Page 117 of There Are No Saints

He sits up, his hand coming away from my back, then returning to my ass with a sharp smack. The impact ripples through my flesh, sharp and corrective. I jolt, trapped in place by the metal rings clamped around my wrists and ankles.

“Don’t!” I shriek, panic rising in my chest. “I told you, I hate that.”

“How could you hate it if you’ve never experienced it?” Cole says, bringing his hand down again hard in the same place.

SMACK!

He’s not holding back. The blows are hard and cruel. My flesh burns in the shape of his handprint.

I’m filled with a thick, squirming sense of shame. My cheeks are as hot as my ass, and I have to blink hard to hold back the tears that threaten to fall.

“Alright!” I cry. “I was spanked. Is that what you want to hear?”

SMACK!

He slaps me on the other side, even harder. It makes me jump because I wasn’t expecting it, because I thought he’d only hit one side.

“I already know that,” he says, in that low, dangerous voice. “It’s fucking obvious.”

SMACK!

He hits me again on the left side, making the whole cheek ripple, sending shocks all the way up my back.

Cole is viciously strong, and the slaps are hard. They really hurt, especially when he hits the same side twice in a row. I find myself grinding against the vibrator, desperately seeking a little pleasure to ameliorate the pain.

“Please,” I cry, my voice sounding childish and pathetic.

“Tell me how he spanked you,” Cole demands.

I am crying now. The tears are silent, but I can feel them running down my cheeks, falling onto the table.

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

He’s not going to stop. Not until I tell him what he wants to know.

I’m sobbing, eyes squeezed shut, admitting something I’ve never told a human soul.

“He’d make me go put on my school uniform. The plaid skirt and the shirt and the socks. No underwear. Then he’d make me lay across his lap and he’d pull the skirt up around my waist and spank me hard.”

I can feel Cole go still on top of me, absorbing this piece of information he already suspected.

“How old were you?”

“Seven when it started. Thirteen when he stopped.”

“Why did he stop?”

“A teacher saw the bruises when I was changing for gym. I tried to hide in the bathrooms to change, but that day they were full, and she made me change in the open.”

Cole is silent for a moment. Then he says, “Did he touch you?”

My stomach clenches, so hard that I have to swallow down the bile that rises in my throat.

“The point wasn’t to touch me. It was to make me cry.”

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