Chapter 11
Alex
I left the bucket and mop in the corner.
I stood up too fast from the semi-crouch I had adopted as I cleaned the floor, and I had to steady myself.
In the mirror I looked utterly lascivious in my vulnerability: hair wild from my tears and my haste to the bathroom, cheeks pink, breasts rising and falling too quickly, bare body looking, to my desperate eyes, shamefully ready for… for…
Submission. Obedience. Discipline.
Training.
I nearly got my clothes out of the hamper and put them back on.
The thought came as a true temptation. I could dress, leaving the soaking, humiliating panties behind, and walk out, and say I had misunderstood. I could reclaim my sense of who I was.
But I knew very well that he had not told me to dress. And the humiliating truth was that by then I understood enough of myself to know I wanted him to see that I had obeyed exactly.
So I walked out naked.
The penthouse was even more magnificent when I wasn’t running past it in a panic. Walnut paneling. Long stretches of glass with the city beyond. Paintings in heavy frames. Leather. Mahogany.
And through all of it I walked with my bare feet silent on wood floorboards and gorgeous rugs, my arms held stiffly at my sides because if I covered myself I would probably get whipped, and I couldn’t bear to be whipped.
When I reached what had to be his office, I saw him from behind.
He sat at a desk near the windows. The sight of him there—broad shoulders in the dark suit, one hand resting near a sheaf of papers, typing on a keyboard as if nothing in the world were unusual—almost broke whatever remained of my courage.
I stopped dead, just inside the doorway.
I could still run, some fragment of me thought.
Then he seemed to sense me. He rose, turned the chair, and sat down in it facing me. He did it deliberately and calmly, as if he had expected this exact moment and was prepared to enjoy it properly.
Then he extended one hand toward me.
The gesture seemed almost formal. Courtly, if courtliness could contain this much domination. There was no mistaking what it meant.
My pulse hammered so hard that I felt it in my throat.
I hesitated.
His eyes stayed on mine. “Would you rather be caned?”
The answer came through me in a hot sick wave before my pride could intervene.
No. God, no. I wasn’t brave enough to choose the spanking, but by then the pattern had become familiar in a way that humiliated me even more than the nudity.
I have no choice, I thought, with that same miserable inward collapse I had felt in the bathroom and on the street and in the café.
The sentence had already begun to fit itself around him.
Of course I had a choice. I knew that. I pushed the idea away, however, because I was so aroused, so frightened, and so bound up in anticipation that resistance felt almost theoretical.
I crossed the room.
When I reached him, he took my wrist and drew me close with no more force than necessary, then guided me down over his left knee as if placing me in a position long prepared for me.
One arm came around my waist at once, secure and final.
The other hand took hold of my right bottom cheek.
His right leg clamped down over the backs of my knees.
I said softly, “Oh,” because I apparently hadn’t thought of that: how a man like this one could secure me so thoroughly, render me so helpless to resist the discipline he decided I had earned.
I lay there trembling, my hair falling toward the floor, my breasts pressed awkwardly against the line of his leg, my ass bared helplessly to the room.
The position was instantly more exposing than standing naked had been.
I could feel the heat of my own skin, the vulnerability of my spread body, the hard steadiness of him beneath me.
He rested his palm on my bottom for a few seconds, not striking yet, simply feeling the flesh that was his to punish.
“You made me repeat myself in the café,” he said. “You talked back in the bathroom. And you nearly sat on that toilet after I told you not to.”
I shut my eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“I am going to spank you until I am satisfied with the state of your bottom, and you will thank me when I’m done.”
I made a tiny sound then, because the thought of gratitude in this position was almost too much.
His hand moved, smoothing once over my left cheek, then the right. A measuring touch. I tried not to tense.
The first smack landed hard and clean.
I cried out and jerked despite myself, the pain bright enough to wipe the air from my lungs. His arm tightened at my waist immediately, holding me where I belonged. The next one came after just enough time for me to understand that the first had not been a warning.
A second crack, on the other cheek this time, then a third, then another, each one placed with hateful precision, not rushed, not playful, not testing.
His hand was large and hard and appallingly effective.
I tried to lie still for them. I truly did.
My pride fastened instantly on that tiny goal, as if I could salvage something by taking the spanking ‘well,’ whatever that meant.
My resolve lasted perhaps six swats.
By then my bottom had begun to burn, and every fresh smack seemed to strike not just skin but the growing heat beneath it. Hearing each swat as well as feeling it made it seem much too real: the sharp report in the room, my own little involuntary cries, his breathing unchanged.
I struggled against him. I tried to kick. I gasped.
He kept going at that measured pace. At first the pace almost made it worse.
There was time to dread each one. Time to feel the sting spread.
Time to know another was coming and to be unable to do anything whatsoever about it because his forearm around my waist held me as securely as a bar of iron and his leg over mine made all my attempts useless.
Then the pace changed.
It happened without warning. One moment the blows were spaced out; the next they were raining down, hard and fast and unsparing, left-right-left-left-right, no longer allowing me time to gather myself between them. I yelped and twisted. His hold did not budge.
“Oh, my God… sir… please… it hurts…” I sobbed, squirming, my poor bottom clenching and unclenching lewdly, desperate to ease the agony.
