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“You do?” She crossed her fingers behind her back.
“I, too, am acting irrationally.” He dropped his rigid arms, but kept the serious expression on his face. “I’ve allowed my feelings to cloud my judgment. You crave discipline, and I’ve neglected reinforcing it. I’ve let love interfere.”
“Love?” She’d heard him righ
t and he’d used the word openly, but did that mean he wanted to wish it away? Was he regretting feeling it?
“Yes. Love has softened me. But now, I want to redress the imbalance. What I feel doesn’t alter the need to keep you safe nor does it shift my expectations about obedience. I will spank you. Punish you.” He emphasized the word with a lifting of his eyebrows. Was that facial hint there because he expected her consent? Was it still necessary for her to give it?
She had to be absolutely sure he wasn’t changing his mind about their relationship. If he wanted balance then everything had to remain intact, including the elephant in the room—the love word.
“And love?” she asked, swaying slightly on her heels.
“Will guide us.” He offered her the hope she needed to hear. “But no more irrational acts, please, Paige. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”
The conversation tidied everything up nicely, she thought. “I’ll try to be good. Not too naughty.”
A brief grin broke the stiff lines of his face, then he retracted it. They had to deal with the issue of her punishment. Crossing the room, he retrieved something from his unpacked luggage. What he removed made her heart skip a beat. She recognized the handle of the device.
“I borrowed this from the doctor,” Jamen said. “You remember?”
She nodded. The chosen implement was the thing he’d used to spank her with on the way station—the versatile medical device that could form many shapes. She swallowed and uncrossed her fingers. Time to dig deep into her inner psyche and rediscover the submissive girl lurking beneath the surface.
“Yes. Sir,” she said quietly, lowering her eyes to his boots.
“Good. Now, please undress and bend over the bottom of the bed.”
There would be no reassuring hands touching her beforehand. He meant business and she needed it. The yearning wasn’t for pain or humility; what she wanted was to reestablish a connection with Jamen and in that moment when she surrendered, she would put her faith in him. She couldn’t describe why it worked for her. The chip could translate words, help with meanings, and even though it was an amazing invention, nothing could explain how submitting to discipline was crucial to her existence.
And love. She mustn’t forget what kept them going was this concoction of contradictory needs—love and discipline.
She slowly undressed. Preparing herself mentally was critical. She brought to bear all those experiences of the Bow and Tie and added one unique extra: trusting Jamen.
When she bent over the edge of the bed, she didn’t need his prompting—she parted her legs, as was the Vendu preference, and exposed her most vulnerable places.
Back in the club, she’d been a spectacle, a show. Alone with Jamen, she wasn’t a thing or an object. She wasn’t performing and she would need to get a handle on real emotions to help her through the punishment. There would be no more playing at contrived scenes with fake words of respect.
“I’m ready, sir,” she said, gripping the soft folds of the cover between her fingers.
He activated the device and his choice was visible in the mirror attached to the bedhead. Damn, she nearly muttered. He had shaped the energy particles into a flat disk. She really detested anything like a paddle. She preferred a cane.
He swung his arm back, measuring the distance a few times with practice swings, then with his lips pressed together, he made contact with her smooth ass cheeks.
It didn’t sound like a thud. It felt like one. She screwed her eyes shut, expelled her held breath, and remembered to say thank you. Another Vendu custom.
She had jerked and in doing so, shifted her pose. Jamen repositioned her legs and nudged her back down.
“Let’s stay focused, shall we?” he said.
Easy to say, hard to do. She wriggled and squirmed as he applied his chosen implement with efficiency. After half a dozen strikes, her ass was on fire.
He remained reflected in the mirror and the images were captured in her mind. She saw no smiles or gloating; instead, Jamen diligently checked each smarting rebuke of the improvised paddle on her behind.
“Good,” he murmured, as she gritted her teeth and froze her body into position. “A few more, though.”
Whether she wanted to admit it or not, he had a point. She wasn’t there yet. Her eyes were filling with unshed tears, their drops not quite cascading over the brims, and although she willed them to fall, they refused to budge, just like they often had in the club. Her ass, that poor raised rump, was roasting and suitably sore. However, not sore enough. She needed it to rage and burn like a furnace. She wanted the hunger to be so intense that she would beg him to do anything to her, and that meant giving more of herself to him.
Piece by piece—that’s how she submitted. If it was supposed to be easy, she would have yielded and dropped onto her knees at his feet; she wouldn’t need the spanking. It didn’t work like that for her. Others maybe could do it that way, but she wasn’t them. If Jamen stopped without pushing her further, she would thank him, kiss his lips, and snuggle up to him for comfort. Those things she could readily offer him. Whereas, actually, she needed more from him.
