Chapter 13
Lena
T he word 'consequences' rolled through me like thunder, making every nerve ending spark to life.
My bare skin prickled against the cool wood of the kitchen table, hyperaware of how exposed I was, how vulnerable.
But it wasn't fear that made my breath catch—it was anticipation mixed with something deeper.
Something that recognized this moment as a threshold we were about to cross together.
"Look at me," Tyson commanded softly, his fingers gentle under my chin as he tilted my face up to meet his gaze.
I was still perched on the table, legs dangling, completely naked while he remained fully dressed. His eyes held mine with an intensity that made my stomach flip.
"This isn't about anger. I need you to understand that." His thumb brushed along my jaw, a soothing contrast to the authority in his voice.
"I know," I whispered, but even I could hear the flicker of uncertainty that colored the words. Because part of me did wonder—was he upset about the pictures? About my defiance? About the danger I'd put us both in with my bratty behavior?
"No, really look at me." He waited, patient as granite, until I forced myself to meet his eyes fully.
No hiding, no deflecting with humor. Just me and him and this moment balanced between us like a blade.
"What's about to happen is because you broke a rule we agreed on.
This is discipline, not punishment. It's about reinforcing our dynamic, maintaining the structure that keeps us both safe.
I'm not angry. I could never hurt you in anger. "
The distinction mattered. I could see it in the careful way he chose his words, the steady control in every movement. This wasn't Cruz's version of dominance, wielded like a weapon to break me down. This was something else entirely—structure, safety, care wrapped in command.
"I trust you," I said, and meant it down to my bones. "But I've never... not like this."
The admission felt huge between us. Sure, I'd played at being spanked before, sexy taps during vanilla hookups that were more performance than power exchange.
But real discipline? The kind meant to reinforce dynamics and create safety through structure?
That was uncharted territory, and we both knew it.
His expression softened without losing its intensity. "We'll go slow. You remember your safe word?"
"Sparkles." My voice came out steadier now, grounded by the reminder that I had control too. That this was something we were doing together, not something being done to me. "And I'll use it if I need to."
"Good girl." The praise washed over me warm as sunshine, making something in my chest glow. He helped me down from the table with careful hands, his touch reverent even in its firmness. "Come on."
He led me to the couch, and I followed on unsteady legs. The living room felt different now—charged with intention, transformed from our usual casual space into something more. The afternoon light slanted through the windows, painting everything gold and shadow.
Tyson settled onto the couch with the kind of deliberate movement that said he'd thought this through. Planned it, maybe, while dealing with whatever had happened at Cruz's store. The thought that he'd been considering how to handle me even while facing danger sent heat spiraling through my belly.
"Over my lap," he said simply. "We'll start with my hand, see how you feel."
The position felt impossibly vulnerable. I draped myself across his thighs, hyperaware of every point of contact—my stomach against his legs, my breasts brushing his jeans, my ass elevated and exposed.
"Breathe," he murmured, one hand coming to rest on my lower back. The weight of it grounded me, reminded me I wasn't alone in this. "That's it. Just breathe."
I focused on pulling air into my lungs, on the solid presence of him beneath me, on the safety net of trust we'd woven between us. This was Tyson. My Tyson. Who'd held me through little space and protected me from threats. I was safe here.
"Why are we doing this?" he asked, his voice calm and measured. Teacher voice, I realized. The tone he probably used to train new recruits, to impart important lessons that could save lives.
"Because I disobeyed," I breathed, the words coming easier than expected. "Because I sent pictures during church when you told me to behave."
"And why did I tell you not to?"
The question made me actually think instead of just reacting. His hand traced soothing circles on my back, patient while I worked through it. "Because you need to focus on keeping me safe."
"Keep going." Encouraging but expectant.
Understanding dawned like sunrise, bright and sudden. "Because distractions could be dangerous. Because when you're thinking about me instead of threats, you might miss something important. Something that could hurt us. And because I don’t come without you."
"Exactly." His hand stilled, and I felt the shift in energy. "We're going to do ten. Count them for me."
