She looked up at Xavier, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, and found him already watching her. His hand was resting on the riding crop, which lay across his lap now, and his expression was one of mild, almost amused disapproval. He had seen her. Of course he had seen her. He had been watching the entire time, waiting for her to slip up, waiting for an excuse to use the riding crop.
"Mm-mm-mm," he said, the sound a low, condescending sound, like a teacher scolding a disobedient child. "Listen, Naomi."
That was it. Two words. No shouting, no threats, no elaborate punishment. Just those two words, delivered in that soft, mocking tone, and then he turned back to his laptop, his fingers resuming their typing as if nothing had happened.
Naomi knelt back up, her spine straightening, her shoulders pulling back, her body snapping back into the rigid posture he demanded. The stinging pain in her breast throbbed in time with her heartbeat, a fresh reminder of the consequences of disobedience. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
She fixed her gaze back on that point on the wall, her jaw clenched, her body trembling with the effort of holding the position, and she waited. Waited for the next minute, the next hour, however long he decided to keep her there. Because she had no choice. Because she was his to position and display and punish, and the riding crop on his lap was a promise that he would do exactly that.
The minutes stretched on, each one an eternity of agony. Naomi's knees were on fire, the hard, unyielding floor grinding against bones that were already tender. The pain had graduated from a dull ache to a sharp, constant throbbing that pulsed with every heartbeat, a relentless reminder of her position, her punishment, her submission.
Her back was screaming. The muscles along her spine were locked in a rigid, unnatural position, forced to hold the weight of her upper body without the support of her legs. Every second that passed, the burning intensified, spreading across her shoulders and down into her arms, which hung limply at her sides, trembling with the effort of not moving.
She tried. God, she tried so hard. She focused on that spot on the wall above his head, a tiny imperfection in the paint that became her anchor, her lifeline in a sea of pain. She counted her breaths, in and out, in and out, trying to distract herself from the agony that was consuming her body. She clenched her jaw, bit her tongue, dug her fingernails into her palms, anything, anything to keep herself upright, to maintain the position he had demanded.
But her body was betraying her. The muscles in her thighs were twitching now, small, involuntary spasms that she couldn't control. Her knees were starting to buckle, the pressure of holding her weight becoming too much for the bruised and battered joints. She could feel herself sinking, millimetre by millimetre, her body's desperate need for relief overriding her mind's desperate need to obey.
She didn't even realise she was doing it. That was the worst part. There was no conscious decision, no moment of rebellion, no thought of defiance. Her body simply moved on its own, seeking relief from the unbearable pain, shifting her weight backward, letting her bottom settle onto her heels. It was a tiny movement, barely perceptible, but it released the pressure on her knees and sent a wave of blessed relief through her legs.
And then she heard it. Crack. The riding crop connected with her left breast, the flat tip striking with the same precise, brutal accuracy as before. The pain was immediate and blinding, a line of fire that erupted across the swollen, bruised flesh.
She gasped, a sharp, choked sound that was half sob, half scream, her hands flying to her chest instinctively, cradling both breasts now, the right one still throbbing from the first strike, the left one screaming with fresh, new agony.
The thin fabric of the yellow sundress was no protection at all. If anything, it made it worse, the crop catching on the material and dragging across her sensitive skin before lifting away, leaving a streak of burning pain in its wake. She could feel the heat radiating from the impact point, a dull, throbbing ache that was already beginning to bloom into what would surely become another bruise to add to her collection.
She sat up again. The movement was automatic, driven by pure, animal terror, her spine snapping back into its rigid position, her weight lifting off her feet, her body returning to the painful, upright stance he had demanded. It hurt. Everything hurt. Her knees, her back, her shoulders, and now her chest, both breasts throbbing with a matching rhythm of pain that made her want to curl into a ball and cry.
But she couldn't curl into a ball. She couldn't cry. She couldn't do anything except kneel there and take it.
A loud whimper escaped her lips, the sound torn from her throat before she could stop it. It was a pitiful, broken noise, the sound of a girl who had reached her limit, who couldn't take any more, who was drowning in a sea of pain with no lifeline in sight. It echoed in the silent office, a testament to her suffering, a desperate plea for mercy that she knew would not come.
She forced herself to maintain the position, her spine straight, her shoulders back, her head up, even though every fibre of her being was screaming at her to stop, to rest, to give up.
Her body was trembling again, but this time it wasn't just from exhaustion; it was from the pain, the fresh, burning pain in her chest that added to the grinding agony in her knees and the screaming ache in her back.
She stared at the wall above his head, her vision blurring with tears she refused to let fall, and she knelt there, a perfect, obedient statue of suffering, waiting for the next blow that she knew would come if she slipped up again.
Ten minutes. That was all she could manage.
Her body had reached its absolute limit, a wall of exhaustion and pain that no amount of willpower could push past. The trembling had become a constant, violent shaking that she couldn't control, her muscles spasming and twitching in a desperate bid for relief.
