Page 28 of Crushing Clover

When he said it like that, it sounded bad.

“Come here.”

I stood and took one shuffling step forward before remembering I couldn’t exactly comply. The cuff dug into my ankle unpleasantly and the couch didn’t budge.

Grumbling to himself, he walked over to me and fished the cuff key out of his pocket. He uncuffed the couch rather than my ankle.

“What do you say to me?”

“I’m sorry I spoke to her,” I began, “but I really thought I was making things easier for you. I didn’t want her to call the police.”

He slid his hands up the outsides of my thighs. I was startled but held still, not fussing even when he hooked his fingers into my borrowed panties and drew them off. My pulse felt like it was crawling up my throat, jerky and independently sentient. He knelt me on the seat of the couch and pushed my upper body down on the back of it until my face was almost pressed up against the wall. The breath he blew out sounded like either a groan or a curse.

He swept up the back of the dress shirt I was wearing and stood there for a long moment. I thought I knew where this was going, and waited for the sound of a zipper, but instead he pulled his belt from its loops.

“What are you doing?”

“Reminding you that you’re not here to think, just obey.”

My mind automatically slipped back to being in a similar position at a much younger age, albeit with more clothing.

“I understand who’s in charge here, sir,” I said quietly. If life had taught me anything, it was that tears and hysterics didn’t earn me respect.

He grunted, but it was obvious he’d already made up his mind when he wrapped the buckle end of his belt around his hand. The sound of his belt swishing through the air made me wince in anticipation.

The first lick of the leather on my ass stung but didn’t precisely hurt. I gritted my teeth, determined not to embarrass myself. The next one was harder, a thud against my right ass cheek. That one was going to leave a bruise. A loud snap sent a lick of red-hot fire across both cheeks, and I yelped despite my determination not to be a little bitch about it.

He covered my body with his and growled, “I thought I told you to shut the fuck up.”

Without meaning to, I shivered. Why was my body reacting to his proximity even though the only thing he was offering was violence? His hair brushed my cheek, feather soft. His breath against my ear made my insides squirm.

He stuffed two fingers into my mouth, and I choked on them in surprise. They tasted like soap with an undercurrent of spice.

“Be quiet, now.”

He pulled his fingers out of my mouth, then shoved a wad of cloth into it to take their place.

“If you spit those out, this is going to go on longer than you can imagine.” Something in his pocket was digging into my already burning ass. It felt like he had a rolling pin jammed in there. What kind of chef would…

Lord, I hoped it was a rolling pin.

It wouldn’t be fair if all three of them were hung like donkeys. The girls at the strip club always joked about how great it was to fuck a guy who was big, but I failed to see the attraction of having my insides churned.

He got off me and backed away.

The next strike made me gasp so hard I almost inhaled the cloth in my mouth. The fabric was rough against my tongue and not very bulky.

Ugh.

Were Arabella’s panties in my mouth? My tongue tried to reject them and spit them out, but pissing off Saint John when he was already punishing me would be a stupid idea.

It went on and on.

He laid into my ass until it was throbbing. I couldn’t hear anything except the belt, my hectic breaths, and the quiet sounds of distress that escaped the makeshift gag.

Could everyone in the kitchen hear what he was doing to me?

My body stopped fighting it and melted against the back of the couch, every scrap of defiance and dignity drained from me.

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