Silent Daughter 2: Bound (5 page)

“Why does it matter?” I retort.

She furls her eyebrows. "Oh, so now we're back to you not answering any of my questions, huh. No matter how mundane they are?"

There it is again, that attitude, way too sassy for my taste.

"Don't get cocky with me," I warn her.

"I'm sorry."

"You will be."

Her dark eyes flicker.

"You said you are going to train me," she says. "What exactly does that mean?"

I sigh while she looks at me expectantly. Instead of giving her a reply, I point at the glass of orange juice.

"Drink," I order. "You must be thirsty."

I know she is. All she has had since we got here was red wine in the evening. She needs to drink. I need her healthy and fit.

She shakes her head.

"Training," she repeats. "What does it mean?"

"Exactly this," I say, pointing at the glass of orange juice. "I tell you to do something and you comply, or else, there will be punishment. Drink. Now."

She furls her eyebrows, but does reach for the glass and takes a few big sips from it. I can tell how thirsty she is from the way she gulps down most of the juice within seconds.

"And?" she asks after she put the glass back down on the table. "Now what?"

"Tell me," I say. "Why did you tie yourself up? What was going through your head when you did it? And what did you do while you were tied up?"

She blushes and averts her eyes. Of course.

"Those marks were pretty visible," I continue. "You weren't easy on yourself, that's for sure."

"That is not the kind of conversation I want to have right now," she whispers without looking up at me. She picks up the fork and starts shoveling some egg and bacon into her mouth as if she were trying to prevent herself from speaking any further.

"Too bad," I say. "Because it's the kind of conversation I want to have right now."

She looks at me, chewing hastily.

It pleases me to see that the food is to her liking. I hate picky eaters, and I know there are plenty of them among the high society girls of her kind. But Liz has been savoring everything I have given her so far.

No appetite, my ass.  

"Why?" she wants to know eventually.

"You are asking a lot of ‘why’ questions."

She raises her eyebrows and pulls at her collar. "And that surprises you?"

I shake my head. “No, of course not.”

I place my elbows on the table and lean forward to her.

“I’d like to know you,” I say. “Every part of you, and especially the parts you have been hiding from everybody else.”

“Why do you think I’m hiding anything?” she asks, raising her chin defiantly.

“You are,” I state, fixating her with my eyes.

She doesn’t say anything but stuffs her mouth with the remaining toast.

“I want coffee,” she mutters with her mouth full.

I furl my eyebrows as she smirks at me.

“We can have that conversation,” she clarifies. “But I need my coffee in the morning.”

LIZ

“I am not your servant,” he says.

He looks angry. I know that I am walking on thin ice right now. He is in charge; he has the key to the door and the lock around my neck, and he decides how far I am allowed to move.

But that doesn't mean I can't use what little power I have due to his inexplicable obsession with me.

"I understand that," I whisper. "And I would get it myself, but you see..." I point at the collar around my neck. "I'm kind of indisposed here."

His narrows his dark eyes, slowly shaking his head.

"Are done with your breakfast?" he asks.

I nod. "Yes."

He raises his eyebrows.

"Yes, Master," I correct myself. "Thank you, Master."

I try my best to sound sincere. The food was delicious, and I was surprised to find myself eating as much as I did, but my desire to thank him is close to non-existent, considering the circumstances.

I wonder if he cooks it himself? Probably not. However, that would mean that there are other people in this house, at least from time to time, which would make screaming for help a useful option after all. 

He gets up from his chair makes a move to collect the tray.

"Did you cook it yourself?" I ask, causing him to stop mid-motion.

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter who cooks. I just want you to eat it."

Of course. Did I really expect him to give me a straightforward answer?

"I want you to take a shower and make yourself presentable while I am gone," he announces as he picks up the tray. "Do you understand?"

"For what?" I ask.

"For me."

"For you to do what?" I ask, mimicking his tone.

He furls his eyebrows.

I flinch when he lets the tray drop back onto the table with a loud bang. Before I get a chance to put up a fight, he has grabbed me by the arm and yanks me up from my chair, dragging me away from the table. I stumble behind him, naked and helpless, suppressing protest and moans of pain as his finger cuts deep into my flesh.

