Page 52 of The Sadist and the Brat

Her mouth went dry. “Is that a threat?”

“A promise,” he corrected, and straightened.

He moved out of sight, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting, and she craned her neck to try to follow. But her position made it impossible, so all she could do was listen and wait.

She heard a zipper, and the sounds of someone rummaging around. There was the thump of wood on wood, and she imagined him looking in the dresser drawers she’d left strewn on the floor.

It seemed as though she lay there, ears straining, forever, but it was probably only a matter of seconds before she heard him coming back. Still, she wasn’t expecting the hand that wrapped around her ankle, and she flinched.

“Jumpy,” he observed, and pulled her foot to the side. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Nervous?”

She didn’t answer—her mouth was too dry, and she was very much afraid her voice would betray her—so she tried to kick him instead.

“So feisty,” he jeered, his fingers tightening on her foot. Something wrapped around her ankle, and she realized he was cuffing her to the bedpost.

He moved swiftly, locking the cuff in place before she could try to kick him again, then he was grabbing her other foot. He jerked it to the side, forcing her stance wide and taking away the support of her legs, and she sank even farther into the bed. It made her feel horribly, deliciously vulnerable, the butterflies in her belly going berserk, and she bucked against his hold.

His chuckle was low, the delight in it unmistakable. “Fight all you like, sugar tits. Makes no difference to me.”

“I’m going to gut you like a fish when I get out of this,” she warned and bucked again.

“When you get out of this, you’ll be lucky to be conscious,” he replied, and smacked her ass so hard she lost her breath.

That wasn’t his hand, she realized dimly as the pain and the heat spread, bright and hot and hard. It covered too much real estate, hitting her with equal force across her spread buttocks, and it was too firm—no give at all. It had to have been some kind of paddle, probably wood or plastic, and just as the pain had begun to fade, he did it again.

“Fuck!” she cried, bucking against the blistering heat. “What the fuck are you hitting me with?”

“Just one of my ‘props’.” He hit her again and again, laying stinging blows across her ass one right after the other with barely a pause in between.

She lost count at five, and when he finally stopped her face was wet with tears and her lip was bleeding where she’d bitten it. Her ass was on fire, a thick and heavy pulse of pain that should’ve obliterated everything else, but every throb and twinge sent shocks of pleasure right to her clit. Her pussy was throbbing too, the tender opening fluttering and pulsing in a shallow mimic of the rhythmic pull and clench of an orgasm.

She wiggled, desperate for friction, but with her legs spread and her pelvis at the wrong angle, she couldn’t get it.

“Had enough?” Jack taunted.

“Fuck you,” she managed, and half hoped he’d hit her again.

“Not yet, sugar tits,” he drawled, and there was a muffled thump that she assumed was the paddle—or whatever he’d been using to tenderize her ass—hitting the floor. “Got a few things to do first.”

She opened her mouth, a taunt on the tip of her tongue, then shut it again when he grabbed the tab of the zipper over her tailbone. He began to draw it down slowly, carefully, and she held her breath.

The way her legs were spread meant there was no slack in the PVC, and the zipper was snug against the damp, needly flesh between her legs. If she moved unexpectedly or he yanked too fast, he could catch her tender labia in its teeth, and that was a level of discomfort that she didn’t want. So she kept as still as possible while he drew the tab down between her legs, letting out her breath in a soundless sigh of relief when he slid the zipper past her pussy and up her belly. His forearm brushed against her pussy, coarse hairs tickling the bare, damp flesh, and she shuddered.

“Well, well,” he murmured, a sinister note in the quiet words. “What have we here?”

He slid a finger over her pussy, tracing the outer labia with a delicate, almost gentle touch. But his fingertip was rough, and she was swollen and sensitive, and he might as well have touched her with a cattle prod.

“You like getting your ass beat, sugar tits?”

“Of course not,” she croaked. “You sicko.”

He chuckled, low and rich, and she shivered at the dance of his breath across her heated skin. “Takes one to know one.”

She was trying to come up with a suitable rejoinder—somehow,I’m rubber and you’re gluedidn’t seem to fit the mood—when he gripped the sides of the open zipper and pulled them apart so the teeth dug into the juncture of her thighs and her ass was bared.

“Look at that ass,” he marveled.

Her skin was tender and sensitive, like a fresh sunburn, and when he spread his fingers and squeezed, renewed pain made her hiss.

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