Her knees were screaming, the pain no longer a localized ache but a full-body agony that consumed everything, making it impossible to think, impossible to focus on anything except the need to stop, to rest, to give in.
She slouched again. This time it wasn't slow or gradual, not a careful, calculated shift to ease the pressure. It was a sudden, involuntary collapse, her body simply giving up, her spine curving forward, her weight dropping onto her feet in a fast, graceless movement that was more surrender than defiance.
The riding crop struck before she could even process what had happened. It connected with her right breast again, the same spot he had hit before, the bruised flesh screaming in protest as the fresh pain exploded across her chest. She cried out, a sharp, ragged sound that bounced off the walls of the office.
She tried to sit up. She tried so hard. Her brain screamed at her body to move, to straighten, to obey, but her muscles wouldn't listen. They were locked in their position of collapse, exhausted beyond anything she had ever experienced, refuse to cooperate. It was like trying to lift a car with her bare hands; the command was there, but the strength was gone.
He hit her again. This time it was her left breast, the crop striking with the same brutal precision, the pain doubling, tripling, becoming a wall of fire across her chest that made her vision swim. She gasped, her head dropping forward, her body curling inward instinctively, trying to protect itself from the assault.
Then her stomach. The crop connected with the soft flesh just below her ribs, a sharp, stinging blow that knocked the air from her lungs and made her double over, a choked sob escaping her lips. The pain was different here, a deep ache that made her feel sick, her stomach churning with nausea.
And then her back. The crop struck across her shoulder blades, a sharp, stinging crack that was clearly meant to push her upright, to force her spine back into the rigid position he demanded. It worked, sort of. Her body jerked backward, her spine straightening slightly, but it wasn't enough, not the perfect posture he required, just a panicked, jerky movement born of pain and fear.
He hit her again. And again. Her breasts, her stomach, her back, a relentless barrage of strikes that drove her body one way and then another, pushing, pulling, trying to force her into the position he wanted.
But no matter how hard Naomi tried, she couldn't make her body obey. Her muscles were done, completely and utterly exhausted, and every time she managed to straighten for a second, she would collapse again, her body betraying her, refusing to hold the pose.
She was whimpering now, a continuous, pitiful sound that she couldn't stop. Tears streamed down her face, hot and salty, dripping onto the yellow fabric of her sundress, staining it with her shame and pain. She was trembling so badly her teeth were chattering, her entire body shaking like a leaf in a storm.
And then, suddenly, he stopped.
The absence of pain was almost as shocking as its presence. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by her ragged, sobbing breaths and the soft click of the riding crop being placed on the edge of the desk beside her. She flinched at the sound, her body instinctively trying to pull away, but there was nowhere to go.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Naomi," he said, his voice a low, disappointed murmur that was somehow worse than any shout. "Can't even follow simple instructions."
She heard him stand up, the scrape of his chair against the floor, the soft rustle of fabric as he moved. She couldn't look at him, couldn't lift her head, couldn't do anything except kneel there and shake and cry, a broken, pathetic mess at his feet.
He removed his suit jacket, the sound of it being taken off and placed on the chair a familiar, terrifying ritual. Then came the soft click of buttons being undone, his shirt cuffs being unfastened, the fabric of his sleeves being rolled up his forearms. It was the sound of a man preparing for work, for a task that required his full attention and the freedom of movement.
He walked towards her, his footsteps slow and deliberate, each one sending a fresh wave of terror through her already traumatized body. She could feel him approaching, feel the heat of his presence, feel the weight of his gaze on her trembling form.
She looked up at him through tear-blurred eyes, her face a mask of fear and pain and desperation. He stood before her, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, the muscles in his arms tense and ready, his expression one of cold, calculated disappointment.
He looked down at her like she was a faulty product, a defective item that had failed to meet his expectations and now needed to be fixed or discarded.
The riding crop lay on the desk beside her, within his reach but momentarily abandoned. She didn't know if that was a mercy or a prelude to something worse. She didn't know anything anymore, except that she was trapped, and broken, and completely at his mercy.
His hand shot out, his fingers tangling violently in her hair at the roots. He yanked backward, a sharp, brutal motion that forced her spine straight in a painful mimicry of the posture she had failed to hold.
A loud gasp tore from her throat, raw and startled, as the pain exploded in her scalp. Instinctively, her hands flew out to brace herself, her palms slapping hard against the solid muscle of his thigh to keep from falling over completely.
The momentum drove her face forward, slamming her cheek directly against the front of his trousers. Through the expensive cloth, she felt it—the hard, unmistakable ridge of his dick, straining against the fabric, hot and rigid against her skin.
Naomi's eyes widened in pure, unadulterated horror as the realisation of what was about to happen crashed over her. The heat of his erection seared through the thin layer of clothing, a terrifying promise of what was to come.