Two big fingers pump within me. I feel as though my delicate flesh will tear. Tears prick in my eyes.
But my discomfort is nothing compared to that evoked when he speaks again. “What I’m actually doing is getting your little bottom hole ready for my cock.”
My mind screams, no! A queer, white-hot heat flushes through me. He’s mentioned the unthinkable. A place I swore I would never go.
He knows I’m not into that. He knows he’s not allowed in there.
At least, he wasn’t. Not when I was running the show.
The stretching muscles in my bottom tell me the rules are changing.
Why is my pussy getting so out of control? Clenching and gushing like she’s agreeing with him. Yes please, Big Carter! Take me up the ass with your massive cock!
Traitor.
I don’t have more time to dwell on my confusion because now, the fingers are slowly sliding out from me. My face burns blazing hot at the thought of where they’ve been. They’re gone and my asshole relaxes with relief. Though now, it feels curiously empty. My pussy twinges.
My mind is fucked.
I don’t have time to process my body’s reaction to what’s just happened to me because, suddenly, there’s a smooth, heavy weight resting over the center of the globes of my ass.
The paddle.
I gulp. My ass cheeks clench beneath it. Anticipating my desire to flee returning, his leg tightens around mine.
He says, “Me taking your ass, we’ll save for another day. Today, let’s focus on these gorgeous curves.” A chill runs down my spine as I try to gather my nerves. He says, “Ready?”
How can anyone be ready for being paddled for the first time? I take a deep breath, my expanded ribcage pressing against his thighs. I bite my lip. He’s freed my arm. My hand goes to my hair, tugging it. He taps the wood against my ass. He’s waiting for a response. I give him a tentative nod.
He demands, “Words, Sasha.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Better. Good girl.”
I hold my breath. I feel him raise the paddle above my ass. I clench. It comes down with a soft thwack. It’s a dull pain, pleasant almost. He’s going easy on me. I can breathe again.
His hand gently brushes over my ass. “You okay, baby?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He brings the paddle down again, a little harder. It stings. The burn after the sting is... nice. Warm. Then he starts talking and I realize, it’s not pain he want to inflict.
It’s shame.
He wants me to feel naughty. Punished. “You were a bad, bad girl. Being sassy. Using your little cunny to get your way. But those days are over. Aren’t they? I’m in charge now. And you’re going to find yourself over my lap. A lot.” The paddle comes down again, harder. It stings. “Let’s get your bottom nice and pink so all the Village can see it. And they’ll know Sasha isn’t in charge at One Nineteen anymore.”
The paddle comes down with a crack, right across the center of my ass.
“Yeow!” I cry out. I squirm. “Yes, sir.”
“Who’s in charge, baby girl?” The paddle comes down. Same spot. Now he wants me to feel the pain. I’m wincing.
My eyes shut tightly, trying to block out the spreading ache. “You are, sir.”
“Good girl.” Then the paddle’s coming down and I’m gasping. He waits before he lifts it again—letting the full brunt of the swat sink in. I want to rub my ass. My toes curl into the carpet. It comes down again and I cry out, I’m sorry, so sorry. It comes crashing down once more and just when I feel I can take no more, I feel him put the paddle down beside him on the bed. His hand is brushing over my stinging ass.
Relief washes over me. A smile almost crosses over my flushed face. It quickly disappears as he says, “Let’s get you in your window.”
My stomach is in knots.
I knew he wasn’t bluffing all along, but now that it’s really happening, my knees are so weak, I can barely get to my feet. “Are—are we sure about this,” I stammer.
He takes my hand. I’m standing here, bare-legged, my skirt hanging down in the front, covering me, but tucked up in the back, exposing my swollen ass. I let him guide me to the front of our bedroom. Where the big picture windows face the street.
We pause in front of the spotless glass. I see Fifth Street. I catch a glimpse of our reflection. My hair is tousled, my eyes wide, my face blushing. Behind me, his muscles are rippling. His jaw is set. His hands are heavy on my shoulders and he’s turning me.
