There was nothing in me that wanted to argue. Not tonight, not after the spanking, not with my body still singing from what he’d done to me over his knee. I was pliant in a way I only was with him, all my sharp edges worn smooth, the armor down. He did that to me. He was the only one who ever had.
I leaned forward and placed my hands flat on the duvet.
His palm smoothed over the curve of my punished bottom, light and exploratory, and I shivered.
“Still sore?” he asked.
“Yes, Daddy,” I said, and I wasn’t complaining. He knew the difference.
“Good.” He pressed a kiss to the back of my neck, and I felt his smile against my skin. “I want you thinking about that spanking the whole time I’m fucking this naughty little bottom.”
“My bottom?”
“Yes, little girl. Daddy is going to fuck your naughty bottom and make sure you’ve learned your lesson.”
I shivered in anticipation.
He took his time. That was the thing about Jaxon. He never rushed, not with this, not with anything that mattered. His fingers moved between my thighs first, sliding easily through the slickness he found there, and I pressed back against his hand and made a sound that I would have been mortified by anyone else hearing. He worked me until my legs were shaking and my fingers had curled into fists in the duvet, and I was begging in a voice I didn’t recognize.
“Please what?” he murmured.
“Please, Daddy. Please.”
“Please what, little girl. Use your words.”
I turned my face into the bedspread. “Please fuck me.”
He retrieved the small bottle from the nightstand. I heard the soft sound of it and felt him behind me, warm and close, and I arched my back the way he had taught me because I wanted this. I wanted all of it. I had stopped pretending otherwise a long time ago.
“Relax for me,” he said, low and even.
“I am,” I breathed.
“You’re not.”
He was right. I made a conscious effort to release the tension in my lower back, in my thighs, in every place I was holding myselfbraced against what was coming. His thumb traced slow, patient circles at my lower back and I let myself soften under his hands.
“There,” he said. “Good girl.”
When he spread my bottom cheeks and pressed the tip of his cock forward, I exhaled with the stretch of it, steady and slow, and kept breathing the way he had taught me. In through the nose, out through the mouth, slow enough to stay ahead of the ache. He was careful in the way that was also completely merciless, moving forward in increments, giving me time to take him, and I accepted every inch because I wanted every inch, because this was mine and he was mine and I had stopped running from that a long time ago too.
That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
It did.
But I took it anyway because I needed it to hurt in the way only he could deliver.
When he was fully seated inside my tight hole, I made a sound that was half shock and half satisfaction and dropped my forehead to the bed.
“Alright?” he asked.
“Yes,” I managed. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t stop.
He held my hips and moved, and the world reduced itself to sensation from the fullness to the deep rolling burn, to the echo of my spanking still stinging along every nerve each time his hips met the curve of my punished bottom. The two pains twisted together into a sensation that somehow obliterated thedistinction between them. It didn’t hurt the way the spanking hurt. It hurt differently, more deeply, in a way that made my thighs tremble, my breath ragged, and my whole body reach back toward him instead of away.
His hand slid around my hip and found my clit.
