-pad. Bare except for a desk, a comfy-looking gray couch, framed movie posters, and a glass cabinet containing balls and boots. I frown at it, too confused not to ask.

“What’s in there?”

His lips quirk up at my question. “Signed West Ham balls. My pride and joy. And those boots scored the winning goal in the 1964 FA cup.”

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