The Institute, Daddy Issues(94)

“Salt?” I asked un­cer­tainly. “Papa?”

The ex­pres­sion in his eyes was hard and cold and dead as he looked at me.

“Andi,” he said tone­lessly. “Lie across the arm of the couch and raise your skirt.”

I looked at the long black strap of leather hanging from his fist and sud­denly I was afraid.

“Please,” I whispered, look­ing up at him. “Please, can’t you just…just fuck me in­stead?”

“You know I can­not.” His eyes were still cold. “Now do as I tell you or I will have to force you into po­s­i­tion. I do not wish to do that.”

It came to me that he didn’t want to do any of this—that he was for­cing him­self to go to a place he’d never wanted to be in. I couldn’t help re­mem­ber­ing the scars on his broad back which had been made by his father’s belt. He had told me once, be­fore we fell down this rab­bit hole, that he would never beat me in the way he had been beaten. Yet, here we were and he was pre­par­ing to do ex­actly that.

I wanted to protest but I could feel the void open­ing up in­side me again—de­mand­ing to be filled. I had no choice.

Stiffly, I got off the floor and walked over to the broad leather arm of the oxblood sofa. Lift­ing my frilly, little girl skirts, I laid my­self across it, feel­ing the cool air cur­rents circ­ling in the room caress my bare ass.

“All right,” I said, my voice trem­bling only a little. “Give it to me, Salt. Give it to me hard.”

His face was a mask I couldn’t read as he stepped up to me and raised his arm. When the first blow fell and the leather snake kissed my ass with a sharp snap, I knew at once this was what I needed. That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt—it hurt like Hell—much worse than Salt’s hand had when he’d been spank­ing me over his knee. But it seemed to fill that aching void in­side me. At least, it star­ted to fill it. I could still feel the ef­fects of the Please in my sys­tem, for­cing me to beg for more.

“Again,” I whispered, grip­ping the cool, slip­pery leather with my nails. “Do it again, Salt. I need more.”

“As you wish.”

He lif­ted his arm again and again I felt the sharp snap of the belt against my na­ked back­side. I couldn’t repress a groan this time. God, it hurt. But I knew the sting­ing pain was all that was keep­ing me from go­ing crazy with lust or pos­sibly even dy­ing from the ef­fects of all the Please I’d in­ges­ted.

“An­other,” I said in a strained voice.

Salt com­plied. I couldn’t tell from his face how this was af­fect­ing him—his eyes were still cold and dead. I knew he didn’t want to hurt me and I was sorry I had to ask him to. But he was right—in the long run, this was bet­ter than fuck­ing me. At least, that was what I tried to tell my­self.

“More,” I begged breath­lessly and an­other blow fell, the black leather lick­ing around my na­ked, up­turned but­tocks, giv­ing me the harsh, angry kiss my body so des­per­ately needed.

The pain was in­tense, es­pe­cially when the belt fell on a spot it had touched be­fore. I could feel my skin get­ting hot and swollen with the re­peated lash­ing and I wondered if I was bleed­ing. It wouldn’t have sur­prised me if I was and yet I still needed more.

“Again.” I whispered, bit­ing my lip. “Please, Salt—again. And this time…don’t stop.”

He hit me again and then again and again. Over and over his arm rose and fell, not stop­ping between blows this time. I put my head down and bit my lip un­til I tasted blood, tak­ing what I needed from him even though it hurt both of us—him to give it and me to re­ceive it. The pain of the whip­ping seemed to grow un­til it filled my whole world and I couldn’t think any more. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do any­thing but just lie there and take it.

Little by little, the void the Please had opened in­side me was filled with sen­sa­tion. But filling it came with a price. I turned my face away so Salt couldn’t see me and stuffed a fist in my mouth, try­ing to muffle my cries of pain. Though I tried to hold still, I could feel my body try­ing to jerk away from the harsh blows as they fell. Some­how I forced my­self not to run—to stay and take the pun­ish­ment I had begged for. The pun­ish­ment I de­served.

“You’re the reason he left,” whispered my mother’s voice in my head. “It’s your fault your Daddy’s never com­ing home again. He got tired of tak­ing care of you. Tired of you need­ing all of his at­ten­tion. He’s never com­ing back and you’re the reason why.”