Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
I felt like I might faint. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the edges of my vision darkening. I’d never been whipped before—spanked, yes, over Theodore’s knee during that mortifying photo session, but that had been different. His hand had been firm, but warm, human. This implement looked cold, impersonal, designed specifically to inflict pain.
“Bring me the martinet, Audrey,” Pierre repeated, his voice deceptively gentle now. “The longer you delay, the more severe your punishment will become.”
I shook my head wordlessly, still staring at the implement. My fingers twitched at my sides, but I couldn’t make them reach for the martinet. The leather strands seemed to shimmer in the apartment’s soft lighting, promising pain I wasn’t ready to accept.
“Very well,” Pierre sighed behind me. “Since you insist on disobedience, I’ll have to whip you harder and longer than I had initially planned. This is your choice, Audrey.”
I continued to stare at the martinet, unable to look away from it yet equally unable to touch it. My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged animal seeking escape.
“This resistance of yours,” Pierre continued, his voice taking on a lecturing tone, “it’s precisely what I want to address tonight. This is the essence of the New Modesty, what I wanted to teach you about yourself.”
I finally managed to tear my gaze away from the martinet to look over my shoulder at him. His expression was calm, almost tender, in spite of the threat of punishment in his words.
“You may not be a traditional midwestern farm girl—you came to Paris after all, and I can tell that you’re brilliant—but you still have the needs of an old-fashioned bride on her wedding night,” he explained. His hazel eyes seemed to see right through me, past my defenses to something I’d kept hidden even from myself.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered, though some deep, secret part of me feared that I did. I heard myself whimper as Pierre’s words penetrated the fog of fear surrounding me. Old-fashioned bride on her wedding night? The crude yet somehow romantic image made my stomach flutter. Even in my terror, I felt a rush of wetness between my legs.
“You need guidance, Audrey,” Pierre said softly. “Above all, you need guidance in learning to give pleasure to a man who has taken you in hand and wants to support you.”
His words resonated within me, stirring something primal and long-denied. My rational, feminist mind hated how he made me feel—exposed, vulnerable, seen. Yet another part of me, a part I’d spent years suppressing, thrilled to his assessment.
I realized with a shock that I was falling for him—not just physically responding to his dominance, but emotionally drawn to his confidence, his perceptiveness, his unwavering certainty. The thought terrified me even more than the martinet.
“You should go,” I said abruptly, turning to face him fully despite my near-nakedness. I crossed my arms over my chest, and I divided my attention between his too-handsome face and a scan of the floor to figure out where the dress had ended up. “You can take your money back if you want. Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow.”
Pierre’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened.
“That’s not how this works,” he said, his voice suddenly hard as steel. He stepped toward me with a fluid grace that reminded me of a predator closing in on its prey.
I froze, unable to move as he approached. My legs wouldn’t obey the frantic commands from my brain to run, to escape, to do anything but stand there trembling like a frightened doe.
Pierre grabbed my elbow with his left hand, his grip firm but not painful. With his right, he reached into the compartment and retrieved the martinet, the leather strands swinging ominously as he lifted it.
“No, please,” I whispered, but my protest was weak, my voice barely audible even to my own ears.
Without responding, Pierre marched me to the couch, his steps purposeful and unhurried. I stumbled alongside him, my bare feet unsteady on the deep carpet. When we reached the sofa, he bent me over its arm in one smooth motion, pressing me down until my breasts were flattened against the cool fabric, my bottom raised and vulnerable in the tiny white thong.
The first strike came without warning, the leather strands of the martinet landing across both cheeks of my backside with a sound like distant thunder. The pain followed a split second later—sharp, stinging, radiating outward from the point of impact. I gasped, my body jerking reflexively.
“One,” Pierre counted calmly, as if we were engaged in some ordinary, innocuous activity rather than this surreal punishment.
Before I could recover, the second stroke fell, slightly lower than the first. The leather strips connected with my sensitive skin, some of them curling around to flick against the tender flesh where thigh met buttock.