by Alta Hensley
I hadn’t made it ten feet before I screamed, my body flying forward as my feet got caught up in a pile of fencing for the garden. I’d barely had time to reach out to block my fall when I squealed again. Grateful he’d grabbed me before I face-planted in the dirt, my gratitude evaporated when Derrick threw me over his shoulder. While I was gasping for breath, the man wasn’t even breathing hard with the effort.
“Put me down!” I said, my squirming, kicking, and punching in an attempt to free myself doing nothing but having him tighten his grip. “Okay, fine. You win. I’ll go inside. Just put me down!”
“I’m afraid that’s no longer an option,” Derrick said, swatting my ass so hard I yelped loudly.
“Where are you taking me!” I asked as he continued walking, the square of light from my upstairs window disappearing as he turned the corner of the house.
“I warned you we are men not to mess with,” Derrick said, another swat landing on my ass. “The woodshed should teach you I mean exactly what I say when I say it.”
That had me stilling in shock. Pressing against his legs to arch my body up, I said, “Fine! I fucking get it. Follow your rules. I hear you loud and clear. Now, let me down!”
His chuckle had every cell in my body on alert, but it was his, “Yes, and a strap with your name on it just waiting to be used will make damn sure you remember to follow what you hear loud and clear,” that had my ass clenching so hard and my hands going back to try to cover what I knew to be his target.
Chapter Ten
Derrick
I ignored her attempt to cover her ass, giving each of her buttocks a slap that cracked like a gunshot in the still of the night. Her yelps didn’t stop my hand from continuing to rise and fall as I made my way across the yard toward my destination. She continued to pummel me with her fists, each blow bouncing off my back. Her feet kicked at my chest. Every punch and kick earned her another swat. At this rate, I’d have no need to warm her up before I took the strap off its hook. Her ass would be red and ready for the thrashing she had coming.
“Stop hitting me!” she demanded.
I slapped her ass three more times before saying, “I’m not hitting you. I’m giving you a good ole fashioned spanking. But trust me, by the time I’m done with you, you will be wishing for a few hits rather than what I have in store.”
I only stopped spanking her tight ass when I pushed open the door, carrying her over the threshold. Kicking the door shut behind me, I finally lifted her off my shoulder, only to set her on her feet, pinning her arms to her side. “Keep fighting, Monet, and I guarantee you’ll regret it.” She huffed but didn’t try to break away. “Don’t move,” I instructed, releasing my hold. Though there was a small window high up on the wall, the shed was dark. It took me a moment to light the kerosene lantern, its glow illuminating the interior of the room. I almost smiled when she looked around, her eyes widening at the sight of the cords of wood my brothers and I had been chopping and storing all day. It had been hard work, but oddly rewarding. Far better than torturing and killing men, which was all I felt we ever did anymore.
“It really is a shed for wood,” she said.
“Hence the name.” I crossed my arms over my chest and raked my eyes up and down her body. “What in the hell are you wearing?”
She glanced down and then met my gaze. “Is that a trick question?” When I didn’t bother responding, she shrugged. “Haven’t you ever seen yoga pants and a T-shirt before.”
“I don’t recall providing those items,” I said, knowing damn well they hadn’t been among the clothing we’d placed in the armoire or dresser in her room.
“I borrowed them from Alana. I can’t very well jog in a skirt or dress, now, can I? Sorry I’m not dressed like the perfect little bride you and your brothers are looking for. Want me to put a frilly apron on?”
It was a quick reminder that as much as this woman infuriated me, she was friends with my sister. My sister liked her, and that meant a lot. Therefore, maybe I should go easy on her… but not that easy. Although the snarky way in which she answered me was enough to drag my eyes off the way those pants clung to her legs and the way that T-shirt molded to her breasts. “Pull your pants and panties down.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I don’t want you to put anything on. I want you to hand me that strap, pull your pants and panties down, turn around, and bend over that table.”
