Page 8 of The Killer's Payment

But the thought of bending over for a spanking followed by…well, whatever the hell he wants to do next, that seems worse somehow.

Last night I felt brave. Empowered.

This morning I feel deflated, upset, ashamed, and every ounce the pawn in a game between him and my father that I know I most definitely am. The fact that I thought I was actually a player on the board last night seems completely laughable this morning. And the thought of telling him what I was up to? That feels like an excuse to be laughed at even more.

But those are my choices.

My heart races as I try to think of a way out of this and come up with the same answer. It’s a lose-lose situation.

And what will hurt more? My ass by the time he’s finished with it, or my pride when he laughs in my face and sends me home to deal with the consequences and live with the memory of it?

I look around, trying to find a way out.

Could I climb over the island? Probably. Would it change anything? Probably not. But it might make me feel better to say I at least tried…

Spinning on my heels, I back myself into the kitchen, trying to get enough distance between us so I have a chance at making it over.

And then his hands are on me, lifting me up off the floor before I can take my third step. The strength and size and speed of him hits me like a fist in my stomach.

The power in his arms.

The hardness of his chest.

Even the difference in the way each of us breathes—me panting from the struggle while he might have just bent down to pick a flower.

“Looks like I just made the choice for you,” he says, turning us around and making his way toward the attached living space.

His arms are like a vise, crushing me into his chest, and that, mixed with his words, sets me off.

“You fuck!” I try to beat my arms against him.

He never stops walking.

It has virtually zero effect.

Sounds are flowing out of my mouth, sounds I’ve never heard before. Squeals. Moans. Trying and failing to breathe in sheer frustration.

All while he keeps walking.

We pass through a small archway and into another sitting room. He drops me down on the sofa like he’s a child discarding a broken toy.

Scrambling back as much as possible, I bring my knees up to my chest and push my messy hair off my face. That’s when I realize that this particular child has a fondness for broken toys.

He comes back.

The cushions on the sofa shift as he settles his weight down beside me.

I’m grappling with his hand while he pulls my legs down and drags me across the space toward him.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

No sound comes from his mouth, but that doesn’t stop me from making enough sound for both of us. I fight through every one of his quick movements. Fabric tears, and I try to punch him. He grabs my body and slides me on top of him, and I wiggle like a fish on a wooden deck.

It only takes a few moments for him to have both my hands nestled inside one of his and pushed into the sofa. He’s not even looking at me anymore. Well, my face. He’s too transfixed with the task at hand—getting me naked.

“Enough!” I shout. “You’ve made your point.”

When he doesn’t respond, I try to kick him. That fails miserably, so instead, I’m just wiggling around, trying to get my hands free, trying to slide off his knee, trying in any way possible to make his job difficult.

---