Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I watched him adjust the handheld, and heard the beep, and then I had to bite my lip to keep from whimpering at the tingle between my thighs as the need there was dampened. I looked at him, trying to figure out why I couldn’t feel the hatred I was so sure I should.
“Go to the whipping block,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The specialized piece of furniture stood in the corner of the room, just as it had in our stateroom aboard the flagship—a standard feature of Magisterian luxury accommodations, so that masters could always conveniently discipline and use their female property. My legs carried me toward it automatically, my body already conditioned to obey even as my mind rebelled.
“Bend over.”
I positioned myself over the padded surface, my forearms resting on the angled upper section, my stomach pressed against the middle, and my legs slightly spread on either side of the lower portion. The position thrust my bottom up and out, presenting it perfectly for whatever punishment Prince Hendren chose to inflict.
His hands were cold and efficient as he secured the restraints around my wrists and ankles. I heard him move away, then return, the distinctive sound of a cane swishing through the air making my stomach clench.
“Your real punishment won’t begin until you beg for your whipping,” he said, tracing the thin rod along the curve of my bottom. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whispered, hating the tremor in my voice.
The first stroke landed with precise force, a line of fire across the fullest part of my buttocks. I gasped, jerking against the restraints.
“Yes, what?” my master prompted.
“Yes, Sire,” I corrected, gritting my teeth against the burning sensation.
“Better.” The second stroke fell just below the first, the pain sharper, more focused than the naval cat had been. This was precision rather than brute force, and somehow worse for it.
The third stroke made me cry out, my body writhing uselessly against the padded surface. I tried to focus on my anger, my defiance, anything but the strange emptiness between my legs where pleasure should have been building.
“You’re still fighting,” Prince Hendren observed, landing a fourth stroke that made me sob. “Still clinging to the illusion that you have any control here.”
The fifth and sixth strokes fell in quick succession, crossing the earlier welts and doubling the pain. Tears sprang to my eyes, spilling down my cheeks.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Viola,” he commanded, pausing in his methodical punishment.
“I hate you,” I gasped, the words escaping before I could stop them.
To my surprise, Prince Hendren laughed, a rich, genuine sound that seemed incongruous with the situation. “No, you don’t. That would be simpler, wouldn’t it? If you could just hate me?” His hand caressed my burning flesh, the touch both soothing and threatening. “What you hate is how I make you feel. How I strip away your carefully constructed façade and expose the woman beneath.”
The seventh stroke landed with devastating accuracy, and I screamed, my body convulsing against the whipping block.
“You hate that I see you,” he continued, his voice maddeningly calm. “The real you, not President Herranofar with her elegant suits and diplomatic platitudes. Just Viola, naked and wet and desperate to surrender.”
“No,” I sobbed, even as a terrible surge of affection for him washed over me—for his brutality, for his decisiveness, for the way he had taken me in hand so completely. The feeling horrified me more than the pain, more than the humiliation.
Suddenly I felt a subtle shift, a warmth blooming between my thighs where emptiness had been moments before. Prince Hendren had adjusted something on the controller, and my pussy had abruptly begun to respond again—not fully, but enough to send tendrils of heat creeping through me with each stroke of the cane.
“Oh!” The sound escaped me, half-pain and half-pleasure as the eighth stroke landed.
“Better?” he asked, his voice knowing, cruel in its understanding.
The ninth stroke fell, and this time the pain transformed, melting into something else as it radiated through my body. My hips moved of their own accord, pressing back slightly as if seeking more.
“Please,” I whispered, the word slipping out before I could catch it.
“Please what, Viola?” His hand caressed my welted bottom, fingers tracing the raised lines with deliberate pressure.
“Please… whip me.” The words tumbled from my lips, shocking me with their sincerity. “Please whip me, Sire.”
His chuckle was low and satisfied. “And why should I grant you that?”
“Because I…” I swallowed hard, tears streaming down my face. Anything I said now I could claim later—to the prince, to myself, to the galaxy—I hadn’t meant, thanks to the prince’s savage punishment. I spoke the only words I could. “Because I need it.”
The cane whistled through the air, landing with precision across my sit spots. I cried out, arching against the restraints as pleasure spiraled through the pain. The governor allowed pulses of arousal to travel through me—not enough to satisfy, just enough to intensify everything else.