I’m standing, my ass to the window. I have no idea who can see me. Or what they will say, who they will tell. I can only imagine there will be quite a few Bachmans chatting over dinner tonight. Did you see Sasha today? Naughty girl. Carter finally took her in hand and spanked that bottom. Did you see how red it was? She won’t be sitting down comfortably any time soon.
My face burns as hot as my paddled ass.
Carter is watching the whole thing. He stands before me, enjoying the look on my face. His arms cross over his chest as he admires me.
I shift my weight to my other foot. I clasp my hands in front of me. I give him a pout. It has no effect.
“Hands behind your head,” he says with a tilt of his chin.
His crossed arms push his biceps up, showing them off. Shirtless with jeans—my favorite look for my CrossFit man. The way he’s so sure of himself, so in control. And punishing me so sternly, and yet... so softly. My core is throbbing for him.
I have to have him. Now.
I’m risking my ass, but let me try one of my old tricks.
Judging by the size of the bulge I can see in his jeans, he might not be opposed.
I lock my eyes with his. Slowly I raise my arms, stretching them above my head, letting my shirt rise above my midriff, the thin material straining across my breasts. I tilt my head to the side, jutting out my chin. I part my lips, just a touch... run the tip of my tongue over my bottom lip.
Bingo.
Two seconds later, he’s grabbing my waist. I’m out of the window and being carried to the bed. His face is etched with a carnal desire that makes an almost fearful thrill run through me. He’s a beast.
He throws me onto the bed, flat on my back. Then he grabs my hips and flips me over, dragging me back toward the edge. I’m bent over the bed. Ass perched and exposed. Breasts, arms, face, all pressed into the covers. I arch my back and stick my ass up in the air.
I’m so ready for this.
I spread my legs. Parting my wet cunny. Giving him a show.
I hear him groan. Hear his jeans hit the floor. His fingertips are digging into my hips again. He pulls me toward him. Our hot flesh meets.
His hard cock brushes against the inside of my thigh as it makes its way to the entrance of my pussy. The head of his cock is against me. Pressing. Stretching. Burning. He thrusts inside of me. The full length, all at once. It fills me and I feel pain, but it’s a delicious pain that strikes me at my core.
My fingers clutch at the covers and I moan with delight. He pulls out and I whimper for more. His fingers bruise my flesh and he thrusts again.
It feels fucking amazing.
I’m going to come too soon; I’m so worked up from his control over me, his words, his paddle... his finger. Him putting me in the window for all the Village to see. I rise on tiptoe, push my upper body further into the mattress, and press my ass back toward him, taking in every inch of him.
His grip on my hips is too tight. He’s in complete control. He pushes me forward, away from him. Then he brings me back, slamming me into his cock.
I scream his name. My pussy is throbbing and clenching. I’m pressing my face into the covers.
I’m going to come. Bright lights flash behind my tightly closed lids. Heat washes over me. I start to sweat, pant. He fucks me again, even harder. The tension builds. The walls of my pussy contract. I’m impossibly tight and he’s too big. It’s too much. I cry out as within me I feel an explosive burst. I’m trembling. I
’m whimpering and weak.
He doesn’t stop.
My nipples are sore in the fabric of my bra, so tight from the orgasm. My pussy feels sore. My ass still throbbing. My bottom hole clenching at the memory of his earlier invasion. Sensation overwhelms me. I want to claw him off me, to make all the tension stop. I lay, submissive, crying out into the blankets.
And he’s just finding his rhythm. Back and forth. In and out. Harder than ever. It’s a punishing fuck, but a second wave begins to build in my core. Stronger than the first—stronger than anything I’ve felt. I’m whimpering, whining his name into my blanket.
He’s merciless.
