The Omega Within (Alpha's Woman Book 5) Page 7
"No, you didn't," he agreed, swinging his arm so that the heavy belt landed like a shot against her butt. "So you're going to be punished for getting up without my permission," he added, continuing to lay into her with an awful rhythm.
Each stroke landed across her cringing backside like a thick strip of fire, leaving a horrid sting in its wake that quickly became one of many, until they became an inferno. It was impossible to stand still, but all he'd said was that she had to keep her hands on the bed, which was hard enough. At least he didn't try to stop her feet from dancing in place every time that leather kissed her cheeks. Even if he'd told her to, she wasn't at all sure she could have obeyed him. It was hard enough not to reach back to protect herself.
"That was a very naughty thing to do. I expect you to obey me when I tell you to do something, little miss. Understand?"
Oh, God, he wanted her to respond to him in the middle of this?
"Y-yes, S-sir," she barely breathed through wrenching sobs.
"You damned well better, girl, or you'll find yourself getting the belt, just like this, every night before bed for a week."
That threat threw stark fear into her heart at the same time she was wailing and crying her eyes out. "Y-yes, S-sir!"
Ollyah had no idea how many strokes she got. She only knew that she desperately didn't want to sit down ever again. She'd just spend her life standing. That would be fine with her.
She tried to crawl onto his bed—on her side, of course. But he called to her, "Come over here now."
Olly turned and saw that the tub had been brought in and filled at some point during the time that he had decimated her bottom—which meant that the men who had done so had seen her being punished!
That sent her into another round of tears that didn't end until he lifted her bodily into the tub. As soon as her backside met that hot water, she jumped up further into his arms, which made him laugh.
"No, sit down in it."
She continued to cling to him, arms locked around his neck.
"Shall I send you to fetch the belt again?" he asked casually.
Lots of whimpering and sobbing and finally sitting down in the tub later, he took up one of the washcloths that was meant for him and began to bathe her. At first, it felt wonderful—enough so that she even managed to push aside, for the moment, how much her bum hurt overall, but even more so in this water.
But then he made her get on all fours. The water was at a level for him, not her, and it was nearly at her chin when she was like that, subtly accenting her vulnerability to him.
"Spread your legs."
She wanted to ask him to repeat that, as if she hadn't heard it—just for a small delay—but she didn't want to risk earning another punishment. So, she did.
"More."
A little more.
"Ollyah."
She rapidly made sure that the outside of each leg was tucked up against a wall of the tub.
"Don't make me tell you twice again, young lady," he growled, and this time there was no accompanying soothing purr to offset the warning tone.
His hand scrubbed and cleaned her from stem to stern, some places—the ones she least wanted him to—twice over.
But then he washed her hair and all was forgiven. She nearly fell asleep while he was massaging her scalp to work up the suds, even though her lower body—front and back—was throbbing in a way that took the high-level pain and the low-level pleasure together in a way that was pure hunger.
Finally, he allowed her to stand up, lifting her out to stand on a bath sheet he'd put on the floor and using another to dry her off.
"Sir?"
"Yes, little girl?"
That was one of the things she least liked him calling her, but she hadn't said so because she didn't figure it would change anything.
"Uh, shouldn't there be… I don't know… worse towels and stuff for me? These are your towels and washcloths and your shampoo and soap. I don't, I'm not—"
"Stop right there before you get yourself into trouble again, young lady." It was the first time she thought she'd heard him really angry with her as he tilted her chin up. "I think you were going to say something like you don't deserve to have things like that, hmm?"
She nodded as much as his fingers would allow.
"Well, you no longer have to worry about ideas like that, because I'm the one who decides what you deserve, and no one else—not even you." He pinched her chin a bit then let go and continued drying her, quickly and efficiently.
She was sensing a theme here.
"Yes, Sir," she replied, looking down at her feet, amazed when he dropped to his knees and took each of them in his hands to dry them while she leaned on his big shoulder for balance, setting each back down as if it was made of spun glass.
When she had done much the same for him, and he was in his robe—with his ever present hard on poking through it—the food arrived, and he had them arrange it on the table while she stood there, naked, trying not to cover herself because he had already made a rule that she wasn't allowed to do so.
She wondered if she was ever going to be allowed to wear some kind of clothing again, but then they would just get in the way of what they both wanted to do.
Speaking of which, as soon as the soldiers left, she reached out and wrapped her small hand around his cock, making him jump at her unexpected touch.
"No, Olly," he corrected, setting her eager hands away from him. "Food first."
She sighed in exasperation at that. She couldn't care less about food.
He sat down in his big captain's chair and patted his leg.
She knew what that meant, but that was not what she wanted—for more reasons than that she didn't really want to sit on her bottom at all.
Still, she made her way to him, and he filled his plate, taking a little from each of the foods that were offered. Then he proceeded to feed her from it, even dabbing her mouth when something was juicy.
