Page 29 of Dean's Delinquent

But she feeds me in a way the ultra-submissives don’t. I crave the violence I’m about to impart onto her skin. I crave that moment when her will eventually cedes to my own. Most importantly, I hunger for the quiet energy that crackles between us with each strike of my palm or crack of my implements.

Smack.

The first strike of my hand against her delectable ass sends her up on her toes. Not surprising since I’m not holding back this time. Not like yesterday. As much as I desire her free spirit and indomitable will, she needs to learn there’s a time and place for everything.

I pause for a moment, waiting for her to yell at me or cry out, but she does neither. She quietly takes my punishment with only a slight squirming to show her discomfort. For a moment, I worry that I’ve misjudged things, but a quick glance at the gusset of her thong shows just how fucking wet she is from my treatment of her.

Smack.

I warm up the other cheek then pull away. If I keep touching her, I might give into the madness until nothing will keep me from propping her thigh up onto my desk so I can fuck that sweet pussy of hers. No. I need distance. I need a clinical touch only a tool can provide.

“Just know this will hurt you far more than it will hurt me,” I grumble as I bend the cane between my hands.

Just a touch of give. It’s enough to give her that bite of a sting and the unyielding thwack of the rod. Coming to the side, I line it up on her ass as I decide where I want to lay down the first strike. So many decisions. Thankfully, I plan to lay down quite the sadistic ladder, so each spot will get a stripe soon enough.

“Grab the desk and hold tight. After each slice of this wood against your backside, I want you to thank me for taking you in hand instead of stripping Loftry of its only newspaper.”

The look she shoots over her shoulder is pure venom. Again, I laugh, and the sound erupts from my lips like a squawk from a rusty instrument.

“I don’t see what’s so funny about this.”

“Your face, my dear, says everything you probably wish to keep hidden.”

“Make no mistake. I intend for you to see this expression. I’m not exactly looking forward to this, you know.”

Again, I hazard a glance at her underwear. “Oh, trust me. I know.”

Thwack.

The first line comes down right at the top of her cheeks. As expected, She arches up from the desk, a flurry of curses littering the air.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. What would your mother say if she heard you use such language?”

“Go to hell,” she grumbles. “It fucking hurts, and you fucking know it.”

“Shall I gag you? Will that help you keep a civil tongue in your mouth? The soap is still an option.”

Her delicate nose scrunches up as she lays her cheek against the desk. “Just get on with it. I can keep quiet now that I know what to expect.”

“You still didn’t thank me.”

As she lifts her face to look at me, her eyes narrow. “Thank you, oh magnanimous one, for allowing me to keep the free press free.”

“Close enough.”

Glancing down at her ass, I lower the cane a touch before rearing my hand back and slicing the thin wood through the air again.

Thwack.

“Mother fu- fudge,” she amends as she tightens her hold on the wood. “Thank you for allowing a school newspaper like every other school has.”

Thwack.

“God, are you trying to make each one hurt more than the next?”

“What was that? I’m sorry. I can’t hear you over the sound of your voice saying ‘I can keep quiet now that I know what to expect,’ running through my head.”

“Ha ha,” she replies, her tone devoid of all humor. “You’re a riot.”

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