“Thank you.” He wrote something in her journal. “To correct your behavior and to reinforce my rules, I am requiring you to take six strokes from my cane. You will not be bound. Firstly, because it will signify your submission to me and secondly, because I don’t think it would be in your best interest mentally.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Additionally, I am not requiring you to be naked. I would like to point out that this is not typical for my discipline sessions.”
“Thank you for that consideration, Sir.”
“You will count each stroke.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And lastly, I need to make it clear that as of today any disobedience or defiance will be dealt with fully and swiftly at the time of the offense.”
“I understand, Sir.”
Nothing he’d said came as a surprise. It had all been listed in the protocol. She’d known to expect a formal setting, but knowing was nothing compared to experiencing. It was so different from anything she’d ever done.
Cole, of course, showed nothing other than his usual control. Was it only because her punishment was so far removed time wise from the offense? Probably not—she couldn’t imagine Cole ever acting while angry.
“Everything is set up in the sitting room,” he said. “You may go prepare yourself.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
She stood up, her legs a little more wobbly and her heart beating a little faster than when she’d entered the room. Formal protocol aside, she’d been caned before—she knew it would hurt.
I’ve experienced worse.
She supposed that was something positive that resulted from the incident with Peter: not much could ever come close to being as painful.
However, stepping into the sitting room and seeing it prepared struck her with another reality: when faced with an imminent punishment, knowing she’d done something more painful really didn’t matter. She took deep breaths, told herself she was strong enough for this, and walked toward the waiting chair.
Cole would be in the room in about five minutes. When she first read that, she thought it would be much too long of a wait. Now she thought it wasn’t long enough. The absolute worst thing she could do was not be in position when he entered.
She wiped her palms on the dress. “Screw my nerves. I can do this.”
Shutting out any thought to the contrary, she bent over the chair, flipped her skirt up, and placed her forearms on the bottom seat cushion. Fuck, this is embarrassing.
Then her eyes fell on the cane, displayed so she couldn’t miss seeing it, and suddenly she wasn’t embarrassed anymore, but acutely aware of what was going to happen. Her fingers gripped the chair’s edge, fingernails scratching the wood
He came into the room quietly. Loud enough so she would know he was there, but not loud enough to startle her. Odd, but his presence somehow calmed her down. His footsteps echoed as he walked to stand in her line of sight and then he stripped his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves.
There was nothing said as he took the cane and moved behind her. But she jerked when he placed an unexpected hand on the small of her back.
“You’re doing great,” he said in a low voice. “You can take the rest.”
She felt more like she could when he said it.
His hand slipped to lightly stroke her backside once and then he commanded, “Count.”
The first stroke hurt just as bad as she imagined it would, and she had to take several deep breaths before she choked out, “One.”
The second landed right above the first and felt just as painful. His protocol required her silence outside of counting as well as her stillness. She bit the inside of her cheek to hold back the yelp desperate to get out, instead saying only, “Two.”
His statement that not being bound would reinforce her submissiveness was the absolute truth. It was only the strength of his will and her desire to obey him that kept her from reaching back to block the third stroke.
Her cheeks were wet after the fourth, though she wasn’t aware of crying. Her backside felt like it was on fire and she gave serious thought to safewording. The two remaining strokes might as well have been two hundred, as she couldn’t imagine them landing on her sensitive flesh.
There was a ragged intake of breath from behind her and she realized Cole was fighting his own battle. She wanted to prove him right about being ready, so she forced herself to relax as much as possible and willed him to continue.
The only thing that kept her from shouting “red” after the fifth stroke was knowing there would only be one more. She panted, sobs clawing frantically to escape from her throat, and hot tears flowed freely down her cheeks.
The last stroke was the hardest, landing diagonally across the first five. She managed to get out, “Six,” in what sounded to her like a mixture of a hiccup and a sob, and then she held her breath, squeezing her eyes tight as the pain seeped into her body. But unlike the previous five, this time she was swept up by two strong arms and carried to the couch.
He pressed her against his chest and lightly stroked her hair. “Let it out, Sasha. It’s okay. Let it out.”
It was as if a dam burst inside her and, at his words, she cried harder than she’d ever cried before. She buried her face against the scratchy wool of his vest and soaked the white shirt underneath. The entire time, he simply held her, stroked her hair, and murmured tenderly.
She cried longer than she thought possible and when she finally calmed down to quiet sniffles, she realized her hands were clutching him in a death grip.
She let go of his shirt. “Sorry, Sir.”
“Nothing to apologize for. Do you feel better?” He took a tissue and wiped her eyes and nose.
“Much.” She hiccupped. “I needed that.”
“When was the last time you cried?”
“Like that?” She shook her head. “Never.”
“Even after Peter?”
“I wept a little, but nothing major.” Her breathing was coming easier; her heart rate slowed. A feeling of cleansing peace came over her and filled her. She lifted her head to meet his gaze and the reason why she’d wept so little hit her. “Before today, I never felt safe enough to cry.”