I don’t think I can take it. I stretch up on tiptoe, I try to crawl away from him. He grabs my hips tighter. I’ll find bruises in the shapes of his fingertips tomorrow.
I want to cry. But there’s that wave again. Just building, building, building within me. I can’t breathe, can’t think. All I feel is his cock banging against my G-spot, pummeling it into ecstasy. My core tightens until I think I’ll implode.
My mind is panicked, electrified. He’s completely dominating me, going outside my comfort zone, and I’ve never felt an orgasm building like it is now.
Everything within me is wound as tightly as it will go. I feel the building climax through my breasts, my core, down in the bottom of my knotted stomach. He gives one final thrust. I begin to come in a burst of hot, white light. My eyes shoot open, my mouth hangs down, a soundless scream leaves me as I shudder repeatedly. I feel his cock pulsing, releasing his hot seed inside of me. It spills out, running down the inside of my thighs as I release the last remaining ounce of tension in my muscles. I lie trembling on the bed.
He falls beside me, giving my ass a slap.
I don’t even flinch. I’m spent.
I’ve never been this done in before.
His lips find mine. He kisses me and I kiss him back. I’m hungering for his love.
Tonight, he’s tapped into something deep within me. I’ve given myself to him fully for what feels like the first time. Now I feel as though I understand the beauty of submission.
I curl up against his chest and fall asleep to the sound of his soft murmurs; telling me how much he loves me, how beautiful I am. Calling me his baby, his baby girl.
I’m finally, truly home.
Chapter Five
Carter
Bronson Bachman is the youngest head of family the Bachmans have ever known. He’s just that kind of guy. Probably came out of the womb, raising his dark brow and making the nurses hop-to. It runs in his blood—he’s a bloodline Bachman, descended from the first family.
In the eighteen hundreds, they formed an organized crime ring. Robbing the rich to feed the poor. Making a point to only take back what was already stolen. The core group grew, accepting hungry new recruits. As the brotherhood expanded, so did the secrecy, and the vigor of the requirements to join.
A grueling process.
Only the best of the best, toughest, and smartest make it through.
Our cunning minds and sharp wits make us excellent businessmen. That brings in the big bucks, and is what we used to initially purchase the land we built our Village in. We own all the buildings and businesses that surround the Village.
Basically, in land alone, we’re billionaires.
The buildings are windowless in the back, where they face the Village. Consumers have no idea what’s hiding in plain sight behind our shops. Each business has a secret exit in the back of a closet, or dark hallway, on the first floor that leads to a big black gate. You can drive right up to a gate and exit onto the New York City street. A passerby will think nothing of it—they and their families have been walking by our black gates for centuries. It’s just a part of the neighborhood’s charm. That gate leads to a second big black gate. Get past that one, and you’re in the Village.
Seven streets. Lines of tall rowhomes. One main park in the center.
The homes were built in the early nineteenth century, after the shops and adjacent land had all been acquired. They are sturdy. Built to last. There are seven streets in our Village. Pristine, three-story rowhomes line each of them. Perfectly manicured lawns reach spotless sidewalks. Brick stairs lead up to concrete stoops. The front of each house is painted and decorated to match the owner’s taste.
Inside our homes, the décor varies drastically, but the footprints are the same. You enter into a foyer, to your right is the kitchen, to your left, laundry. On the second floor, to the right is the living room, with a beautiful white marble fireplace. To the left, a large office. The entire third floor is a master bedroom.
There are windows in all of the rooms. They face the back garden as well as the street. We may be a secret to the world, but amongst ourselves there are no secrets.
There are no children in the Village. Our lives here are not conducive to them. If a Bachman couple were to decide to procreate, they would do so in the Hamlet, our family’s remote Village in Connecticut. It’s made of over three hundred acres of fenced-in property, with our own private school and post office.
Once you become a parent, though you are still held to the rules and creed of the Bachmans, you are released from all illegal activity. You move off to our own type of suburbia, to live with the others. You’re given a completely legit and legal job, while still working for and benefiting from the protection of the family. And access to more money than you could ever spend.
