by Lila Dubois
“If you’ve displeased me or disobeyed, yes, I will explain what you did wrong so you know.”
She stared at him, waiting. He raised a brow.
Finally her lips parted and she sighed. “You want to spank me. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
James made sure his expression didn’t change. Her gaze darted from his face to his lap to his right hand. He thought for a moment she’d refuse. Last night she’d seemed interested in a spanking, but as always, reality was different than fantasy.
If she walked away, he would curse himself but, of coure, respect her right to do so. She was lovely in the extreme, standing there mostly naked, her hair lightly tousled, her nipples pert.
She licked her lips, then stepped forward. James laid his arms along the back of the couch, giving her space, but also forcing her to do this without the reassurance of his touch. She got on her knees on the cushion beside him, then lay over his lap. He could feel the underside of her breasts against the outside of his left thigh. Her toes were braced on the arm of the couch, one arm folded under her head. He made her wait a few moments before touching her. As soon as he did, some of the tension drained from her, and he could see her back muscles relax. He stroked her from the base of her neck down to the top of her underwear, then over one sweet, round ass cheek and down the back of her leg as far as he could reach.
He spent several minutes stroking and petting her, gentling and reassuring her. He made sure her head was turned so she faced the back of the couch, which meant he’d be able to see her expression. Her hair fell like a waterfall over the front edge of the cushion.
He placed his left hand on the back of her neck in a firm, possessive hold. Her eyes fluttered closed.
He laid his right hand on her ass, squeezing and rubbing. Some of the tension returned to her body.
“Are you ready for your spanking?”
There was a brief hesitation. “Y-yes, Sir.”
“No need to count.”
James raised his right arm and brought his hand down on her bottom in a firm swat.
Chapter 7
She clenched her teeth so she wouldn’t yelp or cry when the first spank landed. She didn’t want to give James any more reasons to suspect she wasn’t who she said she was. More than once she’d seen a frown of confusion cross his face, so she bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from making a sound when he started to spank her.
The noise was the most frightening part of the whole thing. The smack sounded incredibly loud, and seemed to echo off the high warehouse ceiling. Startled by the sound, it took her a moment to register the sting, which was there and gone, a quick, fleeting burst of pain. Pain wasn’t the right word—yes, it hurt a bit, but pain was a big, scary thing, and this was a small discomfort.
Another smack, this time to her other butt cheek. She’d been so focused on the first spank that she hadn’t prepped for the second and let out a little noise of surprise. Again, the sting was there and gone.
He’d told her she didn’t need to keep count, but she did silently—three, four, five, six, seven, eight…
By the time she reached ten, the sting was lingering a bit longer, slower to disappear.
The eleventh spank was different—it wasn’t a snappy, stinging blow, but a hard swat. He left his hand on her ass for a moment before lifting it away. The eleventh spank she felt not just on the surface of her skin, but deeper.
She held her breath for twelve, wondering if it would be the same. It was, and heat seemed to spread from his hand.
By twenty her whole bottom felt warm.
By thirty she was panting. It was starting to really hurt. She was twitching and jumping on his lap. The couch under her cheek was moist from her panting breaths.
At thirty-four she lost control and reached back, covering her ass with her hands.
“Christiana, move your hands.” James’s voice wasn’t unkind, but it was firm.
She didn’t want to disappoint him, didn’t want to reveal that she was a fraud, yet she couldn’t make her hands move. She wasn’t even sure she wanted it to stop, yet she stubbornly kept her hands on her own backside, a shiver working its way up and down her back
“Move your hands.” This time his voice was low and dark with warning.
She whimpered and slid her hands up, palms on the small of her back. They weren’t on her ass, but if it started to really hurt again, if she got scared again, she’d be able to slide them right back into place.
“You’re trying to control the spanking. I won’t allow that. If I’m pushing you beyond your limit, you have your safeword.”
That’s right. She’d almost forgotten. She had a way to end this all.
Engineer.
She didn’t say anything.
James took her arms, adjusting them so they were folded behind her, forearms resting on the small of her back. He placed one large, hard hand on her arms, trapping them against her own body.
The emotional impact of her restricted position hit her at the same time as the thirty-fifth spank. With her arms folded behind her and pinned in place, she no longer had the ability to protect herself. If she’d moved her hands when he asked her the first time, maybe she would have been able to put them under her head again. Then she would have had the security of knowing that she could reach back when she wanted. That security was gone now.
Her legs were free, and if she threw her bodyweight to the side, she could slide off the couch and onto the floor. It wouldn’t be dignified, but it would get her away from him.
She could do those things, but she wouldn’t.
When he spanked her the fortieth time, something changed. She wasn’t sure if he once more changed the method of the spanks, or if the change was inside her. The heat from her abused ass was spreading, a wave of warmth and…contentment.
Christiana relaxed, the tension leaving her legs, stomach, and arms.
