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I shake my head, tears splashing on the bare wooden floor below me. "No, sir," I whisper.
"You will count out the strokes I'm giving you. Every last fucking one of them."
I have two choices. I could fight this. I could wriggle and squirm and try to get away, but that will get me nowhere. He'll capture me and I know that my punishment will be so much worse than what I face now. The outcome is inevitable.
Or I could take it. I could clench my teeth and bear the discipline he metes out as bravely as I can. I can mentally transport myself to another place and time. Anywhere but here, naked and vulnerable and humiliated over his lap.
So, I make my choice. I slump over his lap. I no longer tense. I accept my punishment before it even begins.
And I want to see how he responds when he gets exactly what he wants—my submission and surrender.
"Yes, sir," I tell him. "I'm sorry I disobeyed you, sir."
He says nothing in response, but I feel the cool, unyielding back of the brush on my naked skin. Caressing me. Gliding over my skin.
A prelude.
With one hand around my waist, anchoring me to him, he holds me in place before he lifts the brush and brings it down with a firm, searing thwack.
"Ah!" I scream out loud, unprepared for the deep burn it leaves in its wake.
"Count," he grits out, his only reminder.
"One," I say, clenching my teeth. Jesus. Only one and I'm ready to fly right off his lap. This feels so different from the smacks of his palm.
Another harsh stroke meets the first.
"Two," I hiss.
Another, then another, and I'm falling into this painful, agonizingly intense punishment, counting each one out to avoid further punishment, but it's getting harder to speak, harder not to try to escape the onslaught of brutal strokes.
"Ten," I finally say on a sob. Halfway.
And then he pauses. "Good girl," he says approvingly, balm to my bruised and tattered ego, so mortified during this, the worst punishment I've taken from him yet. And to my surprise, he pauses, his large, calloused palm gently smoothing over my scorched and throbbing skin. When he speaks to me, his tone is softer than I expect. "You earned every lick you're getting, but you're taking it well, Olena. When we're finished here, we'll talk about my expectations of you and how you'll behave. Do you understand me?"
I nod while he massages my spanked skin.
"It will be harder to count now," he says. "But you will do so. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir," I say, drawing in a deep breath during this momentary reprieve. As I squirm over his lap, I feel the hard length of his cock pressed deep into the softest part of my belly. He's getting turned on punishing me. How could he? Sex is the furthest thing from my mind right now. This isn't sexy. This is nothing but demeaning and painful.
But the next stroke of the brush obliterates my mind. There is nothing but me, the relentless smacks of wood, and deep, throbbing pain.
"Eleven," I say, freely crying now. Another harsh smack. "Twelve."
The next catches me at that tender spot where my butt meets my thighs, and I swear it hurts even more than it did before.
"Thirteen," I sob, conscious of the whining on the other side of the door. The dog wants to come to my rescue. At least someone cares.
Stroke after stroke falls until finally, thank God, I release a choked, tortured, "twenty."
But he isn't done. No, not yet. The brush lies against my scorched skin while he lectures me.
"Will I need to do that again?"
Oh God, hell no he will not.
"No, sir," I say, shaking my head from side to side while tears fall to the floor below me. "No, I will not earn that again. I'm sorry."
"Why did I punish you like that?" he continues to lecture. "Tell me. I want to hear you own it."
"Because I didn't obey you." I sniffle. "Because I talked back and didn't listen, and you want me to submit to you." I'm losing something here. I'm surrendering a part of me I don't want to give up, to a man I've convinced myself could protect me. But he won't. He fucking won't. I'm what I always have been and always will be: collateral. Nothing more and nothing less.
His hand is massaging out the hurt with expert movements as he continues lecturing me. "When I give you an instruction, you'll respond properly. Won't you, little girl?"
"Yes, sir." I nod my head. I'll agree to anything right now.
"Will you speak freely and out of turn."
I shake my head. "No, sir. I will not."
"Very good," he says, gently pushing me off his lap so I'm standing in front of him. When my feet hit the ground, pain radiates down my legs from my punishment. "To the corner with you, then, while I get things situated."