I try to resist when he bends me over the bed, pushing my upper body down on the mattress while my legs are pushed against the side of the bed, my feet barely supporting me while my knees are hanging above the ground.

He keeps one hand on my upper back to pin me down, making it impossible for me to push myself up. My face is pushed into the sheets, and I turn my head in an attempt to look back at him.

That is when the first slap hits me. Then another one. He is spanking me. Hard. I gasp in surprise, trying to process the pain while his hand keeps coming down on my behind in sharp, hot blows. The pain grows worse with each slap as my skin turns sore.

I bite my lip, squirming and turning beneath him as much as possible with the tight grip he has on me, but the slaps just keep coming.

As the fiery pain on my tortured skin turns into violent agony, I can no longer suppress my voice. Screams of torment accompany every new strike that comes and soon those screams are joined by tears.

"Stop!" I cry out. "Please, stop! Leonar
d
—
"

But instead of stopping, he grants me another round of fast, even more brutal slaps that cause me to howl like an abused animal.

How can this not hurt his hand? Each stroke causes an explosion of pain that steals my breath.

I am sick and dizzy by the time he stops, sobbing uncontrollably beneath him. I have never experienced this amount of pain, especially caused only by a hand.

Am I that weak? I told him I would stand whatever he is going to do to me, but if his hand hurts this much already, how on earth would I ever cope with anything else? Right now, I don't even want to imagine the agony he could inflict with a belt or a paddle if he chooses to do so.

His grip loosens, and I sink down as if I was melting under the pain until my knees reach the floor. I don't dare to sit down. My cheeks are on fire, crying in misery.

I keep my head low and cry into the sheets, ashamed and scared, while he just stands next to me, looking down on me as I try to regain composure.

I realize that I am hyperventilating. That is no way to calm down.

Breathe, breathe
, I keep telling myself. If I get my breathing under control, the sobbing will stop by itself.

I hold my breath for a moment and count to three before I take a deep and long breath, filling my lungs to the limit before I exhale equally slowly. My heart rate calms down instantly. It's all in the breath; I know that. I should have never hyperventilated the way I did.

Well, I will know better next time.

Still, I don't dare to look up at him. What a defeat. I never imagined myself to be this weak. I have inflicted pain on myself many times before but never like this.

I feel so naive, so fucking naive.

"I hope this will help you understand," he whispers. "I told you I will be patient, but my patience has a limit. I will no longer tolerate your excessive backtalk and annoying questions. When I tell you to do something, all I want to hear is 'Yes, Master' and see you fucking do it. Understand?"

I can feel his eyes on me, waiting for a response. I keep my head low, pressed against the sheets. My breathing has returned to normal, and there are no new tears soaking the sheets, but I still don't want to look up and see his condescending smile, the realization of his victory drawn across his face.

I open my mouth, but words fail to escape. Why can't I speak? I know I want to, but my voice seems to have disappeared.

He gives me a few more moments before he hooks a finger under the collar at my neck and pulls me up.

"Look at me," he orders.

I let my head fall back until our eyes meet.

He is not smiling. He doesn't look like he just achieved a victory of any kind. Instead, he looks concentrated and tense.

"Do you understand?" he repeats. The words are spoken slowly and with emphasize.

"Yes," I breathe with a hoarse voice. "Yes, Master."

"Now, what do I want you to do?" he asks.

I gulp, staring up at him through swollen eyes as I try not to sit down on my heels. I couldn't deal with the pain that would cause right now.

"Speak, Liz," he adds. "What do I want you to do?"

There is a faint pleading tone in his voice.

"You want me to take a shower and make myself... presentable," I utter.

"And will you do that for me now?" he asks.

I nod. "Yes, Master."

"Good girl."

He leans down and helps me to get back up on my feet. His touch is as gentle as his voice has become once the spanking was done and I agreed to follow his command.