Then she started to cry. She wasn’t sure why she was crying—it wasn’t the pain. It should have been, but it wasn’t that. It was something else, something she couldn’t name. He kept spanking her, and though from the change in sound she knew they were softer than they had been, she felt each as keenly, a sting followed by deep heat. Soon the silent tears became audible sobs. She tried to hold them in, afraid crying would be yet another giveaway that she wasn’t who she said she was, or worse, that crying would make him stop.
She didn’t want to stop. She needed to be here. Needed him holding her down, making her feel these things she didn’t quite understand.
The fiftieth spank was hard and loud. She yelped and then cried harder, sobs wracking her chest, eyes squeezed closed.
James released her arms and helped her slide off his lap so she was half sitting, half lying on the couch beside him. She felt cold and alone. Embarrassment bit at her—she was making a complete fool of herself, sobbing like this. He probably wanted nothing to do with her. She crossed her arms, trying to shield her bare breasts.
“Shall I give you a minute?” he asked. There was no disgust or dismissal in his tone, only gentle understanding and concern. “Or would you prefer to be held while—”
Oh yes, she wanted to be held. Christiana stared at him, her vision partially obscured by tears, and then reached for him.
As if he’d been holding himself back, and the tentative outstretching of her hand was an invitation, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her onto his lap. She winced when her spanked bottom settled on the couch cushion between his spread legs, but then he wrapped his arms around her, laying his chin on her head, and that didn’t matter.
She was warm and safe in his arms. The heat from her bottom was now entirely pleasant, as was the lingering ache. His palm ran up and down her arms and thigh, a slow, soothing caress.
Christiana relaxed against him and closed her eyes.
He held her, stroked her, and in that moment, could think of nothing but her.
When was the last time a simple spanking had affected him this wa
y? When was the last time he’d brought a submissive to cathartic tears with something as mild as fifty swats with nothing but his hand?
He couldn’t remember.
Or the answer was never.
Maybe that was because it had never been like this before. He’d certainly brought a sub to tears with a pleasure spanking. After all, a good spanking was a form of release, but it usually took longer than it had taken with Christiana, or involved additional implements such as a wooden hairbrush or small paddle.
Christiana’s breathing slowed further, her body warm and limp against him.
Was she asleep?
Jun was turning away from the bar, a glass in each hand. James lifted the arm not curled around Christiana’s back and flagged down his friend. Jun walked over, eyebrows rising as he took in the scene before him.
James shifted her head to his shoulder. Is she asleep? he mouthed.
Jun ducked to look, then nodded.
“Blanket?” James asked soundlessly.
Jun raised the glasses. “Just a second.”
James watched as Jun walked over to where he’d been playing and set the glasses down on the back of a lovely woman who was bent at the waist, her neck and wrists held by padded stocks. The pretty submissive had a white ball gag in her mouth and tiny bells dangling from her nipples. She held perfectly still once Jun set the drinks down and walked away. A moment later, Jun returned, unfolding a small, plush blanket, which he laid over Christiana and James. Jun gave James a thumbs-up and then returned to his own submissive.
James made sure the blanket covered her bare feet, then touched her leg, which had been covered in goose bumps. Her skin was no longer pebbled from cold.
He didn’t have a drink, or a particularly good view of the room. He should have been bored, but he wasn’t.
She trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms.
It was the first time he’d had that happen. He’d slept beside subs, of course, but that had all been part of well-planned aftercare. This was something else. He’d managed to bring her to catharsis, after which, instead of taking a moment to rebuild her emotional walls, she’d trusted him enough to cuddle in his arms.
To those not in the scene, it might seem like Doms were misogynists, when in fact treasuring and respecting women was critical. Inside most Doms—and this was certainly the case for James—was a frustrated knight in shining armor who wanted to protect and rescue, as silly as that was.
James was well aware that women, especially those who were members of something like this society, didn’t need to be rescued. They were more than capable of rescuing themselves, but occasionally needed to feel the sting of peril.
Christiana made him feel like that knight in shining armor. Very tarnished armor.
Someone like her deserved a less selfish, less damaged man than him. He could think of at least four other Doms who would be a good fit for her.
But she was his. At least for tonight. And as long as he held her in his arms, he got to feel this way—strong, good. A bit like the man he wanted to be and less like the man he was.
He kissed her temple—reverently, tenderly—and held her while she slept.
She checked herself in the mirror. Tonight, the third and final night of the party, she wore something she’d brought with her, rather than raiding the rack of clothes in the dressing room. It had taken her nearly half a day of shopping to find something suitable. She’d wandered into the small store in a funky little area south of Market Street out of desperation after failing to find anything at the larger department stores in the shopping area around Union Square.
It was ostensibly a dress, the leather fringe falling from the hem to just above her knees. The body of the dress was made from sheer, stretchy brown mesh-like material that looked like a cross between fishnet and lace. That material covered her from upper thigh to just under her breasts, where it was attached to a two-inch wide band of the same brown leather as the fringe. The bodice of the dress was all crisscrossing straps of leather, which were stitched together where they overlapped, keeping everything in place.