Bachmans do love children, though many of us remain childless, having seen too much of the cruel world to want to bring children into it. There’s a few of us though, we still hold out hope that the world is good.
All of us have chosen this life.
Bronson is the head. Below him are his top two men—Brett first, then John.
John is my older brother by blood, the one who brought me into our world. He swims with the political fish of the city, protecting our secrecy and our rights. Brett is his mentor.
John is married to Mary, the woman who bakes all the cakes for their bakery. She’s fantastic. She’s kind and she’s warm and she’s the unofficial head of the Bachman women. She especially has a soft spot for Sasha—probably because Mary used to raise some hell in the early days of her own marriage.
I remember when I first joined, John running his hands through his hair in frustration and telling me, “Mary is just a little spitfire.” He had words with some of the more experienced men in our family and became much stricter. It worked for them and Mary is the happiest woman I know.
Seems I’m following in my older brother’s footsteps in every aspect of life.
Brett is married to Tess. She’s a spitfire and spends many a day over Brett’s knee. He is quite a bit older than her, and we think she likes it that way. Tess is a math whiz with a brilliant mind. She’s the head of our accounting. And she’s damn good at her job. The only numbers she can’t seem to manage are her spending on Brett’s credit card.
Brett also has a younger brother by blood that he’s brought into the family. His name is Rockland. He’s a good ten years younger than Brett and he’s single. He stays busy learning the ways of the government from Brett and John. He’s not looking to date anytime soon. He’s too wrapped up in protecting our asses through international politics. Currently, he’s based out of Greece. And he’s lethal.
We are the only two sets of brothers that share DNA. But all Bachmans are brothers. And we are closer than most families. Especially since we’ve pledged to lay down our lives for one another.
On the tower of power, as I call it, there are three of us on the second tier. Rockland outranks us, but his work lays outside the Village. Next comes Joshua, then me.
Outside of our family, people see me as a meathead—they see my biceps, find out I own a gym, and assume I’m practically brain-dead. I’m perfectly fine with that. It helps me keep my cover.
I graduated top in my class at Villanova.
My legit business is owning Barbells. It’s quite profitable. On
the family side of things, I help Joshua run all the tech for the Village. Not even the Bachmans know this, save for Bronson, Brett, and my brother John. We Bachmans like to think ahead. If we were to be infiltrated, Joshua would be named as our tech whiz. I, the dumb blond, would continue to run things behind the scene.
This is what we’ve agreed to.
As far as my part in our Robin Hood-like scheme, I wear a few hats, help out where I can. I dabble in politics; right now I’m running the identity theft portion of the business.
How many people have had their credit card numbers stolen? Thousands of dollars racked up in their name, using their social security number to open new fake accounts. That’s not all it costs them. Hundreds of hours of priceless time. The victims end up spending countless hours trying to prove that the purchases weren’t made by them. Sometimes years.
Yeah, we’re giving the real bad guys a little payback. We find them, flip the script, and make our own purchases in their names. Bronson’s new girlfriend, Paige, has been helping us, too. As a medical assistant working in a nursing home, she’s got an extensive list of elderly patients who’ve had their identities stolen and were left deep in debt. They’re now finding themselves to be debt free and able to afford all the medications they’ve been needing but haven’t had to cash to shell out for.
Courtesy of the Bachmans.
It feels good to help out.
My blood runs Bachman.
But I’ll never get used to stealing.
Sure, we rob from the rich to feed the poor. Ethically, we’re the good guys.
But legally, we’re criminals.
I believe in what I do. And—I doubt there will be a day my hands don’t shake when I make a transaction.
Maybe it’s because of that one time, when I was a child. My older brother, John, caught me stealing. I was just being a stupid kid—trying to take an ice cream I couldn’t pay for—but he’d scared me straight that day.
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