Page 109 of A Foster Fling

My thumping heart suddenly seized in my chest. “Why? So I can get ready for graduation?” I whispered. “Please?”

Raul lurched forward and grabbed me by the throat. He brought my trembling face to his and snarled, “That man will never have you. You. Are.Mine.I’ll destroy any motherfucker who puts his hands on you.”

His deep growly tenor went straight to my labia setting it ablaze. I swallowed hard, my throat tightening under his grip as I did.

Dios mio! Was he talking about Antoñio?

“I don’t understand,” I gasped.

“Did you not just sit on another man’s lap?”

“Like I had a choice!” I wheezed. “I didn’t! I’m sorry!”

Raul squeezed harder. “You know you are not supposed to come to the office without notice!” He propelled me back and threw me down on the bed. “You know the rules, Salma. You just choose to ignore them.” He removed his belt, took off his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. “Not anymore.”

“What are you doing?” I cried, scrambling back until my back hit the headboard. “Please, Raul!”

“Remove your clothes, Salma. I won’t say it a third time.”

I shook my head, dislodging tears even as my pussy tingled in some twisted form of arousal and expectation, as if to prepare me for the assault I knew was coming this time. My broken mind was apparently confusing this moment with many mastabatory fantasies I’d had in the past, back when I was safe in bed and my imagination, before he had taken my body in pain and violence in reality.

“Please, Raul,” I said softly as I watched him fold the leather belt in his palm. “I still hurt from yesterday.”

“It’s alright,mi princesa.You have two other holes.”

My mouth dropped open, and I promptly shut it as the implications of his words took room in my mind. “Do I really have to take off my clothes?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The threat of what he’d do if he had to remove them himself was clear in his glare. The look in his eyes told me he was barely reining in his temper.

Biting back a sob, I tried to unbutton my shirt, but my trembling fingers made the task impossible. Giving up, I just pulled it over my head and tossed it aside. And with a small cry of protest, I kicked off my custom made Louboutin Mary Janes then dragged off my skirt. I knelt on top of my silk bedspread in my bra, panties, and knee socks.

Raul’s eyes focused on my breasts, causing my nipples to perk up at his attention. I folded my arms across my chest.

“You don’t get to break my rules,princesa,and not face the consequences.”

He suddenly shot upright on the bed, wrapped a powerful hand around my nape, dragged me to the edge, and forced me to bend. Behind me, he held my face pressed to the mattress with one hand, and with his other, he took the belt to my ass.

He swung his weapon without mercy, raining his discipline upon my rear with quick, hard swats that burned and stung and ached, echoing throughout the room with rhythmic whaps. I swallowed my screams, letting only quiet grunts and muted whimpers escape as I kept my face buried in the covers that I’d fisted beneath my palms. The panties offered little protection from his strapping.

I’d never been treated this way. If I yelled, would our father come? Would he rescue me? My instincts told me he wouldn’t. In fact, even if he did, he would blame me. Raul could do no wrong in his eyes. My father would insist I deserved the punishment if my brother felt the need to dole it out.

I’m not sure how many hits with the belt I got before Raul released me. I didn’t move other than to smother my distress behind my palm and wept pitifully. My brother sat beside me. I flinched when he rubbed my heated skin with his palm.

“Please, don’t.” I even petitioned that arrogant asshole side of him. “Please, don’t, sir.”

He tapped his foot, then stood. He went to my bathroom and returned with some aloe vera. I didn’t protest when he carefully pulled my panties down and began applying the gel to the welts on my ass and thighs.

I closed my eyes and rested, lulled by the soothing of his ministrations. When my sobs had quieted to hiccups, he spoke.

“Are you wet for me?”

“What?” I whispered. “No.”

He tsked. “I will not tolerate your lies.”

Before I could argue back, his finger slid up my seam. I squeaked, nearly launching myself off the bed in alarm. A hand tangled in my hair to lift my head. He then placed the finger he used to swipe my pussy in front of my face as proof of his claim. It hovered there, wet and shiny, condemning me as a liar.

“Open,” he demanded.