by Liz Meldon
I’d had it all sorted in my head—arranged.
First, I would have lunch with my father’s crusty old business associates, the kind who flocked to the Virgin Islands every year around this time. As expected, they would float an invitation to the gala they held during the annual regatta in Saint Thomas, and I would hem and haw, but eventually accept. Father forced me to go every year.
“You have a house out there! It’ll be easy.”
Like spending an entire evening with the sharks of our world was easy—like it was no trouble at all. Usually, I was expected to network. I was expected to brag. I was expected to talk up the family and forge new connections—or reignite old ones—with anyone worthy of our time.
I had anticipated the invitation. I had gone every year. But professional responsibilities had always forced me back to Europe, or Britain, or New York—I never had the time to stay more than a night in “that little house” my father always referred to with a sniff.
Today’s luncheon had been accepted out of respect. While I had no intention of answering any of my father’s emails regarding my brother’s poor performance—the shock of the century—I also had no plans to embarrass him in front of his old school chums, now the business elite across Europe and America.
The plan had been simple.
Show up. Smile. Chat—be talked at, more like. Boost my father’s latest venture. Accept an invitation to the gala. Pick up something sweet for Belle. Go home. Cuddle my submissive into the evening.
I had an easy day in mind after the luncheon. Simple. Relaxing. Intimate. I’d feed her macarons and she would sit in my lap, purring like a kitten—because that was where I’d thought we were after a month together. Things had been going so well. It felt so natural. I had already ordered the—
And then I’d come home to find her in my studio.
To find her snooping, prying.
To find her breaking a rule I had thought was so simple to follow that I nearly hadn’t included it in our list of twenty house rules at all. Just telling her the third floor was strictly off-limits should have been enough.
Lunch had wrapped early. I hadn’t called because I’d wanted to surprise her—look, darling submissive of mine, I wasn’t gone all that long!
Then I’d found an empty house. An empty pool. An empty beach. An empty bedroom, her hiking shoes in their usual spot in her closet. I’d panicked. My first instinct was that something had happened—and I’d fucking panicked.
Then I’d spotted light trickling down the staircase to the third floor, and just like that—panic off, rage on.
She had been so good at following the rules lately.
Yet today’s rule-breaking felt personal, somehow. A breach of our very carefully cultivated trust.
And I’d—gone too hard on her. She didn’t know the history of that room. She didn’t know the years of bullshit weighing on me.
Numb, I slid down the length of her closed bedroom door. On the other side, she was sobbing.
I ran a hand through my hair.
You went too far.
I’d always sneered at Dominants who got into this so they could take their problems out on someone who got off on pain, on submission, on following orders. Yet, here I’d gone and done just that. I had let my own personal shit influence the way I disciplined my submissive. That paddle had been too heavy. I shouldn’t have done ten counts—not consecutively, anyway.
But she—
It didn’t matter what she’d done. Poking around my gallery wasn’t an act of malice; Belle didn’t have a malicious bone in her body. Yet I’d responded to her, disciplined her, like I was finally confronting the maliciousness of my past, like I could feel the flames of that fucking horrible night even though we were thousands of miles away from where it had all happened. Even though it was Belle, not Richard, who had discovered my canvas cache.
I had taken the anger from before and let it out today.
I’d fucked up.
She had been crying and apologizing, and I’d ignored her—because I could. Because she was my submissive and she had broken a rule, ergo, I could punish her however I saw fit.
Pathetic. Just like all the rest of them.
I closed my eyes, my heart aching. My head thumped back against her door, and I forced myself to listen to her—sobbing.
That paddle hadn’t been intended for a real punishment, yet I had dug it out and used it. Abused it.
Hurt her.
My jaw clenched as I squeezed my eyes tighter, falling forward and burying my face in my hands. If anyone had shot all the trust we’d built straight to hell today, it was me.
