Black Light: Brave

by Smith, Maren

  Burying that deep inside so she wouldn’t have to dwell on the thin prick of sadness it sparked, she sat down to wait until he returned.

  He served them, asking her what part of the chicken she liked the best—she panicked; she had no idea, but she quickly pointed to a wing since it was the smallest piece; at least, he would get enough to eat—he gave her two along with a generous helping of potato. “I hope you have an appetite, because I want to see you eat at least half of this.”

  Leftover chicken had never tasted so good. Neither had bacon. The salty crunch that she discovered in each bite of salad had her closing her eyes. She savored each piece like the luxury food it was. She’d only had it twice since the day she’d come to belong to Ethen, and because of Carlson both times. Unfortunately, she’d been so rattled the first time, that all she remembered about that burger at Old Ebbitt was the ashen-flavor of trying to choke down six forbidden bites.

  Ash was the farthest thing from her taste buds tonight. The flavors danced rich and bright on her tongue, and although she didn’t clear her plate, only part of one wing remained by the time she reached her limit.

  “Good girl.” Chuckling as he got up, Carlson bent and although she tipped her face to his, and although she could have sworn he hesitated, his gaze dipping to her lips, when he kissed her, it was a gentle brush to her forehead. The heated press of his mouth lingered only long enough to make her heart catch and then fall.

  Stroking her hair before letting her go, he gathered both their dishes. “I’ve got some games and such in the office. Why don’t you go pick one out while I clean up?”

  She’d much rather have caught his shirt before he walked away, pulled him back down to her level and showed him just how hungry her mouth had newly become. But already he was heading for the kitchen sink, leaving her sitting alone at the table.

  Obediently, she followed his command.

  It was imposing, walking into his office without him. Like the rest of the house, it was very masculine in its décor. A shelf ran the wall behind his leather-backed throne of an office chair. Pictures of his military life lined it and here and there, as she stole a guilty minute just to look at them, she picked out his smiling face. A soldier standing amongst other soldiers; a soldier standing amongst friends. Everyone had their ghosts, she supposed. She certainly wasn’t special in that regard, but the more she studied this two-dimension lineup of his life, the more clearly she could see the joy diminishing in the eyes of the soldier stubbornly maintaining his smile.

  “They’re in the closet,” Carlson called across the house, his voice accompanied by the soft clatter of dishes and the sound of running water. “Find them?”

  Ducking her head, she went to the only closet. “Yes,” she called back, opening the door. The games were hard to miss. He had six, all ranging from Cards Against Humanity, which wasn’t a good game for only two players, all the way up to Risk, which she wasn’t good at. She picked Pandemic. She had no idea how it was played, but she figured it had to be less strategic and more interesting than Chess, which was the only other game she did know.

  Backing out of the doorway, she stopped when her eyes settled on his playbag. Directly behind it, bound tightly together with two elastic hair ties, was a bundle of canes and crops. He had almost a dozen, all of different colors, thicknesses, and materials. From experience, she knew the bamboo was most likely to break under the whuck of severe use, while the black Delran canes were the thinnest and the most whippy. The thickest and worst, in her estimation, was a length of crimson acrylic. Offering less flexibility than the rest, it promised to be every bit as painful as the color suggested.

  Laying the game aside, she drew it from his neat bundle.

  “That, honey,” Carlson said softly from the doorway, “is not a game, and I promise I’m not going to make it feel like one.”

  Her nerve endings sparked again. Funny, how closely lust and dread could sometimes feel.

  “I know.” She looked at the crimson cane in her hand. The acrylic thickness shining under the glint of the overhead light; the wrapped handle firm and comfortable in her grip. “Is it okay if I ask a question?”

  “Always,” he assured.

  She hesitated, not at all sure she really wanted to know. “What will happen when I bring this to you?”

  “I’ve already told you. I’m going to use it.”

  Very simple. Very serious. Very to the point.

  The dread inside her built, overwhelming the lust.

  “No, I know. I mean, wh-what if…”

  “You can’t take it?” Carlson guessed, when she trailed away.

  That was a scary thought.

  “I can take a lot.” But he was bigger than Ethen. Broader in the shoulder, more muscular where the other was leaner and slender. It was only ten strokes. The only time Ethen ever delivered so few was if he used the whip. With that implement, it didn’t matter how many he gave her. She always bled.

  Her back prickled. Leaving the game where it was, she brought him the cane anyway.

  Shoulder propped against the jamb, arms folded, he watched her come. He was frowning, which didn’t help her shaky courage, but she still offered him the cane.

  “What are you doing?” he asked evenly.

  “I can take it,” she said again. When he didn’t take it right away, she held it higher. “I want to show you I can take it. I-I… I want to make you proud.”

  He didn’t take it. Arms still folded, one finger tapped lightly against his own bicep as he waited. She had no idea what for.

  Lowering the cane, she clutched it in both hands, twisting slightly as she worried what she was doing wrong. Why was he just standing there, a tic of muscle along his jaw his only movement?

