A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel #1)(39)

I adjust myself so that my upper body is supported by my elbows, with my head hanging down, and so that my pelvis is squarely over Auden’s lap.

There’s an unmistakable length of male arousal under my hip.

I try to move, because it must be uncomfortable for him to have my weight pinning it like this, but once I start squirming, he seizes my thigh and spreads a hand at the small of my back.

“Be still,” he begs quietly. “For the love of God, be still.”

I go still.

I’m not sure if anyone else heard that little exchange, but Rebecca’s voice is careful when she says, “Is everyone ready? Auden, you can hold her steady?”

“Yes,” he and I answer at the same time.

“Excellent. Poe, I’m going to spank you and that’s how you’ll earn your kiss from me. Do you want my hand over the skirt or under?”

Auden shudders underneath me, and I feel his cock swell even bigger.

I know how he feels. My cunt is swollen too, and wet, needing to come. I try not to grind the front of my pussy against his thigh, and mostly succeed.

“Under my skirt,” I say.

“Bare-arsed?”

“If everyone is okay with it,” I whisper. “I like the sting.”

“Of course you do,” Rebecca says soothingly. And then to the rest of the room, “Is everyone okay with this? You can safe out too, if you’d like.”

There’s no answer from the others—no verbal answer, at least. I can’t see anyone’s face except Saint’s, and even then, I’d have to turn my head to look at him, which I’m too cowardly to do now. Not because I’m embarrassed that I’m about to be spanked in front of a little crowd of onlookers—that’s essentially just another Saturday night for me. But I’m embarrassed that he must have seen how much I liked kissing Auden; I’m embarrassed that he might be able to guess how much I like being over Auden’s lap just now.

I wish I could tell him that this doesn’t change anything about us, that I haven’t picked Auden’s side over his, that I still want to be friends. That if he’s suspected that I like him, that I want him, he’s not wrong.

I wish I could tell him I’m just as confused. Just as lost.

But I’m a coward, so I don’t look and I don’t tell him. And then the moment is gone anyway, because Rebecca flips up the skirt of my dress and pulls down the thick tights I’m wearing to my upper thighs. She does the same with my panties, and I have a moment of panic when I realize that if someone looked at just the right angle, they’d undoubtedly be able to see my pussy. They’d be able to see how wet and swollen I am, how much I want to be touched.

I shiver as her fingers leave my skin after they finish baring my flesh. There’s nothing between me and the others now, except maybe the lace of my panties and the tights where they stretch along the crease between my thighs and my cheeks. Though I haven’t known Rebecca long as an adult, she strikes me as the kind of person who would take care to make sure I wasn’t unduly exposed beyond what we agreed. On the other hand, she also strikes me as the kind of person to leave me in torment about whether she was unduly exposing me or not.

I can’t tell.

And I can’t tell who can see what, but I do know that it’s a forcefully erotic idea. That if they wanted, my friends could see my cunt. Maybe they could pet it, maybe they could lean down and kiss it to make it feel better.

I could almost cry with how much I want that.

The size of the room and the broken window in the hallway make drafts unavoidable, and so there’s a tantalizing play of cool and warm air over my skin. There’s no forgetting that my bottom is shamefully bare while the rest of me is not.

A hand touches me, giving one of my cheeks a fond squeeze. “How many spanks do you think? To earn my kiss?”

This is a trick question, I know it is. Too low a number, and I’ll be given more spanks for my impudence, too high and she’ll say, “Ahhh, a pain-slut then? How about we double that amount so you’ll enjoy it more?” Or something to that effect.

Of course, the problem is that if a Dominant has decided there’s no right answer, then there’s really no right answer. It’s just easier to pick a number and get on with the consequences of being wrong. And consequences are half the fun anyway.

“Fifteen,” I say, feeling like it’s a nice middle amount, not too low and not too high.

“Fifteen,” Rebecca repeats. “As in five plus ten?”

Oh boy. “Yes?”

“Even Delphine could do fifteen,” Rebecca says, and it’s a testament to the spell she’s slowly casting around the room that Delphine doesn’t erupt in protest. “And I’d like to think my kisses are a little more valuable than that. We’ll do thirty . . . plus five more for your cheek in suggesting fifteen.”

Thirty-five will probably hurt her hand as much as it hurts my ass, but I’m not foolish enough to say anything about it. Thirty-five spankings for a single kiss is bad enough—I’d hate to see what she’d cook up if I actually mouthed off.

The first one comes with no warning, crackling across my skin like a firework, pleasant and pretty.

“One,” I say.

The second comes a bit harder, right on the same spot. The crackling comes again, the firework-bite of it sparking a little deeper this time.