• • •
Her softly spoken words were both his dearest dream and his worst nightmare. For while he wanted her to feel safe with him, he’d never given any thought to how emotionally attached he would be once she got to that point. It shook him how attached he was to the woman in his arms.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Additionally, I am not requiring you to be naked. I would like to point out that this is not typical for my discipline sessions.”
“Thank you for that consideration, Sir.”
“You will count each stroke.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And lastly, I need to make it clear that as of today any disobedience or defiance will be dealt with fully and swiftly at the time of the offense.”
“I understand, Sir.”
Nothing he’d said came as a surprise. It had all been listed in the protocol. She’d known to expect a formal setting, but knowing was nothing compared to experiencing. It was so different from anything she’d ever done.
Cole, of course, showed nothing other than his usual control. Was it only because her punishment was so far removed time wise from the offense? Probably not—she couldn’t imagine Cole ever acting while angry.
“Everything is set up in the sitting room,” he said. “You may go prepare yourself.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
She stood up, her legs a little more wobbly and her heart beating a little faster than when she’d entered the room. Formal protocol aside, she’d been caned before—she knew it would hurt.
I’ve experienced worse.
She supposed that was something positive that resulted from the incident with Peter: not much could ever come close to being as painful.
However, stepping into the sitting room and seeing it prepared struck her with another reality: when faced with an imminent punishment, knowing she’d done something more painful really didn’t matter. She took deep breaths, told herself she was strong enough for this, and walked toward the waiting chair.
Cole would be in the room in about five minutes. When she first read that, she thought it would be much too long of a wait. Now she thought it wasn’t long enough. The absolute worst thing she could do was not be in position when he entered.
She wiped her palms on the dress. “Screw my nerves. I can do this.”
Shutting out any thought to the contrary, she bent over the chair, flipped her skirt up, and placed her forearms on the bottom seat cushion. Fuck, this is embarrassing.
Then her eyes fell on the cane, displayed so she couldn’t miss seeing it, and suddenly she wasn’t embarrassed anymore, but acutely aware of what was going to happen. Her fingers gripped the chair’s edge, fingernails scratching the wood
He came into the room quietly. Loud enough so she would know he was there, but not loud enough to startle her. Odd, but his presence somehow calmed her down. His footsteps echoed as he walked to stand in her line of sight and then he stripped his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves.
There was nothing said as he took the cane and moved behind her. But she jerked when he placed an unexpected hand on the small of her back.
“You’re doing great,” he said in a low voice. “You can take the rest.”
She felt more like she could when he said it.
His hand slipped to lightly stroke her backside once and then he commanded, “Count.”
The first stroke hurt just as bad as she imagined it would, and she had to take several deep breaths before she choked out, “One.”
The second landed right above the first and felt just as painful. His protocol required her silence outside of counting as well as her stillness. She bit the inside of her cheek to hold back the yelp desperate to get out, instead saying only, “Two.”
His statement that not being bound would reinforce her submissiveness was the absolute truth. It was only the strength of his will and her desire to obey him that kept her from reaching back to block the third stroke.
Her cheeks were wet after the fourth, though she wasn’t aware of crying. Her backside felt like it was on fire and she gave serious thought to safewording. The two remaining strokes might as well have been two hundred, as she couldn’t imagine them landing on her sensitive flesh.
There was a ragged intake of breath from behind her and she realized Cole was fighting his own battle. She wanted to prove him right about being ready, so she forced herself to relax as much as possible and willed him to continue.
The only thing that kept her from shouting “red” after the fifth stroke was knowing there would only be one more. She panted, sobs clawing frantically to escape from her throat, and hot tears flowed freely down her cheeks.
The last stroke was the hardest, landing diagonally across the first five. She managed to get out, “Six,” in what sounded to her like a mixture of a hiccup and a sob, and then she held her breath, squeezing her eyes tight as the pain seeped into her body. But unlike the previous five, this time she was swept up by two strong arms and carried to the couch.
He pressed her against his chest and lightly stroked her hair. “Let it out, Sasha. It’s okay. Let it out.”
It was as if a dam burst inside her and, at his words, she cried harder than she’d ever cried before. She buried her face against the scratchy wool of his vest and soaked the white shirt underneath. The entire time, he simply held her, stroked her hair, and murmured tenderly.
She cried longer than she thought possible and when she finally calmed down to quiet sniffles, she realized her hands were clutching him in a death grip.
She let go of his shirt. “Sorry, Sir.”
“Nothing to apologize for. Do you feel better?” He took a tissue and wiped her eyes and nose.
“Much.” She hiccupped. “I needed that.”
“When was the last time you cried?”
“Like that?” She shook her head. “Never.”
“Even after Peter?”
“I wept a little, but nothing major.” Her breathing was coming easier; her heart rate slowed. A feeling of cleansing peace came over her and filled her. She lifted her head to meet his gaze and the reason why she’d wept so little hit her. “Before today, I never felt safe enough to cry.”
• • •
Her softly spoken words were both his dearest dream and his worst nightmare. For while he wanted her to feel safe with him, he’d never given any thought to how emotionally attached he would be once she got to that point. It shook him how attached he was to the woman in his arms.