It wasn't long before she said quietly, respectfully, "Please, Sir, I'm not hungry anymore."
Garron continued to offer her small bites of food. "I don't believe I asked you whether or not you were hungry. You're barely skin and bones, and you need to put on some weight if you're going to carry my child. Hell, if you're going to keep taking me for very long. I feel as if I could snap you in two, little miss. So, I want you to eat a bit more."
The fact that she never got sick when he fed her past the point where she told him that she was full was proof to him that she wasn't really. Why she insisted on proclaiming that she was, he didn't know, but it was something about her that he intended to find out.
Just as he was filled with an insatiable need for her, such that sitting at the table and feeding her was an exercise in pure self-control, so he was also filled with a need to know everything about her, but she was hardly forthcoming.
"All right," he said, "go do your evening business," before finishing off the rest of what was on his plate.
She had been appalled to find out that he expected her to do that in front of him. It was one of the few things about which she had protested after he had first begun to take her.
He could hear her tinkling into the chamber pot and looked over to wink at her. She blushed terribly brightly. Garron threw his napkin on the table, and as she finished cleaning herself up, he ran directly at her, throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her to his bed.
Chapter 6
Five days later, they—she, in particular—had very rarely made it off the bed.
For the most part, they lived in a haze of relentless sensuality. He was always touching her, and she was, shyly, slowly learning to reciprocate, with his encouragement.
"You can touch me any time you like," he'd whispered to her at one point, very early on during that largely mindless time. He'd caught the hand she had withdrawn when she'd seen that he was watching her, as if she expected that he was going to punish her for touching him. Then he kissed her palm
and put her hand on his chest.
She was still sweetly hesitant and rarely touched him, even though he very nearly came any time she did and never hid his delight at her touch.
Food was delivered regularly and set up on the table. Eventually—long after it had gone cold—he would feel the need to eat and get up to make them a plate. For almost a week, she hadn't eaten food that was presented to her in any way but from his hand.
And he wouldn't allow her to refuse it, either. His belt and the paddle both had her singing—and crying and begging—much more often than she would have preferred because, although she was almost always gripped with an almost embarrassing need to obey him, sometimes, especially in conjunction with food, she would try to defy him.
It only ever lasted until the end of whatever punishment he gave her, and she would end up eating the delicious food he had been offering her before, while sitting in his lap on a very hot, very sore bottom.
Garron was surprised by her attitude. In his experience, most strays, which she definitely was, tended to gorge themselves when given the opportunity, eating immediately and as much as possible for fear that it would disappear.
But not Olly. He could see that he was always going to need to be strict with her about that in particular, especially when she became pregnant.
Baths arrived the same way, although he was much more conscious of not allowing them to cool, especially since he was going to bathe her—or them together. Either way, he didn't want her catching a chill.
She was more—and less—of a challenge to him than she'd been after the first time he'd had her, especially when she first awoke and the need for him hadn't had a chance to overtake her yet. Her quick mind was at its sharpest point then, in the moments before it fell prey to the need to be bred. That was when she earned a punishment the most often.
Garron had had to make it a rule that she was not allowed to get off the bed in the morning—even to use the chamber pot—without asking him first, because he had caught her sneaking away from the bed one of the first mornings after he'd forced her into her first heat.
"Where do you think you're going, little one?" came the warning intonation from the bed as he sat up to give her that look she hated—the one that meant that within the next few minutes, she was going to find herself crying pitifully over his lap, or at the end of the bed, or over the saw horse, or any other place he decided to set fire to her backside.
Olly had thought he was asleep. She actually hadn't been trying to escape. She knew that way lay a not very pleasant death, even more so now that she had been forced into becoming what she'd been dreading and trying to avoid all her life.
But she wasn't much interested in telling him what she'd really been doing, either.
"Nothing."
"Come here."
She shuffled reluctantly back to him, and when she got close enough, he lifted her up and over his lap. From that humiliating position, he cautioned, "Answer me, Ollyah," his hand already covering a bottom that never seemed to be left alone long enough to actually cool off.
She sighed, almost exasperatedly, but not really. She didn't dare do that.
"I was wanting something to wear."
"Are you cold?" He frowned.
"No," she answered truthfully. And what she'd told him was the absolute truth. She did want something to wear. At this rate, she was going to forget what wearing clothes felt like.
"Then you don't need clothes. I like you naked. Then you can't hide how you're feeling from me."
He adored the fact that she leaked her fluids down her legs almost constantly now. She found it terribly embarrassing, but she guessed it went with the fact that she could barely stand not to have him inside her every single second. Her body craved him, and—if it wasn't first thing in the morning or just after a nap—her mind did, too.
And that was the worst part of it, as she'd known it would be. She felt like less of herself because she couldn't think about anything but coming on his cock.
"From now on, no getting off the bed without asking for permission."
He was so strict with her, making rules like that, that kept her close and utterly dependent on him. She hated it—except when she didn't, which was ninety-nine percent of the time now. The longer she was in heat, the less she was able to resist him.