  “Please, Sir, punishments are always worse when you have to wait for them.” The leather grip of the handle hurt her hands, she twisted it so hard. “What if I can’t take it?” she stammered. “What if I get scared? I can handle being scared of everyone else. I d-don’t w-want to be scared of you too.”

  Pushing off the door, he unfolded his arms. She lifted the cane again, offering it to him, but he ignored it. Hooking his thumbs in his pants pockets, his eyes narrowed slightly. Sounding more speculative than angry, he said, “I don’t want you to be scared of me either, that’s not what this is about.”

  “I know.” She twisted the cane between her hands again.

  “I’m glad.” He nodded. “So, okay. Tell me. What is this about?”

  It would have been very easy to just tell him she had lied. Ultimately, that was the reason she was standing here, holding this cane. She couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said that had landed her on the magical number of ten, but she did know it was her lies that had put her here.

  Except, not really.

  “I don’t like to think or talk about painful things,” she admitted. “I’ve tried to avoid them, and I did that with you. It’s hurtful to do that, and I’m sorry.”

  “How is it hurtful?” he asked, his countenance softening just a little.

  “Because you’re my Sir. Y-you—” she swallowed hard, needle-jabs of conscious pricking at her as she admitted out loud to them both what she had come to feel. “I don’t want to lie to you, and I’m sorry I did. It’s become a defense mechanism, I guess. It comes out without my thinking about it. You… you’re the only one I don’t want to lie to. Y-you’re the only one who doesn’t use the truth against me.”

  Stepping in out of the doorway, he stopped in front of her. That tic of muscle still pulsed along his jaw, but he was gazing down on her more softly now and she liked that look. It was protective. She didn’t have a lot of experience with loving, but she thought it might even be that. Whatever he felt, whatever happened next, she lost herself in memorizing this softness. In that moment, it made her feel cherished.

  “Put that cane away,” he finally told her. “Bring me the thinnest Delran. You might still mark, but it won’t leave bruises anywhere near like that one will
.”

  Considering this was punishment, she’d have thought he’d want the most severe implement he had, but she was glad to put it away. Not that she hadn’t told the truth when she said she could take a hard caning. She could. She’d done it—and worse—many times before. But it wasn’t until he sent her back to the closet to fetch the far less fearsome Delran that she realized how truly scared she’d been with that crimson acrylic rod in her hand.

  And she was still afraid. That was the strange part, too. Her palms were sweating. She had to pause in the middle of exchanging the canes to wipe them on her pants. She wiped them again on her slow way back to stand before him, the slender black Delran held out for him to take. It was switch-like in its flexibility. Just watching as he fit the handle in his palm, bending it once to reacquaint himself with the length and give, was enough to make her shiver.

  “Remove your clothes,” he finally ordered. “Hands on my desk, bend all the way over. You’re going to count each stroke. I’m going to make the last three memorable, because those were the lies you told yourself.”

  Puppy turned to face the desk, her knees unsteady, nothing but dread crawling up the backs of her legs and across her ass. Stepping out of her shoes, she stripped down, removing pants and socks, her underwear, shirt, and bra. Was he going to hit her back or her butt?

  “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, just as she began searching for the best place to put her hands without fear of disturbing what few things he had on top—his lamp, container for pens and paperclips, the small stack of mail he had yet to open and sort through.

  Fearing she’d done something wrong, she stepped back again, but stopped when she felt the heat of his hand come to rest on her shoulder.

  This was the second time she’d been naked before him. The first time, he and his clothespins had been entirely preoccupied with her front. He was seeing far more of her now than he had then, and certainly more than he’d seen in the bathroom at the Old Ebbitt Grill. He was seeing her completely naked.

  He was seeing her scars.

  Chapter 13

  Pale lines crisscrossed her shoulders, snaking in arcs down her back, etching the flesh of her hips, ass and even the backs of her legs in the telltale remnants of cuts that had long-since healed. In the poor lighting of the bathroom at Old Ebbitt’s, he’d mistaken them for stretchmarks. Women had growth spurts too, after all. But in this room, under these lights, there was no mistaking what he was seeing.

  He was absolutely going to kill Ethen O’Dowell.

  He touched her, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder, holding her still until he’d looked his fill. She held herself so stiff and still; her head bowed, a slow flush of shame rising to stain her face.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said again, because he knew he was staring, he knew he was botching this, and he knew if he didn’t shake himself out of this he would just as brutally etch every one of these scars into herself along with the firm belief that he found her somehow ruined by them.

  She wasn’t ruined. She wasn’t ugly.

  She was his, and he was determined: no one else would ever get the chance to do something like this to her again.

  Not without going through him first.

  He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back into the cradle of his chest. He didn’t even put the cane down first; his need to hold her took precedence.

  “These are the arms of a man who cares for you,” he said, low against the softness of her hair. He held her tighter as she began to shake. “These are the hands of a man who won’t ever let anyone hurt you again. These are also the hands of a dom who doesn’t care about counting anymore, but I have to ask you a question, honey.”

  Her body felt every inch as tense as a steel rod against him. Even her voice trembled when she replied, “I promise I won’t lie.”

