Page 17 of Hunter's Baby Girl

“Something to help you learn better,” he replied, then I felt it against my skin three more times in rapid succession.

“Ow!” I cried out. He laughed softly. This felt like some sort of strange nightmare. The sweet man I’d been spending my nights playing with was a stone-cold sadist.

Then he started striking me, again and again. Soon the pain was too much for me to bear anymore.

“Stop, please!” I begged, and I could feel tears spilling over onto my cheeks and dripping onto the table. He didn’t hear me, or didn’t listen. Either way, I felt more blows rained on me.

Then the thought hit me. “Latte!” I screamed. “Latte! Latte!”

Just like that, the blows stopped. My arms folded beneath me, and I rested my head on them, then sobbed. I hadn’t been spanked. I had been beaten. I had never been beaten before in my life.

“Hayley,” I heard from far away. I was too lost in pain and bewilderment to care. I felt his hand on my arm and shook him off. I didn’t want him to touch me.

“Hayley, I’m sorry.” He knelt down beside the table; he didn’t touch me this time, but just stayed there. All I could do was cry. The pain in my backside was terrible. It stung and throbbed horribly. More than that, though, was the memory of the fear I’d felt. He wanted to hurt me. Why had he wanted to hurt me?

Eventually, I noticed he placed a box of tissues beside me, and I reached for them without a word or look at him. I was angry and disgusted. Also, I was ashamed at how I’d let him make me feel. How had that happened?

After a long time, I calmed down. The pain hadn’t dulled in the least. I didn’t even want to reach a hand back to touch my sore skin. But I was getting over that first rush of emotion nonetheless.

“I’m sorry I made you use the safe word,” Hunter whispered. I had my forearms on the table with my hands clasped and had been looking down at them. When he first spoke, I looked up at him out of the corner of my eye. Just like I had seen that wicked gleam in his eye and heard the pleasure in his voice when he was tormenting me, I could see and hear real sorrow now. I knew he meant it. He was sorry.

“That was awful,” I whispered. “Just awful.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “What did I do to make you use the safe word?”

I couldn’t believe he needed to ask this question. What did he think? Were we even in the same room?

“You hurt me, very badly,” I managed to say before the tears welled up again. “And you scared me. What the hell did you even use on me?” I looked around the floor and saw what it was: the rod from the blinds, used to open and close them. Well, he was creative. I had to give him that.

“Where the hell did all of that come from? The force you used, the way you didn’t care if you’d hurt me?” I asked, once the tears had passed and I could trust myself to speak clearly. “Why did you do that?”

He sat back on his heels. I could tell he had no idea what to say. That didn’t bode well.

“You know what? It doesn’t even matter why you did it. You did it, and that’s all that matters. If you think I’m just going to let you hurt me and get off on my pain, you’re dead wrong.” I stood up, slowly. I winced more than once, but I refused his help. I needed to get some of my own back, I guess.

I braced myself, then pulled up my underwear and leggings. It hurt terribly, terribly. Even the faint pressure of the fabric against my skin was sharp and stinging. But I needed to feel some sort of dignity, and walking around with my pants around my knees wasn’t going to do it.

I finally looked him in the eye. I saw how contrite he was, but I remembered that even the worst abuser is contrite after the fact. Not that I felt I’d been abused, per se, but I no longer felt as though I could trust him to use his best judgment. That was for sure.

“I got into this to play with you,” I said. “And up until now, it’s been fun. But I’m not a masochist. I don’t like to be in that sort of pain, especially when the person who’s beating me is laughing about it. I’m not some animal to humiliate.”

“I didn’t mean to humiliate you,” he said, his voice quiet.

“Yes, you did,” I insisted. “You weren’t just playing at discipline. You wanted to hurt me. And fuck you if you think you can just do that to me. I think maybe you should leave and think about what the hell is broken in you if you need to hurt people.”

“Hayley . . .,” he said, his voice breaking. “I don’t know what to say to tell you how sorry I am. Please, believe me. I didn’t mean to upset you like that.”

“How could you think that I wouldn’t be upset? You beat me with the rod from the blinds!”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think about it. I was caught up in the moment. I’m sorry I hurt you. Please . . .” He reached out to touch me, and I flinched. He dropped his hand, and I sensed how distressed he was at my reaction. But I was glad he felt that way. I wanted to give back some of the hurt he gave me.

“Can I run you a bath or anything?” he asked. I thought about it for a moment. I could tell he wanted to make it up to me somehow. Maybe he hadn’t meant it after all.

“Yes, a bath would be good,” I told him. “But I’ll be taking it alone.” He nodded and went upstairs.

I was lost in my feelings. What did all of this mean? He’d been so good to me, so gentle and caring when it came to introducing me to this new world. Up to this point, except for the one conversation we’d had about how the pain in his life informed some of his behavior, he’d been perfect.

But there was that pain. And the pain he inflicted on others because of it. Before, he’d only pulled my hair and spanked a little more roughly than I would have liked. Now he’d nearly drawn blood he’d beaten me so hard. I should have used my safe word earlier, but I’d forgotten all about it. I hadn’t needed it before now, after all.