Mercy (Salacious Players Club, #4)(68)

When we get to twelve, I’m tempted to say yellow. At the beginning of this, I was so cocky and sure I could take it. But now, my whole body is pain personified. If my dick is still hard, I don’t even know it.

“I love watching you take this pain,” she says closer to my ear. I didn’t even feel her climbing over me, but as she straddles my sore back, I breathe in her nearness.

The strangest thing about this is how close I feel to her as she hurts me. Like it’s just her and me, the only two people in the whole world. I want her to hurt me, and I’ve never wanted that before. I was a little worried going into this that feeling her strike me would be humiliating and make me mad at her, but it’s actually the opposite. I’m somehow craving more. I want to make her proud.

“You should feel how wet I am, Beau. Hurting you turns me on so much. Tell me I can ride your cock after you’re done with your punishment.”

My heart is hammering in my chest, and my breathing is labored, but now I know for sure, I’m ready to take the rest. If it turns her on and makes her talk to me like that, then I’ll take a hundred more of her worst hits.

“Yes, ma’am. Please.”

“God, I love to hear you beg. Do it again.”

The plea slips out easily like it’s already so natural for me to beg her. “Please touch my cock. Just a little. I’ll do anything.”

She smiles against my cheek, and I feel the moisture of her pussy against my back. “Give me a color.”

“Green,” I reply enthusiastically.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mmm…” she hums against my ear. “We’ll see how you feel after the next round. But for now, you’ve earned this.”

She snakes her hand between my body and the bed, seeking out my cock and giving it a tight stroke. The sensation is so intense, I squirm against the cuffs, chasing the pleasure before she pulls her hand out.

“I love hearing you beg so much, I want to hear you plead for another hit. I’m warning you now. These are going to hurt. We’re only doing six.”

“I can take it,” I reply, eager to get them over with, so I can feel her on my cock again.

“Ask nicely,” she says, just before she swings the crop in the air, letting me hear the whoosh.

“Please, ma’am. Please.”

“As you wish.”

The crop lands with intensity against my ass, and the sting is so violently concentrated, it’s like a hot poker lancing my flesh. I try to speak, but the sound gets caught in my throat. The acute shock of it practically knocks me out, and I forget how to breathe.

I was so cocky a minute ago, sure that I could get through all of this without a struggle, but now the pain is on another level.

“Let me hear you count, Beau.”

“One,” I say with a gasp, my voice splintered.

When she smacks the other side, I scream into the mattress. It’s more than pain. It’s being tied up and defenseless with fear and anticipation so I am no longer connected to my own body. I’m hovering again, but instead of watching myself make another bad decision, I’m forced to watch myself suffer the consequences.

“Two,” I manage to stutter.

The next smack is on my upper thigh, and it’s so intense, I’ve convinced myself that it really is a hot poker she’s stabbing into my leg.

“Beau?” she asks.

“Th-three.”

“Color?”

“Green,” I scream into the bed. I want to say yellow so bad, but I don’t. I don’t want breaks, and I refuse to show weakness. It’s just a smack on my ass. Why am I acting like such a pussy about this? Why can’t I just take it?

“Are you sure? We can take a break.”

“Green, ma-ma’am.”

The next one is harder. And it’s higher, causing me to scream again. The sheets are wet—drool, sweat, or tears, I’m not sure. I just know, I’m falling apart.

“F-four,” I stammer.

“You’re doing so good,” she says with gentle praise, and it’s like warm water dripping down my spine, but the pleasantries end there because, a moment later, she lands blow number five, and everything that was holding me together, shatters like glass hitting the floor.

How can one stinging sensation on my ass feel so intense? I must be fucking weaker than I thought. In my head, I’m chanting to myself, be like Emerson.

Be strong like him. Be brave like him. Be dominant like him.

Every stupid thing I’ve done replays in my mind like highlights from the worst moments of my life. Treating Charlie like shit. Cheating. Torturing my dad by withholding contact just because I could. Judging every single person who came to this club or lived a life different than mine.

I deserve this, but bearing the brunt of my punishment isn’t making me feel any better.

“Five!” I shout, squirming against the bindings. The bedsheets are clutched in my fists so tightly, my knuckles are aching.

“Color?”

“Green, ma’am,” I grunt. Clearly, I’m losing it. It’s obvious now, and I hate myself for the way this is affecting me. I can feel the tears streaming through my tightly-closed lids, and I can’t bear the thought of her seeing me like this now. We were supposed to have sex after this, and now I’m bawling like a child.