Free The Dollhouse by Stacia Stone Page B

stared at him, unable to move or speak. The dark expression in his face softened slightly until I could see something in it that was almost akin to tenderness.
    “Please, Dalea.”
    Julian took my hand in his much larger one and pulled me onto the raised platform. The movement was hard enough that I fell into him and his arms came around me automatically to keep me from falling, almost like an embrace.
    Too quickly, he released me. I stood alone next to the cross, slightly unsteady on the spiky heels.
    “Look at me,” he commanded. When I looked up at him, his dark green eyes were consuming and so deep it felt like I could fall into them. “Do you understand what is about to happen.”
    I mutely shook my head, barely able to think.
    “I am going to strap you to the St. Andrews Cross until your wrists are bound above your head and your ankles are spread.” His words burned through me, lighting a fiery trail of desire that settled at my core. I could see the reflection in his eyes was also aflame and I realized then how much he wanted to do this to me. “Then, I’m going to whip you.”
    I let out an involuntary gasp.
    “Do you agree to submit to this?”
    He was giving me an out, one last chance to walk away. Despite the uncertainty and the terror, I couldn’t walk away — not from him.
    “Yes, sir,” I said on a strongly expelled breath.
    “Face the cross.”
    When I turned, he positioned me so the wood pressed hard against my chest. Holes had been cut into the bottom and my feet slipped into them so my entire body met the cross in an unbroken line.
    “Lift your arms.”
    My arms were brought up one-by-one to match the angle of the upper planks. He wrapped the straps around each wrist, tight enough that I could feel the hard pressure on my skin but not quite enough to hurt.
    He repeated the procedure with my legs, spreading them far enough apart that my thighs burned. He paid careful attention to the straps, working two fingers in between my skin and the nylon, ensuring that none were tight enough to cause damage.

    O nce he ensured that I was secured to the cross, his hands moved up my hips, to my back and then around to the front until they rested on my belly. Then his fingers worked at the corset, undoing the hooks that held the thick fabric together. I felt a moment of relief as the constricting garment was loosened then a rush of cold air as it was removed.
    Prickles moved up my skin as it was exposed. I was thankful that I faced the cross which afforded me some small amount of modesty.
    Searching fingers dipped into the waistband of my panties but did not move to remove them. I felt the heat of his breath against my ear as he whispered into it.
    “We’ll leave these,” he said, loud enough for only me to hear. “Since it is your first time in public exhibition. But next time, I’ll take them as well.”
    I shuddered hard at the thought of next time , whether in fear or desire I couldn’t say.
    “Thank you, sir,” I said, speaking for the first time since he had brought me out into the hall. I had almost relaxed into the idea of it, my mind focusing only on the feel of his hands gliding over my skin.
    I felt him move away and my body tensed, but his face appeared in front of mine on the other side of the cross. We were so close that had I been able to lean forward even a scant distance, our lips would have touched.
    His hands moved into my hair, smoothing it up into a bun and securing it at the top of my head.
    “Are you ready to begin?”
    I nodded wordlessly, lost in the depth of his gaze. The room fell away, all of the people watching us and waiting, faded to the edges of my vision until they no longer existed.
    This time when he disappeared, I knew that it was time.
    I stared into the crowd. Most of them had gone silent. My vision blurred until their faces were indistinguishable from one another. I had moved past embarrassment to an emotion that I didn’t have a name for. I wanted the ground