Cherise Sinclair - This is who I am

The burn spread out from her bottom. Her brain blanked as if he’d shut off a switch.

Before she could reorder her thoughts, she heard him say, “Good girl.” Leaning against her from behind, he rubbed his chest over the strips of hot flesh on her back, sending fitful sparks of pain through her like a malfunctioning lighter. The ground dropped another foot.

He reached around to cup her breasts in his big hands, and the caress shook areas deep inside her, places that had dried up and died. “Sam.” It sounded like a protest, but she heard the plea beneath.

His teeth closed on her shoulder, biting the muscle, holding her as he moved his hands in a milking pattern, increasing the blood flow to her nipples. When his fingers closed on the engorged peaks, the exquisite sensation buckled her knees. He gave a rough laugh. “I’ve dreamed about your breasts.” His voice was low, his breath warm on her ear. He pinched harder, continuing the pressure until every molecule inside her liquefied. She moaned, losing herself as the burn wrapped around her nerves.

He growled in enjoyment, then moved away, leaving her breasts throbbing. After taking a flogger from his bag—a heavier one than what he’d used on the other woman—he tickled it over her back. The scent of leather swept through her, the smell reminding her of the other BDSM club. Where the pain had been good. Her eyes closed as she took a bigger breath.

When he gave her a couple of experimental flicks over her shoulders and ass, the light thudding was wonderful.

“Edward warmed you up well. Let’s get some red going on those shoulders.”

Her husband’d had that matter-of-fact tone. “Looks like it’s going to rain.” But Frederick would never have talked about hurting her. “That’s not something nice people do, Linda.” She wasn’t a nice person. She was perverted and—

The nasty swat on her bottom made her gasp and fragmented her thoughts. “Don’t listen well, do you, little girl?” Sam said. He drew his hand back, and three more hard slaps followed.

Tears burned Linda’s eyes, and as the stinging warped into intense pleasure, the feeling that swept through her was glorious. Her nerves drank in the hurting like flowers in a drought, and her body started to shake. This wasn’t right. She couldn’t take this. She’d break. But Sam…Sam would keep her safe as she fell apart.

A hard hand caught her chin and examined her face. “There we go. You’re ready to cry now.”

He ran his hand down her back, and she had a moment of panic when nothing touched her, and then the flogger whapped against her bottom. Where the strands hit the places he’d spanked, her skin seemed to inhale the impact, breathing in the sensation like air.

Left-right, left-right. The flogger moved in an easy rhythm up her butt, skipping over the area below her ribs to avoid the kidneys, then her upper back—harder, increasing slowly from thumping to something heavier. Each strike hurt enough that she’d tense before feeling the bite. Each sear of pain expanded deeper inward and settled low in her belly. Then her muscles would tighten again in anticipation. A few fast blows removed her ability to tense between them.

The sound of the flogger on flesh turned harsher when it hit her jeans. The dance-floor music had changed, the bass turned up to reverberate against her bones. The strands moved down to her ass, upping the deep burn as if the sadist took glee in seeing her hips move. Whap ; pain; pleasure. Whap ; pain; pleasure. She started to settle into the rhythm. Her head felt light, her body heavy.

“You have the prettiest round ass. Let’s see it dance, girl.”

The strikes came harder as he drove her out of her comfort zone, harder until her hips were trying to evade yet tilting up for more of the sharp-edged sweetness. Tears rolled down her cheeks as a massive glacier of agony dug deep, pushing everything before it as it carved out its passageway. A wail of distress escaped her.

He laughed . “Nice. Give me more.”

The strands moved lower, sending fire across the backs and sides of her thighs. Wonderful hurting. She heard low crying, and it was hers. Then she was choking on sobs as everything inside her bubbled up and out. He didn’t stop, keeping up a steady rhythm she could depend on as the rest of her dissolved.

Sometime later, she realized the flogger was only caressing her lightly with a whisper of sweet pain, enough to keep her connected. She lifted her head, amazed at how difficult it was. Tears still streamed from her eyes as she sank into the sensation, the heat. She could feel her body, every inch of her skin aware and sensitive in a way she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Slowly she gathered her senses, sliding back into reality.

So, so wonderfully relaxed.

The flogger dropped onto the floor with a thump , and Sam leaned against her again. His body warmth and the abrasion of his shirt set her back to a happy burn even as he pulled her tighter. His erection pressed against her backside, but he didn’t rub it on her or even seem to notice as he teased her nipples into hard points. One hand opened, flattened on her waist, just above her jeans. “You’re a wonderful armful,” he growled in her ear.

Her body shook, urgent with arousal. Her clit throbbed, needing his hand to move lower. Her body remembered exactly how his experienced fingers had felt when he brought her to orgasm.

In front of a room of slavers.

No . When she stiffened, his hand stilled. She wanted more. No, I don’t. No. Not ever again . What was she even doing here? This was sick. Unnatural . “Let me go, Sam,” she whispered, wanting, wanting.

He fisted her hair and tilted her face to study her. The firmness of his grip said he knew she was fleeing from herself. The liquid warmth inside her said he could stop her. Please her. His ice-blue gaze swept over her. “All right.”

She realized the horrible feeling inside had disappeared. The pressure and the shadows were gone from her spirit, washed away with her tears and pain.

What kind of a perv was she that she needed to hurt to be able to empty her emotions?

His hand tightened on her jaw. “Don’t think. Not now. Tomorrow is soon enough.” He reached up and unsnapped her cuffs, then helped her away from the cross. Her back burned where his arm around her waist rubbed the tender skin. Her legs shook as if she had been sick for a year, and she sagged against him.

He walked her to the edge of the scene area. “Kneel here.”

Her whole body went stiff as nausea surged. The Overseer had made her kneel for everything. Always. Or crawl. Would he— “I’m not your slave,” she hissed.

He gave her a look, and his tone was firm but mild. “I don’t need or want a slave.”

Slave . Just the sound made her sicker until his words registered. “Don’t need or want a slave.” Her spine found strength, and her shoulders straightened. “Then why make me kneel?” Her mouth was so dry that her voice came out in a whisper.

“You can’t stand by yourself, baby. You need to be close to the floor.” His rough voice held an odd tenderness. “And I want you where I can keep an eye on you as I clean up.”

Oh . “I’m sorry.” She let him help her down, her right knee, as always, stiffer than the other. To her surprise, when he returned with a bottled water and blanket, he squatted down to wrap the fuzzy fabric around her. Warm. Wonderfully concealing. “Thank you.”

“Right.” His hand stayed on her shoulder, holding her firmly.

She frowned and looked up.

“You’re kneeling for one more reason, girl, and you might as well learn to deal. You’re submissive. That’s part of what you need…and kneeling is an acknowledgment of that. Submission isn’t slavery.”