Page 17 of Vienna Betrayal

“How would you know? I’ve only placed three strikes.”

“Two sentences in a row?” She tried to look back at him, but with her arms pulled tight alongside her head she was only partially successful. “How unusual, Sir.”

His lips quirked. “A brat? Unexpected.”

In her peripheral vision she saw his arm rise, the tails of the flogger swaying gently.

Thwack.This time it struck her ass, the blow harder than those to her back. She felt it, a solid thump with a few outlying stings where individual strands had nipped her.

“Are you?” he asked.

“Am I what, Sir?”

“Ein verzogener Fratz.”

She spoke enough German to get by, but his Austrian accent threw her off for a moment.

“A…warped?…something.”

Another blow to her ass, and the heat that lingered there multiplied.

“You spoke German before.”

Thwack.

“Only a little, Sir.”

Thwack.

For several minutes he concentrated on flogging her ass. The buildup of heat was tipping towards the point of pain. Alena was breathing deep but steady, shifting her weight foot to foot.

And after the pain would come pleasure. You’d get there faster if you gave up trying to build rapport with him and let yourself sink into the scene.

The next two blows fell on the back of each thigh in turn. She wanted him to continue flogging her ass, to focus there until she couldn’t think anymore. Until all she could do was submit.

He worked the flogger up and down the back of her legs with soft blows to each calf, heavy-handed ones on each thigh, and particularly ferocious, stinging ones on her sit spot. He carefully avoided the back of her knee, and didn’t let the tails wrap around her limbs.

When he paused to run his hand over her ass, down one leg and then up the other, her breath caught. The touch of his hand was a far less acute sensation than the flogger, but it wasn’t the physical impact she was reacting to, but the emotional one of having her Dom’s hands on her.

“You are taking it well.” His voice was dark and low, a bit rough, as if he needed to clear his throat.

“Thank you, Sir.”

She waited for him to say more. He said nothing. Her quiet man.

Dammit.

“What was that you said before, Sir, in German?”

“A spoiled brat.” His fingers curled around the lace band at the top of her thigh and began to roll her stocking down. “But that is not the right term for you.”

“No. I’m not a brat. I don’t throw tantrums or break rules as a way to goad my partner and top from the bottom.” Her plan had been to remain detached enough to—if not top from the bottom—at least influence their scene to ensure they established rapport.

“What do you do?” he asked.

“I ask for what I want. For what I need.”

He finished with her right stocking and started on the left. “Unusual.”

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