The floor hooks had been installed about a month ago—a last-minute addition when I’d finally decided which room I would put Belle in. I had this fantasy that involved a very naked Belle, spread wide, and attached to those hooks while I fucked her over the window ledge. After we had arrived, however, I’d nixed that, not bothering to even broach it with her when I’d learned—
Oh my god.
Heights. When I’d learned that she had a fear of heights. I’d taken out everything in my itinerary that had to do with heights: parasailing in Saint John, a tour of the islands via a rickety little four-seater piloted by a friend of mine, hikes that took us too high in the national parks…
And then today—I’d gone and done it anyway. Fucked her, metaphorically, right over that window. It had slipped my mind, which, at the time, had been running on a single loop: crime, punishment, crime, punishment. Over and over again, demanding I do something, my actions compounded by a surge of long-festering emotional bullshit. I’d hardly been aware of it, the way history influenced me in the moment.
The way it tainted my ability to act as a level-headed Dom.
The way it fucked everything right up.
My insistence that she wouldn’t fall had stemmed from the fact that no matter the situation, I felt it prudent to remind any submissive that she was safe with me. Given I’d decided to bend Belle over a window ledge two stories up, my one-track mind still demanded I show her that she wasn’t about to plummet to her death, that I wouldn’t let real harm befall her. Beyond that, I’d just been some charging bull, fueled by feeling, still scalded by the flames of that fucking night—and I had forgotten that my doting, beautiful, kind, warm submissive had an issue with heights.
Fuck. No wonder she was so emotional. No wonder she was so upset. When she’d kicked me out—I had never seen that look in her eyes before. Never heard that pitch when she screamed out her counts.
“Damn it, Donahue.”
Not only had I forgotten a very real-world fear of hers, but I had invaded her personal space, thinking only of the fact that the hooks were there so the punishment ought to be there, not about the privacy of Belle’s bedroom. My thought process at the time hadn’t been complicated or sophisticated. I hadn’t been thinking of every angle, every measure, like I normally did. I just—did.
She would ask to leave—why would she stay? It was in the contract: she could cut ties at any point, for any reason. I had insisted it be in there because I wanted her to feel safe.
Now she was going to leave—and she had every right to, every reason to turn tail and run. I had brought it on myself. I had ruined this. Right now.
With a deep breath, I pushed up to stand. Belle’s decision to stay or go would be entirely up to her. In the meantime, I was still her Dominant—and she was in desperate need of aftercare. I needed to apologize. I needed to fix what I had very likely broken. And then she could go—today, if she wanted. I’d have it all arranged.
And I’d watch her go, let her walk out of my life, pretending that I wasn’t falling for her. Pretending that I hadn’t imagined a future for us, one beyond these two months. Pretending that I hadn’t gone and bought her…
Never mind. None of that mattered now.
Belle mattered.
Stopping her tears mattered.
Apologizing mattered.
Aftercare matt
ered.
I moved through the house in a flurry. As I grabbed the cocoa butter I liked to rub on her flaming-pink skin after a spanking, I knew she could refuse to open the door. As I fished out some strawberry ice cream from the freezer, I knew she could ignore me. As I gathered the silky-soft blanket she liked to cuddle with in the TV room, collecting it from her chair, a chair that would smell like her long after she left, I knew that she could tell me to fuck off.
I wouldn’t.
I was still her Dom. Her well-being was still my responsibility, and I would make sure, even if she fought me tooth and nail, that she didn’t spiral. That she didn’t blame herself. That she knew it was all my fault. That while she had broken a house rule, I and I alone had let us down today.
Arms overflowing with care items, I hurried back up to her bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time. By the time I returned, I was breathless, my heart pounding, my mouth dry. Inside, she continued to sob. The door didn’t do much to muffle it. With a sigh, I shifted everything to one arm, then rapped my knuckles against the wood. The sobs quieted. No response. Swallowing thickly, I knocked again. “Belle?”
Nothing. It had gone silent inside—and I fucking hated the silence.
