Chapter 7 #2
“I’m going to ask a question,” he said as he circled to her other side. “You will answer clearly. Immediately. If you hesitate, I hurt you. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Silence. The air stretched long and thin.
“Why did you speak to Boone like that?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. She didn’t have an answer. She had excuses, but no reason.
He stepped so she could see him again, and her heart stalled in her chest when she saw the loopy Johnny. Not the leather one, but a crude one, handmade from an old network cable. Brutal and fucking vicious.
She flinched before it touched her.
The first strike landed across the center of her ass, the very same skin already inflamed from nettles, and from the strap during the run.
The pain detonated. Electrical pulses radiated from the lines it left, as if it were trying to etch its message into her already inflamed skin.
She sobbed once. Bit her lip. Stayed in place.
“We’ll try again,” he said. “Why did you speak to Boone like that?”
“I—” Her voice cracked. “I thought I had the form right. And then I didn’t. And I—”
“You snapped at him because he offered his valuable time to correct your form?”
“I… yes, Sir.”
“Because your owner corrected you? Offered his wisdom?”
Her eyes burned. “Yes, Sir.”
A long pause.
“That’s not the whole story. Why else?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. The delay was only a second—
Another strike.
High on her left thigh this time. Perfectly placed to hurt, and she screamed into the wood.
“Answer,” he ordered.
“I was frustrated!” she cried out. “With myself! And I took it out on him!”
“You’ll take five more strokes for not starting there.”
They fell like drumbeats. A rhythm designed to make his point.
One across her ass, another centered on her right thigh, a horrible strike that looped around her hip, then across her sit spot, and the last centered perfectly where ass meets thigh.
She screamed. Wept. Choked on a sob.
Then he crouched beside her again. Not touching her. No words. Just watching.
“Do you think I’ll tolerate that tone with Boone?”
“No, Sir.”
“Do you think it’s acceptable to sass one of your owners when he’s keeping you safe?”
“No, Sir.”
“Who owns this mouth?”
“You do, Sir. My owners do. Sir.”
“Who decides when you speak, and how?”
“My owners, Sir.”
The words came faster now. Desperate but precise. She wanted to get it right. Needed to.
Kenny’s voice went quieter. “You forget who you are when you get tired, whore?”
She sobbed. “No, Sir. Maybe! I don’t know, Sir!”
“Maybe we need to shove the butt-plug equivalent of a shock collar up your ass. Would that help you remember?”
Her mouth opened, but no words came, and she closed it.
He stood fast and she screamed at the strike that wrapped to the inside of her upper thigh.
“Answer.”
“No, Sir.” Her voice broke.
“No, Sir, we shouldn’t?” he asked, tone still mild. “Or no, Sir, you need even more than that to help you remember?”
She hesitated—
Another lash.
It coiled around her upper thigh again, a little higher, and bit deep into the crease.
Another scream. Louder and longer.
“Answer.”
“No, Sir, I didn’t forget. I mean… I did, but not really. I just… I let it slip. I forgot what I am, but not who I belong to.”
“But when things got hard, you gave yourself permission to lash out.”
Her voice was a whisper now. “Yes, Sir.”
He leaned over her back, his warmth brushing against the rawness in her ass, his breath near her ear.
“What do you want to say to Boone the next time you see him?”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Not good enough.”
She choked. “I’m sorry I disrespected you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust that you were trying to help. I’m sorry I made you feel unappreciated.”
Kenny exhaled and stood, and for the first time in what felt like hours, she felt something release.
“That’s better.”
He set the loopy Johnny down and gently ran his fingers through her hair.
“Tell me what you learned.”
“That I can’t lose control,” she managed to whisper. “That I don’t get to lash out when I’m tired. My tone reflects my submission, and it has to be right, even when everything else is falling apart.”
“And?”
Her voice shook. “That I belong to you, to all of you, and my tone has to reflect that. Always.”
“Good girl.” He stroked along her spine, skipping over the welts and blistering heat from the nettles.
“You belong to us,” he said. “All of you. Your obedience is not conditional. Your tone is not optional.”
She sobbed again. This time, not from pain. He stroked her hair in silence. Let her cry.
His words drilled into her psyche where the pain hadn’t reached, and they settled. She was theirs. Not just in body, not just when it was easy. Always.
After another stretch of silence, he snipped the plastic holding her arms into reverse prayer, gently helped her lower them down to her sides, and said, “Go write a handwritten letter of apology to Boone. Start with that, then you can beg to make it right.”
“Yes, Sir.”
She slipped off the desk with agonizing slowness, every joint protesting. Her shoulders screamed. Her thighs trembled. Her wrists throbbed. Her whole body felt like a battlefield, but she sat at the table in the horrid wooden chair, picked up the pen, and began to write.