And that was a particularly hard rule for her to follow, because she never wanted to wake him for any reason.
The first time she disobeyed him about that—which was the very next morning, he was surprised to realize—he told her to freeze right where she was. This time, she was by his books.
He got out of bed and came to her, holding her chin in his fingers and forcing her to look up at him. "Still looking for something to wear?"
She opened her mouth to reply, but he didn't wait for her answer. Instead, he bent her over the end of the table, quickly and efficiently lashing her wrists above her head, and got out the paddle.
And as he proceeded to crack it down on cheeks that were plumping out nicely, he asked calmly, "Did I give you a rule yesterday?"
Her "yes, Sir!" was loud, since it was, essentially, part and parcel of her cry of pain.
"And what was that rule?"
She hated it when he questioned her while he was disciplining her. She could barely breathe for screaming, and he wanted to hold a conversation with her.
"Don't get off the bed without asking."
The paddle rose and fell relentlessly.
"And what did you turn around and do again this morning?"
"Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!" she cried, forcing herself to say, "I got off the bed without asking!"
"What is it with you and staying put? What made you feel that you needed to get up?"
She took longer than usual to answer him because she had lost her breath. When she did, it was ragged and staggered, "B-because I w-wanted to look at y-your books," she lied.
He wondered if she could read but filed that away to ask her about later—afterward.
By the time he finished, her backside was red and mottled, and she was sobbing pitifully, but that wasn't why she was writhing up against the table.
"Someone is in need, hmm?" he asked, purling to her from deep in his chest.
Sometimes, it came out of him like that, without him even thinking.
She needed comforting—in regards to being punished fairly often, as well as the parts of their joining that were harder on her—and his voice was one of several ways for him to do that. It had the added bonus of making her even hornier. He didn't know why, but there were some things in life he wasn't willing to question. He was just going to enjoy the results.
That time, he didn't bother to loosen her but took her right there, pressing his front against the hot, freshly punished flesh of her backside as he pulled her legs rudely apart and sheathed himself within her all at once. One stroke, full bore, spreading and lifting her knees onto the table at the same time, since—because of their height difference—her feet were already dangling above the floor as she hung from his thick presence inside her.
He loved covering her with himself, loved how small and delicate she was beneath him. Sometimes he wondered how she could possibly take him, how she could stand his bone jarring thrusts, but she did, often begging for more, meeting his thrusts with her own small ones and opening herself to him even further than he had demanded.
This time, he reached up to the rope bonds that held her wrists above her head and broke them with an easy tug, instead using his hand to hold them—and her—down, growling when she whimpered as his big hand covered slender wrists that he could snap just as easily.
"No, Sir," she whispered plaintively.
"No?" he repeated back to her, reaching and finding how she was drenching him as he impaled her. "I think it's yes, Ollyah. I think it's always going to be yes to me, whether or not you want it to be."
She wasn't quite drugged enough with need, and when he lurched forward then pulled back to sink himself into her,
she screamed, but he took pity on her and purled as his slippery finger found that gem between swollen lips.
But now, unlike before, taking her had become easier because there were no tears. He knew he was hurting her, but there was just enough of a mix of bliss to counter the pain—just barely at the moment, he knew—and he delighted at taking her when she was somewhat clear headed enough to want to try to fight him.
Hell, he delighted in taking her anytime, anywhere.
"No," she whispered again as the last hurrah of her free will vanished, and he continued to work himself within her as his knot began to stretch her to obscene proportions.
She'd surrendered herself to him—to his desires and his intent—but he didn't need to crow about it.
Garron leaned down to whisper in her ear as her hands were suddenly free, "Put your hands on the table and don't move them."
There was no threat accompanying the order. He didn't need to do that, either. She knew that punishment would be swift and unforgiving if she disobeyed him. Leaving what the consequences might be to her imagination was a terrible mind fuck.
His spare hand curled around her throat, forcing her to press her backside back against him, opening herself even further and making her arch her back, presenting herself to him.
He didn't squeeze her throat at all, but he didn't move his hand to make any accommodations in regards to the jack hammering thrusts that forced her against it, sometimes causing her to choke a bit.
But he knew by the way she seeped out around him how much she liked that, and when her orgasm began seconds later, her muscles squeezed him so hard, he could see stars as his own climax began, and he groaned gutturally as he began to bathe her in his cum.
His fingers never left her, and he would have liked to have known how many times he made her come, but he was in too blissful a state himself to keep track, and so was she as she danced on his fingertips, rocketing from one helpless peak to the next the entire time, while he held her still so that he could drain himself into her.
The very next morning, though, he caught her doing the same thing.
This time, there were no questions asked. She didn't even know that he was awake until he lifted her into the air. Seconds later, he was giving her a severe dose of his belt. No lecture, no reminding her of her rule, nothing. Just punishment for wrongdoing, pure and simple.