She looked at the wall to find a black leather strap hanging on a hook, to the table, and then back to me.
“You can’t be serious,” she said.
I didn’t answer but kept my expression firm and unrelenting.
“Look, I just wanted to go outside. I won’t do it again,” she said, her tone far less sarcastic.
It was amazing how quickly the snark was gone, but it was far too late. “I’ll count down from ten, and, Monet, if your ass isn’t bare and that strap in my hand before I get to zero, you won’t be sitting tomorrow.”
I made it to five with our gazes locked on each other before she even dared breathe. But at the count of four, she gave a cry, took the two steps necessary to reach the strap, pulled it off the hook and stood, seemingly unable to decide whether to look at it or at me. Finally, she turned to me, her eyes huge.
“Seriously? You are expecting to… strap me? Come on, this is a joke, right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“I hate you,” she said, throwing the strap at me. “I fucking hate you all.”
I caught it, letting it hang from my hand as I pointed behind her. “Pants and panties to your ankles, over the table. Do it now,” I said and then recommenced my count. She barely made it, but by the time I hit zero, her pants and underwear were down, and she’d thrown herself over the sturdy wooden table.
God, what a vision she made. The black of her pants and the dimness of the room only seemed to contribute to making her ass shine in the lamplight, her muscles clenched tightly. Her hair had come loose from its bun, strands falling down her back. Stepping up to her, I wrapped an arm around her waist, tugging her back from where she’d been attempting to become one with the table.
“Spread your feet apart and lift your ass up. Tits to the table, arms in front of you, hands gripping the edge.”
“You don’t need to do this,” she said, her voice trembling. “This is just… I can’t believe you are doing this. I think you are taking the whole old-fashioned thing and teaching me a lesson a bit too far.”
“You’re wrong. This is exactly what I need to do. You haven’t been free from the basement for a single day and yet you are already disobeying the rules. We told you what we expect. You can’t say we didn’t warn you about what we expected.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she tried, and when I huffed, she shook her head. “Fine, yes I did break the rules, but you can’t blame me. I just wanted to go outside.”
“So instead of coming to us, suggesting we take a walk, you do what? Give a few big fake yawns, tell us how tired you are and that you’re going to bed. Instead of simply informing one of us you wanted some fresh air, you decided to lie and then almost break your neck climbing out your window?”
She stared at me in disbelief. Finally, with a sigh, she turned her head away, pressing her forehead against her hands, accepting the fact she and she alone had brought us out here.
“Hands gripping the far edge,” I reminded. “And keep them there. Believe me, you don’t want to discover what a strap across a palm feels like.”
At least she was smart. Once my mind was set on something, there was no changing it. Whether she could see it in my expression or chiseled into my jawline, she stopped pleading and trying to talk her way out of the inevitable. She reached her arms out, curling her fingers around the table’s edge. The distance required her to stretch, the position causing her bottom to lift.
“Keep your ass cheeks loose. I’m going to give you six strokes for your disobedience and then an extra. Can you tell me why you’
ve earned another?”
When she didn’t immediately answer, I snapped the strap against my thigh. She startled but answered. “Hell if I know!”
“You threw the strap at me. Say it. Repeat why you are getting an extra one.”
“I threw the strap at you.”
“Exactly. Respect comes in many forms, Monet, and throwing a tantrum will get you punished and throwing an implement—any implement—that I’ve instructed you to bring me will only have it used against your ass to reinforce the lesson. I’m not alone in this. My brothers and I have always demanded respect. And when we don’t get it, someone pays. And since we can’t kill you… or rather we won’t kill you—right now—we have to come up with creative ways to make sure you pay. Understand?”
She’d stiffened at the mention of killing, finally managing a nod, but I wasn’t having that.
“I can’t hear you.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Monet…”
“What do you want me to say?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at me with daggers in her eyes.
“I expect to hear ‘sir’.”
“What? Are you kidding me?”