I am shivering, still shaken from the beating. I notice now that I have been breaking a sweat, and my face is burning almost as bad as my ass. My steps are unsteady and shaky as if I was drunk. I'm not even sure if I could walk on my own if Leonard didn't support me.

What unsettles me the most is my desire to be hugged by him. I am seeking his comfort even though he is the one who did this to me.

He leads me to the bathroom and lets go of me as we stop in front of the beautiful shower.

"Take all the time you need," he says, his voice still as soft as it was before. "There's shampoo, shower gel and everything else you might need."

He gestures towards the vanity. "Also, makeup, if you wish to apply any."

I look up at him. "Do you want me to?"

My voice sounds so different. I almost don't recognize myself.

He smiles. "I like to see you confident in your own skin. Do whatever makes you feel pretty and good about yourself."

With that, he turns and disappears. I hear the door lock, and I’m left to myself.

Before I hop into the shower, I decide to check upon myself and turn around in front of the big mirror.

My butt is red, alright. It looks sore and beaten up, but by no means as bad as it felt.

I carefully touch myself, sensing the heat of my burning skin even before my fingertips come in contact with it.

It stings, and I am reminded of the spanking with every move.

I turn around and stare at my naked myself. My face looks terrible. Tired and distressed, my cheeks spotted with red spots. I haven't brushed my hair since I woke up, so it's no surprise that it is a mess of the first degree.

But I am smiling.

Why the hell am I smiling?

I didn't even notice it until I look myself in the eyes.

As soon as I notice it, the smile disappears.

"Sick," I hiss and turn around to take the shower I have been ordered to.

He told me to take my time, so I do. There is a wide range of extravagant shower gel, shampoo, and conditioner. There's also a razor, indicating that he wants me smooth and hairless like most men do.

Lucky for him, that is how I prefer it myself.

The hot water adds to the burning on my ass, but it is not as bad as I expected. It is a gentle reminder of something I am not sure how to feel about.

I take one of the longest showers I have ever taken and spoil my tortured skin with some body lotion that I find on the counter next to the shower. The smell is a fresh and unobtrusive lemon.

I inspect the makeup products in the vanity and decide to doll myself up a little. There is nothing else to do for me, anyway, and I like trying out new products. None of the brands he laid out for me are the ones I would usually choose.

They are a lot more expensive. Dior and Chanel. The kind of stuff my sisters use, but I have always been too stingy to buy them for myself. On some level, I always thought that I don't deserve them, and it would be a waste.

My cheeks are powdered and my lashes thick and black by the time I am done. I consider adding some lipstick, just because it's there but decide against it. My lips are naturally thick and rosy, and I hardly ever wear lipstick. Why start now?

I blow dry my hair, which takes quite a while due to its length. When I am done with it, I place myself in front of the mirror again to check whether my look can be considered presentable.

My hair falls with its usual natural waves, and I leave it like that because that's how I would usually wear it.

I step out of the bathroom in the bathrobe and realize that this is the first time that he left me alone without having me tied to the bed.

And I spent all of that time following his command instead of trying to find a way out of here!

"Idiot!" I hiss to myself and dart toward the windows. So far, the view I could catch from the bed has only given me a vague idea of where I could be, but the landscape did look familiar.

I yank at the handles, trying to open the windows, bu
t
—
not surprisingl
y
—
they are locked and cannot be opened without a key.

I press myself against the glass, looking left and right to see whether there is anything that could give me a hint about my location.

The house I am in seems to be a mansion similar to the one my family owns, and my prison is on the third floor. I can see the lake to my right and an empty street to the left. Nothing else. There are two other houses, but so far away that no one would see me waving from here, let alone hear my screams.

However, if I were able to control the lights at night, I could send them signals b
y
—

"No daydreaming," he interrupts my chain of thoughts.

I turn around instantly and find him standing eerily close to me. How did I not notice him enter the room? Or hear the door open and close?

He is carrying yet another tray, with two cups, a coffee pot and some milk and sugar.

"What did I tell you?" he asks. "How are you to greet me?"

I throw him an irritated look, but sink onto my knees, carefully placing my sore behind on my heels and my hands on my knees. Palms up, face down.