Pressing down on the handle, I popped the door open about two feet—and my heart broke at the sight inside. Belle, curled up in the middle of her bed. Trembling. Naked. Her backside raw, already showing the faintest hint of scattered bruises.
Donahue, you fucking bastard.
I inhaled deeply, forcing the anger out—anger directed at me, not her. Because even though it was focused squarely at me now, she would be sensitive to my tone, to the clipped way I spoke. So, I swallowed it, saving it for later, when I was truly alone. “Belle, can I come in?”
While she said nothing, her head bobbed up and down in a nod—a noticeable one at that. Suddenly, my heart felt a little less broken. Just like that. Nodding back at her, even though she couldn’t see, I slipped inside and gently closed the door behind me. I set her aftercare things on the left corner of the bed, then made a beeline for the paddle I’d abandoned on the right. She shouldn’t have to look at it. I snatched the damn thing up and slipped it under her bed, planning to put it away properly later. I then closed the window and drew the blinds, all in a flourish of quick, precise movements.
The white, double-layered curtain did a fair job of blocking out the sun. Shadow descended across the room, and a part of me thought I should just leave—that I should let Belle dictate how all this would go. She was, after all, a professional submissive, not my own personal one.
But before all this, I had very much hoped to change that in the future.
And I had no intention of letting that hope die because of today’s fuckery.
So, I faced her, schooling my features, hiding my feelings as best I could, and found Belle watching me. Tears clung to her eyelashes, making them darker, clumping them together. Blotchy patches marred her freckled face. Redness tinted her swollen eyes.
“Oh, Belle…” I’d never wanted to cradle her to me more than in that moment. Instinct told me to scoop her up, to hold her tight, but propriety preached caution. Still, I climbed onto her bed, slowly, making no sudden movements, with the intention of wiping her thickly falling tears away. “I’m so sorry.”
Before I could graze the backs of my knuckles across her cheek, she was up and moving—toward me, not away. Shocked, I stilled, kneeling there on the bed with my arms out to the sides—like I wouldn’t touch her, hurt her, again—as Belle pushed up and pressed herself against me. Arms around my neck, face buried in my chest, the top of her head just under my chin, she clung to me—and sobbed.
Instinct kicked back in, and I let it. I gathered her shuddering body to me, lifting her so that her chin rested on my shoulder—so that she could breathe through all those tears. It was me who hid my face away, burying it in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent, holding her tight. An arm around her waist. A hand cradling the back of her head. I held her, even though I hadn’t meant to—and she held me back, her arms around my neck like a noose.
A welcome noose, one I never wanted to be free of.
We stayed like that for some time, surrounded by shadows, the outside world muffled. I stroked her hair as she cried, and in time, her delicate hand threaded through mine, twisting it as her sobs eased. I winced, but the physical pain was minimal—secondary to the emotional.
“I’m sorry, Belle,” I whispered against her skin. She continued to shiver in my arms, her hand still fisted in my hair. “I’m so sorry.”
I murmured it over and over again, my lips brushing her shoulder, her neck, the shell of her ear. I said it until she stopped crying entirely. Until her breath stopped stuttering. Until her lips stopped quivering.
Slowly, she unwound herself from me, and I held her arms as she settled onto the bed, a visceral response to pain flashing across her face the moment she sat back. Wincing, Belle settled onto her side instead, her head pillowed by both arms.
“Belle,” I murmured, still kneeling before her, “I am so sorry for—that. That punishment was completely over the line.”
“The house rules said it would be severe,” she said, her voice catching. Looking away, she cleared her throat. “And I went up there and broke the rules, knowing what I was doing—”
“No.” I cupped her chin, thumb stroking her soft, damp cheek. “No, that was uncalled for, and I’m sorry that I hurt you. There should be a punishment for breaking that particular rule, but not that.” I started to retreat, to bring my hand back, but she grabbed it, clutching at my wrist. My chest tightened, and, with her unflinching gaze on me, I offered a quick apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I forgot about your issue with heights, too. It was careless of me, and I’m sorry—for being careless with you.”