I gave a look I had mastered. A look that told the man I was about to kill to fear me. A look that would have anyone cowering. Even a stubborn woman who didn’t know better or understand the true extent of how much she should fear me.
“Yes, sir,” she spat. I didn’t know what it was about addressing me respectfully that was so hard for her, but she’d answered. For now, that was enough.
“All right,” I said, stepping to the side. “Let each of these remind you that our rules are to be obeyed.”
Lecture over, I swung my arm back and brought the strap down against the very center of her ass. She screeched, releasing the table, standing, and dancing from foot to foot, her hands furiously rubbing her ass.
“Position,” I said.
“It fucking hurts!”
“Yes, and keep cussing and I’ll start over. Get up again, release the table, rub your ass, and I’ll start over.”
“You’re enjoying this!” she accused.
“I am,” I admitted, running the leather through my hand. “Now, back over and stick your ass out or—”
“You’ll start over,” she snarled, glaring at me but obeying, her knuckles whitening with her death-grip on the table edge. Poor thing, she’d learn that the more she relaxed, the more she submitted to the discipline, the less it would hurt. Until then, well, I had a lesson to teach.
Again and again, the strap rose and fell, each stroke cracking against her skin, each one a fraction of an inch below the previous one. She screeched and shimmied, her feet dancing, her head tossing back and forth, and yet she didn’t attempt to cover her ass or to stand up.
With her promised half-dozen delivered, I said, “For the extra stroke, I want you up on your tiptoes, ass pushed high.”
It took a moment, but she obeyed, the muscles in her thighs trembling, her no-longer-pale ass pointing directly to the ceiling. Six red lines decorated her flesh, but that wasn’t where I’d be placing the last. Reaching out, I ran my fingertip along the area where her ass merged with her thighs, the skin now stretched taut with her position. I could feel her quiver beneath my touch, could hear her gasp, but what had my gaze riveted to her form was the glistening I could see between her thighs. Drops of her arousal clung to the soft brown curls covering her mound. I had no doubt she’d felt the punishment. I’d heard her cries and pleas for me to stop, but while Monet’s mind was saying one thing, her body was definitely saying another.
Pressing my palm to the small of her back, I lifted my arm. The whoosh of the strap sounded a moment before the crack of leather against her sensitive sit spot split the air.
“Oh God!” she screamed, attempting to rise, but my hand kept her in place. Not because she had another stroke coming, but because the cry had been accompanied by another rush of moisture… moisture I wanted to explore.
“Relax, your strapping is done,” I said.
And that should have been it, would have been except something inside me refused to call the punishment done. Not when all I had to do was slide my finger down to have it drenched in her wetness, her groan one of pain and something else. She was soaking wet, my fingers slid with ease up and down the seam of her sex. I pushed a finger into her pussy only to have her muscles instantly tighten around the intruder, her moan one of raw need as I began to stroke in and out of her. God she was tight. Tight, hot, and soft as velvet.
My balls threatened to burst as I continued to explore the part of her that was made for the very cock throbbing behind the zipper of my jeans. Again and again, I slid first one and then two fingers in and out of her.
“Oh God, please… please,” she said, the words the same I’d heard just moments earlier and yet their meaning so very different. These weren’t pleas to stop… no, these were words begging for release. I slid my fingers out of her pussy to circle her clit, the button swollen and pulsing with every beat of her heart.
“Yes!” she screamed, her body arching at the contact.
“No,” I countered, giving the sensitive spot a single flick before sliding two fingers deep inside her again. My entire hand was soaked, making my thumb slick when I moved it into position, pressing at the pucker of her asshole.
“Girls who put themselves into danger, don’t get to come. Do you know what they get, Monet?”
“Please… oh, please, Derrick, let me come!” she begged, her ass pushing back as she attempted to grind herself against my hand.