  “What’s your name? Your real name, because I refuse even one more time to call you by anything that asshole assigned you.”

  She looked back at him over her shoulder, eyes wide with surprise. “I’m Cynthia. Cynthia Reynolds.”

  “I’m going to cane your bottom ten times, but I want you to know, there will never be a time when you may not use your safeword with me. I don’t care what the circumstances are. Use your safeword. I don’t care if you call it after every single stroke. We’ll stop and we’ll talk about it, and only when you’re ready will we go on.”

  She stared up at him, her brow knitting. “Even for a punishment?”

  “Especially then,” he assured. “Any time you’re afraid, I want to know about it, and I want you to remember this.” He tightened his embrace. “This is what matters right here. I don’t ever want to give you a reason to be afraid of me.”

  Her breathing had quickened, but she didn’t appear scared when she shook her head. “I’m not.”

  He didn’t mean to kiss her, but he couldn’t stop it. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, knowing if he got any closer to her lips than that his will would most likely crumble. It almost crumbled as it was anyway, especially when he saw she’d closed her eyes.

  Patting her hip, he stepped back into his place and she assumed her position.

  A caning didn’t need to be hard to be effective, and by no means did he use his whole arm. But he did put enough swing into each stroke for the cane to whip through the air, and right from the very first snap of his wrist, he made sure she knew this was a correction.

  She jumped, sucked air, and grabbed onto the edge of the desk, but she kept her place.

  He paused after three, giving in to his urge long enough to offer the budding welts he’d lain a comforting caress. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, eyes tightly shut and teeth gritted. “I’m sorry I lied, Sir.”

  “Me too.”

  She groaned, tucking her chin as she fought to accept the whuck of the fourth blow. Her legs wobbled, her flesh clenching in spasms as the pain chewed in. “I’m sorry I lied!”

  He caressed her bottom again. “You don’t have to keep repeating that, honey.”

  She broke down on the fifth stroke. Burying her face in her fists, she fought to keep it quiet, but her whole body shook with the force of her sobs.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, rubbing her back.

  She nodded.

  “Do you want to stop?”

  She shook her head.

  The sixth stroke buckled her knees.

  The seventh brought her dancing up onto both the tips of her fingers and the tips of her toes. She bounced, hissing through her teeth, and quickly put herself back into position. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

  “Do you want to stop?”

  She shook her head hard. “I can… take it!”

  “Last three,” he cautioned, taking time to examine the marks flushing hot and bright against her flesh before stepping back into place again. “Repeat after me. I am not garbage to be thrown away.”

  Puppy burst into tears all over again. It took almost a full minute before she could make herself garble the line back at him. He’d covered her bottom in welts, which meant these last three would have to be given low on the underswell where her ass met her thighs and the nerves were far more sensitive.

  He used more wrist than arm, but the cane still snapped and she still came vaulting up onto her toes. She bounced, a dervish writhing that he would have found provocative were this for any reason other than true correction.

  Gradually lowering herself flat on her feet, she assumed the position. Sniffling, she offered a shaky, “I’m ready.”

  “I’m worth something to my Sir,” Carlson said, giving her the next line.

  Folding her arms on his desk, she buried her face in them and wept. He waited until she’d collected herself enough to repeat her line, and then he laid the next lashing welt directly across the tender crease above her thighs.

  She danced, and cried, and bounced, writhing and sobbing through the pain, while he waited patiently, flexing the cane between his hands until she lowered
herself back into position.

  “Last one.”

  She nodded, sniffling.

  “It’s going to be the hardest, so you let me know when you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready, Sir,” she shakily replied, bracing her feet a little further apart and tightening her grip on the edge of his desk.

  “I am worth everything to my Sir,” Carlson said, feeding her the last line.

  Pressing her forehead to the desk, she hesitated only a second before lifting her head and clearly repeating, “I am worth everything to my Sir, and I’m very sorry.”

  He didn’t have it in him to make this final stroke harder than the rest. Judging by her reaction, she felt it like that anyway. Catching her arm before she crumpled all the way to the floor, he tossed the cane away so he could hold her instead.

  “I’m sorry,” she wept, clinging to herself while he clung to her.

  “There’s nothing left to be sorry for.” He held her close, rubbing her back and smoothing her hair out of her eyes before it could stick to her flush face. “It’s over and done with and will only be brought up again if you lie to me again.”

  “I won’t,” she promised.

  He smiled, but he knew better. She’d come to him with wounds that ran deeper than anyone he’d ever met. Healing from that took time, and mistakes would be inevitable. So long as she kept trying, he was determined to be both patient and forgiving.

  Breathing hitching in shuddery hiccups, she swiped her eyes with her fingers, clutched her hands to her chest again, and whispered, “I’m sorry I took it so badly. I don’t know why this happened. I’ll do better next time, I promise.”

  “Cynthia,” he gently corrected. “You didn’t take it badly. I am very proud that you did your best throughout what was a very difficult disciplinary caning.”

  She sniffled. “But… I cried.”