Ten. The number felt simultaneously too many and not enough.
My skin prickled with anticipation, every nerve ending alive and waiting.
But underneath the nervous energy was something else—trust. Bone-deep certainty that whatever happened next, Tyson would keep me safe.
Would push me exactly as far as I needed and not an inch further.
"Yes, Daddy," I whispered, the title falling from my lips like a promise.
The first strike landed with more sound than sting, his palm connecting with my skin in a way that made me gasp more from surprise than pain. The sharp crack echoed in the quiet apartment, seeming impossibly loud, impossibly real.
"One," I managed, the word coming out breathier than intended.
His hand rubbed the spot gently, soothing the minimal sting before I could even fully process it. "Good girl. Just like that."
The second strike came after a pause that felt like forever, landing on the other side. This one had slightly more force behind it, enough to make me actually feel it beyond just sound and surprise. "Two."
"That's it," he murmured, his free hand steady on my lower back. "You're doing perfectly."
Three and four followed the same pattern—deliberate, measured, with time between each one to let me fully experience it.
He wasn't rushing, wasn't just going through the motions.
Every strike was intentional, placed with the same tactical precision he brought to everything else.
By the fourth, warmth had started to spread across my skin, a pink heat that went deeper than just the surface.
"Four," I counted, shifting slightly as the sensation built.
"Halfway there," he said, and I could hear the pride in his voice. Pride that I was taking this, submitting to it, trusting him with this vulnerability. "How are you feeling?"
"Good," I admitted, surprised to find it was true. "Different than I expected."
"Different how?"
"It's not really about the pain." I tried to find words for the swirling emotions. "It's about . . . letting go? Accepting? I don't know how to explain it."
"You're explaining it perfectly." His hand came down again, slightly harder.
"Five." The word came out on a squirm, my body starting to react to the building sensation. Not unbearable, not even close, but impossible to ignore. Each strike layered on the last, creating a heat that spread through more than just my skin.
Six landed lower, catching the sensitive spot where ass meets thigh. "Six!" Higher pitched now, the intensity ratcheting up even though I knew he was still holding back, still being careful with me.
"Breathe through it," he coached, rubbing the spot firmly. "That's my brave girl."
Seven brought the first real sting, sharp enough to make my legs kick involuntarily. "Seven," I gasped, fingers gripping the couch cushion.
Something was happening inside me, something that had nothing to do with the physical sensation and everything to do with the act of submission itself. I was being laid bare in more ways than the obvious, and the vulnerability of it made my chest tight with unexpected emotion.
Eight landed with enough force to blur my vision. "Eight," I whimpered, and felt the first tear slide down my cheek.
Tyson paused immediately. "Color?"
"Green," I said quickly, not wanting him to stop, needing to see this through. "I'm green, I promise. It's just . . . intense."
"I know, baby. You're doing so well. So proud of you." His voice wrapped around me like a blanket, keeping me safe even as he pushed me past my comfort zone. "Two more. You can do two more."
"Nine," I managed when the next one landed, more tears flowing now. But he was right to continue—they weren't tears of pain but of release. Of finally letting go of control completely, of trusting someone else to take care of me, of being small and vulnerable and having that be okay.
"Last one, baby. You're doing so well."
The final strike landed with decisive force, and "Ten" came out on a sob that had nothing to do with physical pain and everything to do with emotional catharsis. I'd done it. Submitted to discipline, accepted consequences, trusted him to guide me through it.
And he hadn’t disappointed me. Hadn’t taken advantage of me. This felt like healing.
His hands were on me immediately, gathering me up, rearranging our bodies until I was cradled in his lap like something precious. I buried my face in his neck, breathing in his scent while he held me through the aftershocks of intensity.
"You did perfectly," he murmured against my hair, lips pressing kisses to my temple, my cheek, catching tears I couldn't stop. "My brave girl. My perfect, beautiful girl. How do you feel?"
The question required actual thought. How did I feel? My ass stung, definitely warm and probably pink, but that was the least of it. Inside I felt . . . clean. Like something had been washed away, some weight I'd been carrying without realizing it.