Page 37 of Punishing Penelope

I feel her through the fabric, which is deliciously soaked, I rub along the shape of her labia, and judging from the shudder that runs through her, I find the exact spot that can give her all the pleasure.

If I want to.

“No,” she moans and bucks.“No.”

I press a little firmer, and with her whimpers and how much damper her panties get, that’s an ambiguous ‘no’ if I ever heard any.

But I won’t fuck her.

Standing, I move away. My heart hammers, and I don’t think I’ve been so close to tearing the clothes off anyone in my life.

“I’ll report your fucking ass,” she grits out between clenched teeth, her forehead pressed against the corner post. “Kidnapping, assault, sexual assault.”

I tut. “Good luck with that.” I have to force my feet to move, or I’ll stay and do a lot more than rub her clit through her panties. Before I slump on my couch, I set a timer for one hour. If I don’t, I’ll be back in my bedroom, by her side, in two minutes tops.

She doesn’t scream this time.

Penelope

The sound of the TV comes on as I stand with my forehead pressed to the cool hard wood, fighting the ache between my legs. My feet are spread so wide apart, it’s beyond indecent and incredibly uncomfortable. I won’t be able to hold this position for long. Yanking the wrist cuffs and looking at the top of the pole I’m tied to, I try to stand on my toes and raise my arms as far as they reach—t

o no avail.

I can’t get free.

Wriggling my wrists, I try to pull through the metal that circles them while I listen with bated breath to the noises from the other room, praying he won’t come back anytime soon.

Still feeling his fingers between my legs, as if he never left, I don’t know how many languages I curse him in while I spit on my wrists to make them slippery.

There is simply no way of getting out of these handcuffs. The ones used for erotic play, sure, easy-peasy. Real cuffs? No fucking way.

Exhausted, my skin becomes chafed while I get nothing out of it. My butt still stings, but the intense pain has dulled to a low furnace, which is no better because it makes me hot all over.

I’ve never minded getting some good warm-up spanks with the lovers and like to give as good as I take. I like to tease them with pain, too. Taking charge and edging the guy to the verge of coming, then denying them is hot as fuck.

Peter’s one-fucking-thousand rough slaps, now they were something else. Damn, that hurt. In the midst of the rumbling, tearing worry he’ll hurt me, that he’s become a crazy maniac I don’t know at all, I seethe and plot revenge, all including him tied up and humiliated instead of me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing, but I’ve given up trying to get free. I have tried to sit, but all that happens is that I end up like a tilted V, half-folded, and the strain on my wrists killing me.

I refuse to scream. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Finally, my thoughts circle around to what he’s demanding to get out of this. Give up my angle on crime journalism? I mean, I can still write about other things I’m passionate about. Like Giordanna, I’d just have to find another way through her story. The expenses of healthcare, maybe? How the insurance companies make an indecent amount of money on the backs of the little people.

Then again, how could I abandon her case? I’d be yet another someone who doesn't give her the justice she deserves. I think about the folder, hidden away, and think of the corrupted dicks who let that happen.

No. Whatever Peter thinks he’s doing, I won’t bend. I probably can’t accuse him of kidnapping or assault. The justice system in this town is not on my side. I’ve made sure of that.

Fuck.

Well… I can promise him and lie. Sooner or later, he’ll have to let me go. Preferably sooner. My arms ache, my legs shake, and I’m as exhausted as if I’ve run a marathon. Which I’ve done. It was exhausting.

I’ll soon cave and shout for the asshole to come back and get this over with because I can’t stand it anymore. When the TV goes quiet, I freeze, and my heart pounds harder. I’m not so sure I want him back quite yet. Some seventies rock music comes on, and after a few tunes, I recognize Carly Simon, You’re So Vain. I wonder if it’s a lame attempt at a message.

When I feel his presence behind me, sudden fear trickles through my chest to land heavily in my belly. The fear angers me, which is a good thing. I’ve always been fueled by anger. It’s my go-to emotion.

Fuck him. What am I afraid of? Physical pain? There’s no pain that can be worse than the soul-searing agony I’ve already gone through.

Bring it on, Peter Hale.

Just try me.