“You’re not listening,” I said, bending over her body. Moving to speak close to her ear, I continued to both finger fuck her pussy and stroke the small indentation of her anus. “Girls who don’t obey, get reminded rules are put into place for a reason. And do you know how they are reminded, Monet?” Her sounds were primal, so fucking needy I had to fight for control, fight not to pull my cock out of my jeans and impale her. Instead, I continued the lesson. “They get their asses fucked.”
With the last word, my thumb breached her resistance, her shriek filled the air and, holy hell, despite my words, she came, her body convulsing, her sex contracting again and again around the fingers I continued to fuck her with.
Her back bowed, her head canted back, and her keen was unlike any sound I’d ever heard before. It was the last straw. There was not a man on God’s green earth who could have stopped.
Chapter Eleven
Derrick
“Reach back and pull your cheeks apart,” I demanded, pulling my thumb free as I unzipped my jeans, pulling my aching cock from its confinement.
“Wh… what?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Monet,” I said, fisting my cock at the base, forcing myself to back off. Not from fucking her… that was definitely going to happen, but I didn’t want to blow my load the moment I sunk into her ass.
“But… why?” she asked. There was no snark in her tone, simply a bit of confusion.
“You know why,” I said stepping closer, loving the way her glance dropped to my cock and the flush that instantly suffused her face. But what I especially loved was the flare of fear… the one mixed with need that filled her eyes. I reached out and stroked a finger down the seam of her ass, watching her body shudder and hearing the soft gasp she couldn’t contain.
“What did I tell you happened to girls who can’t obey the rules?”
“You… you wouldn’t,” she said, and I had to chuckle. She’d learn I most certainly would.
“Answer the question, or we can begin the lesson all over again.”
“No! Please don’t—” Her plea cut off when I reached for the strap I’d thrown onto the table. “They get fucked,” she practically shouted, her buttocks not softening from their tight clench until I pulled my hand back.
“Fucked where?” I asked, enjoying the battle of wills, knowing exactly who the victor was going to be.
“Oh God,” she said, and ye
t I could hear her surrender. Her eyes closed briefly but then opened, her gaze meeting mine. “In… in the ass.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Now, pull your cheeks apart and show me that tight little hole my cock is going to fuck.”
Her hands were shaking as she reached back, hovering for a moment as if contemplating refusing the order, yet after a moment, fingers slid into the crack of her ass, and she slowly dragged the hemispheres apart.
“Wider, much wider,” I reprimanded. “I want to see every little wrinkle of that puckered hole.”
The stripes across her ass were not the only red painting her body. Her face was scarlet as she obeyed. Her teeth had caught her bottom lip, soft mewls of distress escaping and yet doing nothing but making my cock twitch. Damn, she was fucking gorgeous in her forced surrender. Her hair was mussed, lying on her back or curling against the wood of the table. Her slim fingers gripped the plump flesh, the pale cleft of her ass untouched by the strap, and nestled in that valley lay my target. Her anus was pink, the rim wrinkled and the center so tightly clenched it looked like a little star.
“Ever had your ass fucked?” I asked.
“No.”
“Not even with a toy?”
“I-I don’t… no. I never—I’m not like that,” she said, her eyes closed again as if embarrassed to confess she didn’t play that way.
I moved behind her, pushing against her ankle with my foot, guiding her to widen her stance. Reaching forward, I ran my fingers along her sex. Despite her fear… or maybe not fear exactly, but trepidation, her pussy had not stopped leaking. She’d come, yes, but even that wouldn’t account for the copious amount of cream that instantly coated my fingers. Her breathing hitched as I ran my fingertip across her clitoris that was swelling, coming out of its hood, begging for attention.
“You might protest, Monet,” I said as I pushed two fingers deep inside her. I grinned and slid my fingers free, bending over her, hearing her cry of surprise when the move had my body pressing against her arms, her hands, her ass as I moved my hand to her face. “Open your eyes,” I ordered and when she did, I rubbed my slick fingers together, her arousal glistening down their length. “Your mind might say it’s wrong, dirty, taboo, but your body tells the truth. Your cunt is sopping wet.”