Never again.
A tear slid from the corner of her eye. The other pooled and crept down her nose. Sniffling, Belle released my wrist and brushed them away. She then sat up on her elbow, scanning the pile of supplies I’d brought up with me, and picked up the small, round container of cocoa butter. Ordinarily I would have had it in the fridge before a punishment; a spanked bottom so enjoyed the caress of something cool. Today, it had all happened so fast.
“Belle, would you like me to rub that in for you? I’ll be very gentle.”
She studied the container for a moment, then handed it to me with a nod. Slowly, she sat up on her knees, careful not to let her ass touch the backs of her calves, then went for the strawberry ice cream and spoon. I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling, the tightness in my chest, the fear, giving way to something softer, warmer, indulgent.
“Would you like to eat that while I tend to you?”
Another silent nod. I smiled gently this time when she peeked at me from beneath her lashes.
“Well, all right then. Come here.”
We arranged ourselves at the head of the bed, reorganizing pillows to Belle’s optimal comfort. I sat with my legs out, back to the padded headboard, and Belle draped herself over my lap, her slowly darkening ass resting on my thighs. A pillow propped up her legs, which crossed at the ankles, and she cuddled the silky-soft cinema room blanket under her front half. When I was sure that she was comfortable, that nothing was stretched or pulled in a way that would make her ache, I uncapped the little round container and dipped my fingers into the cocoa butter.
At the same time, Belle popped off the lid of the ice cream tub, then set it on the side table nearby. Ordinarily she would have a limit on the amount of sweets she could eat in a single sitting, but I had no intention of giving one—not today.
Well, maybe. That was an awful lot of ice cream, and my girl loved her sweets.
I started massaging where the skin was its pinkest—where it was its lightest. As I worked the cocoa butter in, I still wasn’t sure if I would touch the darkest parts today. When I had unleashed hell on her poor bottom, I had aimed the paddle at the fleshiest bits, as one does to minimize d
amage. Much to my relief, my aim had been on point, although that didn’t make me feel any better about the colour blooming across her skin.
If she decided to stay, I would insist we take the next four or five days off, just to give her time to recover. Or, at the very least, play gently in the meantime.
“I’m sorry for going up to the third floor,” she said in a very small voice about five minutes after we’d started. In the preceding quiet, I had busied myself with working the butter into her skin, massaging away the soreness. Belle, meanwhile, had eaten about a quarter of the ice cream in the pint-sized tub.
I paused, my throat feeling tight and dry again, then settled my buttery hand across her thighs. “Thank you, Belle. I accept your apology.”
Given the nature of our dynamic, apologies came in the form of serving one’s punishment. When Belle had finished her punishment, she had truly apologized for whatever she had done to warrant it in the first place. Here, she didn’t need to say it again—but the fact that she did had me at a loss for words.
“I broke your trust,” she continued, scooping the baby-pink ice cream onto her spoon, staring down at it. “I’m sorry.”
“I think we both did a bit of trust-breaking today,” I muttered as I slipped my thumb between her upper thighs, more habit than anything. “I have a complex relationship with my art. It isn’t an excuse—I shouldn’t have done what I did. It’s just…” I swallowed hard. It was just that I hadn’t shared my art with anyone since that fucking horrendous day. And now my work had become the center of another potentially relationship-ruining moment. With a soft throat clear, I went back to massaging her, avoiding the spots that made her tense. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.”
She said nothing as she ate another quarter of the container, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling her to slow down. Instead, I slipped out of my Dom persona, just for a moment, to bring a harsh glint of reality to the conversation.
“There is a clause in the contract,” I started, hating myself for bringing it up, but knowing that I should—that I would hate myself more if I didn’t. “You can leave for any reason. You’ll receive payment for February and March all the same. I… I don’t want you to stay somewhere you feel unsafe.”