Lysa’s hands remained glued to the surface of the table and she sat rigid, mouth ajar and eyes narrowing. She didn’t want to do this, as it went against everything she believed in. After all her tears, which had since dried upon her cheeks, she couldn’t dissuade him from carrying out his punishment. Each time she broached the subject over the meal, he’d dismissed it with a glare.
“It’s for the best, Lysa. Don’t argue with me.” He prodded his food with a fork.
“I’m not arguing,” she’d countered. The tomato in her fingers squished and juice squirted across her plate. “Damn,” she muttered, licking her hand.
“You acknowledged you disobeyed me. The best remedy is to have a clean slate.”
She had said those words, perhaps she’d spoken in haste. With each mouthful, the trauma of the constable’s brutality had diminished and she regretted her acquiescence to Blake and his summary declaration. Lysa, the young woman with her own opinions, regained centre stage. Her hands clenched on the table.
“Lysa. Up.” He hovered close by the table, drumming his fingers on it. “Do I have to take you over my knee again?”
The humiliation! She gritted her teeth and moved at the slowest pace possible. His doggedness remained, as did her resistance. The two personas grated against each other as she methodically tidied up the table and kitchen.
When it came to stripping, she tried to make herself as small as possible. He sat on the sofa tapping a foot, lips pressed together. What was he thinking? Did he enjoy the spectacle of watching her undress? Would he grin at her, like the ghastly constable?
“I want you to bend over.” Blake tapped the table. “You will not move from the position until I’ve finished paddling your bottom.” He turned his head to one side.
He couldn’t see her face, so she stuck her tongue out at him. A childish, useless display of petulance, but the silly gesture made her feel better.
The table, freshly cleaned, was cold. She lowered her belly onto its surface gradually, squashing her breasts under her. She expected him to come over and wallop her bottom with the paddle, but she heard no sound of movement. Her heart thrummed, almost vibrating the table with her rapid pulse. Her legs remained crushed together and she bent her knees slightly. Minutes seemed to tick away, or were they seconds lasting like minutes? The wait made her anxious, then she wondered if he intended to change his mind and rescind the punishment.
She waved her bottom in the air. An absent-minded gesture and immediately she wished she hadn’t draw attention to her naked rear.
“Are you provoking me?” he snapped from the other end of the room.
“No.” She cringed, screwing up her eyes.
“Looks that way to me. Do you think that trivialising this will make me change my mind?” His voice came closer, she could almost feel a shadow lying across her back.
“No, no,” she chirped. “I was… cooling my bum.” She stuttered. She pictured him standing over her, waving the paddle in his hand, ready to aim and strike.
“Spread your legs wider, so you are lying flat on the table.”
She complied, shuffling her feet apart.
“Dammit,” she muttered. Her cleft parted, her sex was exposed.
He brushed his hand down her crevice, then circled his hand around each of her lobes. She wriggled.
“Keep still,” he barked. He repeated his stroking action. “I’ve paddled a few bottoms since I’ve arrived on this hell hole. Yours, by far, is the most attractive one.”
A mortifying bloom of heat rushed across her face. “Do you have to paddle my poor bottom?”
“Yes. Six times. You want proof I’m not the constable? I’m going to show you.”
She readied herself, gripped the edge of the table and held her breath.
The whoosh of air came before the blow. She heard a thwack and her pelvis rammed into the table edge. She waited—a second, a millisecond, she couldn’t tell—then blazing heat spread across both cheeks. The burning sensation grew, and before she could assimilate it, he struck again.
Tears came instantly. They pricked her eyes and she sobbed. Unlike his tantalising playful spanks, he didn’t hold back.
The third strike and she jumped up. He pushed her back down with a hand on the small of her back and left it there, holding her down. The fourth smack of the paddle came lower, on the crease between her thighs and buttocks, right where she sat. She yelped and knocked her forehead against the table. Breathe, breathe.
The fifth, she kicked a leg up as the pain ricocheted around her cheeks. She’d not looked back once to where Blake stood, but now she had to see for herself. Lifting her head, she glanced behind, over her shoulder. Was he grinning? Did he find amusement in spanking her with his mean paddle?
But when she looked closer she saw a determined, concentrated expression—furrows in his forehead, lips straight and unsmiling. He measured the distance to her bottom, angling the paddle as he completed a practice swing. She lowered her head, a small sigh of relief amongst the cry of pain. The final blow landed with an almighty whack.
He removed his hand. “I’m going to carry out an inspection now, Lysa.”
She stiffened. Now, why now?
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