Page 3 of His to Take

I expected her to look angry in the picture, but she didn’t. She looked like she was enjoying herself. Her legs were parted, and the picture was of sufficient resolution to reveal the shine of wetness on her inner thighs.

I swallowed hard.

The second picture was her standing in the corner once more, but her backside was bright red. She was looking back at the person taking the picture. Her lower lip was protruding in a soft pout and her cheeks were damp with tears.

Was she sad? Contrite?Punished?

My own pussy pulsed, and I blanched, pressing my thighs together in mortification at the unexpected feeling. I looked around, but no one was there. Only when I felt reassured that I was indeed alone did I turn back to look at the final picture.

She was on her hands and knees on the bed, her bottom cheeks marked with red rectangular lines. Next to her was a folded leather belt and it didn’t take any great deduction on my part to guess that it was responsible for the marks. His hand was squeezing her right cheek, pulling it to the side. Everything between her thighs was therefore exposed, from her pussy to the tight little knot of her bottom, but that wasn’t the worst of it.

What appeared to be a man’s seed dripped down her leg. Astoundingly, it did not emanate from her vagina, but from her anus. She was looking back over her shoulder, her eyes glassy, but she wasn’t sad.

In fact, there was a hint of a very satisfied smirk on her face.

Like she hadenjoyedherself.

Like she hadwantedit.

I slammed the book shut, trying to come to grips with what I’d seen. I sat there on the floor for a long time before I opened the album to that last page again. I stared at the image of her over her husband’s knee, the way she was reaching down to clutch at his ankle, like she wanted to hold on.

This was supposed to be barbaric, right? Abusive?

This picture showed none of that. There was love and adoration in his eyes as he stared down at her, his hand high in the air while her bottom arched up to receive his punishment.

I slipped my hand into the clear, plastic photo sleeve and pulled out that single picture. I flipped it over and bit my lip when I saw that there was writing on the back:

Our wedding night. May 31, 2007.

I brushed my fingers lightly over the writing. There was no indication of a name or a place, but when I flipped it back over there was a feeling.

Love.

My core tightened inexplicably at the sight of such an intimate experience, and I couldn’t help but imagine how I would feel if I was put in such a position. Would it hurt? Would I like it?

I stared at her round bottom cheeks and the pinkness enveloping them.

My clit throbbed a bit in response.

A sudden knock at the door made the air surge out of my lungs in one long rush. I closed the book as carefully as I could.

“One moment!” I called out. I sounded guilty of something to my own ears. My voice was shaking, and I hoped whoever was outside my door hadn’t noticed. As quickly as I could, I rearranged the contents of the crate and pulled the cover over the top. Hastily, I took a second to place my hand over my frantically beating heart, and another moment more to catch my breath before I stepped over and opened the door.

As the door swung open, a man strode inside.

No. To call him a man would have been an understatement.

A more accurate term would have been beast.

“Dr. Vaughn,” he said politely, his voice a quiet rumble that dove right down into the depths of my core.

I stared at him for a long moment, losing myself in his glittering eyes and his thick mahogany curls. Unlike the men in my city state, his chin was covered by a beard, giving him a rough aura that made my stomach leap with excitement. With his entry came the muted scent of whiskey and citrus. My thoughts stuttered for a moment trying to identify it.

Cologne. He was wearing cologne.

At a towering six and a half feet tall, he stood at least a foot above me. Despite the rough masculinity of his appearance, his attire was professional. A light gray button-up shirt and a pair of black slacks covered his body, but no article of clothing could do anything to conceal the sheer mass of muscles lying beneath them.

This man was strong. Very strong.

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