Page 99 of The Sadist and the Brat

“Yes, Boss.”

She felt his lips curve against her skin. “Good girl.”

His hand slid away from her belly, leaving behind a lingering warmth. She was wishing it back when the flogger fell.

Her breath gusted out, more from surprise than from pain, and she blinked the haze away from her eyes.

“Tell me how much that hurt, Sadie, on a scale of one to ten.”

She tried to think. She knew by ten he meant the point when she’d use her safeword. “Um. A four, maybe?”

“Good to know. You ready for more?”

“Yes, Boss,” she replied, the honorific sliding smoothly off her tongue.

“Don’t forget to keep breathing,” he instructed, and the flogger fell on the exhale.

There was no pause this time, no break between blows. The flogger struck over and over, dancing over her back in a steady rhythm. They weren’t hurting yet, not really—it felt like someone giving her a congratulatory pat on the back with a little too much enthusiasm, a comparison that made her giggle out loud.

“Something funny?” he drawled, not missing a beat.

“Congratulations to me,” she said and laughed again.

He didn’t respond, just kept the flogger moving.

The leather falls moved down, skipping over her lower back to her ass. He hit her a little harder there, the layer of fat over dense muscle making it an ideal target for the heavy buffalo hide. Her butt and thighs warmed under the blows, heat and sting building, then he moved back up.

She lost track of time. The steady rhythm of the flogger was lulling, even when the hits started coming harder. She registered the pain in an abstract sort of way, as though it was happening to someone else, even as her blood pumped and her nerves sang. Some dim part of her recognized that she was in sub space, the happy endorphin-soaked phase of the scene where nothing hurt, even when it did.

There was a pause in the flogging, but it didn’t register until Jack’s arm slipped around her from behind. “What’s your color, Sadie?”

“Green,” she murmured, and pressed her back into his chest. His skin was damp with sweat—flogging was hard work—but he felt delightfully cool against her battered back. “Oh, that feels nice.”

His low chuckle had a shiver running down her spine.

“Do you know,” she said dreamily, “when you laugh like that, you sound like a cartoon villain?”

“Do I?”

“One of those old black-and-white ones where the girl gets tied to the railroad tracks,” she continued, tilting her head back onto his shoulder. Floating, and more than a little buzzed, she turned her face into his neck and breathed him in. “You sound like that guy.”

“You’re endorphin drunk,” he announced.

“I know.” She sighed. “I’m starting to hurt, though.”

“How much?”

“Mmmm. Prolly a six.”

“I’m going to push that,” he warned her.

“Bring it on, Boss-man,” she purred and giggled.

“You got it, brat,” he replied. His arm slid away, and the flogger began its hammering beat once more.

She rocked forward with every blow, little grunts and cries slipping from her lips. Pain blossomed and spread through her back and butt, the backs of her thighs stinging. She pulled at the restraints on her hands, not because she wanted to be free, but because she needed tomove.A deep, crawling itch had settled under her skin, spreading like a rash, and she knew from experience that the only thing that would ease it was more pain.

“I need more,” she mumbled, pushing her butt out. “Please, Boss.”

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