All the straps attached to a thin leather collar, which buckled in place at the back of her neck.
The sales attendant had tried to get her to buy an expensive pair of leather panties to wear under the revealing dress, but she’d lied and said she had something.
Christiana examined the woman in the dressing room mirror.
She looked different, which made sense. She was different. Last night, the spanking and then sleeping in James’s arms until dawn had changed something fundamental in her.
This wasn’t Chris the engineer. The woman in the mirror was Christiana the submissive.
When she realized she’d slept through until dawn she’d been horrified, rushing to apologize for wasting their time. James had looked at her so tenderly she’d felt her heart lurch in her chest. He’d assured her he didn’t consider it a waste of time, and that they’d still have tonight, the last night of the San Francisco gathering.
Her last night with him.
She pulled her hair up, pinning it in a sleek bun on top of her head. She didn’t bother to secure it with more than a few bobby-pins, as she was fairly certain James would slide his hand into her hair at some point and it would all come tumbling down.
She went with simple makeup. The crying session last night had done a number on her eye makeup, and she’d left mascara and eyeliner on the shoulder of James’s shirt. Tonight she wore foundation, blush, and rose-gold eyeshadow with waterproof mascara. No lipstick, no eyeliner.
Around her the other subs were laughing and chatting at they got ready. Jenny and Cheryl both said hi, but she was too caught up in her own head to do more than murmur a polite hello in return.
She didn’t linger in the dressing room tonight—she was one of the first to leave. There was barely anyone milling around the first floor this early in the evening, but James was there. She’d known he would be. She walked up to him, watching his face for his reaction to what she was wearing. His gaze swept down her, lingering on the diamond-shaped hints of breast visible through the crisscrossed straps of the bodice and on her sex, not precisely visible through the mesh and shadow but revealed enough for him to tell she wore nothing underneath.
His gaze tracked back up her body, lingering on the collar of the dress. She stopped in front of him. He didn’t speak, but raised one hand and moved his finger in a circular motion.
Putting her weight on the balls of her feet, she turned, showing him her back, naked from the collar to the band that circled her ribs, and the shadowy cleft of her ass.
She made a full circle, facing him once more.
Still without speaking, he offered her a hand. She placed her fingers in his, and he led her up the stairs to the second floor.
They were the only people except the bartender, who watched them until they passed by, then stared neutrally into space. Despite the expansive room and the ceiling soaring above them, the space felt intimate.
James led her to the stage.
Christiana’s heart thudded in her chest, and she tightened her grip on James’s hand, needing the reassurance of his touch. Were they going to perform? What did that mean? What would he do?
He led her to the steps, then released her hand.
“On the stage,” he ordered.
She obeyed, feeling as if she were in a dream. James didn’t join her, but instead took a seat on the same couch where they’d spent the first night together.
The stage lights were on, and she could just barely see him as a seated shadow among the other shadows.
“Remove your clothes. All of them.”
Was it still only James watching her? She thought she heard the sound of footsteps. Maybe that was just the sound of her heart pounding. She had no way of knowing how many people were out there.
And, she realized, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was out there, and he’d ordered her to strip.
Christ
iana reached up and under her hair, for the snap at the back of the collar.
Chapter 8
James dug the fingers of his right hand into the arm of the couch, his white-knuckled grasp an indication of the self-control he was wielding to keep himself from pouncing on Christiana. Something about her made him feel restless and wild tonight. She was different, subtly so. He couldn’t name it, but he could sense it.
When she first walked out of the dressing room, he’d been gripped by the urge to strip her right there on the first floor and take her, roughly, brutally, and for all to see.
So he’d brought her up here, put her on the stage where, at least for now, she was safe from him.
Perhaps it was tonight’s outfit, so different from the simpler garments he’d seen her in before. This one was overtly sexual yet somehow modest. Yesterday he’d held her all night while she wore only panties, and yet now, when she was covered from neck to knee, he found himself desperate to ravage her, when last night he’d wanted to protect her.
She reached behind her neck, and a second later the collar of the dress loosened. The stiff leather kept the band from falling away from her throat, and rather than peeling it down, she twisted a little, fingers pulling at the second band of leather just under her breasts. This one must have had some sort of fastening too, which she undid.
Her hands dropped to her sides, her breasts rising and falling a little too quickly—betraying a nervousness that didn’t show anywhere on her calm face.
“Off,” he commanded, voice hard. He would punish her for not obeying him the first time. He would punish her for making him lose control and break the silence.
She reached up, grabbed the collar, and peeled it down, exposing her breasts. They were as lovely as he remembered—a nice size, with nipples that seemed paler in the hard stage lights than he knew they were.
She hooked her thumbs in the loosened band around her ribs and pushed it down, the mesh gathering in folds as she exposed one silky inch of abdomen at a time.