Smack smack smack smack smack.
I jerked harder, trying not even to get away exactly but to escape the worst of it by movement, by writhing, by something.
I might as well have been struggling against the furniture.
His left arm simply tightened when I surged; his thigh and shin trapped my legs more firmly when I tried to kick.
The horrible part was how much that did to me even while the spanking worsened.
The certainty of him. The utter uselessness of resistance.
The fact that he could keep me exactly where he wanted me, naked over his lap, and punish me as long as he pleased with no apparent strain at all.
I heard myself making little desperate sounds that had no words in them. My body tried to twist over his lap. My breasts dragged against his trousered leg; my hair swung; my bare bottom took blow after blow until the skin felt stretched too tight over flame.
“Hold still,” he said, and spanked me harder for not doing it.
That made no sense in any moral universe I recognized, and yet my body answered it with a hot convulsion low between my legs so intense it shamed me all over again.
I was aroused. I was. Even now. Even like this, naked and trapped and being soundly spanked by a man who had decided I needed correction.
Then a point came—sudden as stepping off a curb I hadn’t seen—when the arousal dropped away.
The pain climbed past it. My bottom was no longer merely stinging.
It was agony, broad and bright and impossible, every smack renewing and deepening the torment until I could not separate one blow from the accumulated fire of all the others.
I screamed. Truly screamed, not the startled cries from the beginning but raw helpless noise torn out of me by the force of it.
Porter, my new sponsor, who would, it seemed, pay me for the privilege of hurting me this way, of teaching me such terrible lessons, did not stop.
I could hardly believe a hand could do that. A hand. Not a belt. Not the cane he had threatened. Just his open palm, wielded by someone who knew exactly how to use it and had no hesitation about doing so.
I thought wildly of the cane then, and the thought went through me like ice.
If this was his hand, what on earth would that be?
The senator’s belt, which had seemed at the time like the ugliest and most overwhelming thing I had ever endured, suddenly felt in memory like a crude beginning, the slightest brutal foretaste of something far more sophisticated and far more terrible.
Gowry had merely bruised me. Porter was disciplining me, and somehow that distinction made the pain feel larger, more complete, because it came attached to intention and control.
I screamed again. Tears ran down my face into my hair. I twisted until twisting itself became pointless. His hand kept falling, inexorable. My own voice sounded far away and animal to me.
“Oh, God… please… please… it hurts so much… please…”
At last I stopped fighting not because I chose composure but because there was nothing left in me to fight. I went limp over his knee, sobbing for breath, my bottom burning so fiercely that even stillness hurt.
Then the blows ceased.
The sudden silence seemed to ring out in the room.
For a few seconds I could do nothing but lie there shaking, every nerve in my backside alive and ruined, my mind blank with the shock of what had just happened.
I barely noticed at first that he had shifted.
Then I felt his right leg lift slightly off mine, changing the angle of me, and the hand that had spanked me so savagely slid between my thighs.
I gasped as if he had thrust a live wire there.
My pussy flooded at once. No gradual awakening. No coy response. One instant I was a sobbing, well-spanked little girl draped across her sponsor’s lap; the next I was wet enough to feel it, trembling from a wholly different urgency that seemed to rise straight out of the pain he had inflicted.
His fingers pressed into me, found the slickness there, and I heard him make a small sound of satisfaction.
“What does a good girl say?”
The question should have humiliated me beyond bearing. It did humiliate me. And still I whispered, breath hitching, “Thank you, sir.”
“Better.”
He touched me properly then, not through fabric, his fingers moving with devastating certainty over the swollen little ache between my legs.
The orgasm hit so fast it was almost frightening.
One sharp cry broke from me and then another as my whole body seized over his knee.
Pleasure tore through me in hot blinding waves, so sudden and so fierce that it felt dragged out of the very heart of the spanking.
I screamed again, but differently now, my thighs shaking against his leg, my hands clutching helplessly at air and cloth.
“That’s right,” he murmured near my ear while I convulsed. “Come for me. Such a needy girl. I’ll have this pretty little pussy bared for me soon.”
Even in the middle of the orgasm, those words struck hard.
Pussy bared.
Waxed. Exposed. Prepared for a man’s use.
When Gowry had said it, it had felt contaminating.
Another expression of appetite without care, entitlement without structure.
From Porter, even now, with my face wet, my bottom aflame, and my body still shuddering from climax, the thought exerted an entirely different force: demeaning, but also somehow careful.
My sponsor meant to degrade me for the specific purpose of teaching me about myself.
He would clearly take more pleasure in using a hairless pussy than a furry one, but he also wanted to help me understand that I would, dismaying as it felt, get more pleasure that way.
Having a smooth pussy because my sponsor liked me that way…
I let out a helpless sob.
He let me come down slowly, his hand easing, then leaving me only when my body had stopped jerking. I lay there panting, scarcely able to think, my head hanging down, my bottom burning, my pussy still fluttering around the aftershocks.
Then, at last, he said, “I’m going to put you on your knees, now, and you’re going to finish thanking me. You’re going to be doing a lot of this, so it’s best to start learning immediately how I like to have my cock sucked.”