Page 29 of Bought

“Where is the phone, Casey?”

It’s my turn not to answer.

“Get the cane, Forsyth.”

A cane. What kind of fucking sadist… the question terminates in my mind before I can even pose it to myself. The sort of sadist who has canes is the same sort of sadist who keeps smart girls captive and thinks they’ll never get the better of him. I know this is going to hurt. But fuck him. It can hurt all he wants it to. It might make me writhe. Scream. Cry. Beg for forgiveness. I might end up promising never to do this again. But in the end I will. Because fuck him.

“The cane, sir.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole, Forsyth.” I throw that out there too, make things worse for myself. I don’t care. The federal agents are all standing around, watching this unfold. They’re even less useful than the crooked cops down at the station. I bet those guys occasionally bust a jaywalker or something.

I feel the hard, thin line of what must be the cane across both my cheeks. It moves away after a fraction of a second, and then returns with a swishing sound that terminates in an explosion against my ass. The chains jangle as I buck against the table, a seam of fire burning across my skin.

Three days without Ethan means three days to forget how much he can make things hurt. That single stroke of the cane damn near broke my resolve in a single go. I have broken out into a sweat. My toes curl, my breath rasps in my throat as I cry out at the top of my lungs.

“Where’s the phone, Casey?”

I grit my teeth and stay silent. This hurts, but the pain has already peaked and it’s already getting better…

“Owfuck!” I scream as the cane comes down again.

A fresh seam of pain explodes across my ass. Ethan is not playing around. But his determination only feeds mine. I will not give in to this. I don’t care if he’s paid off everyone from the postman to the president.

“Disobedient little brat,” Ethan murmurs under his breath. “Casey, I can do this a lot longer than you can take it. Now tell me where you put that phone.”

I take a shuddering breath. Two strokes of the cane won’t break me.

Crack!

Three strokes won’t break me.

They will, however, turn my ass to fire. My nervous system is alight with sensation. I pull at the bonds that keep me chained to this damn table as Ethan swings the cane down another three times, each and every one of those cuts landing subsequently lower than the one before it, creating a band of burning heat and aching flesh across the lower part of my exposed ass.

The wood beneath my face is wet with tears. I’m crying out of sheer determination not to give in, even though every part of my flesh wants me to. No. Fuck that. No.

Ethan crouches down next to me. His hand fists in my hair. He draws my head up and my watery eyes look into his pale blue ones.

“This has already hurt enough,” he says in that gravelly voice of his. “Tell me where the phone is now, and I’ll spare you the rest of this punishment.”

It’s a good offer. And a tempting one. My head hangs in his grasp, his visage blurry thanks to my tears. I sniff back my sadness and my frustration, and I whisper my response.

“No.”

Ethan narrows his eyes at me. “I can have this house searched,” he says. “I can find it on my own.”

“Do that then.”

“You really are a stubborn little…” He releases my head and stands back up. All I can see how are his long legs, two disciplinary pillars.

“Start sweeping the house,” he orders the guards. “Go room by room.”

I smirk to myself as he sends the men away. I’m winning. In whatever twisted sense ‘winning’ can mean, when one is tied to a coffee table with six cane lines smoldering away on one’s ass.

“That will probably take them a long time,” he muses.

My self-satisfied smile broadens…

Crack!

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