Chapter 4 Rewards & Bruises #2
Every instinct screamed to run. But where? The door he'd entered through had no visible handle. The bathroom locked from the outside. The walls were solid and soundproof. I was trapped in this pink nightmare with a man who discussed spanking me like it was a legitimate scientific method.
"If I do this," my voice shook, "if I let you—will it be over? The punishment for yesterday?"
"Complete your punishment properly, and yes. Yesterday's infractions will be fully addressed."
I looked at him—really looked. Tried to find some hint of sadism, some tell that he enjoyed this beyond professional interest. But his expression remained clinical, patient. Like a doctor discussing necessary treatment.
Maybe that made it worse.
My feet moved without conscious permission, carrying me back to the bed. Each step felt like walking through quicksand. By the time I stood beside him, my whole body trembled.
"How?" The word came out small.
"Across my lap. Face down. Dress raised to your waist." He said it so matter-of-factly. "You may hold onto the bedding if you need to."
My face burned. "This is humiliating."
"That's rather the point. Punishment should be memorable." He waited, hands resting on his thighs. "Take your time. But choose."
I chose. God help me, I chose to drape myself across his lap like a naughty child, fingers clutching the pink sheets while he adjusted my position with clinical efficiency. The dress rode up easily—designed for this, probably. My panties felt like tissue paper, might as well have been nothing.
"Count each strike clearly," he instructed, one hand resting on my lower back. "Lose count, and we begin again. Understood?"
"Yes." The word barely made it past my teeth.
"Yes, what?"
I squeezed my eyes shut. "Yes, I understand."
"Good girl."
The first strike came without additional warning. His hand connected with enough force to jolt me forward, stinging heat blooming across skin that had never been hit like this. Not even in consensual bedroom play—I'd never let anyone have this kind of control.
"Count," he reminded me.
"One." The word tasted like copper pennies.
The second strike landed on the opposite cheek, balanced and measured. He wasn't holding back, but he wasn't using full strength either. Just enough to hurt. Just enough to humiliate.
"Two."
By five, tears pricked my eyes. By ten, they flowed freely. Not just from pain—though it hurt, God it hurt—but from the position, the helplessness, the way he turned punishment into science.
"Fifteen." My voice cracked.
"You're doing very well." His free hand rubbed small circles on my back, a comfort that shouldn't have helped but did. "Halfway there."
Halfway. Fifteen more. I pressed my face into the mattress and tried to disappear.
But I counted. Through twenty, where each strike felt like fire. Through twenty-five, where I started sobbing. Through thirty, where my legs kicked involuntarily and his hand pressed firmer on my back to keep me in place.
"Thirty." The final count came out as a whisper.
"All done." His hand left my burning skin, and for a moment I just lay there, draped over his lap like a broken doll. "You did beautifully, Lilah. Took your punishment like a good girl."
Something about those words—the praise wrapped around my humiliation—snapped the last thread of my control.
I rolled off his lap and swung.
My fist connected with his jaw in a satisfying crack that sent pain shooting up my arm. His head snapped to the side, and for one glorious moment, I'd won. I'd fought back. I'd shown him that Lilah West wasn't some subject to be conditioned and praised and—
He moved faster than thought. One moment I was standing, riding the high of violence. The next, my back hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs, his body caging me in, one hand pinning both my wrists above my head.
"Now that," he said, working his jaw with his free hand, "was unexpected."
Blood welled at the corner of his mouth. I'd split his lip. The sight of it—red against his pale skin, evidence that he could bleed like anyone else—made me feel wild.
"Let me go." I struggled against his grip, but he held me easily. "Let me fucking go!"
"No." He studied me with something new in those grey eyes. Not anger. Not even annoyance. "Do you know how many subjects have tried to hit me, Lilah?"
"I don't care about your other subjects!"
"None." He leaned closer, and I could taste the copper of his blood in the air between us. "Three years of research. Dozens of participants. And you're the first to actually land a blow."
"Good. I hope it hurts. I hope you—"
He silenced me by pressing closer, his body a wall of heat against mine. This close, I could see the storm in his eyes wasn't just grey but threaded with silver, could count individual lashes, could watch his pupils dilate as he processed this new data point.
"Fascinating," he murmured, and the word ghosted over my skin like a caress. "All that careful control, and violence is what finally breaks it. Tell me, Lilah—how does it feel to know you interest me now?"
"I don't care if I interest you."
"Liar." His thumb found my pulse where it hammered against my wrist. "Your heart rate says otherwise. Your breathing says otherwise. The way you're pressing against me says otherwise."
I hadn't realized I was. But my body had betrayed me again, arching into his warmth even as my mind screamed retreat.
"This changes things," he continued, still studying me like I was a particularly complex equation. "I had you marked as submissive with bratty tendencies. But this—this suggests something far more intricate."
"Let. Me. Go."
"In a moment." He reached behind him with his free hand, pulling something from his back pocket. "But first, you need to understand something important."
The belt.
Black leather, expensive, well-worn. He held it where I could see it, letting the implications sink in.
"Good girls who take their punishments properly get Daddy's hand." His voice dropped to something that made my stomach clench. "Bad girls who hit, who fight, who draw blood? They get Daddy's belt."
"Don't you dare—"
"Oh, I won't. Not today." He stepped back, releasing my wrists so suddenly I nearly fell. "Today, you've given me something far more valuable than compliance. You've given me genuine surprise."
I slumped against the wall, rubbing my wrists, watching him touch his split lip with something almost like appreciation.
"But tomorrow?" He folded the belt, tucking it away with the same precision he did everything. "Tomorrow we'll explore what happens when bad girls test boundaries. And Lilah?"
I glared at him, trying to summon defiance through the haze of too many emotions.
"Tomorrow, you'll count to fifty."
He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him with finality. I slid down the wall until I sat on the soft pink carpet, staring at my knuckles. They throbbed with the echo of impact, already starting to bruise.
I'd hit him. Actually hit him. And instead of anger, instead of immediate retaliation, he'd looked at me like I'd solved world hunger. Like I'd become something worth studying instead of just another subject to break.
"Free time until lunch," the speaker informed me cheerfully. "Please use this time to rest and reflect on your morning session."
Rest. Right. Like I could rest with my ass on fire and the promise of tomorrow's belt hanging over my head. Like I could do anything but replay the moment my fist met his face, the shock in his eyes before it transformed into fascination.
I crawled to the bed, every movement reminding me of his hand, his lap, the methodical way he'd administered punishment like medicine. Lying on my stomach helped, though the dress rubbing against sensitized skin made me whimper.
Thirty strikes for cursing and trying to hide pills. Fifty tomorrow for violence.
The math was simple. The reality was impossible.
But I'd seen him bleed. Felt his surprise. For just a moment, I'd been more than a subject, more than a signature on a contract.
I'd been fascinating.
The bruises forming on my knuckles were proof. Tomorrow he'd mark me in return, balance the scales with leather instead of flesh. But right now, in this pink room that smelled like vanilla and consequences, I had this:
Dr. Gabriel Mire could bleed.
And somehow, that tiny victory made everything else bearable.
"Lunch in ninety minutes," the speaker reminded me. "Remember to ask nicely, little one."
I buried my face in the pillow and wondered if fascination was better or worse than indifference. If making myself interesting to my captor was progress or just another kind of trap.
The collar pressed against my throat as I shifted, constant as gravity.
Tomorrow, he'd said. Fifty.
I traced the bruises on my knuckles and started practicing my numbers.