"What a pretty blush."
“What a pretty blush,” Petyr says mildly, circling her slowly.
The flush of color has spread from her face to the rest of her body, coloring her chest, and she’s sure, her back. She curses her fair coloring, curses her inability to control herself the way he can.
Dinner had been a horrid affair. Even after changing the throb between her legs had not abated, and she spent most of the meal squirming to alleviate some of that pressure, She squirmed too, thinking of the way Petyr’s eyes had narrowed with the promise of her continued punishment.
Lord Royce had not noticed her discomfort, and if Myranda did, she gave no outward sign of it. Dinner had carried on as normal, longer than normal even, to the point where she suspected that Petyr had prolonged it on purpose.
He hadn’t even sent for her until long after the hour of the wolf, long after she ought to have been sleeping. How could he know that she would stay awake, waiting for him? How could he know that he had trained her so well?
He summons her to his chambers and tells her to undress. “All the way, sweetling,” when she’d stopped at her small clothes, and he circles her naked form the way Lady had circled her prey.
She shivers.
“Were you cold when you exposed yourself to Ser Harry?” Petyr asks, and she closes her eyes, and curses herself for being so stupid. If she’d just said no…
“I asked you a question, Alayne,” he says, and without warning brings the flat of his palm down on her left arse cheek. It stings, and she cries out, a startled shriek that echoes off the stone floor.
Petyr chuckles.
“That shriek isn’t an answer, Alayne,” he says, and brings his hand down again, this time on the right, and she has to bite her lip from crying out.
“N-no,” she stammers out.
“Were you excited at the thought of him warming your skin in his hands?”
His hand comes down again on the left, then quickly again on the right, the skin stinging and burning.
“No,” she affirms again. “I said he couldn’t touch.”
His hand comes down again, right and left, left and right, in quick succession.
“How might you have stopped him, sweetling, had he reached out those rough hands and grabbed your teats?”
He steps up behind her and cups her breasts in his palms, pinching her nipples again. She struggles not to arch into his touch, to prove him wrong, to prove that she could pull away if Harry had dared touch her.
He pinches her hard then, both nipples at once, and she shrieks again, body involuntarily jerking forward, and Petyr tsks in her ear.
“You wanted him to touch,” he sing-songs, and spins her around suddenly, moves her so that she is bent over his desk.
His palm falls faster now, harder than ever, falling on the tops of her arse cheeks, the tops of her thighs, dead center, where she feels it on her cunt. There is wetness dripping down her thighs, and she knows it isn’t blood.
Shame flares in her, about Harry, about being bent over the desk, about the wetness dripping down her thighs and pooling in her center.
Each slap he gives stings, and she’s lost count of the number now, but she feels the heat coming off her skin, knows her arse must be a red collection of hand prints.
He stops suddenly and she can hear the smile in his voice when he sighs, “What a pretty blush.”
She shivers again, and makes as if to move, but he presses the back of her neck, and forces her back into position.
