“You like this,” he observes. “You’re defying me on purpose because you want me to hit you.”
I don’t answer.
He grabs my jaw. Forces me to look at him.
“Say it. Tell me you like it when I slap you.”
“No.”
Slap.
My head rocks back. I’m crying now – real tears, real pain – but I’m also dripping. I can feel it running down my thighs.
“Tell me.”
“I...” The words stick in my throat. “I like it.”
“Like what?”
“I like it when you slap me.”
“Good girl.” He releases my jaw. “Now we’re going to try again. Twenty seconds this time. And if you don’t c*m – if you fail me again – I’m going to slap you until you do. Understand?”
I nod frantically.
“Say it.”
“I understand.”
“Begin.”
My fingers fly to my c**t.
The fear of the slaps, the sting still burning my cheek, the humiliation of admi
