Page 119 of Masked Sins
I ask the first question that pops into my mind.
“What kind of paddle is that?”
He runs the wood down one leg, and I tremble with anticipation.
“It’s custom-made. It was actually cut from a piece of furniture in Ravage Castle. When my father moved abroad, Miles donated a lot of his possessions. He had quite a collection of items. This one is made from a type of wood that’s illegalnow. I found it last year and repurposed it. I haven’t used it on anyone, though.”
I want to ask why.
I want to speak out of line and risk more punishment, but I bite my tongue.
He traces the smooth wood over the other leg, and I whimper when he nudges my legs apart slightly.
“I made it with you in mind, Layla. So that I could use it on you for the very first time. Rare, cherished, classic, timeless. Just like you. I told myself I’d be a good boy and wait, but patience isn’t my strong suit.”
He lifts a hand, and then he brings the paddle down on my left ass cheek.
I can’t breathe. I’m—it’s—too overwhelming. It’s a new kind of pain for me—sharp at first before it bleeds into a bone-deep ache. It gets worse before it gets better, and all I can do is internalize the pain. It expands outward until I can’t get away from it until I’m writhing to get away from him.
“Give me a color, Layla.”
“Green.” My voice is shaky but resolute.
“If at any time that changes, I need you to tell me. I’ll keep checking in with you, and I expect total honesty—not just what you think I want to hear. Is that understood?
“Yes, Master,” I rasp.
“Good. Now it’s my turn to ask a question. When did you know Starboy was me?”
“When you walked in earlier,” I tell him honestly.
“Before I hypnotized you?” he asks, his voice frayed. I wish I could see his expression—wish I could take in his layered emotions.
“Yes, Master.”
“But you didn’t have any qualms about me being Starboy?” he asks.
“That’s your third question,” I blurt. “But no. I’m surprised it took me this long to figure it out.”
Thwack.
“Oh, f?—”
Thwack.
The double hits stack the pain in a way that makes my eyes water. The heat of the blow builds gradually, but two in a row doubles the sensation, and my breath catches in my throat.
I can’t say I hate it—like I told him before, I’ve been through worse things.
“Say it,” he commands.
“Say what, Master?”
“Sayfuck.You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you mutter the filthiest words imaginable.”
I swallow as one of his hands soothes the burning on the skin of my right ass cheek. It’s not that I mind swearing. I had a really strict ballet teacher one summer who would make us do two-hundred calf lifts if we swore. It was supposed to teach us decorum, but it just scared me from ever using a bad word. After that, it just always felt so foreign on my tongue. I have dirty thoughts and think bad words all the time, but when they leave my lips, I feel like an impostor.
No one expects the prim and proper ballet dancer to swear, and for so long, I let that persona take over everything. I hid my trashy books and my dark desires. I kept them from everyone I know, something only for me to know. I had lots of thoughts—lots of feelings, and emotions, and times Iwantedto tell someone to fuck off.
